A Cub Reporter’s Casebook of Unimportant Interviews: Franki Krygowski's legs

I parked my tenspeed battery-drive stepthrough in front of the
smartest caff in town and wondered if my bike was smart enough for
Franki Krygowski, the noted cyclist and my first interview.

The first part of Franki I saw were his shaven legs, sticking out at
right angles to the table. I lifted up the cloth to see if there was
an obstruction under the table but there was nothing. Franki was just
showing off his shaven legs.

‘Nice legs,’ I said as I modestly disposed my own, fully clad, legs
under the table.

But Franki wasn’t interested in the niceties. Among the six empty
latte cups on the table lay a wodge of printout from the internet,
looking like it was from the famous rec.bicycles.tech. Ooh, I thought,
now I will get an insight into the cutting edge.

‘"Stickinthemuddery" may be evidence of attempted creativity,’ Franki
said suddenly, ‘or it may
be evidence that Jute's inability to break paragraphs has now
descended to the word level. Will he soon be making Ulysses look like
easy reading by comparison?’

Since Franki had gone back to contemplating his shaven legs
approvingly and didn’t seem likely to offer me refreshment, I gestured
to the counter for a round of latte. The editor had warned me that
some cyclists are a bit surly. All those lonely hours in the bathroom
with just a razor for company has that effect, or so the editor said.
I wouldn’t know: I don’t shave my legs.

‘This is Mr Andre Jute, the novelist and engineering and arts writer?’
I ventured. ‘He only wrote one long paragraph. That is hardly a
congenital disease.’

But Franki Krygowski wasn’t having any. ‘In any case, Mr. Jute seems
completely incapable of understanding that others' criteria may differ
from his own.’ He looked up at the waitress serving our latte and
flexed his knees apart an inch or two. ‘Keep ‘em coming,’ he said to
her. ‘My friend will pay.’
I nodded meekly. I wondered if it would be out of my own pocket or if
the editor would approve a few dollars out of petty cash to grease my
first interview. Talking of grease, I now saw that the glint on
Franki’s shaven legs was oil.
Now Franki was giving me the inside gen on Shimano’s latest electronic
Dura-Ace. How thrilling to speak to a real expert!
‘Yes,’ Franki said between slurps of latte, ‘an electronically and
mechanically complex pile of parts may seem wonderful to certain
people. For example: slowly pottering geriatrics, techno-complexity
freaks, those who'll never ride enough to test reliability, and those
for whom clicking a gear shifter is unbearably confusing. (And yes,
one person may have all those attributes.)’
‘Ooh,’ I said, taken a bit aback by Franki’s spiteful response to Mr
Jute’s name in the internet posts on the table. ‘Isn’t that a bit
politically incorrect?’
Franki waved the quibble away almost as if it offended him. He was on
a roll now. ‘But others may prefer more control of cadence, power
output and speed, _as well as more range and repairability.’
I smiled encouragingly. ‘You’re so right. It says on Mr Jute’s netsite
that he wouldn’t recommend Shimano’s electronics gears for
offroading.’
It was the wrong thing to say, though I cannot imagine why the fact
that Mr Jute agrees with him should infuriate Franki Krygowski so.
‘I recall an early electronic ignition system on my motorcycle
literally emitting sparks and clouds of smoke after a ride in a
mountain thunderstorm.’
The jellyrolls on Franki’s shaven legs quivered with his emotion. He
was so red in the face, I decided I had enough; I didn’t want my first
interviewee throwing a thombie. Franki didn’t notice me rising. As I
paid for our latte, I heard him behind me confiding to the waitress:
‘I also recall bicycling on gravel roads in remotest North Dakota,
when I couldn't begin to guess where the closest human being was. Not
the time I'd want my bicycle to explode sparks, nor say "Warning! A
firmware update is urgently needed!"’

‘Aw, Franki,’ she said, ‘everyone knows you never rode any further
than the depot on Main Street to pick up your subscription copy of
Musclehead. And put those disgusting shaven legs under the table if
you want to sit here for the rest of the day.’

