Frenchy's Rant

I woke up with an itch in the back of my tiny brain yesterday morning, one that needed immediate scratching. Surrendering to the urge, I grabbed my helmet and gear, wandered outside, opened the garage, and answered the primal call. I uncovered my very neglected Yamaha FJR, climbed aboard and thumbed the starter. The whirring and purring of the engine woke me up, and with no real destination in mind, I let the bike take me for a little ride.

Traffic wasn’t too bad, and I passed the time watching the drones packed into their self-contained boxes, commuting to their air-conditioned cubicles. There was the typical assortment of zombies; women applying makeup in the high speed lane, suits yammering into oversized Crackberries or those ridiculous looking Bluetooth earpieces, and of course, the ever present Indy 500 wanna-be drivers changing lanes every ten seconds. Hell, one guy I saw was even reading the newspaper! I accelerated away from these catastrophes-in-waiting until I came to the exit for Highway 2 – better known as Angeles Crest.

Angeles Crest is a fantastic two lane road carved through the San Gabriel Mountains. The designer of this little piece of heaven was either a motorcyclist, or someone that detested straight lines. This road is serious fun with some great scenery to boot.

Thanks to work and other things, I haven’t been riding as much as I would like ( ‘as much as I’d like‘ really translates to ‘every-single-day‘) so, I was a little rusty. I took the corners slowly at first, getting the feel back for the bike and the ride. After a few miles, I started picking up the pace little by little. Soon I felt like Valentino Rossi, ripping though the Corkscrew and winning a MotoGP race at Laguna Seca. I was going F-A-S-T fast!

Or at least it felt that way. Suddenly there was a black blur to my left. With a casual wave, a REAL racing bike that I recognized to be a new Honda CBR flashed by. Startled, I backed off the throttle a bit. Looking in my mirror, I saw three more flashy sport bikes stuck to my tail. I pulled over to let them pass, then decided that since I was a MotoGP winner, I could hang with these guys.

Right. I hung with them for about three turns, then realized that if I kept up with their pace, a LifeFlight would be in my immediate future. The little sport bike train got smaller and smaller until they disappeared over a hill.

About forty miles down Angeles Crest is Newcomb’s Ranch. It’s a great place to stop for a drink or a light lunch, and there are always beautiful motorcycles to oogle and drool over and cool riders to swap stories with. More then once at Newcomb’s I’ve had a five minute rest stop turn into an hour or more bullshit fest.

As I pulled up to Newcomb’s Ranch, I spotted the four sportbikes that left me in the dust, then I noticed the riders, who were just about finished taking off their riding gear – meaning they’d already been there a while when I finally puttered by.

When the last guy took off his helmet, I saw a flash of white. That guy, who happened to be the one in the lead on the CBR, could have easily doubled for Santa Claus with his extremely white hair. He had to be at least sixty years old. And he was the YOUNGEST looking of the group!

Needless to say I was WAY too humiliated to stop in.

But I’ll go back to the Crest, and though the closest I’ll ever get to a MotoGP is scoring a pit pass to Laguna Seca, someday, maybe someday, I’ll be quick enough to ride with grandpa on the CBR.

To the disappointment of some, rumors of my demise are somewhat exaggerated.

This blogging thing is fun, or at least it’s supposed to be. But when it changes from fun into work, when it starts sounding forced, well… it’s time to take a break.

So, as the few remaining faithful readers that checked back and stared at a boring backpack for months know… I did. (Just for the record, that ‘backpack’ was actually my tank bag with my keys stuck to it… )

In the meantime, among other things, I went to Europe with the WWE in April. At the time I wrote some emails about the trip, and finally got off my lazy ass and decided to post them here.

A rant? Not really, just a trip… A trip that is written up directly below this post.

Is this the end of the rant?

Probably not…. There is still PLENTY to bitch about, not to mention a few more epic trips in the planning stages…

THE RANT GOES ON!

Buon Giorno from Milano!

After a quick seven hour flight from Boston to Milan’s Malpensa airport, a laughable customs check point and a few near death experiences on the drive to the hotel, I can now add Italy to my growing list of countries I’ve had the privilege of experiencing on somebody else’s dime.

My travel buddy Abi and I passed time on the flight watching the ‘Race to Dakar‘ series until the laptop battery died. Then we watched episodes of ‘The Daily Show’ until my iPod died. By then we were twenty minutes from landing. We’d decided to make the trip to Milan a few days early, in order to do some sightseeing, and of course some Italian food eating!

Italian customs make Irish customs look strict. Last year the Irish customs agent asked, “And how long will ye be stayin’?” Before I’d even answered, he’d stamped my passport, dismissing me with a friendly wave. The smartly dressed Italian customs agent didn’t even bother to ask me anything, he didn’t even look at me for that matter. He took my passport, glanced at it for a second, and quickly handed it back. Italian customs is so casual that he didn’t even stamp the passport! Welcome to Italy!

