Frenchy's Rant

Once again, it’s been a long, long time since I’ve updated this blog. Blogging seems to be the new millennium’s version of the Tamagotchi – at first they were kinda cool, then everyone had one, but now they are all dead.

Well, I’m not dead, and though it may seem it, the Rant is not dead either. For proof I thought I’d post a little something – old school style.

That’s right. Not some syrupy motorcycling story, not some stupid list or other fluff filler, but a real Frenchy’s fucking RANT!

Soooooo….

I’ve wasted approximately far too many hours suffering on airplanes: delays, lost luggage, stupid security, retarded passengers… I’ve seen and suffered through it all. Some people think that so much suffering must make one numb, but I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t make me numb, it makes me pissed.

Today’s excursion into the bowels of travel hell seemed on the surface to not be all that bad. A direct flight from the Kingdom of Rhode Island to our great nation’s capital, Washington DC. One flight, less than two hours, what could possibly go wrong?

Well, for starters – against my better judgement – the airline misguidedly allows other people on the plane.

Modern air travel has become a marvel of miniaturization. Back in the good old days, the airlines used $100 bills to fuel their gigantic, mostly empty planes. There were many times I would have an entire row – hell, sometimes I’d even have an entire plane to myself. Those good old days are sadly a relic of a past, better time. The new reality is smaller, cheaper planes that defy known physical laws, cramming a multitude of complete strangers together more tightly than… well… cramming everyone together almost exactly like sardines in a crushed tin box.

I throw my small computer bag into the mini-overhead compartment, then get settled into a little chair that is almost, but not quite, a real chair. Chair-lite, I call it. How quaint.

Then, I see her. Flailing down the mini-aisle, blasting other passengers out of the way, with her very maxi-bag in tow. Having been through this drill already, I know that Ms. Flail and her Stuffed Satchel of Shit is on her way to the mini-seat next to mine. On cue, she stops next to me and proves that some humans have yet to evolve from Self-Centered Asshole.

Looking at my tiny computer bag, then her gigantic rolling bag full of bloomers, she rolls her eyes. With all the authority that two beers give a lightweight, she makes the following noises in my general direction, “Isthisbagyours? Oooohhhh! Doyoumindmovingit? Mybagwon’tfit.”

How she accomplishes this without ever once looking at me is amazing. But it doesn’t matter. Her words bounce off my head unheeded. I stun her with a one word reply.

“No.”

Lady, I don’t give a shit if you’re the Grand Prize in the Airline Seat Lottery – which, for those keeping score, and for the rest that are too lazy to click the link, would be a 21 year old redhead on her way to Nymphomaniacs Anonymous. I am simply not moving MY bag for YOUR bag, you douchebag.

That is not the concept of SHARED SPACE. Did you fail kindergarten?

Angry now, she huffs, puffs, grunts, farts, whines, then storms to the back of the mini-plane (which, because of modern economics is uncomfortably close to the front, the middle, and my seat) and, I assume, finds a place for her bag. I further assume she came back and sat next to me but at this point I’m numb and I’ve long since stopped caring.

They close the cabin door, and thanks to increased cabin pressure, I am, as usual, rendered unconscious. This is the only saving grace of flying in a jet-lite. It’s smaller, so it takes less time to fill the cabin with pressure. Net result? I am knocked out quicker. Muy Bien!

Sometimes I’m lucky, and remain blissfully unaware the entire trip. The perfect flight for me? Waking up thinking we are still at the original gate, when in fact we’ve already landed and it’s time to get the fuckity-fuck out of the plane!

No such luck this time. Something gnaws at the edge of my unconsciousness. Like a gnat buzzing in my ear, or echos of a fellow passenger whining about overhead space, something draws me back to the land of the living dead.

“Swiper, no swiping! Swiper, no swiping! Swiiii-perrr! Nooooo! Swwwwippiinnnggg!”

What.

The.

Fuck.

Some android of a mom has decided the best way to not subject the flying herd to her snot-nosed brat crying all the way to Washington is to subject us all to something far worse – Dora the Explorer sans headphones, cranked at full volume.

Thanks to Al-Qaeda, passengers are no longer allowed to carry handguns, and thanks to airline cost cutting, there are no over-wing exits to conveniently dispose of Dora and Crew (seriously, there are no over-wing exits on this flying death trap. Think about that for a second…) As I see it, there’s no simple solution to this annoying problem. I find myself wishing Dora along with Android Mom would Exploras Las Siete Capas del Infierno.

