It's been a long time coming, and now that day is finally here. Frenchy's Rant is officially moving to a new home: cleverly titled frenchysrant.com
Took a while to figure out the various bells and whistles of Wordpress, and it will probably take a while longer to iron everything out, but I've stalled the move long enough.
Now, when I'm on a ride, the new blog will open with the SPOT tracker map, and, finally, those lousy postage stamp-sized pictures in posts will be click-able. When clicked on, a post picture will magically grow into a full size, hi-res masterpiece. Or at least that's the theory...
Comments are also a hell of a lot easier to leave, so leave some!!
The new blog site, is (mostly) set up, and ready for the Faithful Fifteen to visit. It will be the same old drivel, just in a new, fresh package!
Click here for more yawn-inspiring posts at the new home of Frenchy's Rant!
Monday, August 31, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Moving Soon
Blogging.
It used to be a simple little thing I did for fun once in a while. A few people read my silly little posts, and that was fine. Four years later, the Faithful Fifteen readers of Frenchy's Rant seem to check in semi-regularly for a dose of yawn-inspiring blather.
Before I ramble on, I'd like to take this opportunity to say a hearty Thank You to to everyone that has made this little experiment in blogging so fun and fulfilling.
In my formative blogging years, I learned how to write, upgraded my crappy digital camera and started out down the long path to photographical and blogging mediocrity. I planned bigger and better motorcycle trips, and attempted to take the Faithful along. Somewhere along the way I got tired of bitching about travel and TSA and all the crap that comes along with living on the road, so those posts dwindled to almost nothing. Sometimes I got sick of blogging altogether, sometimes I ran out of things to say, and occasionally I had a decent idea or two. Through four years, I averaged about 120 posts a year, and, if I may say so, a few of those posts were pretty good.
At the beginning, I was happy about all this. Every comment meant that someone was reading, and those comments, though few and far between, inspired me to keep writing. Every hit on the ol' hit counter meant someone had wasted a few minutes of their day with me. After a while, I realized something. While I plodded along with my few hits a day, real bloggers with real blogs and Faithful Millions started getting book, and even movie deals. What did they have that I don't?
Well, those bloggers were good writers for one; but other than that, they had blogs that looked professional. Interesting layouts, photos bigger than postage stamps, and, of course, lots of readers.
I started feeling pangs of growing pains with my little rant, and recently I finally started researching ways to make it better. Not necessarily better as in better writing, but at least better as in better looking. Blogger.com, a free service, is pretty limited in what it can do, and, after Google took it over, it became even more limited. New 'features' the Google Goons added made blogging more difficult. With that, Blogger became, in my mind, the equivalent of MySpace - old fashioned and outdated. I felt the need to turn my blog into the equivalent of Facebook.
Finally ready to make the next step, I contacted a bunch of web designers. For a wide range of prices, the ones that responded indicated they were willing to help. Then I learned that these designers were a flaky lot, as they stopped returning emails. None got past the typical "Absolutely! I can do all that for the low, low price of $3000!" I'm sure my standard response, "Are you smoking crack?" may have had something to do with their lack of answers.
So, taking a deeep breath, I set out to do it myself. Going into this, I had to admit to myself that I know more about particle physics than I do about HTML, CSS and PHP script coding, which, as I learned, is now a pre-requisite for better blogging. Learning stuff is hard work for me, and hard work makes me tired. Besides, I don't really WANT to learn all this junk, I just want to write blogs, which partially explains the ridiculous fees that web designers charge.
To my surprise, I found that even as a tired old dog, with a bit of patience and experimenting, and a few naps, these new coding tricks started making a little sense. Every day I read up on different ways to get this new blog to do what I want it to do. Some days I figure something out, other days, I walk away feeling dizzy from trying to figure out just what the hell the meaning of mumbo jumbo like this is:
It's been fun and frustrating at the same time, but I think I'm now solidly on that curvy, winding road to new-and-improved bloggdom. In the next week or two, once the bugs are all worked out, the Rant will be moving to a new and better address.
Never fear, though I might start proofreading my blogs before posting them, it'll be more or less the same crappy ol' Rant, just at a new place, with a much easier way to leave comments. Hopefully most of the Faithful Fifteen will come along for the ride!
The best is yet to come...
It used to be a simple little thing I did for fun once in a while. A few people read my silly little posts, and that was fine. Four years later, the Faithful Fifteen readers of Frenchy's Rant seem to check in semi-regularly for a dose of yawn-inspiring blather.
Before I ramble on, I'd like to take this opportunity to say a hearty Thank You to to everyone that has made this little experiment in blogging so fun and fulfilling.
At the beginning, I was happy about all this. Every comment meant that someone was reading, and those comments, though few and far between, inspired me to keep writing. Every hit on the ol' hit counter meant someone had wasted a few minutes of their day with me. After a while, I realized something. While I plodded along with my few hits a day, real bloggers with real blogs and Faithful Millions started getting book, and even movie deals. What did they have that I don't?
Well, those bloggers were good writers for one; but other than that, they had blogs that looked professional. Interesting layouts, photos bigger than postage stamps, and, of course, lots of readers.
I started feeling pangs of growing pains with my little rant, and recently I finally started researching ways to make it better. Not necessarily better as in better writing, but at least better as in better looking. Blogger.com, a free service, is pretty limited in what it can do, and, after Google took it over, it became even more limited. New 'features' the Google Goons added made blogging more difficult. With that, Blogger became, in my mind, the equivalent of MySpace - old fashioned and outdated. I felt the need to turn my blog into the equivalent of Facebook.
Finally ready to make the next step, I contacted a bunch of web designers. For a wide range of prices, the ones that responded indicated they were willing to help. Then I learned that these designers were a flaky lot, as they stopped returning emails. None got past the typical "Absolutely! I can do all that for the low, low price of $3000!" I'm sure my standard response, "Are you smoking crack?" may have had something to do with their lack of answers.
So, taking a deeep breath, I set out to do it myself. Going into this, I had to admit to myself that I know more about particle physics than I do about HTML, CSS and PHP script coding, which, as I learned, is now a pre-requisite for better blogging. Learning stuff is hard work for me, and hard work makes me tired. Besides, I don't really WANT to learn all this junk, I just want to write blogs, which partially explains the ridiculous fees that web designers charge.
To my surprise, I found that even as a tired old dog, with a bit of patience and experimenting, and a few naps, these new coding tricks started making a little sense. Every day I read up on different ways to get this new blog to do what I want it to do. Some days I figure something out, other days, I walk away feeling dizzy from trying to figure out just what the hell the meaning of mumbo jumbo like this is:
Err... What the?!?!/* rule matching */
XGetClassHint(dpy, c->win, &ch);
for(i = 0; i < LENGTH(rules); i++) {
r = &rules[i];
if((!r->title || strstr(c->name, r->title))
&& (!r->class || (ch.res_class && strstr(ch.res_class, r->class)))
It's been fun and frustrating at the same time, but I think I'm now solidly on that curvy, winding road to new-and-improved bloggdom. In the next week or two, once the bugs are all worked out, the Rant will be moving to a new and better address.