--From A Cub Reporter’s Casebook of Unimportant Interviews

Edited to make the pars clearer for the usual kibitzers.

*******

I parked my tenspeed battery-drive stepthrough in front of the
smartest caff in town and wondered if my bike was smart enough for
Franki Krygowski, the noted cyclist and my first interview.

The first part of Franki I saw were his shaven legs, sticking out at
right angles to the table. I lifted up the cloth to see if there was
an obstruction under the table but there was nothing. Franki was just
showing off his shaven legs.

‘Nice legs,’ I said as I modestly disposed my own, fully clad, legs
under the table.

But Franki wasn’t interested in the niceties. Among the six empty
latte cups on the table lay a wodge of printout from the internet,
looking like it was from the famous rec.bicycles.tech. Ooh, I
thought,
now I will get an insight into the cutting edge.

‘"Stickinthemuddery" may be evidence of attempted creativity,’ Franki
said suddenly, ‘or it may be evidence that Jute's inability to break
paragraphs has now descended to the word level. Will he soon be
making Ulysses look like
easy reading by comparison?’

Since Franki had gone back to contemplating his shaven legs
approvingly and didn’t seem likely to offer me refreshment, I
gestured
to the counter for a round of latte. The editor had warned me that
some cyclists are a bit surly. All those lonely hours in the bathroom
with just a razor for company has that effect, or so the editor said.
I wouldn’t know: I don’t shave my legs.

‘This is Mr Andre Jute, the novelist and engineering and arts
writer?’
I ventured. ‘He only wrote one long paragraph. That is hardly a
congenital disease.’

But Franki Krygowski wasn’t having any. ‘In any case, Mr. Jute seems
completely incapable of understanding that others' criteria may
differ
from his own.’ He looked up at the waitress serving our latte and
flexed his knees apart an inch or two. ‘Keep ‘em coming,’ he said to
her. ‘My friend will pay.’

I nodded meekly. I wondered if it would be out of my own pocket or if
the editor would approve a few dollars out of petty cash to grease my
first interview. Talking of grease, I now saw that the glint on
Franki’s shaven legs was oil.

Now Franki was giving me the inside gen on Shimano’s latest
electronic
Dura-Ace. How thrilling to speak to a real expert!

‘Yes,’ Franki said between slurps of latte, ‘an electronically and
mechanically complex pile of parts may seem wonderful to certain
people. For example: slowly pottering geriatrics, techno-complexity
freaks, those who'll never ride enough to test reliability, and those
for whom clicking a gear shifter is unbearably confusing. (And yes,
one person may have all those attributes.)’

‘Ooh,’ I said, taken a bit aback by Franki’s spiteful response to Mr
Jute’s name in the internet posts on the table. ‘Isn’t that a bit
politically incorrect?’

Franki waved the quibble away almost as if it offended him. He was on
a roll now. ‘But others may prefer more control of cadence, power
output and speed, _as well as more range and repairability.’

I smiled encouragingly. ‘You’re so right. It says on Mr Jute’s
netsite
that he wouldn’t recommend Shimano’s electronics gears for
offroading.’

It was the wrong thing to say, though I cannot imagine why the fact
that Mr Jute agrees with him should infuriate Franki Krygowski so:
‘I recall an early electronic ignition system on my motorcycle
literally emitting sparks and clouds of smoke after a ride in a
mountain thunderstorm.’

The jellyrolls on Franki’s shaven legs quivered with his emotion. He
was so red in the face, I decided I had enough; I didn’t want my
first
interviewee throwing a thombie.

Franki didn’t notice me rising. As I paid for our latte, I heard him
behind me confiding to the waitress:
‘I also recall bicycling on gravel roads in remotest North Dakota,
when I couldn't begin to guess where the closest human being was.
Not
the time I'd want my bicycle to explode sparks, nor say "Warning! A
firmware update is urgently needed!"’

‘Aw, Franki,’ she said, ‘everyone knows you never rode any further
than the depot on Main Street to pick up your subscription copy of
Musclehead. And put those disgusting shaven legs under the table if
you want to sit here for the rest of the day.’

