This is Not Another Article About Michael Phelps.

This is not another article about Michael Phelps. Nor will this be another article about what an amazing feat 8 golden medals in a single olympics is or being part of the annals of history. This will not be about what clever/inspirational thing Michael Phelps said today to Bob Costas, his billionare status, how many facebook friends he has, or how awesome he is. Not a mention of Bob Bowman, Baltimore, his mom, sisters, world records, sponsorships, Morgan Freeman narrations, Sportscenter commercials, the size of his feet, or what he ate for breakfast this morning. This will not be about any of those things. And not just because "annals of history" is sort of hilarious to me.

No, this is an article about my Saturday night.

I have regular size feet, somewhere within the range of the avergage American female. I also have most normal sized hands, good for things like writing and pointing and brushing my teeth. I have zero appearances in any Sportscenter commercial and while I enjoy a Morgan Freeman appearance in just about every movie I've seen in the past year, he hasn't yet narrated anything related to my life. I have never been to Baltimore and I don't even think I know anyone named Bob. A Robert, a Bobby and a Rob, but interestingly no Bob. Note to self: make a friend named Bob.

Just about the only thing Michael Phelps and I have in common is our fish status. I enjoy the water. Always have. And while I can't get back and forth in a 50 meter pool in quite the same expeditious nature, I admit winning lots of gold medals hasn't really been my dream. Yes, just about the only thing Michael Phelps and I have in common is liking to swim - and our Saturday night.

While Phelps was winning gold medal of the games number 8, I was drinking a Jim Bean and a diet soda at local bar The Green Frog. The deliciousness to which they make alcoholic beverages is only matched by the perfection of the decor. It was there that I saw gold medal 8 and met sketchy guy number 1 - the white pants, the purple silk shirt, the long braids.

It's in frequenting LA's bar scene that I'm reminded, God is a funny SOB.

I crossed the street to another bar. Another Jim and diet later, I found myself at the juke box.

Pounding on the juke box.

"Make it stop. What is this garbage?"
"It's Oingo Bongo."
"I'd like it to stop thank you."

When I was told by now guy 2 and 3 and then 4 the music was beyond my time, I said the only thing I thought would make sense. "What? I'm 42."

I'm a terrible liar. But when the mood strikes me, and I'm on a roll, the lies keep coming.

"I'm 42."

"Yes, that girl there, that's my daughter."

"I'm English. Yes, Northern England, the Leeds and Manchester areas."

"I'm a flight attendant. I'm leaving on the 10:20 to Phoenix tomorrow."

The lying has a snowball effect. But as the lies continued, so did the influx in truly comical men who came to harass me and my friend. The lies were comedy to keep them at bay.

By nights end, as the ugly lights flashed, and last call was called, we counted them up. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. In braids and white linen pants, with strange accents and creepier motives, eight in all. One night. Eight weird suitors among us. So all I have to say,

Michael Phelps eat your heart out.