Never fear, though I might start proofreading my blogs before posting them, it'll be more or less the same crappy ol' Rant, just at a new place, with a much easier way to leave comments. Hopefully most of the Faithful Fifteen will come along for the ride!
The best is yet to come...
Thursday, August 20, 2009
You Always Remember Your First...
Way back in 1988 I bought my first motorcycle, a 1978 Kawasaki KZ 400, for $600. For me at the time, this purchase represented my life savings; everything I earned mowing lawns, shoveling snow, babysitting, and the odd paying band gig or two.
At the time, while other kids were sneaking copies of Playboy and Penthouse around, along with Modern Drummer magazine, I'd sneak copies of Motorcyclist and Cycle World into my bedroom. In my house, motorcycles were considered dangerous contraptions of death and dismemberment, completely forbidden.
Driving to and from band practice, I'd pass that sad-looking motorcycle with the For Sale sign on it. The bike sat there for months, unpurchased, silently calling me. I knew there was no way my Mom and Dad would allow me to have a motorcycle, so I waited for that magical day when I could make my own decisions, the day I turned eighteen and became "an adult" (I still am waiting for the "adult" part.)
Upon reaching the age of consent, I withdrew everything I'd amassed from my bank passbook, borrowed a banged-up helmet, had a friend drive me over, made a deal and officially became a motorcycle owner. Having no idea how to ride a motorcycle never bothered me until I got on the thing and tried to ride home. The gods of riding smiled on my naiveté that day, and, though I had a few close calls, I arrived home alive.
I arrived home alive to a crying Mom (expected) and a strangely smiling Dad (unexpected). When I took Fiona on her first real ride the other day, I got a taste of my Mom's angst, and at that moment I knew; I completely understood what my Mom, seeing her son riding home on a dangerous motorcycle, must have been going through. Ah, the things kids unknowingly do to their parents.... Payback and all that I guess.
My sweet KZ had no rear turn signals, a fact that took me about a month to realize. The bike had wires back there, but the signals were missing. I called the gentleman I bought the bike from to inquire about the missing turn signals, and he offered to sell them to me for $50. I had to borrow the money for them. (I was such a shrewd businessman back then!) My Dad helped me figure out a way to install them, and after a few hours, a drill, soldering iron and and some duct tape, I had four working turn signals.
In the meantime, I took and passed the MSF safety course, mowed more lawns and bought a new, ridiculously expensive full-face helmet, and set out to learn to ride this motorcycle around my town, one mile at a time. My fondest memory of my little KZ 400 was when I took my then-girlfriend all the way to an amusement park about twenty miles away. At the time, this was quite an achievement, riding on the highway, and putting in about forty miles round trip, my longest ride to date. Of course, in a case of dramatic foreshadowing for nearly every long distance ride that would follow, it rained the whole way home.
My least fond memory of that little KZ 400 was crashing it in an intersection on the way home from work. I took a different route home, because I wanted to stop by a motorcycle shop and see about getting a brighter headlight for my ride. I came to an intersection (an intersection that has since been redesigned, I vainly like to think thanks to me) and was faced with the classic worst case scenario: the old woman in the other lane, waiting to turn left. I was still a brand new, wet-behind-the-ears tadpole rider, with exactly, I shit you not, 666 miles I'd put on the odometer, and I made the classic worst case assumption - that she could see me.
She didn't. She turned. I panicked. I locked up the front brake and BOOM! I was one with the asphalt. My new full-face helmet was scraped and scratched pretty bad, my favorite leather riding jacket was torn and scraped up, as were my elbows and hands, but, at the very least I was alive and more or less intact. The bike suffered a little, but not too much. The old woman would later say to me, "I thought I had plenty of time to turn. That's why I always tell my grandkids that motorcycles are so dangerous."
I replied, "They're only dangerous because of drivers like you!" There may have been a few more colorful words included in my response, but realistically, I was just happy to be able to reply at all. The ambulance driver that checked me over said pretty much the same, filling my head with graphic visuals of some of the more tragic motorcycle wrecks he'd seen in his day.
My brother came to get me in my pickup truck, and, through sheer anger alone, we were able to hoist that bike in the back of the truck without a ramp. I wanted to get home before Mom did, but I'd already used up my favors from the motorcycling gods that day. She was home from work early that day. Great.
Seeing the bike in the back of the truck, Mom cried even harder. I may have been naivé, but after that little lesson I understood danger pretty well. I parked the motorcycle for good. Though I would still go out and look under the tarp at the old KZ from time to time, I never thought seriously about riding it again.
'For good' lasted about, oh, I dunno... four years.
Eventually, I got that bike running again, and rode it again, just to prove to myself that I could. Well, that, and the fact that once bitten by the motorcycling bug, that desire to ride never completely goes away. I found that riding was still fun, and started saving up for my dream bike, a Harley Heritage Softail Classic. To help the Harley fund grow, I sold my first motorcycle to a vehicle-less friend for $650. (Along with my riding skills, my business skills had improved a little.)
As time passed, I lost touch with that friend, and that bike. A Honda Shadow, a Suzuki Katana, a Harley Heritage Softail Classic, a Hayabusa, a BMW Dakar and a Yamaha FJR have all, at one time or another, in their own way taken the place of that little KZ 400, though none have replaced the space in my heart that my first motorcycle will always own.
At the time, while other kids were sneaking copies of Playboy and Penthouse around, along with Modern Drummer magazine, I'd sneak copies of Motorcyclist and Cycle World into my bedroom. In my house, motorcycles were considered dangerous contraptions of death and dismemberment, completely forbidden.
Driving to and from band practice, I'd pass that sad-looking motorcycle with the For Sale sign on it. The bike sat there for months, unpurchased, silently calling me. I knew there was no way my Mom and Dad would allow me to have a motorcycle, so I waited for that magical day when I could make my own decisions, the day I turned eighteen and became "an adult" (I still am waiting for the "adult" part.)
Upon reaching the age of consent, I withdrew everything I'd amassed from my bank passbook, borrowed a banged-up helmet, had a friend drive me over, made a deal and officially became a motorcycle owner. Having no idea how to ride a motorcycle never bothered me until I got on the thing and tried to ride home. The gods of riding smiled on my naiveté that day, and, though I had a few close calls, I arrived home alive.
I arrived home alive to a crying Mom (expected) and a strangely smiling Dad (unexpected). When I took Fiona on her first real ride the other day, I got a taste of my Mom's angst, and at that moment I knew; I completely understood what my Mom, seeing her son riding home on a dangerous motorcycle, must have been going through. Ah, the things kids unknowingly do to their parents.... Payback and all that I guess.