--From A Cub Reporter’s Casebook of Unimportant Interviews

In article
,
Andre Jute wrote:

Edited to make the pars clearer for the usual kibitzers.

[...]

Crikey, Andrew, hope you get some bites on this one.
You _could_ take lessons in trolling. As it is, the
kids take one look at you, make you give up your lunch
money, throw your sneakers over the power line, then
roll you in the ditch.

--
Michael Press

Crikey, Andrew, hope you get some bites on this one.
You _could_ take lessons in trolling. As it is, the
kids take one look at you, make you give up your lunch
money, throw your sneakers over the power line, then
roll you in the ditch.

--
Michael Press

Yeah, let anybody criticize him in any way and he goes into a corner,
sulks, and then comes back with an all out attack. Do you think he'll
ever grow up? Nah, not a chance, the way he's going.

Pat in TX

On Sep 6, 8:19*pm, Michael Press wrote:
In article
,
*Andre Jute wrote:

Edited to make the pars clearer for the usual kibitzers.

[...]

Crikey, Andrew, hope you get some bites on this one.
You _could_ take lessons in trolling. As it is, the
kids take one look at you, make you give up your lunch
money, throw your sneakers over the power line, then
roll you in the ditch.

--
Michael Press

Did they authorize you to confess their malice, Michael? I wouldn't
want to kick a guy like Jobst Brandt in the goolies if he sinned
ignorantly, as it appears to me, nor Mike J whose heart is probably in
the right place.

Your wishful thinking is colorful but why am I not quaking in my
furlined booties?

Andre Jute
I didn't do anything to him, Judge. It's my mojo.

On Sep 6, 8:19*pm, Michael Press wrote:
In article
,
*Andre Jute wrote:

Edited to make the pars clearer for the usual kibitzers.
Edited to make the pars clearer for the usual kibitzers.
*******
I parked my tenspeed battery-drive stepthrough in front of the
smartest caff in town and wondered if my bike was smart enough for
Franki Krygowski, the noted cyclist and my first interview.

The first part of Franki I saw were his shaven legs, sticking out at
right angles to the table. I lifted up the cloth to see if there was
an obstruction under the table but there was nothing. Franki was just
showing off his shaven legs.

‘Nice legs,’ I said as I modestly disposed my own, fully clad, legs
under the table.

But Franki wasn’t interested in the niceties. Among the six empty
latte cups on the table lay a wodge of printout from the internet,
looking like it was from the famous rec.bicycles.tech.

Ooh, I thought, now I will get an insight into the cutting edge.

‘"Stickinthemuddery" may be evidence of attempted creativity,’ Franki
said suddenly, ‘or it may be evidence that Jute's inability to break
paragraphs has now descended to the word level. Will he soon be making
Ulysses look like easy reading by comparison?’

Since Franki had gone back to contemplating his shaven legs
approvingly and didn’t seem likely to offer me refreshment, I gestured
to the counter for a round of latte. The editor had warned me that
some cyclists are a bit surly. All those lonely hours in the bathroom
with just a razor for company has that effect, or so the editor said.
I wouldn’t know: I don’t shave my legs.

‘This is Mr Andre Jute, the novelist and engineering and arts writer?’
I ventured. ‘He only wrote one long paragraph. That is hardly a
congenital disease.’

But Franki Krygowski wasn’t having any. ‘In any case, Mr. Jute seems
completely incapable of understanding that others' criteria may differ
from his own.’ He looked up at the waitress serving our latte and
flexed his knees apart an inch or two. ‘Keep ‘em coming,’ he said to
her. ‘My friend will pay.’

I nodded meekly. I wondered if it would be out of my own pocket or if
the editor would approve a few dollars out of petty cash to grease my
first interview. Talking of grease, I now saw that the glint on
Franki’s shaven legs was oil.

Now Franki was giving me the inside gen on Shimano’s latest electronic
Dura-Ace. How thrilling to speak to a real expert!

