Frenchy's Rant

Day 9

New Orleans, LA to Pensacola, FL – 215 miles

With only six hundred fifty miles to go, we felt we could sleep in late. The hangovers from the night before in no way influenced that decision. Of course, my idea of late, hangover or not is about eight, so I was up before anyone else. I wandered to the Jazz Preservation National Historic Park for another passport stamp, and chatted with the ranger for a few minutes.

On his recommendation, I stopped at the world famous Café du Mond for a coffee and beignets, little squares of fried dough absolutely covered with powdered sugar. After finishing this snack, I looked like the world’s worst cokehead; I was absolutely covered with white powder. The skies, blue when I left the hotel, were darkening; a long black line of clouds was moving in, it was obvious rain was coming.

Abi sat patiently waiting, Fireball’s engine purring as Fiona and I finished loading my motorcycle. Without warning, the storm hit, and hit hard. We were soaked in an instant. The on ramp to the highway was flooded, but I decided to go through anyway. What motorcycle adventure is complete without a water crossing? A massive torrent of oil, mud, water and who knows what else covered us, splashing up my legs and all the way into my helmet, covering me, Fiona and the bike with an oily film. Noticing this, Abi plowed through in my wake, sparing himself the worst of it.

As soon as we were on the highway, we rode ahead of the fast-approaching storm.

We could see the dark line of clouds marching towards us, but we wanted to see firsthand the lingering devastation from Hurricane Katrina. On Datadaddy’s recommendation, we took Route 90 out of New Orleans, and got to see some of the destruction up close. Two years have passed since the hurricane and floods, but many places are still damaged, seemingly abandoned and never to be repaired.

The sign at the Mississippi border read, ‘Welcome to Mississippi – It’s Like Coming Home.’ I guess it would be, if I lived in Mississippi. But since I don’t, I had to wonder about the marketing geniuses that came up with that brilliant slogan. The entire length of Route 90 in my new semi-home state was hosting the world’s largest Classic Car Block Party. Thousands of antique cars zoomed and cruised up and down the highway for miles, while spectators lined both sides of the road, cheering and clapping as these classic beauties roared by. Unfortunately, the bridge from Biloxi to Ocean Springs, damaged by Katrina, was still out. We detoured back to the slab, stopping once again to fill our tanks.

Fiona, sitting at a picnic table taking a break made a new ‘friend.’ A grubby looking guy parked his bicycle and sat next to her. “You wanna hear ’bout sumpthin’ unfair? I got a ticket yesterday, a speedin’ ticket on this here bicycle, for goin’ fifty-three miles an hour! I’m not lyin’ either. Fifty-three! I ain’t got seventy-five bucks to pay the ticket though.”

Ignoring his obvious attempt to bum some money, Fiona asked, “How did you get that bike going that fast?”

“Easy. It’s a twenty-one speed.” Sensing that he wasn’t going to get any money for his creative story, he climbed back on his racing bike and zoomed off into the distance.

Drawing ever closer to Orlando, I felt a little depressed that our journey was almost over. We had one small sentimental stop left to make. Fiona and I met in, of all places, Mobile, Alabama, and since it was more or less on the way, we decided to stop at the place ‘where it all began.’ Too bad we couldn’t relive that whole first night… but we weren’t THAT close to Orlando.

Mobile Marriott – Where It All Began

Moving on, we crossed our final state border for this trip. The Sunshine State welcomed us with dark grey skies. At dinner, I ordered a tall cool Sierra Nevada beer, only to be told by the waitress, “I’m not even sure why that beer is on the menu, since it’s illegal here in Florida.” I’ve never heard of such a thing. I think she was just hoarding all the ‘illegal’ beer for herself.

On to THE END!!

day 10

Pensacola to Orlando, FL – 488 Miles

Once again, Abi had his gear loaded and ready before Fiona and I came down at the agreed on time. “Dude, what the hell? Every single day I’ve come down on time, and every single day you’ve already been loaded up and ready to go. WHY?!?”