My sweet KZ had no rear turn signals, a fact that took me about a month to realize. The bike had wires back there, but the signals were missing. I called the gentleman I bought the bike from to inquire about the missing turn signals, and he offered to sell them to me for $50. I had to borrow the money for them. (I was such a shrewd businessman back then!) My Dad helped me figure out a way to install them, and after a few hours, a drill, soldering iron and and some duct tape, I had four working turn signals.
In the meantime, I took and passed the MSF safety course, mowed more lawns and bought a new, ridiculously expensive full-face helmet, and set out to learn to ride this motorcycle around my town, one mile at a time. My fondest memory of my little KZ 400 was when I took my then-girlfriend all the way to an amusement park about twenty miles away. At the time, this was quite an achievement, riding on the highway, and putting in about forty miles round trip, my longest ride to date. Of course, in a case of dramatic foreshadowing for nearly every long distance ride that would follow, it rained the whole way home.
My least fond memory of that little KZ 400 was crashing it in an intersection on the way home from work. I took a different route home, because I wanted to stop by a motorcycle shop and see about getting a brighter headlight for my ride. I came to an intersection (an intersection that has since been redesigned, I vainly like to think thanks to me) and was faced with the classic worst case scenario: the old woman in the other lane, waiting to turn left. I was still a brand new, wet-behind-the-ears tadpole rider, with exactly, I shit you not, 666 miles I'd put on the odometer, and I made the classic worst case assumption - that she could see me.
She didn't. She turned. I panicked. I locked up the front brake and BOOM! I was one with the asphalt. My new full-face helmet was scraped and scratched pretty bad, my favorite leather riding jacket was torn and scraped up, as were my elbows and hands, but, at the very least I was alive and more or less intact. The bike suffered a little, but not too much. The old woman would later say to me, "I thought I had plenty of time to turn. That's why I always tell my grandkids that motorcycles are so dangerous."
I replied, "They're only dangerous because of drivers like you!" There may have been a few more colorful words included in my response, but realistically, I was just happy to be able to reply at all. The ambulance driver that checked me over said pretty much the same, filling my head with graphic visuals of some of the more tragic motorcycle wrecks he'd seen in his day.
My brother came to get me in my pickup truck, and, through sheer anger alone, we were able to hoist that bike in the back of the truck without a ramp. I wanted to get home before Mom did, but I'd already used up my favors from the motorcycling gods that day. She was home from work early that day. Great.
Seeing the bike in the back of the truck, Mom cried even harder. I may have been naivé, but after that little lesson I understood danger pretty well. I parked the motorcycle for good. Though I would still go out and look under the tarp at the old KZ from time to time, I never thought seriously about riding it again.
'For good' lasted about, oh, I dunno... four years.
Eventually, I got that bike running again, and rode it again, just to prove to myself that I could. Well, that, and the fact that once bitten by the motorcycling bug, that desire to ride never completely goes away. I found that riding was still fun, and started saving up for my dream bike, a Harley Heritage Softail Classic. To help the Harley fund grow, I sold my first motorcycle to a vehicle-less friend for $650. (Along with my riding skills, my business skills had improved a little.)
As time passed, I lost touch with that friend, and that bike. A Honda Shadow, a Suzuki Katana, a Harley Heritage Softail Classic, a Hayabusa, a BMW Dakar and a Yamaha FJR have all, at one time or another, in their own way taken the place of that little KZ 400, though none have replaced the space in my heart that my first motorcycle will always own.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Shadow Dancing
This is a silly little video I hacked together using footage Fiona shot handheld off the back of Rain Cloud Follows the other day using my Canon D10 camera. Certainly not the best little video in the world, but it was a great learning experience for upcoming projects, and it's a great way to remember a great ride in California.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Shopping Spree
When we rode up Azusa Canyon, one of Fiona's first comments was, "If you post pictures, you're gonna catch a lot of shit because I'm in jeans and sneakers, aren't you?"
Catch shit I did, and I made sure she read each and every comment.
So, yesterday was a busy day for us, as Sleeping Beauty and I did our part to re-stimulate the economy. We went to Bert's Mega-Mall in search of boots, pants and better gloves, a quest started with two simple mandates:
My mandate - All new gear must be protective.
Fiona's mandate - All new gear must be 'cute.'
At Bert's we ran into the same problem we always run into. No, not insanely pushy salespeople, we've learned to dodge and weave around them pretty effectively. The problem is there just isn't much good, protective and cute riding gear available for inseam-challenged women.
So, we left Bert's, and the search continued at Cycle Gear in Corona. Ahh, Corona. Just the name of that town makes me thirsty. Anyway, Cycle Gear had a much better selection. A half hour and a swipe that nearly melted the credit card later, Sleeping Beauty was the proud owner of new protective riding boots, pants and gloves.
Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall... You Need to be Cleaned!
Were they cute? Err...
At Least One Mandate Was Met
Cute or not, at least her new gear will, in the event of an unexpected high-speed dismount, protect her better than some ratty Converse All-Stars will.
And, with Sleeping Beauty now completely bitten by the riding bug, this new gear will see a LOT of use.
Catch shit I did, and I made sure she read each and every comment.
So, yesterday was a busy day for us, as Sleeping Beauty and I did our part to re-stimulate the economy. We went to Bert's Mega-Mall in search of boots, pants and better gloves, a quest started with two simple mandates:
My mandate - All new gear must be protective.
Fiona's mandate - All new gear must be 'cute.'
At Bert's we ran into the same problem we always run into. No, not insanely pushy salespeople, we've learned to dodge and weave around them pretty effectively. The problem is there just isn't much good, protective and cute riding gear available for inseam-challenged women.
So, we left Bert's, and the search continued at Cycle Gear in Corona. Ahh, Corona. Just the name of that town makes me thirsty. Anyway, Cycle Gear had a much better selection. A half hour and a swipe that nearly melted the credit card later, Sleeping Beauty was the proud owner of new protective riding boots, pants and gloves.
Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall... You Need to be Cleaned!
Were they cute? Err...
At Least One Mandate Was Met
Cute or not, at least her new gear will, in the event of an unexpected high-speed dismount, protect her better than some ratty Converse All-Stars will.
And, with Sleeping Beauty now completely bitten by the riding bug, this new gear will see a LOT of use.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Maiden Milk Run
Fiona might believe she's ready to attempt a Milk Run, but the real question was, am I ready for it?
Last Christmas, Santa brought Sleeping Beauty a shiny red Ninja 250, the perfect motorcycle for an enthusiastic beginner to learn on.
And, at first, Fiona was enthusiastic about learning to ride. For about a month, we'd go out and practice; stopping and starting, turning and accelerating, circling her little neighborhood hundreds of times.
A few months later, maybe the novelty had worn off, maybe other interests took the place of riding, who knows? I said from the beginning that Fiona should take learning to ride at her own pace, and while I encouraged her to practice, I never forced the issue, figuring that if and when she felt ready, we'd ride.
Finally, after a great day blasting through mountain passes, carving through perfect turn after perfect turn, and racing along scenic river roads, as if a switch flipped, that day arrived. My passenger had decided it was time to become a driver.