‘Yes,’ Franki said between slurps of latte, ‘an electronically and
mechanically complex pile of parts may seem wonderful to certain
people. For example: slowly pottering geriatrics, techno-complexity
freaks, those who'll never ride enough to test reliability, and those
for whom clicking a gear shifter is unbearably confusing. (And yes,
one person may have all those attributes.)’

‘Ooh,’ I said, taken a bit aback by Franki’s spiteful response to Mr
Jute’s name in the internet posts on the table. ‘Isn’t that a bit
politically incorrect?’

Franki waved the quibble away almost as if it offended him. He was on
a roll now. ‘But others may prefer more control of cadence, power
output and speed, as well as more range and repairability.’

I smiled encouragingly. ‘You’re so right. It says on Mr Jute’s netsite
that he wouldn’t recommend Shimano’s electronics gears for
offroading.’

It was the wrong thing to say, though I cannot imagine why the fact
that Mr Jute agrees with him should infuriate Franki Krygowski so:
‘I recall an early electronic ignition system on my motorcycle
literally emitting sparks and clouds of smoke after a ride in a
mountain thunderstorm.’

The jellyrolls on Franki’s shaven legs quivered with his emotion. He
was so red in the face, I decided I had enough; I didn’t want my first
interviewee throwing a thombie.

Franki didn’t notice me rising. As I paid for our latte, I heard him
behind me confiding to the waitress:
‘I also recall bicycling on gravel roads in remotest North Dakota,
when I couldn't begin to guess where the closest human being was. Not
the time I'd want my bicycle to explode sparks, nor say "Warning! A
firmware update is urgently needed!"’

‘Aw, Franki,’ she said, ‘everyone knows you never rode any further
than the depot on Main Street to pick up your subscription copy of
Musclehead. And put those disgusting shaven legs under the table if
you want to sit here for the rest of the day.’

--From A Cub Reporter’s Casebook of Unimportant Interviews


Crikey, Andrew, hope you get some bites on this one.
You _could_ take lessons in trolling.

From you, perhaps, dear Mikey?

Andre Jute
Little Red Riding Hood

On Sep 6, 8:25*pm, "Pat" wrote:

*******

I parked my tenspeed battery-drive stepthrough in front of the
smartest caff in town and wondered if my bike was smart enough for
Franki Krygowski, the noted cyclist and my first interview.

The first part of Franki I saw were his shaven legs, sticking out at
right angles to the table. I lifted up the cloth to see if there was
an obstruction under the table but there was nothing. Franki was just
showing off his shaven legs.

‘Nice legs,’ I said as I modestly disposed my own, fully clad, legs
under the table.

But Franki wasn’t interested in the niceties. Among the six empty
latte cups on the table lay a wodge of printout from the internet,
looking like it was from the famous rec.bicycles.tech.

Ooh, I thought, now I will get an insight into the cutting edge.

‘"Stickinthemuddery" may be evidence of attempted creativity,’ Franki
said suddenly, ‘or it may be evidence that Jute's inability to break
paragraphs has now descended to the word level. Will he soon be making
Ulysses look like easy reading by comparison?’

Since Franki had gone back to contemplating his shaven legs
approvingly and didn’t seem likely to offer me refreshment, I gestured
to the counter for a round of latte. The editor had warned me that
some cyclists are a bit surly. All those lonely hours in the bathroom
with just a razor for company has that effect, or so the editor said.
I wouldn’t know: I don’t shave my legs.

‘This is Mr Andre Jute, the novelist and engineering and arts writer?’
I ventured. ‘He only wrote one long paragraph. That is hardly a
congenital disease.’

But Franki Krygowski wasn’t having any. ‘In any case, Mr. Jute seems
completely incapable of understanding that others' criteria may differ
from his own.’ He looked up at the waitress serving our latte and
flexed his knees apart an inch or two. ‘Keep ‘em coming,’ he said to
her. ‘My friend will pay.’

I nodded meekly. I wondered if it would be out of my own pocket or if
the editor would approve a few dollars out of petty cash to grease my
first interview. Talking of grease, I now saw that the glint on
Franki’s shaven legs was oil.

Now Franki was giving me the inside gen on Shimano’s latest electronic
Dura-Ace. How thrilling to speak to a real expert!

