Eat, sleep, Flo-row-da

That's how I lived for nine-ish days. I thought bullshit weather was reserved for Michigan.

I rowed a single for the first time, and not just any single; I sculled the Dave George. By the the end of the week - switched to port - I got the attaboy to end all attaboys from Coach. He even went in for the jump-hug today when we parted ways. GV babes were babes. 20+ hour road trips were tolerated with naughty stories, a screening of the live-action TMNT, and Ben Thompson's Badass and reading Paul Mooney's Black Is the New White cover-to-cover. Apparently, Mooney coined the expression, "Nigger, please." I also participated in an actual spandex/nothing-clad friend pile.

Do you remember in South Park, how there was this super low audible note that could make people shit themselves? Nikola Tesla discovered that note for the earth. When he publicized the finding, no one asked him to prove it.

Someone asked me if I had a girlfriend the other day and I had to think on it for a moment. It was weird at first, and then I became giddy and bit my bottom lip. That's cryptic, but that's all.

dental flossed

I had a short laugh at the outlandish Belle and Sebastian reference in 500 Days of Summer. No one else in the auditorium responded, though. I keep having dreams with my late dogs in them, or just waking up with the same feeling. I'm continually sitting down to watch indie films with my 12-ounce friends: Pabst, Miller, Spaten, Red Stripe... I'm awfully skeptical of "crewcest." I've made my point.

University seems more similar to community college than I had expected. I feel like I've traded doing cool shit - reviewing instructor candidates for academic departments and coaching youth and younger in swimming - just to row, just to advance, just to earn a bachelor's.

Ask questions, question everything, they tell you, me. What if I tire of questioning?

Drinking with your professors? maybe the single greatest idea to ever grace higher education.

I remember my heart-to-heart with Bob. It was in the village of Mullaghban walking home from the village's only and nameless bar. I knew it was late at night because the sun sets at around midnight in Ireland and it had been dark for a good while. We walked through one of two streets in the village, modest houses just like in the Midwest to our right, and the primary school and its football fields to our left.

I'm certain that Bob had consumed an infinite number of pints of Guinness, while I my score was somewhere in the numerical range. How we got on the topic is lost in time. I asked him though, toward his experience in worldly subjects like conflict-resolution and transnational relations, about a man I occasionally encountered back at home. He wades around in the pool I lifeguard. Sometimes his wife and little boy accompany with him, but usually he comes alone near closing time, when the pool is empty of other patrons. The scene is routine, except for the man's back and arms. They make an exquisitely tattooed mural of hate, with complexly flowing ribbons and huge feathered wings surrounding a swastika the size of his head. About the icon reads, "WHITE POWER."

Whenever he comes in, the one or two other "waders" see his advertisements and leave. They walk to the locker rooms, and I want to shout at them, "Hey, thanks for leaving ethnic minority that has to stay here with the seriously troubled and more than probably racist individual!" Then I tense up and and my heart rate climbs and doesn't let off until he leaves. I wonder if he's looking at me when I'm not looking at him, because I'm definitely looking at him and his back.

I asked Bob something like, "How do I respond to that?"
He looked up in thought for a few seconds, then said, "Hm. I don't know, man. Dealing with fascism is pretty difficult."

I'm still not sure why, but that meant the world to me. I know that teachers don't know everything, but it's certainly comforting not to feel alone.