Rain Cloud Follows and Li'l Red, Young Love Is So Cute
I'm not sure who was more nervous as we performed our pre-ride safety checks. Suddenly, I understood with absolute certainty the feeling my Mom and Dad had when, at eighteen years old, I wobbled down the street for the first on my first motorcycle, a 1978 Kawasaki KZ 400.
My First Motorcycle - By Tonka... Err... Kawasaki
At that time, I knew everything. Still do in fact. When I called my friend Keith that morning to tell him about Fiona's impending maiden voyage and how anxious I was, he put it perfectly. "Of course you're nervous, you have the burden of knowledge of all that can go wrong, while she doesn't." Sometimes knowing everything sucks.
Geared up, I couldn't stall any longer. We pulled out of the driveway and, instead of turning left into the safety of the little neighborhood, we turned right towards the wilds of the big, bad streets of my adopted home of Southern California.
I led at first, until Sleeping Beauty told me she wanted to to be in front.
Sleeping Beauty and L'il Red took the lead, which was a good thing. That way she'd never see the wildly panicked terror on my face as she pulled into traffic the very first time.
And... she did it, and did it well! Though I was still petrified, I have to admit I felt a certain amount of pride well up. For the first time ever, Fiona and I were actually riding together!
She led the way to the start of Route 39, better known as the Milk Run, stopped at all the lights without problem, never left her turn signal on, and handled L'il Red like she'd been riding for years. I noticed she even waved at other bikes as they passed.
We pulled over for some last minute instructions before carving our way through the San Gabriel Mountains.
"Remember, honey, don't grab that front brake. Squeeze it gently before the corner, then gradually get back on the throttle as you straighten the bike up."
"Got it."
"Try and follow my line through the corners. Set up on the outside, slow down, dive into the apex..."
"OK."
"If faster traffic comes up behind us, let them pass us in a straightaway."
"I will."
"If you think you can't handle this, pull over right away... and..."
"Quit stalling, let's go do this!"
And with that, we did.
Watching her ride her bike in my rear view mirror, my nervousness and anxiety gradually dissipated. She was doing it, and doing it well. I never once saw her cross the double yellow, and she stayed right behind me for the entire twenty mile route. I felt comfortable enough to drop back and take a few pictures:
We pulled over, and the smile on her face was electric!
We talked about the ride; what she did right, where she felt uncomfortable and what parts of the road she was comfortable with. I gave her a few little pointers on things to watch out for. At that moment I realized how great it felt to share my so-called 'Burden of Knowledge.'
On a nice, deserted stretch of road, I went on ahead to set up for a photo op. She fired up L'il Red and came racing towards me, all 250 cc's of pure, unbridled Ninja fury!
She pulled over to wait for me, and learned one of the first lessons, a very important one, a lesson that every beginning motorcyclist (that isn't a liar) has learned: The Natural Resting Position Of A Motorcycle Is On Its Side.
Fiona had parked on a slight incline, and L'il Red decided it was nap time. Fortunately, Sleeping Beauty jumped off before it was too late, and managed to escape injury. L'il Red wasn't as lucky.
Shaken but OK, Fiona learned the second lesson that all new motorcyclists learn: When You Fall Off Your Horse, Or Your Horse Falls On You, Get Right Back In The Saddle.
Without admitting how I know, let's just say that part of my Burden of Knowledge is I know what it feels like to drop a motorcycle, and I understand what a confidence shaker that can be. To her credit, my girl climbed right back on L'il Red, and wanted to finish the ride.
Her confidence may have been stirred, but it wasn't shaken.
At the bottom of the Milk Run, we pulled over again, making sure the ground was level. I didn't know what her mind set would be, but I quickly figured it out.
Heading back through town, an old, grizzled Harley rider pulled up alongside us. He didn't wave at me (typical) but looked at Fiona, smiled and gave her the biggest thumbs up possible.
We made it home from our first ride ever, a little scratched up but basically OK. Fiona was so happy and excited, she couldn't stop smiling.
She had one more lesson to learn that day, If You Break It, You Fix It. She didn't want to leave L'il Red with a broken turn signal (because she wanted to go riding again the next day) so we drove down to the dealership and picked up a new turn signal, which she insisted on installing herself.
With everything repaired and ready to ride another day, Fiona and I held up a hearty toast to what could only be described as the Best Day Ever.
Last Christmas, Santa brought Sleeping Beauty a shiny red Ninja 250, the perfect motorcycle for an enthusiastic beginner to learn on.
And, at first, Fiona was enthusiastic about learning to ride. For about a month, we'd go out and practice; stopping and starting, turning and accelerating, circling her little neighborhood hundreds of times.
A few months later, maybe the novelty had worn off, maybe other interests took the place of riding, who knows? I said from the beginning that Fiona should take learning to ride at her own pace, and while I encouraged her to practice, I never forced the issue, figuring that if and when she felt ready, we'd ride.
Finally, after a great day blasting through mountain passes, carving through perfect turn after perfect turn, and racing along scenic river roads, as if a switch flipped, that day arrived. My passenger had decided it was time to become a driver.
Rain Cloud Follows and Li'l Red, Young Love Is So Cute
I'm not sure who was more nervous as we performed our pre-ride safety checks. Suddenly, I understood with absolute certainty the feeling my Mom and Dad had when, at eighteen years old, I wobbled down the street for the first on my first motorcycle, a 1978 Kawasaki KZ 400.
My First Motorcycle - By Tonka... Err... Kawasaki
At that time, I knew everything. Still do in fact. When I called my friend Keith that morning to tell him about Fiona's impending maiden voyage and how anxious I was, he put it perfectly. "Of course you're nervous, you have the burden of knowledge of all that can go wrong, while she doesn't." Sometimes knowing everything sucks.
Geared up, I couldn't stall any longer. We pulled out of the driveway and, instead of turning left into the safety of the little neighborhood, we turned right towards the wilds of the big, bad streets of my adopted home of Southern California.
I led at first, until Sleeping Beauty told me she wanted to to be in front.
Sleeping Beauty and L'il Red took the lead, which was a good thing. That way she'd never see the wildly panicked terror on my face as she pulled into traffic the very first time.
And... she did it, and did it well! Though I was still petrified, I have to admit I felt a certain amount of pride well up. For the first time ever, Fiona and I were actually riding together!
She led the way to the start of Route 39, better known as the Milk Run, stopped at all the lights without problem, never left her turn signal on, and handled L'il Red like she'd been riding for years. I noticed she even waved at other bikes as they passed.
We pulled over for some last minute instructions before carving our way through the San Gabriel Mountains.
"Remember, honey, don't grab that front brake. Squeeze it gently before the corner, then gradually get back on the throttle as you straighten the bike up."
"Got it."
"Try and follow my line through the corners. Set up on the outside, slow down, dive into the apex..."
"OK."
"If faster traffic comes up behind us, let them pass us in a straightaway."
"I will."
"If you think you can't handle this, pull over right away... and..."