And then, when things seem like they can’t possibly get any more absurd, they do. Ms. Flail, my forgotten-about seat mate turns, gives me that knowing look and says, “Can you believe the nerve of some people?”

No.

But at least I can rant about ’em!

Been a long time, both for writing and for riding, and to be honest, I’m not sure the reason. Since Rushing to Houston, I’ve ridden Rain Cloud Follows, my trusty Yamaha motorcycle exactly zero miles. Maybe I needed a break, or, more frightening to contemplate, it’s possible I’ve come to the end of another hobby, like my brief stint as a competitive yodeler or that time I took up interpretive dance.

One thing is certain, I need to find out for sure, and there’s no time like the present. With a burst of enthusiasm the previous evening, I set the alarm for Stupid Early, barely sleeping a wink. Sleeping Beauty is up with me before the alarm, concern evident in her eyes, even in the pre-dawn gloom. As I climb aboard my ride, my new fiancée leans in close and says, “Be careful, ride safe.”

“Good idea,” I reply.

Trying to look cool, I go to thumb the starter and beep the horn instead.

Not a good sign.  Has it really been that long?

When I finally find the start button, Rain Cloud Follows hesitates. Cherr-rurr-rurr-ruuuu-uurrrrrr! Coughing and sputtering, mocking my neglect. I know the bike will start, once the point has been made. After a few more stabs at the starter, my old friend comes back to life.

Tentatively, I twist the throttle, and start rolling down the driveway. Here goes nothing! I make a wide, sloppy turn onto the street. Uh-oh. Riding a motorcycle is just like riding a bike, right? It’ll come back… or, at least that’s what I try and convince myself. Until it does, I’ll admit I’m a bit rusty, and more than a bit nervous. After that first turn, my adrenalin pump kicks in, the old electric mixture of excitement and mild fear trickling through my veins once again.

My second turn is better, though before I have a chance to make a third, I am stopped dead in my tracks. The California Dept of Traffic Jams and General Clusterfuckery is hard at work this early morning. The highway is closed and every early morning commuter is stuck on the surface roads, all jockeying for position. I’m nearly crushed by an enormous dump truck, then a stupid looking Scion takes a shot at the empty space immediately in front of me. As the oblivious driver tries to squash me, I can’t help but think how her vehicle looks like the designers took an old shoebox, punched out a windshield and handed it to the Scion engineers with a shrug. I sputter through the impromptu logjam until I can safely squirt onto the highway, where I almost immediately run over a giant chunk of road debris; the sudden, unexpected jolt briefly makes me airborne.

Five minutes, and I’ve almost been killed four times. Why am I doing this again?

I’ve forgotten the feeling, the rush of the wind, the scent of the road; how sensitive I am to the temperature, knowing every degree change. Maybe that’s why I’m doing this. To remember.

I turn off the highway onto Little Tujunga Canyon road, a windy little squiggle of a road who’s real purpose is a mystery to me. Tentatively, I lean into the first curve. At first I’m using too much brake, picking the wrong entry points, missing the line. In a word, I am riding like shit. After a few harrowing minutes, I settle down and it slowly starts coming back to me. Yes, it is just like riding a bike. The sun starts to dapple the road. At some point on my fear-filled highway blast, the morning broke. I was too busy trying to stay shiny side up to notice the sunrise.

Sunrise on Little T

Slowly, the rust shakes off, and soon that involuntary smile is back. I hear a loud, awful noise in my helmet, confirming everything is OK.

I am singing.

From ‘Little T’, I snake my way over to Route 129, which leads me to Ojai (pronounced like Ohio – without the last O.) and the main attraction of my day – Route 33. I pull in for breakfast, and am immediately swarmed by a bike gang. Ten racing bikes with ten riders in full race leathers pull in and surround me. The smell of burning race gas fills my helmet. These guys are serious.

Rain Cloud Follows and Friends

“Been up the hill yet?” one young race pilot asks, pointing at the goodness that is Route 33. I think to myself that before this morning, I was starting to wonder if maybe I was over the hill,  but right now, on my way to getting my belly stretched full of pancakes and with miles of early morning excellence ahead, I just feel good.

Why did I ever stop doing this?

I slink out of the restaurant before the racers finish their meal. I know they’ll catch and pass me soon, but I don’t care.

