Mike Rowe Quotes

I suppose that now you'll want to sleep with me?Alas big guy I'm taken.' 'No. you're not,'Regin said. 'Am too,' Nix said. 'Mike Rowe, the star of Dirty Jobs, is soon to realize I'm his beloved.' She sighed dreamily. 'He even got his lawyers to contact me on the pretext of a' she made air quotes 'restraining order.

I'm allergic to rocks hitting me in the face.

Happiness does not come from a job. It comes from knowing what you truly value, and behaving in a way that’s consistent with those beliefs.

Don't follow your passion, but always bring it with you.

We are lending money we don’t have to kids who can’t pay it back to train them for jobs that no longer exist.

Work hard AND smart.

Why worry about doing something you love? Figure out what the opportunity is. Find a thing, get good at it, learn to love it later.

So you're saying that after I take a disappointing shower I should get in bed and lay there and weep?

My father has a tendency to start conversations in the middle of sentences. He’s also suspicious of anything modern - like nouns.

The fact that we heated most of the old farmhouse with nothing but a woodstove was a source of great pride for my father and endless inspiration for witticisms like, “Chop your own wood it’ll warm you twice!

Radio One played “Ebony and Ivory,” a new song by Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder. The breakfast DJ Mike Read played it two times in a row which was pretty hardcore of him as it was clearly the worst song of the decade so far, perhaps of the entire century.

Spend a few hours every week studying American history, human nature, and economic theory. Start with “Economics in One Lesson.” Then try Keynes. Then Hayek. Then Marx. Then Hegel. Develop a worldview that you can articulate as well as defend. Test your theory with people who disagree with you. Debate. Argue. Adjust your philosophy as necessary.

At first, it didn't sound like Carney. But then, Big Mike had tended his crop of grudges like a farmer, inspecting the rows, taking care they got enough water and fertilizer so that they grew big and healthy.

Personally, I don’t mind being corrected, even when I’m right. It’s nice to know that people are paying attention. But when I am corrected, I prefer it to be in the style of Lieutenant Dixon. He didn’t scold the GI for confusing Mozart with Beethoven. He wasn’t haughty, pedantic, or disappointed. His words came with no apologies, no exclamation points, and no attempt to lord his knowledge over his men. In fact, if you YouTube the scene, you’ll see that he barely glances at the man he corrects. He simply rectifies the situation definitively while remaining focused on the final few measures of Beethoven’s movement.

Thank you," he said. "Welcome. Welcome especially to Mr. Coyle Mathis and the other men and women of Forster Hollow who are going to be employed at this rather strikingly energy-inefficient plant. It's a long way from Forster Hollow, isn't it?" "So, yes, welcome," he said. "Welcome to the middle class! That's what I want to say. Although, quickly, before I go any further, I also want to say to Mr. Mathis here in the front row: I know you don't like me. And I don't like you. But, you know, back when you were refusing to have anything to do with us, I respected that. I didn't like it, but I had respect for your position. For your independence. You see, because I actually came from a place a little bit like Forster Hollow myself, before I joined the middle class. And, now you're middle-class, too, and I want to welcome you all, because it's a wonderful thing, our American middle class. It's the mainstay of economies all around the globe!" "And now that you've got these jobs at this body-armor plant," he continued, "You're going to be able to participate in those economies. You, too, can help denude every last scrap of native habitat in Asia, Africa, and South America! You, too, can buy six-foot-wide plasma TV screens that consume unbelievable amounts of energy, even when they're not turned on! But that's OK, because that's why we threw you out of your homes in the first places, so we could strip-mine your ancestral hills and feed the coal-fired generators that are the number-one cause of global warming and other excellent things like acid rain. It's a perfect world, isn't it? It's a perfect system, because as long as you've got your six-foot-wide plasma TV, and the electricity to run it, you don't have to think about any of the ugly consequences. You can watch Survivor: Indonesia till there's no more Indonesia!" "Just quickly, here," he continued, "because I want to keep my remarks brief. Just a few more remarks about this perfect world. I want to mention those big new eight-miles-per-gallon vehicles you're going to be able to buy and drive as much as you want, now that you've joined me as a member of the middle class. The reason this country needs so much body armor is that certain people in certain parts of the world don't want us stealing all their oil to run your vehicles. And so the more you drive your vehicles, the more secure your jobs at this body-armor plant are going to be! Isn't that perfect?" "Just a couple more things!" Walter cried, wresting the mike from its holder and dancing away with it. "I want to welcome you all to working for one of the most corrupt and savage corporations in the world! Do you hear me? LBI doesn't give a shit about your sons and daughters bleeding in Iraq, as long as they get their thousand-percent profit! I know this for a fact! I have the facts to prove it! That's part of the perfect middle-class world you're joining! Now that you're working for LBI, you can finally make enough money to keep your kids from joining the Army and dying in LBI's broken-down trucks and shoddy body armor!" The mike had gone dead, and Walter skittered backwards, away from the mob that was forming. "And MEANWHILE," he shouted, "WE ARE ADDING THIRTEEN MILLION HUMAN BEINGS TO THE POPULATION EVERY MONTH! THIRTEEN MILLION MORE PEOPLE TO KILL EACH OTHER IN COMPETITION OVER FINITE RESOURCES! AND WIPE OUT EVERY OTHER LIVING THING ALONG THE WAY! IT IS A PERFECT FUCKING WORLD AS LONG AS YOU DON'T COUNT EVERY OTHER SPECIES IN IT! WE ARE A CANCER ON THE PLANT! A CANCER ON THE PLANET!