Abi pragmatically replied, “Because if I’m not early, I’m late.” Good point. It’s hard to argue with that kind of logic.

We stopped at the Gulf Islands National Seashore visitor center where I managed to score not one, but four more Passport Stamps. Great success! Though this day would be the highest mileage day ever for Fiona, she didn’t seem to mind at all. We disposed of the dwindling miles easily, with not much to see except vines, vines and more vines covering every tree, fence, and slow moving retiree in sight.

Cracker Barrel™, that wonderful chain restaurant with the homey feel not only has good food, but also has tables equipped with those annoying brain teaser games. The most annoying one of all is the triangle shaped game where you have to jump pegs over each other, leaving one remaining peg at the end. If you can manage that feat, you are rated as a ‘genius,’ leave two and ‘you’re purddy smart,’ leave three and ‘you’re just plain dumb,’ leave four or more and ‘you’re an eg-no-ray-moose.’

After playing, we found that the three of us are all ‘just plain dumb’, so we asked the manager for the solution. He answered, “Just plain dumb? Me too, and I’m happy to be that way. Let me send Ryan over, he’s a genius.” Ryan came over and showed us the secret, but even then the best we could do is ‘purddy smart.’ It’s good to know that even though we may not be geniuses, at least we’re all qualified to manage a Cracker Barrel™.

Stepping outside, Abi looked at the blue sky and said, “You know this is Florida. It’s going to rain.”

“No way. The sky is perfectly clear. It’s 3:00 now. What’s the over/under on the time this rain will start?”

Abi said, “4:30.”

Fiona said, “5:15.”

“OK, I’ll say 6:00. But it’s not going to rain.”

By 4:20 the perfectly clear blue sky had darkened into a thick blanket of dark clouds, and the first smattering of raindrops soon fell. Abi pumped his fist in the air, and Fiona and I shot him a hearty ADVrider salute. Pulling into a rest area to weatherproof, we spotted a guy in a helmet, T-shirt and jeans trying the nearly impossible maneuver of push-starting his Movistar repli-racer motorcycle. He was running alongside the bike, holding the clutch in. When he got moving fast enough, he then would attempt to jump aboard the bike and dump the clutch. Damn near impossible, but it was fun to watch a few runs.

“My battery is dead, and I really want to get going before this storm hits!”

Feeling his pain, we helped push him, and on the second try his bike roared to life. We committed our first actual good deed of the trip. Racing out of the rest area, our new friend wheelied us a big thank you.

The rain drizzled on us for a while, but once again the biker trick of gearing up for rain before it hits worked. Soon the road was again dry. But not for long. At 5:15 on the dot, the rain returned. We pulled into a gas station to fill up, and admired the biggest double rainbow I’ve ever seen.

This shower passed before we left, and all was well until 6:10, when the first fat raindrops smacked us. This wasn’t going to be a passing shower, this time it promised to be a deluge, and that deluge followed us the final hundred miles to Orlando. Gigantic streaks of lightning lit the entire sky as the miles wound down.

Making the final turn of the trip into Abi’s driveway, we were soaked but ecstatic. What would have been a six hour flight in an uncomfortable airplane had instead been, for us, the greatest motorcycle journey yet. Ten days and 3564 miles after leaving California, our great trip ended in a champagne toast. Abi’s girlfriend Anna met us at his house and joined the celebration.

Abi: “Good trip, where do we ride to next?
Me: “Let’s do Europe this spring!”
Fiona: “Next time, I want my own bike!”

If it’s Wednesday, I must be delayed in some generic airport, some generic place in this country. And it must be time to endure more stupidity, courtesy of the automatons from the TSA.

This actually happened to me about ten minutes ago:

I hand my ticket and drivers license to a security agent, who studiously examines them as if the secrets of the universe may be contained within, then, satisfied my license hasn’t expired and therefore I am not a threat to national security, she finally looks up and says, “Good morning sir, how are you today?”

“Fine, and you?”