"Quit stalling, let's go do this!"
And with that, we did.
Watching her ride her bike in my rear view mirror, my nervousness and anxiety gradually dissipated. She was doing it, and doing it well. I never once saw her cross the double yellow, and she stayed right behind me for the entire twenty mile route. I felt comfortable enough to drop back and take a few pictures:
We pulled over, and the smile on her face was electric!
We talked about the ride; what she did right, where she felt uncomfortable and what parts of the road she was comfortable with. I gave her a few little pointers on things to watch out for. At that moment I realized how great it felt to share my so-called 'Burden of Knowledge.'
On a nice, deserted stretch of road, I went on ahead to set up for a photo op. She fired up L'il Red and came racing towards me, all 250 cc's of pure, unbridled Ninja fury!
She pulled over to wait for me, and learned one of the first lessons, a very important one, a lesson that every beginning motorcyclist (that isn't a liar) has learned: The Natural Resting Position Of A Motorcycle Is On Its Side.
Fiona had parked on a slight incline, and L'il Red decided it was nap time. Fortunately, Sleeping Beauty jumped off before it was too late, and managed to escape injury. L'il Red wasn't as lucky.
Shaken but OK, Fiona learned the second lesson that all new motorcyclists learn: When You Fall Off Your Horse, Or Your Horse Falls On You, Get Right Back In The Saddle.
Without admitting how I know, let's just say that part of my Burden of Knowledge is I know what it feels like to drop a motorcycle, and I understand what a confidence shaker that can be. To her credit, my girl climbed right back on L'il Red, and wanted to finish the ride.
Her confidence may have been stirred, but it wasn't shaken.
At the bottom of the Milk Run, we pulled over again, making sure the ground was level. I didn't know what her mind set would be, but I quickly figured it out.
Heading back through town, an old, grizzled Harley rider pulled up alongside us. He didn't wave at me (typical) but looked at Fiona, smiled and gave her the biggest thumbs up possible.
We made it home from our first ride ever, a little scratched up but basically OK. Fiona was so happy and excited, she couldn't stop smiling.
She had one more lesson to learn that day, If You Break It, You Fix It. She didn't want to leave L'il Red with a broken turn signal (because she wanted to go riding again the next day) so we drove down to the dealership and picked up a new turn signal, which she insisted on installing herself.
With everything repaired and ready to ride another day, Fiona and I held up a hearty toast to what could only be described as the Best Day Ever.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Crazy From the Heat
With its usual annoying *BONG*, a text message from my friend Jessica arrived this past Monday.
"Hey! Got Thursday off. You guys wanna go for a ride?"
This short text from Jessica, of Milk Run Marathon and Death Valley Damsels fame, forced me to start thinking.
A ride?
Go for a ride?
Hmm... That's something I used to do quite regularly. But somehow, after the epic Road to Wrestlemaina ride early this season, other than a few day rides or Milk Runs, my exuberant love of conquering the road and distant lands on two wheels has seemingly ebbed. Sadly, for most of this riding season, Rain Cloud Follows has been parked, all alone, basically shunned, in the garage.
What the fuck happened? I'm not really sure.
Maybe, after Dark Meat Snack and I finished our 8000 mile Southwestern and Northwestern tour, I was a bit burned out. Maybe its the fact that textsfromlastnight.com has replaced advrider.com as my most-visited website. Maybe the past five years of running around at full speed finally caught up - a reason I immediately dismiss on account of its true meaning, that I am not only becoming a pussy, but *wince* getting older. Finally, I settled on a plausible and acceptable excuse; maybe all the great unridden roads are just too far away now, because in my exuberance, I've ridden all the good, close ones many times.
Then I started thinking harder, always a dangerous condition for me. Have I really ridden ALL the good roads? C'mon now, Mr. Stupid, how could that even be possible? I set out to find out. After tearing myself away from the latest and greatest texts from last night, I performed some exhaustive, work-sponsored research. In this research, I found what I was looking for; one twisted little sliver of interest on the map that I couldn't recall riding, one that, as a bonus, was fairly close to Jessica's house.
*BONG* "Jessica, we're in. Let's ride! See you Thursday!"
Thursday started out the way every Thursday in Southern California does, with bright blue skies and perfect temperatures. My girlfriend Fiona, a.k.a. Sleeping Beauty evidently missed riding as much as I finally realized I did, because she was up early, before me in fact, raring and ready to go.
The San Gabriel Mountains are a very effective natural obstacle between us and Jessica's. There are basically two options, go all the way around them, a distance of about one hundred ten miles, or go straight through them, a shorter, mostly straight, yet very curvy route.
Guess which route we picked.
Jessica and her Ninja, ready to ride.
Jessica met us at a nearby gas station, and, after catching up for a few minutes, we were off, heading north on Route 14 through the hot Mojave desert.
Our first stop of the day was for lunch in the small highway town of Pearsonville, which Fiona more-or-less correctly misinterpreted as 'Prisonville.' I didn't see any houses in this town, and what I did see in this desolate outpost was run down looking and mildly depressing. The FJR thermometer read 106 degrees as we pulled into a Subway, the only restaurant in Prisonville.
Parked and off the hot motorcycles, we were nearly attacked by one of those little hybrid rat-dogs that seem to be every lunatic's requisite accessory. This dog's owner was no exception, a heat-shriveled old woman in a beat up mini-van, with a crazy stare and a cardboard sign on the windshield simply stating, "Need Gas Bad."
She started her ramble saying, "My dog here don't like motorcycles much. Nope." As we tried our best to ignore her, she continued, "Has no real use for machinery at all, really. Good guard dog though, woke me up jus' the other day to warn me 'bout a bear, an honest to God brownie, 'bout a hunnert pounds, in my campground. Damn bear was gonna eat my last sammich, but this old dog scared him away, he did."
We walked away before either the obligatory begging for gas money began, or my foot launched her precious yapping Fido deep into the desert. As we walked inside, her ramble continued, directed at our poor motorcycles. Baking in the desert heat does strange things to people.
Someone must have helped her with her gas need, because she was long gone when we returned from our delicious gourmet meal.
The turn off for Sherman Pass was well hidden, so I led us far past it. Did I mention I was flying blind on this trip, having left my GPS at home? Yup, this ride was undertaken only with a good old-fashioned analog map. Usually I just count on my little Garmin unit to get me lost, which I call 'Going on a Garmin Adventure.' With me and my amazing sense of direction in the lead, we were off on a Garmin adventure all right, just without the Garmin.
Once turned back around, and on the right road, or at least what I thought was the right road, it ceased to matter. Riding is riding, and an adventure is an adventure, and, whatever road we'd found, it was good. The ribbon of pavement snaked and twisted deep into the mountains, leading us high above the desert below.
My trusty analog map, a ten-folder of the entire state of California, was about as useful as socks on a rooster. The road we were on, even if it was marked - which it wasn't - certainly wasn't on my map.
After about fifty miles, this amazing collection of curves dead-ended in, of all things, a campground. Time for the second U-turn of the day!