A boat was a place where no one could reach you, a place where some boy couldn't slide into your path to make you a prop in his joke. Even when the boys rowed past us, all we'd do was holler or chant; we didn't have to drop everything to watch them, which was the usual expectation. (Do you remember, for instance, the fake Woodstock that Marco Washington and Mike Stiles set up on the quad? They hauled couches from the dorms, used extension cords for guitars and stand mics. I joined the audience to listen to their terrible playing because it was the thing to do. Just as Open Dorm nights were for girls to feign interest in boys playing video games. Just as the only sporting events with full stands were for boys' teams. At the time, what rankled was the idea that we were supposed to see these boys as the stars, to fall at their sweaty feet. What bothers me now is those boys internalizing girls as audience, there only to act as mirrors, to make their accomplishments realer.)

If you ask the other John and Peggy (my parents) how they’ve managed to stay married for well over half a century, they’ll credit an uncompromising level of honesty with each other. If you press them, though, you’ll learn that their commitment to the truth did not extend to their children. Indeed, when it came to raising three boys on a public school teachers salary, my parents lied like rugs./ It was a strange sort of snobbery to develop at such an early age - this sympathy for the more fortunate - but that’s precisely what my parents engendered. With duplicity and guile, they Turn envy to pity. By the time I was eleven, I felt nothing but compassion for classmates of mine who had been forced to wear the latest fashions. Sadly, they had no older cousins to provide them with a superior wardrobe of “softer, sturdier, broken-in alternatives.

He wore the unmistakable look of a man about to be present at a row between women, and only a wet cat in a strange back-yard bears itself with less jauntiness than a man faced by such a prospect. A millionaire several times over, Mr. Pett would cheerfully have given much of his wealth to have been elsewhere at that moment. Such was the agitated state of his mind that, when a hand was laid lightly upon his arm as he was about to follow his wife into the room, he started so violently that his hat flew out of his hand.

Mike Sprecklen was the coach and mentor to the famous all-conquering rowing pair Andy Holmes and Steve Redgrave. “I was stuck, I had taught them all I knew technically,” Sprecklen said on completion of a Performance Coaching course many years ago, “but this opens up the possibility of going further, for they can feel things that I can’t even see.” He had discovered a new way forward with them, working from their experience and perceptions rather than from his own. Good coaching, and good mentoring for that matter, can and should take a performer beyond the limitations of the coach or mentor’s own knowledge.