“I’m doing OK, for a Monday.”

“Uhh, it’s Wednesday, isn’t it?”

Handing my documents back, she replies, “Well, yeah, for some people I guess it is, huh?”

I recently had the pleasure of borrowing a Hertz rental car, and while waiting for Hertz Agent Duddly DumbKnuckle to figure out exactly how his computer worked, I had some time, well plenty of time actually, to read the fine print of the Hertz Rental Agreement.

It’s a pretty one sided agreement, really. Basically you promise to obey a bunch of ridiculous restrictions for the privilege of renting a Chrysler Crapulence, while Hertz promises to come after you with a team of high powered attorneys if you break any one of the hundreds of conditions they place on you.

For instance, you are in breach of contract if you ‘use or permit the use of your car by anyone:’

1) While legally intoxicated or under the influence of alcohol, drugs or – get this – ‘other absorbed elements’ (no paint huffing, no nicotine patches) which may adversely affect a person’s ability to drive.

2) For any purpose that could properly be charged as a crime. (No bank robbing, no using your rental as a getaway car.)

3) To tow or push anything.

4) In a speed test, speed contest, race, rally, speed endurance contest or demonstration. (No stunting, no demolition derbies, doesn’t say anything about jumping the Grand Canyon though….)

5) In driver training activity. (No teaching your paint huffing, bank robbing, racecar driving twelve year old how to tow or push things in this car.)

6) To carry persons or property for hire. (Don’t transport whores to work, yo.)

7) To carry hazardous materials, explosives, biologically active materials, or radioactive material. (Terrorists, rent from Avis, OK?)

8) For rentals in Hawaii, take or attempt to take the car off the island of Hawaii. (Don’t try to drive from Maui drive back to California, stupid.)

And finally, to pretty much cover everything else:

9) Engage in any willful or wanton misconduct which, among other things may include reckless conduct such as: the failure to use seatbelts (you wanton, reckless rebel!) use when overloaded (see rule number 1, don’t get too loaded.) leaving the car and failing to remove the keys, or failing to close and lock all doors and windows.

In other words, don’t even THINK of having ANY fun in this car whatsoever. Failure to comply with even one of these conditions will constitute a violation of this ‘agreement’ and Hertz lawyers will hit you with large sticks until you are a bloody pulp, then kick you in the nuts and take your house and your kid’s college funds to replace the Ford Fecundus you rented for $29 a day.

Also, the Personal Effects coverage – the bullshit charge that effectively triples the cost of your $29 a day rental – doesn’t cover such ‘personal effects’ as:

Animals, Automobiles (?) Automobile Equipment, Motorcycles (Communists! If I want to put my motorcycle in the truck of my Suzuki Shitera, that’s MY business! It should be fully covered!) Boats, Motors or Other Conveyances, Household Furniture (can you tell by now that the Hertz legal team must have gotten their hands on some really killer shit to smoke while writing this?) Contact Lenses, Artificial Teeth and Limbs (keep your fake arms attached, please) currency, coins (those pennies in the ashtray are OURS!) Deeds, Bullion (no soup for you!) Stamps, Securities, Tickets, Documents, and finally… Perishables. (Don’t leave your dear, dead Granny in the trunk.)

Any loss or damage to personal effects caused by mysterious disappearance or use of the vehicle in violation of above agreement is no covered. Furthermore, benefits are not payable for delay, loss of market, indirect or consequential losses or damages of any kind.

Well, that pretty much covers it. At Hertz, they try harder – to cover their asses.

Working ‘behind the scenes’ on a TV show, the opportunity rarely arises to actually appear on the program. When people find out what I do for a living, one of their first questions is, “If I watch the show, will I see you on TV?” My standard answer, usually met with a bit of disappointment is, “If you see me on TV, something went very wrong.”