Separated at Birth?

At a nearby fuel stop, another FJR, Rain Cloud’s exact twin pulls up next to me. After a conversation made awkward by full face helmets and earplugs, I understand one thing the passenger says to me: “We don’t ride on weekends, too many idiots out killing themselves.” With a wave we part, both of us intent on staying ahead of the racer/idiots.

Spanish Broom

In Full Bloom

Along the roadside the Spanish Broom is in full bloom, scenting the air with heady perfume. The curves sweep deep, and with renewed confidence, I dip into each and every one with a smile.

Highway to Heaven

I stop to check out a severely wrecked guardrail. A guy in a pickup truck that also stopped to survey the damage says he heard a motorcycle did this last weekend. I find it hard to believe anything on two wheels could do this much damage unless the motorcycle was doing 300 MPH.

Wrecked Rail

Weaving and winding through an endless succession of perfect curves, Rain Cloud Follows and I perform an impressive interpretive dance the entire length of Route 33. The racer/idiots never catch me, which for some reason feels like a small victory.

Onward!

One thing has become perfectly clear. Motorcycling is more than a hobby; it is me, it’s what I do. With a loud, competitive yodel echoing in my helmet, I set my course for home, with renewed dreams of far-off rides swirling in my head.

The Road That Never Ends

After logging more frequent flier miles than I care to admit, I’ve come to realize that while every person in an airport may be an individual, there are certain herd-type characteristics that I seem to run into over and over and over.

Here, in no particular order, are the Ten People You Meet In Airplanes:

1) The Alphabetically Challenged – The confused look on this character’s face as he wanders down the aisle gives him away every time. There is no doubt about the outcome, this winner is going to end up sitting in the WRONG SEAT. It’s easy to understand how he is confused, because for some reason, at least on airplanes, C always comes after F and before B. It’s hard to keep all those letters straight!

2) Proud Mamma – Another instantly recognizable airport dweller. She usually has a stroller made by Hummer, and that stroller is populated by at least one runny-nosed brat with a ton of Noise Toys. When Mamma and her little snot factory finally get to their seats and strap in, Junior will start singing the Alphabet Song at top volume, over and over and over, to his adoring Mamma’s delight. Helpful for the Alphabetically Challenged, but painful for the rest of the passengers.

3) The Salesman – With at least one snazzy and stylish earpiece sticking out of his ear, this guy wants everyone to know exactly how awesomely awesome he is. He talks so loud there is no way that anyone within a two mile radius can’t hear him. It’s always fascinating to hear exactly how many Tapered Douche Nozzles that Mr. Freddy Fartknuckle sold this quarter. This guy makes me wish I had earlids.

4) The Befuddled Fencepost – This anti-multitasker is good for one thing, and one thing only; creating traffic jams. As soon as the plane starts boarding, this boob will get as close to the boarding door as possible and stop, content to let his small brain ruminate on its single thought: “If this is Group One boarding, that means I am just seven groups from getting on the plane. If I gotta stand sumwhere, it might as well be here in the middle of everything!” This is the same guy that, after standing in every single passengers way, will get on the plane dead last and be forced to stuff his jumbo steamer trunk in the overhead twenty rows behind his seat. As soon as the plane lands, he’ll jump up, rush back to his bag, then force his way through everyone to get back where he started from, mumbling something about ‘catching a connecting flight.’ At the top of the jetway, there he’ll be, staring at the connecting flights board with that same confused look on his face as passengers once again stream around him.

5) The Sneak – Closely related to the Fencepost, this guy is the one that feels that boarding groups don’t apply to him. When the first zone is called, no matter what group he is actually in, he’ll make no eye contact, just drops his shoulder and barge past everyone to be the first on the plane. Guess what, highspeed… There is no prize for being first to board! The airlines cut those out years ago to save money, right before they cut out pillows and flushing toilets. If the gate agent calls him out on his ruse, The Sneak will get very indignant, and in a squeaky, pissy voice inform the agent that ‘He’ll NEVER fly this airline AGAIN!” If only. This guy used to be the kid that was always picked last for the kickball team.