‘Yes,’ Franki said between slurps of latte, ‘an electronically and
mechanically complex pile of parts may seem wonderful to certain
people. For example: slowly pottering geriatrics, techno-complexity
freaks, those who'll never ride enough to test reliability, and those
for whom clicking a gear shifter is unbearably confusing. (And yes,
one person may have all those attributes.)’

‘Ooh,’ I said, taken a bit aback by Franki’s spiteful response to Mr
Jute’s name in the internet posts on the table. ‘Isn’t that a bit
politically incorrect?’

Franki waved the quibble away almost as if it offended him. He was on
a roll now. ‘But others may prefer more control of cadence, power
output and speed, as well as more range and repairability.’

I smiled encouragingly. ‘You’re so right. It says on Mr Jute’s netsite
that he wouldn’t recommend Shimano’s electronics gears for
offroading.’

It was the wrong thing to say, though I cannot imagine why the fact
that Mr Jute agrees with him should infuriate Franki Krygowski so:
‘I recall an early electronic ignition system on my motorcycle
literally emitting sparks and clouds of smoke after a ride in a
mountain thunderstorm.’

The jellyrolls on Franki’s shaven legs quivered with his emotion. He
was so red in the face, I decided I had enough; I didn’t want my first
interviewee throwing a thombie.

Franki didn’t notice me rising. As I paid for our latte, I heard him
behind me confiding to the waitress:
‘I also recall bicycling on gravel roads in remotest North Dakota,
when I couldn't begin to guess where the closest human being was. Not
the time I'd want my bicycle to explode sparks, nor say "Warning! A
firmware update is urgently needed!"’

‘Aw, Franki,’ she said, ‘everyone knows you never rode any further
than the depot on Main Street to pick up your subscription copy of
Musclehead. And put those disgusting shaven legs under the table if
you want to sit here for the rest of the day.’

--From A Cub Reporter’s Casebook of Unimportant Interviews

*********
Crikey, Andrew, hope you get some bites on this one.
You _could_ take lessons in trolling. As it is, the
kids take one look at you, make you give up your lunch
money, throw your sneakers over the power line, then
roll you in the ditch.

--
Michael Press
Yeah, let anybody criticize him in any way and he goes into a corner,
sulks, and then comes back with an all out attack. *Do you think he'll
ever grow up? Nah, not a chance, the way he's going.

Pat in TX

Yo, Pat in Texas, where once there were men, thanks for another
opportunity to inded Franki Krygowski's quivering legs.

Andre Jute
Practical trollwork 101: knock against the head of the dummy.

Yo, Pat in Texas, where once there were men, thanks for another
opportunity to inded Franki Krygowski's quivering legs.

Andre Jute


Yawn.

On Sep 7, 2:40*pm, "Pat in Texas" where once men were men wrote:
...thanks for another
opportunity to index Franki Krygowski's quivering legs.

*******

I parked my tenspeed battery-drive stepthrough in front of the
smartest caff in town and wondered if my bike was smart enough for
Franki Krygowski, the noted cyclist and my first interview.

The first part of Franki I saw were his shaven legs, sticking out at
right angles to the table. I lifted up the cloth to see if there was
an obstruction under the table but there was nothing. Franki was just
showing off his shaven legs.

‘Nice legs,’ I said as I modestly disposed my own, fully clad, legs
under the table.

But Franki wasn’t interested in the niceties. Among the six empty
latte cups on the table lay a wodge of printout from the internet,
looking like it was from the famous rec.bicycles.tech.

Ooh, I thought, now I will get an insight into the cutting edge.

‘"Stickinthemuddery" may be evidence of attempted creativity,’ Franki
said suddenly, ‘or it may be evidence that Jute's inability to break
paragraphs has now descended to the word level. Will he soon be making
Ulysses look like easy reading by comparison?’

Since Franki had gone back to contemplating his shaven legs
approvingly and didn’t seem likely to offer me refreshment, I gestured
to the counter for a round of latte. The editor had warned me that
some cyclists are a bit surly. All those lonely hours in the bathroom
with just a razor for company has that effect, or so the editor said.
I wouldn’t know: I don’t shave my legs.