We headed back to the nearest, and in fact the only intersection, took a chance and made the turn. Noticing a bright red General Store in the nearly non-existant town of Kennedy Meadows, we unanimously decided to stop for a cool, refreshing beverage.
Three old characters sat on the porch, following what appeared to be a very time-worn tradition. Crack open a cold beer, drain it, crack open another one, drain it, then go inside the store and grab an ice cream sandwich, gossiping and bullshitting the entire time. Repeat said procedure for a lifetime.
As we sat in the shade drinking our cold beverages, we naturally eavesdropped. Between wheezing laughs and long swallows of Coors Light, we heard snippets of conversation from one of the permanent porch residents. A question I've always had about people that live in such remote areas - "What the hell do these people do for a living?" was finally answered.
"Yeah, so this guy came right up to me, askin' to see my fields. I couldn't believe it!" After another raspy cough-laugh and another long pull on his beer, the old guy elaborated, "How the hell, I wonder, did this guy all the way from San Francisco find out about my pot crop?"
Mystery solved.
Before leaving, Fiona and Jessica wandered into the General Store Amphitheater in an attempt to take in some more local culture.
Sadly, it was too bright to pull the string to reveal the movie screen and take in a flick or two, and, even sadder, the popcorn stand was closed.
Properly refreshed and highly amused, we got back on the road - if you could call it that. The cracked, weaving asphalt path that led us deeper into the mountains was in desparate need of some federal stimulus money. Large portions of the road were missing, rutted with deep potholes, or covered with washouts and rocks.
As our Garmin-less adventure continued, the road slowly improved, and I slowly started to recognize where we were. Last year Fiona and I, equipped with our GPS, explored these very same roads. And by explored, I mean 'got hopelessly lost for several hours.'
Continuing past the 9200 foot summit, we skirted down the backside of the mountain.
Reaching the intersection at the bottom, I found our position on the map, on the North Fork of the Kern River. We pulled over near the river, intent on taking another little break.
Jessica was happy for the stop. Seemed on the way down the mountain, she managed to get stung in the ankle by an angry bee - a bee which left it's pulsing stinger behind as a gift. She waded into the river to cool off her painful sting.
Being so close to water gave Sleeping Beauty a chance to try out my new camera, which is supposed to be water proof. She immediately plunged the camera into the river and took these photos:
Not bad. We pulled the camera out of the North Fork of the Kern River and tested that it still worked:
Beauty....
... and the Beast.
Yup. Works as advertised!
Refreshed, we continued with our improvised analog route.
Down off the mountain, the temperatures climbed back into the high nineties. As we learned earlier in Prisonville, and had reinforced again in the town of Kernville, the heat does some strange and unexplainable things to people.
This, I think I can explain as being a by-product of too much time in the heat:
This, however, I can't explain at all:
At this point may I just interject that, hot or not, obviously this day was, in fact, the Best Day Ever?!?!
As it always does, the Best Day Ever began to draw to a close, and Sleeping Beauty, Jessica and I soon found ourselves in a race with the rapidly setting sun.
Turning off the exciting Route 178 for the straight, flat and mostly boring Route 14, we found that when the sun sets in the Mojave, the winds pick up. Soon we were hanging on for dear life as hurricane force gusts tried, and, several times, nearly succeeded to blow us off the road.
Making a promise to do this again "real soon", we said goodbye to Jessica and endured the long slog home, taking the long way around the San Gabriel Mountains. Four-hundred eighty miles later, hot, tired and supremely happy, we finally arrived home.
When we walked in the door, Fiona eyes were glowing. I asked her if she was all right. Her response was a complete shock.
"I'm ready. Tomorrow, I want to take my bike," she said, referring to her still brand new and, except for a few laps around the neighborhood basically unridden Ninja 250, "up Azusa Canyon and go on my first Milk Run!"
*Gulp*
To be continued...
"Hey! Got Thursday off. You guys wanna go for a ride?"
This short text from Jessica, of Milk Run Marathon and Death Valley Damsels fame, forced me to start thinking.
A ride?
Go for a ride?
Hmm... That's something I used to do quite regularly. But somehow, after the epic Road to Wrestlemaina ride early this season, other than a few day rides or Milk Runs, my exuberant love of conquering the road and distant lands on two wheels has seemingly ebbed. Sadly, for most of this riding season, Rain Cloud Follows has been parked, all alone, basically shunned, in the garage.
What the fuck happened? I'm not really sure.
Maybe, after Dark Meat Snack and I finished our 8000 mile Southwestern and Northwestern tour, I was a bit burned out. Maybe its the fact that textsfromlastnight.com has replaced advrider.com as my most-visited website. Maybe the past five years of running around at full speed finally caught up - a reason I immediately dismiss on account of its true meaning, that I am not only becoming a pussy, but *wince* getting older. Finally, I settled on a plausible and acceptable excuse; maybe all the great unridden roads are just too far away now, because in my exuberance, I've ridden all the good, close ones many times.
Then I started thinking harder, always a dangerous condition for me. Have I really ridden ALL the good roads? C'mon now, Mr. Stupid, how could that even be possible? I set out to find out. After tearing myself away from the latest and greatest texts from last night, I performed some exhaustive, work-sponsored research. In this research, I found what I was looking for; one twisted little sliver of interest on the map that I couldn't recall riding, one that, as a bonus, was fairly close to Jessica's house.
*BONG* "Jessica, we're in. Let's ride! See you Thursday!"
Thursday started out the way every Thursday in Southern California does, with bright blue skies and perfect temperatures. My girlfriend Fiona, a.k.a. Sleeping Beauty evidently missed riding as much as I finally realized I did, because she was up early, before me in fact, raring and ready to go.
The San Gabriel Mountains are a very effective natural obstacle between us and Jessica's. There are basically two options, go all the way around them, a distance of about one hundred ten miles, or go straight through them, a shorter, mostly straight, yet very curvy route.
Guess which route we picked.
Jessica and her Ninja, ready to ride.
Jessica met us at a nearby gas station, and, after catching up for a few minutes, we were off, heading north on Route 14 through the hot Mojave desert.
Our first stop of the day was for lunch in the small highway town of Pearsonville, which Fiona more-or-less correctly misinterpreted as 'Prisonville.' I didn't see any houses in this town, and what I did see in this desolate outpost was run down looking and mildly depressing. The FJR thermometer read 106 degrees as we pulled into a Subway, the only restaurant in Prisonville.
Parked and off the hot motorcycles, we were nearly attacked by one of those little hybrid rat-dogs that seem to be every lunatic's requisite accessory. This dog's owner was no exception, a heat-shriveled old woman in a beat up mini-van, with a crazy stare and a cardboard sign on the windshield simply stating, "Need Gas Bad."