The next day we booked a three-hundred pound sow for a most unusual photoshoot. She was chauffeured to Hollywood from a farm in Central Valley, and arrived in style at the soundstage bright and early, ready for her close-up. She was a perfect pig, straight from the animal equivalent of Central casting: pink, with gray spots and a sweet disposition. Like Wilbur from Charlotte's Web, but all grown up. I called her "Rhonda." In a pristine studio with white walls and a white floor, I watched as Rhonda was coaxed up a ramp that led to the top of a white pedestal, four feet off the ground. Once she was situated, the ramp was removed, and I took my place beside her. It was a simple setup. Standing next to Rhonda, I would look into the camera and riff about the unsung heroes of Dirty Jobs. I'd conclude with a pointed question: "So, what's on your pedestal?" It was a play on that credit card campaign: "What's in your wallet?" I nailed it on the first take, in front of a roomful of nervous executives. Unfortunately, Rhonda nailed it, too. Just as I asked, "What's on your pedestal?" she crapped all over hers. It was an enormous dump, delivered with impeccable timing. During the second take, Rhonda did it again, right on cue. This time, with a frightful spray of diarrhea that filled the studio with a sulfurous funk, blackening the white walls of the pristine set, and transforming my blue jeans into something browner. I could only marvel at the stench, while the horrified executives backed into a corner - a huddled mass, if you will, yearning to breath free. But Rhonda wasn't done. She crapped on every subsequent take. And when she could crap no more, she began to pee. She peed on my cameraman, She peed on her handler. She peed on me. Finally, when her bladder was empty, we got the take the network could use, along with a commercial that won several awards for "Excellence in Promos." (Yes, they have trophies for such things.) Interestingly, the footage that went viral was not the footage that aired, but the footage Mary encouraged me to release on YouTube after the fact. The outtakes of Rhonda at her incontinent finest. Those were hysterical, and viewed more times than the actual commercial. Go figure. Looking back, putting a pig on a pedestal was maybe the smartest thing I ever did. Not only did it make Rhonda famous, it established me as the nontraditional host of a nontraditional show. One whose primary job was to appear more like a guest, and less like a host. And, whenever possible, not at all like an asshole.

You’ll tell yourself, “I’m feeling grotty, I can’t continue, I want to stop,” but you can continue. The body lies. You know this feeling is coming, so prepare mentally for it. Don’t listen to the body. Push through, and you’ll find you can, if you’re determined. — Mike Spracklen, on pushing through the pain 45 seconds into a 2,000-metre rowing race

Day an' night they set in a room with a checker-board on th' end iv a flour bar'l, an' study problems iv th' navy. At night Mack dhrops in. 'Well, boys,' says he, 'how goes th' battle?' he says. 'Gloryous,' says th' Sthrateejy Board. 'Two more moves, an' we'll be in th' king row.' 'Ah,' says Mack, 'this is too good to be thrue,' he says. 'In but a few brief minyits th' dhrinks'll be on Spain,' he says. 'Have ye anny plans f'r Sampson's fleet?' he says. 'Where is it?' says th' Sthrateejy Board. 'I dinnaw,' says Mack. 'Good,' says th' Sthrateejy Board. 'Where's th' Spanish fleet?' says they. 'Bombardin' Boston, at Cadiz, in San June de Matzoon, sighted near th' gas-house be our special correspondint, copyright, 1898, be Mike O'Toole.' 'A sthrong position,' says th' Sthrateejy Board. 'Undoubtedly, th' fleet is headed south to attack and seize Armour's glue facthory. Ordher Sampson to sail north as fast as he can, an' lay in a supply iv ice. Th' summer's comin' on. Insthruct Schley to put on all steam, an' thin put it off again, an' call us up be telephone. R-rush eighty-three millyon throops an' four mules to Tampa, to Mobile, to Chickenmaha, to Coney Island, to Ireland, to th' divvle, an' r-rush thim back again. Don't r-rush thim. Ordher Sampson to pick up th' cable at Lincoln Par-rk, an' run into th' bar-rn. Is th' balloon corpse r-ready? It is? Thin don't sind it up. Sind it up. Have th' Mulligan Gyards co-op'rate with Gomez, an' tell him to cut away his whiskers. They've got tangled in th' riggin'. We need yellow-fever throops. Have ye anny yellow fever in th' house? Give it to twinty thousand three hundherd men, an' sind thim afther Gov'nor Tanner. Teddy Rosenfelt's r-rough r-riders ar-re downstairs, havin' their uniforms pressed. Ordher thim to th' goluf links at wanst. They must be no indecision. Where's Richard Harding Davis? On th' bridge iv the New York? Tur-rn th' bridge. Seize Gin'ral Miles' uniform. We must strengthen th' gold resarve. Where's th' Gussie? Runnin' off to Cuba with wan hundherd men an' ar-rms, iv coorse. Oh, war is a dhreadful thing. It's ye'er move, Claude,' says th' Sthrateejy Board. "An