‘This is Mr Andre Jute, the novelist and engineering and arts writer?’
I ventured. ‘He only wrote one long paragraph. That is hardly a
congenital disease.’

But Franki Krygowski wasn’t having any. ‘In any case, Mr. Jute seems
completely incapable of understanding that others' criteria may differ
from his own.’ He looked up at the waitress serving our latte and
flexed his knees apart an inch or two. ‘Keep ‘em coming,’ he said to
her. ‘My friend will pay.’

I nodded meekly. I wondered if it would be out of my own pocket or if
the editor would approve a few dollars out of petty cash to grease my
first interview. Talking of grease, I now saw that the glint on
Franki’s shaven legs was oil.

Now Franki was giving me the inside gen on Shimano’s latest electronic
Dura-Ace. How thrilling to speak to a real expert!

‘Yes,’ Franki said between slurps of latte, ‘an electronically and
mechanically complex pile of parts may seem wonderful to certain
people. For example: slowly pottering geriatrics, techno-complexity
freaks, those who'll never ride enough to test reliability, and those
for whom clicking a gear shifter is unbearably confusing. (And yes,
one person may have all those attributes.)’

‘Ooh,’ I said, taken a bit aback by Franki’s spiteful response to Mr
Jute’s name in the internet posts on the table. ‘Isn’t that a bit
politically incorrect?’

Franki waved the quibble away almost as if it offended him. He was on
a roll now. ‘But others may prefer more control of cadence, power
output and speed, as well as more range and repairability.’

I smiled encouragingly. ‘You’re so right. It says on Mr Jute’s netsite
that he wouldn’t recommend Shimano’s electronics gears for
offroading.’

It was the wrong thing to say, though I cannot imagine why the fact
that Mr Jute agrees with him should infuriate Franki Krygowski so:
‘I recall an early electronic ignition system on my motorcycle
literally emitting sparks and clouds of smoke after a ride in a
mountain thunderstorm.’

The jellyrolls on Franki’s shaven legs quivered with his emotion. He
was so red in the face, I decided I had enough; I didn’t want my first
interviewee throwing a thombie.

Franki didn’t notice me rising. As I paid for our latte, I heard him
behind me confiding to the waitress:
‘I also recall bicycling on gravel roads in remotest North Dakota,
when I couldn't begin to guess where the closest human being was. Not
the time I'd want my bicycle to explode sparks, nor say "Warning! A
firmware update is urgently needed!"’

‘Aw, Franki,’ she said, ‘everyone knows you never rode any further
than the depot on Main Street to pick up your subscription copy of
Musclehead. And put those disgusting shaven legs under the table if
you want to sit here for the rest of the day.’

--From A Cub Reporter’s Casebook of Unimportant Interviews

*********

Thanks for that, Pat. How long do you think before Jobst rewrites the
Cub Reporters Inconsequential Interview to be 2.143 times as funny?

AJ in Ireland
....where leprechauns are still leprechauns

In article
,
Andre Jute wrote:

On Sep 6, 8:19*pm, Michael Press wrote:
In article
,
*Andre Jute wrote:

Edited to make the pars clearer for the usual kibitzers.

[...]

Crikey, Andrew, hope you get some bites on this one.
You _could_ take lessons in trolling. As it is, the
kids take one look at you, make you give up your lunch
money, throw your sneakers over the power line, then
roll you in the ditch.

Did they authorize you to confess their malice, Michael? I wouldn't
want to kick a guy like Jobst Brandt in the goolies if he sinned
ignorantly, as it appears to me, nor Mike J whose heart is probably in
the right place.

Your wishful thinking is colorful but why am I not quaking in my
furlined booties?

Why should you quake? What's the worst that could happen?
Do you think anyone read the unimportant interview, even
after you re-posted that page-and-a-half three times?
We are not quaking either. We are not reading it. Work on
your trolling. I suggest intervals. Short intense paragraphs.

--
Michael Press