She started her ramble saying, "My dog here don't like motorcycles much. Nope." As we tried our best to ignore her, she continued, "Has no real use for machinery at all, really. Good guard dog though, woke me up jus' the other day to warn me 'bout a bear, an honest to God brownie, 'bout a hunnert pounds, in my campground. Damn bear was gonna eat my last sammich, but this old dog scared him away, he did."
We walked away before either the obligatory begging for gas money began, or my foot launched her precious yapping Fido deep into the desert. As we walked inside, her ramble continued, directed at our poor motorcycles. Baking in the desert heat does strange things to people.
Someone must have helped her with her gas need, because she was long gone when we returned from our delicious gourmet meal.
The turn off for Sherman Pass was well hidden, so I led us far past it. Did I mention I was flying blind on this trip, having left my GPS at home? Yup, this ride was undertaken only with a good old-fashioned analog map. Usually I just count on my little Garmin unit to get me lost, which I call 'Going on a Garmin Adventure.' With me and my amazing sense of direction in the lead, we were off on a Garmin adventure all right, just without the Garmin.
Once turned back around, and on the right road, or at least what I thought was the right road, it ceased to matter. Riding is riding, and an adventure is an adventure, and, whatever road we'd found, it was good. The ribbon of pavement snaked and twisted deep into the mountains, leading us high above the desert below.
My trusty analog map, a ten-folder of the entire state of California, was about as useful as socks on a rooster. The road we were on, even if it was marked - which it wasn't - certainly wasn't on my map.
After about fifty miles, this amazing collection of curves dead-ended in, of all things, a campground. Time for the second U-turn of the day!
We headed back to the nearest, and in fact the only intersection, took a chance and made the turn. Noticing a bright red General Store in the nearly non-existant town of Kennedy Meadows, we unanimously decided to stop for a cool, refreshing beverage.
Three old characters sat on the porch, following what appeared to be a very time-worn tradition. Crack open a cold beer, drain it, crack open another one, drain it, then go inside the store and grab an ice cream sandwich, gossiping and bullshitting the entire time. Repeat said procedure for a lifetime.
As we sat in the shade drinking our cold beverages, we naturally eavesdropped. Between wheezing laughs and long swallows of Coors Light, we heard snippets of conversation from one of the permanent porch residents. A question I've always had about people that live in such remote areas - "What the hell do these people do for a living?" was finally answered.
"Yeah, so this guy came right up to me, askin' to see my fields. I couldn't believe it!" After another raspy cough-laugh and another long pull on his beer, the old guy elaborated, "How the hell, I wonder, did this guy all the way from San Francisco find out about my pot crop?"
Mystery solved.
Before leaving, Fiona and Jessica wandered into the General Store Amphitheater in an attempt to take in some more local culture.
Sadly, it was too bright to pull the string to reveal the movie screen and take in a flick or two, and, even sadder, the popcorn stand was closed.
Properly refreshed and highly amused, we got back on the road - if you could call it that. The cracked, weaving asphalt path that led us deeper into the mountains was in desparate need of some federal stimulus money. Large portions of the road were missing, rutted with deep potholes, or covered with washouts and rocks.
As our Garmin-less adventure continued, the road slowly improved, and I slowly started to recognize where we were. Last year Fiona and I, equipped with our GPS, explored these very same roads. And by explored, I mean 'got hopelessly lost for several hours.'
Continuing past the 9200 foot summit, we skirted down the backside of the mountain.
Reaching the intersection at the bottom, I found our position on the map, on the North Fork of the Kern River. We pulled over near the river, intent on taking another little break.
Jessica was happy for the stop. Seemed on the way down the mountain, she managed to get stung in the ankle by an angry bee - a bee which left it's pulsing stinger behind as a gift. She waded into the river to cool off her painful sting.
Being so close to water gave Sleeping Beauty a chance to try out my new camera, which is supposed to be water proof. She immediately plunged the camera into the river and took these photos:
Not bad. We pulled the camera out of the North Fork of the Kern River and tested that it still worked:
Beauty....
... and the Beast.
Yup. Works as advertised!
Refreshed, we continued with our improvised analog route.
Down off the mountain, the temperatures climbed back into the high nineties. As we learned earlier in Prisonville, and had reinforced again in the town of Kernville, the heat does some strange and unexplainable things to people.
This, I think I can explain as being a by-product of too much time in the heat:
This, however, I can't explain at all:
At this point may I just interject that, hot or not, obviously this day was, in fact, the Best Day Ever?!?!
As it always does, the Best Day Ever began to draw to a close, and Sleeping Beauty, Jessica and I soon found ourselves in a race with the rapidly setting sun.
Turning off the exciting Route 178 for the straight, flat and mostly boring Route 14, we found that when the sun sets in the Mojave, the winds pick up. Soon we were hanging on for dear life as hurricane force gusts tried, and, several times, nearly succeeded to blow us off the road.
Making a promise to do this again "real soon", we said goodbye to Jessica and endured the long slog home, taking the long way around the San Gabriel Mountains. Four-hundred eighty miles later, hot, tired and supremely happy, we finally arrived home.
When we walked in the door, Fiona eyes were glowing. I asked her if she was all right. Her response was a complete shock.
"I'm ready. Tomorrow, I want to take my bike," she said, referring to her still brand new and, except for a few laps around the neighborhood basically unridden Ninja 250, "up Azusa Canyon and go on my first Milk Run!"
*Gulp*
To be continued...
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Gone Ridin'
Hi,
Frenchy here, intrepid correspondent for this little blog. Remember me? I didn't think so. I used to write silly rants and ride reports and such all the time. But lately, as the few remaining members of the faithful fifteen have pointed out over and over, the torrent of drivel has turned into a dribble.
Why?
Who the hell knows. Certainly not me... The summer seems to have slipped by, with only a few adventures to show for it. It's been a full summer, for certain, but... just not a blogworthy one I guess.
In an effort to turn the flood back on, in an attempt to make things blogworthy again, I'm taking a little ride with Sleeping Beauty and Jessica today. Nothing major, just a couple hundred miles of twists and turns to see if I can't dislodge the writer's block that is implanted firmly in my cranium. Hopefully this little ride will do the trick.
And if it doesn't work, at least I'll be riding all day with two hot chicks!
If anyone's left on this seemingly dead blog, you can track our little ride here:
SPOT tracker link
Frenchy here, intrepid correspondent for this little blog. Remember me? I didn't think so. I used to write silly rants and ride reports and such all the time. But lately, as the few remaining members of the faithful fifteen have pointed out over and over, the torrent of drivel has turned into a dribble.
Why?
Who the hell knows. Certainly not me... The summer seems to have slipped by, with only a few adventures to show for it. It's been a full summer, for certain, but... just not a blogworthy one I guess.
In an effort to turn the flood back on, in an attempt to make things blogworthy again, I'm taking a little ride with Sleeping Beauty and Jessica today. Nothing major, just a couple hundred miles of twists and turns to see if I can't dislodge the writer's block that is implanted firmly in my cranium. Hopefully this little ride will do the trick.
And if it doesn't work, at least I'll be riding all day with two hot chicks!