We were met at the airport by WWE‘s European staff, and ushered to a waiting Mercedes. Our driver Fabio seemed eager to show us how fast the car could go, tromping on the accelerator with wild abandon. Glancing at the speedometer, I hoped that it was in kilometers per hour, because we were topping out at 160! Fabio, in typical Italian style talked with his hands and turned around often to make eye contact with his back seat passengers. At one point, traffic ahead suddenly came to a standstill. Fabio realized this and slammed on the brakes so hard the car shook. We missed center punching the trunk of a Citroen by millimeters.

Fabio didn’t even flinch, just asked if we were OK, then continued his discourse on how changing currencies to the Euro irritated him and his fellow countrymen.

Besides nearly killing us, Fabio also recommended some good places to see in and around Milan. We soon made our way to the Duomo, an ornate church built in the 1300’s.

The inside was as incredible as the outside. I set up my little tripod and started snapping some pictures.

It didn’t take long for a guard to come over and start hissing at me in Italian. When I shrugged the international ‘I don’t understand’ sign, he switched to English and curtly informed me I had broken the Eleventh Commandment; ‘Thou shalt not useth a tripod inside the Duomo.’ In case I didn’t get it, he scowled and repeated, “NO TRIPOD!” at me at least fifteen times. He was pissed, I was contrite, and we quickly slunk out a side exit to the Duomo.

Not even in the country for one day and already thrown out of church. I’d say we were doing pretty well!

The offensive tripod.

Italians may not have a good sense of humor, but they certainly have a sense of style, no matter what they are doing. And they almost ALL ride scooters. Scooters are EVERYWHERE, and the Italians manage to make them look COOL!

If not on scooters or in their Ferraris, many Italians tool around in these little micro cars. This is called the Smart Car ForTwo. Seriously. You can fit two people inside… and thats it. If you get hit… it would be the Death Car CoffinForTwo.

And if you can’t afford a Lamborghini, DeathCar ForTwo or scooter, there’s always the old standby, the lowly bicycle. Most women ride in high heels, most men in suits. Nobody on bicycles wears a helmet, because those ugly brain buckets just aren’t stylish enough.

Abi and I are going to Como Lake tomorrow, then my WWE sponsored vacation pretty much ends. Checking my cell phone messages, I found out that Randy – the guy that usually mixes the WWE show – is sick, and won’t be making the trip. Randy not making the trip means that I will have to step up and mix the WWE shows, which really means that I will have to actually WORK now.

Ah well… there’s still PLENTY more to see before this vacation crashes to a halt.

Day two began bright and early, at least for me. I was wide awake at 5 AM, with little hope of falling back asleep. Scooters buzzed up and down the boulevard like mosquitos, even at this early hour. I stood on the little terrace outside the hotel room and watched as sleepy Milan woke up.

After a while, I walked to a little cafe beside the hotel and ordered a cappuccino. As I sat on the patio reading my book, ‘Wild Stories – The Best of Men’s Journal’ – a book I highly recommend, by the way – I suddenly felt… Italian, if just for a moment. I had nowhere to be, nothing to rush off and do, no pressing matters that demanded my attention, the day was just beginning and was full of promise. Not to mention my steaming cup of cappuccino warming my hands. I was completely absorbed in the moment, and it felt good.

Of course it only took that one moment to drain my thimble-sized cappuccino, then I realized that far from being a stylish Italians, I was sitting there in an old, wrinkled T-shirt and baseball hat, and my illusion of being Italian was shattered. Just as well, as it was almost time to leave beautiful Milano for even more beautiful Lake Como.

The Cadorna train station was too far to walk, so we hailed a cab. Our driver informed us that the trains were on strike, emphasizing his point by thrusting an Italian newspaper at us. My Italian reading skills being what they are, it may as well have been a Sanskrit newspaper – which I am sure he knew. He offered to drive us to Como Lake for 100 Euros. I laughed a bit at this. We may be American tourists, but that doesn’t automatically make us stupid, buddy… Disappointed but undaunted, he sweetened the deal by offering a round trip for 150 Euros. “Eh, looka, you save money dat way. See? 100 to get there, but 150 to getta there and back, eh?”

Grazie, but no grazie, signore!

As it was, the cab ride from the hotel to the train station was more expensive than train tickets to Como Lake! And of course, there was no evidence of a train worker strike.

Inside the train station, our limited command of Italian was evident once again. Abi and I played a game of charades with a clerk that spoke no English, as we attempted to purchase Italian SIM cards for our cellular phones. With much pointing, gesturing and waving, we finally managed to secure two cards, but weren’t able to put any money on them (the cards are pay-as-you-go, which is brilliant.) “Retardo, retardo… ” she kept saying, gesturing at her blank computer screen. I am sure she was talking to Abi.

The train ride from Cadorna station to Como Lake was interesting. As I said previously, the Italians have style. I know it may sound like a generalization, and it probably is, but even the graffiti that covered every single wall, bridge and building on the entire train ride was exquisitely intricate and artistic. I guess if you have to cover walls in graffiti, it may as well be art.

An hour later it seemed we’d been transported to another world. Como Lake is close to the Swiss border, and the mountains come right down to the lake. The town of Como was what I imagined all of Italy would be like. People were sitting and chatting on park benches, enjoying the weather, painting the landscape, and occasionally a bicycle bell would jingle. It seemed like something straight out of a movie.