(Africa side note #1: Mike ultimately trained into the best shape of his life, and thank God, because as great a writer as he is, as a videographer, he failed bad: One time on safari we were chased by an elephant, and Mike was so terrified he couldn’t pick the camera up, and all we got was the audio . . . of Mike screaming, and Charlie Mack saying “That’s a motherfuckin’ elephant!” eleven times in a row.)

I can’t walk through my own damn house without getting a front-row seat to my own personal Magic Mike show. Yeah, there’s no dancing, but there’s plenty of flexing abs and bulging biceps. The air feels thick with their pheromones. I can barely breathe.

Word is actually very busy and strikes me as poorly designed. It’s cluttered. There are four different rows, each filled with icons and butters I never use. This reminds me why I dislike Word. I almost always type in WordPress as it’s much less cluttered. I’m on an airplane without WiFi.

If you don’t conform to other people’s ideas of what is right, correct, and proper, then don’t worry. It is your right to look at things differently. Guilt should not enter the picture. There is already enough guilt, blame, and self-condemnation in the Universe to go around.

On the day Mike finally moved out of our home, John presented him with the savings account into which he had deposited the cost of the Philmont trip, and his college text books, and his rent for two years.

She had to sleep. Ironically, the fact that she really needed to sleep only made it worse, lacing the merry-go-round of her thoughts with that repeated worry. If I don’t go to sleep right now, tomorrow will be really difficult. This is the third night in a row I didn’t get enough sleep—if I don’t go to sleep right now, tomorrow will be torture. It’s probably four a.m.—if I don’t go to sleep right now, tomorrow will be a nightmare.

He was like a blade of grass with feet

At nine I called a halt and went down the column to see how the men were faring. One man lay on the ground sobbing his heart out. I prodded him with a bayonet. “What the devil’s the matter with you?” I demanded. Sympathy at a time like this, even if warranted, is fatal. “Please, sir, let me go back. I should never have come. I had a row … with my fiancée ….” “Too late to think about that now,” I told him curtly. “Fall in with the others.” He worked himself into hysterics. “You’re mad, Major, you’re mad. We’re all going to be killed. I know we are,” he screamed, terror-stricken, until Grant put a fist in his mouth. Blood trickled down his chin as he fell in.

Last but not least is the patrol afternoon watch. From left to right are the following: (first row) Sgt. Scott Margolin, Bob Picker, Jeff Woods, Al Tucker, Andy Conahan, and Juan Delvalle; (second row) Steve Andrews, Mike Wheeler, Chester Pitts, Bob Bowman, Bruce Bott, Kevin Taualii, Marty Dempsey, and Steve D’Anjou.

In his new activism, Mike’s long background in oil became a great asset. He knew the geology. He knew the economics. He knew the local lay of the land. He’d gained firsthand knowledge of dangerous chemicals. As a child he had crouched in the sugarcane field to watch the Piper Cub crop dusters fly low, their wheels nearly leafing through the tops of the cane stalks. After the pilot had sprayed DDT clouds and started to rise at the end of the row, Mike would pop up from the cane into the pesticide cloud to watch the plane turn for another pass. He knew about unawareness. But what was new for Mike was a close-up view of the politics—especially the attitude toward the environment expressed by Republican governor Bobby Jindal.

Did you get a VO2Max? They are a bit hard to come by, but tend to cost under $100. They can also be estimated using your two-kilometer rowing time on a Concept 2 rower. Though not as good, these machines are at least widely available, being found in most gyms. VO2Max measures your ability to huff and puff. It’s the maximum rate you can use oxygen. The higher the healthier, and it is a great exercise marker because many things must be operating well to get a good score. If your exercise is effective, your VO2Max will climb. This is a good way to monitor your overall progress.