If anyone's left on this seemingly dead blog, you can track our little ride here:
SPOT tracker link
Sunday, August 02, 2009
The Faithful Fifteen Speak!
My last post asked for help and/or advice from any of the Faithful Fifteen with starting a new website. It took a few days, but finally I had a helpful hint in my inbox.
Here is it verbatim:
Here is it verbatim:
如果您無法檢視或提交此表單，請在線上填寫：
http://spreadsheets.google.com/viewform?formkey=dFc3LXNfeDNWNXNJUmFvTlpidlNqVlE6MA..
纖體公司失敗者
你是否被各大纖體公司所欺騙？
用了大量金錢但得不到期望的結果？
你還在尋尋覓覓去尋找健康有效的減肥方法嗎？
為配合品牌推廣，聖誕及新年新優惠，
現推行 $388 ，10 日減肥計劃！
體驗 28 年來最健康最有效的營養代餐計劃！
感受健康減肥的新感覺！
大量職業運動員都使用這產品及成為代言人，證明安全有效，
而且沒有任何藥物成份！而且萬人迷 ( 碧咸 ) 也使用的營養產品。
你可以參考下我 D 朋友 case
http://hk.geocities.com/ucanfit/c1.html
如欲索取詳情或查詢 ，請致電 Sophia 陳小姐 9780 7212 ！
電郵查詢 : sophia11070@yahoo.com.hk
MSN 查詢 :
此『推廣計劃』宣傳是受香港版權法約束, 請勿隨意刪除及更改內容, 謝謝!
閣下不想再接受本公司的電郵廣告請回覆此電郵以便公司取消閣下之電郵地址
如有任何查詢請致電本公司宣傳部聯絡
9780 7212 Sophia 陳小姐
All rights reserved for this promotion.
Please don’t delete or change the content. Thanks.
** 請填上資料，以便聯絡 閣下 !!
[10 am ~ 2 pm \/]
Thanks!
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
New Site
Blogger.com sucks.
Yes, I know, the key to happiness is low expectations, therefore, I should be happy with the low quality of Blogger. And for the most part, up until, oh... say, two years ago, I have been moderately happy. Then, in a push to make things 'better' the Bloggerati geek crew went and screwed up the way pictures are posted. Now, in order to post a picture in a blog, I have to shrink it down to nearly postage stamp size. Makes those painstakingly crafted photos (yeah... right...) blurry and hard to make out.
And there are other issues with Blogger, but whatever... it doesn't matter. (Yes, Blogger.com has received an ubiquitous GFY award, even emailed it to Blogger.com headquarters. Didn't help one bit. They still suck. Didn't get me kicked off either, but it didn't help.)
In the past two years, I have increased my daily readership so that now when I say there is a Faithful Fifteen following, it's not technically a lie anymore. On any given day, an average of fifteen honest-to-goodness insomniacs stumble onto the Rant to get their fill of yawn-inspiring drivel.
And to think it only took me four years and five hundred ninety posts to accumulate this following! Thanks to all of you that have made this monumental achievement possible!
Well, Faithful Fifteen, I've been trying now for about two months to get a divorce from Blogger. There are blogs out there, real ones by real bloggers that, quite frankly, are good. Both good as in 'with real content' and 'with a layout that doesn't blow.' Now that I have officially passed the almost insurmountable fifteen reader a day hurdle, I want to have one of those blogs with a layout that doesn't blow too.
Fear not, Faithful ones. Except for my planned use of a spellchecker, the content of the new blog will not be new and improved at all. Frenchysrant.com, if and when it ever materializes, will still be of it's same silly, mediocre quality. Wouldn't want to upset the tangerine cart and lose any of the readers I worked so hard to get, now would I?
Knowing more about string theory than I do about website design, about two months ago I started calling and emailing real companies that do this kind of thing for a living, asking for help setting up a non-blowing blog site. Most never bothered to respond at all, and though a few did respond, saying they could absolutely help, they soon stopped responding too. Not one website design firm I contacted made it past that initial email exchange.
Who knew this seemingly simple process would be so difficult?
So, with all that said, I'll throw it out there to all fifteen of you. I am currently looking for a website designer to help Frenchy's Rant relocate. My requirements are pretty simple; put together a Wordpress-based blog site that showcases my crappy pictures and crappy writing in an easy-to-navigate, non-crappy, non-sucky way. If anyone knows of a person or company that knows how to do this kind of thing, and also knows what the 'Reply' button does, drop me a line at frenchys-rant@att.net
Yes, I know, the key to happiness is low expectations, therefore, I should be happy with the low quality of Blogger. And for the most part, up until, oh... say, two years ago, I have been moderately happy. Then, in a push to make things 'better' the Bloggerati geek crew went and screwed up the way pictures are posted. Now, in order to post a picture in a blog, I have to shrink it down to nearly postage stamp size. Makes those painstakingly crafted photos (yeah... right...) blurry and hard to make out.
And there are other issues with Blogger, but whatever... it doesn't matter. (Yes, Blogger.com has received an ubiquitous GFY award, even emailed it to Blogger.com headquarters. Didn't help one bit. They still suck. Didn't get me kicked off either, but it didn't help.)
In the past two years, I have increased my daily readership so that now when I say there is a Faithful Fifteen following, it's not technically a lie anymore. On any given day, an average of fifteen honest-to-goodness insomniacs stumble onto the Rant to get their fill of yawn-inspiring drivel.
And to think it only took me four years and five hundred ninety posts to accumulate this following! Thanks to all of you that have made this monumental achievement possible!
Well, Faithful Fifteen, I've been trying now for about two months to get a divorce from Blogger. There are blogs out there, real ones by real bloggers that, quite frankly, are good. Both good as in 'with real content' and 'with a layout that doesn't blow.' Now that I have officially passed the almost insurmountable fifteen reader a day hurdle, I want to have one of those blogs with a layout that doesn't blow too.
Fear not, Faithful ones. Except for my planned use of a spellchecker, the content of the new blog will not be new and improved at all. Frenchysrant.com, if and when it ever materializes, will still be of it's same silly, mediocre quality. Wouldn't want to upset the tangerine cart and lose any of the readers I worked so hard to get, now would I?
Knowing more about string theory than I do about website design, about two months ago I started calling and emailing real companies that do this kind of thing for a living, asking for help setting up a non-blowing blog site. Most never bothered to respond at all, and though a few did respond, saying they could absolutely help, they soon stopped responding too. Not one website design firm I contacted made it past that initial email exchange.
Who knew this seemingly simple process would be so difficult?
So, with all that said, I'll throw it out there to all fifteen of you. I am currently looking for a website designer to help Frenchy's Rant relocate. My requirements are pretty simple; put together a Wordpress-based blog site that showcases my crappy pictures and crappy writing in an easy-to-navigate, non-crappy, non-sucky way. If anyone knows of a person or company that knows how to do this kind of thing, and also knows what the 'Reply' button does, drop me a line at frenchys-rant@att.net
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