But in reality, that isn’t always the case. Seems when the show goes overseas, those rare opportunities magically appear. My most memorable ‘role’ was being Mick Foley’s cab driver as he arrived at the Manchester Evening News Arena. I happened to be walking by as the arrival shot was being set up. “Where the fuck is the cab driver? We need to get this shot going here! Can ANYONE drive this fucking cab?”

I instantly volunteered. Why not? It’d be fun, and besides, how hard could it be?

Turned out to be pretty hard alright. First off, the steering wheel was on the passenger’s side, and secondly, turning the key, conveniently left hanging in the ignition, did NOTHING. Wasn’t long before the glares started. “Just start the goddamn thing already! We gottta get GOING here!”

I frantically searched for a button or switch or something to get the goddamn thing running. In my fumbling, I stumbled onto the start sequence; clutch in, key on, secret button under steering wheel pressed, put your right hand in, put your right hand out, put your right hand in and shake it all about. I think swearing at the cab helped too.

The shot itself was simple. Drive the cab up to the camera, stop, get out and open the door for Mick. Backing the cab up to get into position wasn’t so simple.

Mick, when in character a bit of a maniac, but in real life a nice guy, climbed in the back. I am sure he had no idea who I am or that I work on the show. Most talent don’t, because I’m usually hidden far away from them, stuck inside the TV truck. He smiled and nodded as I put the cab in reverse, but that smile faded as I swerved around like a drunk leaving a bar at four AM.

“Woah there! What the hell are you doing? Be careful, man!” This from a wrestler that once fell fifteen feet from a cage onto a table with no padding, knocking out his front teeth in the process.

Driving in reverse from the passenger seat proved harder than I thought. I kept the taxi from crashing, by luck more than skill. After a few tries, a few close calls and a few cab stalls, we managed to get the shot. Though Mick is a nice (and patient) guy, he’s also cheap, because he never did tip the driver!

Last time we were in Sheffield, a bunch of us were hanging out in a pub. One of our camera crews came in to shoot some ‘scenics’ of people drinking beer for the next night’s show. Sensing another opportunity to shine, I bellied up to the bar. The camera crew convinced the bartender that our beers needed to be full, so he happily topped my pint off. The ‘scenic’ was me and two British guys clinking our glasses together, saying ‘Cheers!” then draining the pints.

The first take didn’t work. The least British looking guy in the group (me) messed it up by looking directly at the camera, a cardinal sin. “OK, Take two!” Glasses refilled, we tried again. Nope. Something or other still wasn’t quite right. Camera angles changed, glasses refilled again, and we made a third attempt. “That was good, but let’s do one more for safety’s sake.” One more refill. My new British friends, enjoying the free beer as much as me caught on. If we mess something up, we get another free pint. This time they both looked at the camera. “One final try guys, and this time DON’T look at the camera please!” A fourth fresh pint was poured. Lights adjusted slightly. The producer, three fingers in the air yelled, “Ready? In Three!” signaling one last try. Glasses raised again, this time nobody looked at the camera. CLINK! Everything went right, except at the ‘Cheers!” part of the scene, the French guy slurred something that sounded like “Shheeee-rrssshhh!” Everyone knew that take was as good as it was going to get. Shortly after, I called a cab to take me back to the hotel.

When the piece rolled during the show the next day, the director (who doesn’t work for us anymore) cut off the shot right before I appeared, saying “Sorry Frenchy, but you just don’t look British enough.” I wasn’t sure if he was complimenting or criticizing me, but at least the beer was free.

Yesterday I walked into catering for dinner, and was inadvertently part of another scene. The storyline revolved around a chase between Mr. McMahon’s assistant and – I am not making this up – a leprechaun. Three of us sat at a table eating dinner when the chase burst in, camera in tow. The leprechaun climbed on the serving counter and started throwing food, then jumped on the assistant who fell backwards over a table full of people eating, and ended with the leprechaun scampering away.

When it was over, the guy next to me turned and said, “Hey, mate! Whatever is in this soup, it’s the best! I swear I just saw a little green man running about in here! I’m getting some more!”

I’ll be searching out another cameo role tonight for sure.