6) El Grande Gigante – There is no way to miss his sweating mass as he lumbers down the aisle. His enormous belly rubs against BOTH aisle seats (C and D for the Alphabetically Challenged) as he waddles his way to the back of the plane. And though I struggle to not make any eye contact in the hopes he will spontaneously combust into the world’s biggest grease fire, there is no doubt where this mass of humanity will end up sitting. Next to me. Before takeoff, he’ll whip out his own custom monogrammed seatbelt extension. Then, as I am forced to use his massively greasy folds of blubber as an armrest, I’ll be treated to the spectacle of his bi-hourly feeding ritual; handful after handful of Crisco shoved in his gaping foodhole while quaffing a Coke Zero. Murphy’s Law of Averages being what it is, this lardass will also be my seatmate on my connecting flight.

7) Hot Redhead On Her Way To Nymphos Anonymous Rehab – She never sits next to me.

8 ) First Class Ass – This dickhead honestly believes Frequent Flier miles are currency, and mere mortals should be impressed at his vast portfolio. Has no problem boldly shouldering his way past those same mere mortals in line, because after all, he will be SITTING IN FIRST CLASS! It’s always a pleasure to watch his face as I, a mere mortal, sit down next to him.

9) The Spatially Challenged Spaz – Somehow, she manages to sneak four overstuffed bags into the plane, then can’t understand why her ten pounds of shit doesn’t fit in the five pound overhead. Frequently, she has one of those little football dogs packed in one of those bags. By the way, those dogs are called football dogs because all they are good for is kicking field goals.

10) I have only heard rumors of the tenth person you meet in an airplane. This guy is the unsung hero, a figure of folk legend, the champion of veteran road warriors the world over. There have been days where airline incompetence and attitude has pushed me close to emulating him, though I lack the boules en laiton . His name is Gerard Finneran; the man who, way back in 1995 made a bold statement, and left his own brown mark of freedom on  the first class drink cart.

While I don’t necessarily agree with G-Finn’s actions, I certainly do understand.

If it isn’t glaringly apparent, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt the urge to write something.

Blogging is a lot like going to the gym for me. Make it a routine, and stick to the routine, and it becomes… well…a routine. But if I talk myself out of going even one day, that is the last day I’ll go to the gym for a long, long time. Blogging is work, believe it or not. While I don’t expect anyone that has ever read one of my inane posts to believe that I put a lot of thought into a blog post, hacking out a bunch of words that connect into a thought is far from fun, actually it’s a pain in the ass most of the time.

Which is a shame, because when I was blogging fairly steadily, by last official Analytics count, I think I had amassed an Additional Twenty to the Faithful Fifteen. All that hard work is now down the intertubes, just like that. I know I will be lucky if one or two people stumble across this. Most probably thought I was dead…

Well, even though the blog has been for far too long, I’m not dead – not by a long shot – not yet, anyway. I have been taking some time to start compiling my Yawn-Inspiring Ride Reports™ into a magazine format – which, believe it or not is also a lot of work. But, as they say (whoever they are) no pain, no gain. When the magazine is complete, I will make a HUGE announcement on the Rant that it is available, so all two of you can get a copy.

I’m also trying to get a real company to help me with a blog redesign, which, while not really work, is turning out to be an incredible pain in the ass. It usually goes something like this:

ME – emailing blog design company: “Hello. I have a crappy and dormant blog in desperate need of un-crappifification. Please help me and I will send you enormous sums of money.”

BLOG DESIGN COMPANY:

No response. Null set. 404 – Reply Not Found.

Ever.

I mean, aside from having thirty five people with nothing better to do than stop by Frenchy’s Rant semi regularly, this blog has an amazingly awesome layout and really cool background, right? Of course it does, but seriously,even I can tell  it needs a little ‘help’. There are over five years of posts on here,some fo them even entertaining, but can you find them?

No?

Me either.

Someday, maybe a company will get back to me (HINT FOR BLOG DESIGN COMPANIES – it has something to do with hitting the ‘reply’ button.) and this blog will claw it’s way back to the very bottom of the Google blog rankings.

In the mean time, is this the triumphant return of Frenchy to the world of inane blog blather?

Maybe. Only time will tell…

I haven’t posted in such a long time that I actually forgot how it’s done. Took me about ten minutes of fiddling around to remember.

Now that’s just sad. Used to be I’d post just about once a day… guess I had more to say then? Or maybe I just realized that sometimes it’s better to keep yer damn trap shut. I dunno…

But now that I’ve remembered how it’s done, maybe… just maybe… I’ll pick it up again.

Leave a comment and let me know what you think…