Even the police look… dare I say it again… stylish. OK… thats the last time!

Since we had no real plan for the day other than to get to Como Lake, we decided to take a little boat ride. Looking at a map, we realized Como Lake is shaped like an upside down letter ‘Y’. We randomly picked the town of Bellagio, which, at the ‘crotch’ of the lake, seemed an interesting place to go.

But first, ice cream time! Everyone seemed to have an ice cream cone in hand, and it made me want one. Fortunately, there are ice cream shops all over Como. Even more fortunately for the linguistically impaired, most of these shops sport large ice cream cone statues out front. I ordered a large cioccolato cone, and the incredulous ice cream man asked me, “Cioccolato only? That all you want?” Then, with an audible TSK TSK, he added, “You are Americano, no?”

I still have no idea why he asked me that. Maybe because Americans only want one flavor, maybe because we like chocolate… who knows?

Half eaten and half melted ice cream all over me, it was time to board the ‘Citta di Como’ high speed catamaran for the cruise to Bellagio.

The styl… err… well dressed crew lassoed the pier with precision.

The inadequacy of our poor Italian became painfully evident for a final time that day. Turned our the tickets we’d purchased were to Menaggio instead of Bellagio. Ah well. Mennagio is a very small town that is nestled just eight miles from the border of Switzerland. Interesting to note that the town of Menaggio had a nice fountain, similar to the Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas. Also interesting to note that the town of Mennagio had nothing else of interest to offer.

Fortunately, the last boat from Menaggio back to Como was leaving only an hour after we’d arrived. If there was more time, I think we’d have taken a taxi across to Switzerland, just for the passport stamp, and maybe some cheese.

As it was, there was barely enough time for a quick cappuccino (and for some unknown reason, a shot glass full of water) before it was time to leave.

This big (and hollow) car ferry, barely a boat at all, docked just before our boat did. A few motorcycles, a car and some bicycles boarded, and one bicyclist got off. I wondered where all these people were going to as they loaded the ferry.

On the trip back to Como, I did find the house that I want to retire in, though I’ll probably have to work another five hundred years to afford it.

The boat ride back to Como was peaceful and relaxing… so peaceful in fact that I pretty much passed out. The trip back passed far too quickly. In fact two full days passed far too quickly, and sadly, it’s now time to work. With Randy not making the trip, this time it will be REAL work, which is even sadder.

Ah well. Time to set up! RAW from Milan on Monday, Smackdown on Tuesday… and then… Prague on Wednesday!

La vita è buona! Arrivederci!

The dreaded ‘work’ part of this WWE sponsored ‘vacation’ arrived with a THUD. Normally on these shows, I am sort of an insurance policy. In case something happens to Randy – the poor soul that has been mixing WWE audio since the days of Marconi – something such as taking a vacation needing a kidney transplant, I can step in and mix the show. And if not, it’s all pretty much a paid vacation for me. Well, as I found out a few days ago, Randy’s illness forced him to take this whole two week European trip off, the ‘Frenchy insurance policy’ was cashed in, and I was field promoted to the audio mixer, or A1 chair.

Time to do the Italian Job!

Back at home we have a custom built, state-of-the-art TV truck that we use every week. When we travel to Europe, we hire a company called Visions to provide us with their state-of-the-art trucks. Without getting into TOO many boring technical details, I’ll just say the states of the “art” between the US and the UK are WORLDS apart. Fortunately, we hire a crew of British guys to work with us, and they know their odd little TV trucks and the very odd WWE show pretty well. Of course, they all speak British at us, which is similar to, but not the same as English. A truck isn’t a truck, it’s a ‘lorry’… elevators are ‘lifts’, the router in the TV truck is the ‘rooter’, ect. At times I have been asked by the UK crew to translate something into ‘American’, which always makes me laugh.

For an example, when we have a problem with a piece of equipment at home, we generally say something to the effect of, “Yeah, that piece of shit is fucked up,” but in British, it just “gives a bit of grief.” Cheers, mate!

Anyway, we had all day Saturday and Sunday to get set for Monday (also known in British as Monday) night’s show. The first day passed quickly and uneventfully, the second was almost as uneventful as the first.

That made me very nervous.

After two days, about five miles (three thousand four hundred fifty-two millimeters) of cable snaked throughout Milan‘s DatcheForum to put our little show together.

Spaghetti anyone?

Large Italian flags hung by the entrance with care, in hopes that Mr. McMahon would soon be there (and be in a good mood.)

Some of the crew diligently preparing for our first ever televised show from Italy. They look calm, but our two uneventful set days led to a chaoticically eventful show day, with multiple changes throughout the day, and of course, lots of yelling. Typical fun stuff!

What the hell do all these buttons do anyway?!?!

Show number one, sometime in the middle. That’s the best smile I could muster. Yeah, in any language, it was pretty much a disaster.

At least there is another show to look forward to on Tuesday… then… mercifully… PRAGUE!!