PAUL SIMON: I saw the movie in a screening room with Mike and Joe Levine. Levine was sitting in the front row by himself—this is the first time he’s going to see it—and Mike and I were closer to the back, near the projectionist. The movie finishes, and the lights come up. And there’s a pause. And Levine says, “I smell money, Mike. I smell money.

Rowing Slow is about picking the times that you need to go fast, to have the ability to go fast when you need it and slow when it is called for. And going slow is called for.

Slow is not a dirty word.

I view the state of Slow simply as a mindful approach to what is happening around you. It is a way to gain enlightenment (and happiness) through thinking, self-contemplation, and intuition. It is using the ability to stop, process, and then proceed in a non-accelerated manner. What is great about this slow mindset is that while the effort can be minimal—the rewards can often be huge.

gentle interrogation. “Tell

Prompts (for High School Teachers Who Write Poetry)" Dante Di Stefano Write about walking into the building as a new teacher. Write yourself hopeful. Write a row of empty desks. Write the face of a student you’ve almost forgotten; he’s worn a Derek Jeter jersey all year. Do not conjecture about the adults he goes home to, or the place he calls home. Write about how he came to you for help each October morning his sophomore year. Write about teaching Othello to him; write Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle, rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven. Write about reading his obituary five years after he graduated. Write a poem containing the words “common” “core,” “differentiate,” and “overdose.” Write the names of the ones you will never forget: “Jenna,” “Tiberious,” “Heaven,” “Megan,” “Tanya,” “Kingsley” “Ashley,” “David.” Write Mari with “Nobody’s Baby” tattooed in cursive on her neck, spitting sixteen bars in the backrow, as little white Mike beatboxed “Candy Shop” and the whole class exploded. Write about Zuly and Nely, sisters from Guatemala, upon whom a thousand strange new English words rained down on like hail each period, and who wrote the story of their long journey on la bestia through Mexico, for you, in handwriting made heavy by the aquís and ayers ached in their knuckles, hidden by their smiles. Write an ode to loose-leaf. Write elegies on the nub nose of a pink eraser. Carve your devotion from a no. 2 pencil. Write the uncounted hours you spent fretting about the ones who cursed you out for keeping order, who slammed classroom doors, who screamed “you are not my father,” whose pain unraveled and broke you, whose pain you knew. Write how all this added up to a life. -- Dante Di Stefano. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 4, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.

Instead it is about non-hurry rowing. It is about enjoying and having an appreciation. It is about finding what is good in our sport, and happiness. It is about going slow so you can go fast.

Rowing Slow is certainly different thinking.

The miracles of progress are almost always invisible, but this doesn’t mean they’re not happening. When you set out to change your life—or, to stick with our last metaphor, embark upon a GPS-guided journey, this time three hours long and to a new friend’s home that you’ve never visited before—at what point in the journey does it become obvious that every left- and right-hand turn was spot-on, perfect, miraculous? In the final seconds!! Can you imagine the travesty, then, of concluding at 2 hours and 55 minutes into the journey, “It’s not working for me … It works for everyone else but me … I must have invisible, limiting, self-sabotaging beliefs … I think I’ll return home and watch The Secret 30 more days in a row”? No! It does work for you! It always works for you! Every day you get closer; every day it gets easier! Let these conclusions be your modus operandi forever more, on every journey. The moment you claim it’s not working, it stops working. The moment you claim it’s hard, it becomes hard. The Universe, your greater self, hears you. These become your new end results. It doesn’t judge. It just responds. You cannot tell it one day, “I’m going to be a rock star” and the next day say, “It’s not working” without these two opposing “end results” clashing and possibly canceling each other out.

But Ryan and Brady were outnumbered. A murderer’s row of House conservatives—Mike Pence of Indiana, Jeff Flake of Arizona, Jim Jordan of Ohio, and Jeb Hensarling of Texas—argued that free-market principles meant nothing if they could be jettisoned at the first sign of crisis.