For the last few years, I have almost always had a class with Bat and he has consistently inspired me to try harder, to do better and to be better. He's always been a good friend and a good sounding board, helping turn my so-so ideas into something much better.
And now he's gone.
I'm sure I echo a lot of people's sentiments when I say that this signals the end of some sort of era, as Bat's become a sort of legend; a Mongolian art machine with a big smile and a warm heart.
True story: we were coming back from a portfolio review in Salt Lake. I was sitting next to Bat and we were discussing how we respond to art (he's more intellectually-based, I'm more of a gut-reaction, visceral type of guy) or something like that, and we're sitting behind Kelly Burgener, the Dean of the Art College and Scott Franson, aka, my favorite teacher ever. So it's March and Bro. Burgener's driving. It's getting late. For some reason, Burgener's got the fan running and the air's a bit cool.
It's also hitting me right in my crotch.
I try shutting the vent, but that only creates an annoying whine, so I decide to just take it. So I lean over and sort of whisper to Bat, "Man, this air's blowing right on my crotch." To which Bat responds - and we're sitting directly behind Burgener an Franson, mind you - rather loudly with the query "What is 'crotch?'" Both Franson and Burgener are cracking up at this point as I try to delicately explain to Bat what the word means without upsetting the young girls in the back seat. "Is it your neck?" Bat asks.
"No. Uh, lower."
"Your belly?"
"No. Lower.
[pause]
"Oh."
And that, my dear readers, is the story of how I taught my Mongolian friend the true maening of the word "crotch." Awkward, but funny.
So, travel well, Bat. You'll be missed. I know you'll do well. Keep in touch and best of luck, gangster. Peace.
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