Meteorologists gone wild! Part 1

NEW ORLEANS, La., Jan. 18 — I was somewhere around Barstow when the drugs began to kick in. Of course, by “drugs,” I mean Zicam, the zinc miracle that shortens the duration of colds, and by “Barstow,” I mean New Orleans, home to the annual meeting of the American Meteorological Society (AMS), of which — despite a LOLcat-based forecasting methodology — I am a card-carrying member. For six days last month, I embarked on an expenses-paid spiral of goldbricking, logrolling and free-food consumption in an attempt to disprove the null hypothesis that meteorologists do not know how to throw down. The results were too hot for TV — other than late-night ads on Comedy Central — but just about the right hotness for a Weather Guy special two-part investigation.

My journey to New Orleans from Newark was not easy one. New Jersey, hateful bitch of a state that it is, sensed the fundamental illegitimacy of my exam-week escape and strewed wanton NJTransit cancellations in my path, forcing a last minute 90-mph burn up the Turnpike. Nice try, Jersey. I’m leaving you.

Jan. 19 — Soulja Boy’s tour bus is illegally parked in front of the Convention Center; potentially, he’s here to learn how to weatherman dat ho. Also, the complex is hosting a cheerleading competition for grossly over-made-up 12-year olds, engendering an ambience akin to the little-known David Lynch’s director’s cut of “Bring It On.”

At the check-in desk, it becomes clear that I have filled out none of the necessary paperwork due to gross personal negligence. Fortunately, I attach myself in a remora-like manner to a West Virginia morning weathergirl whose registration has been lost. We are soon asked to move to facilitate the installation of critical decorative shrubberies.

The biggest event of the day is the student career fair, to which some proto-tools sprint down the hall, rabid to engage in sweaty flesh-pressing. With no use for such brownnosing, my goal is to collect free pens from as many universities as possible. Final count: 21 pens, one mechanical pencil.

Jan. 21 — I rouse myself shortly before noon, relieved I haven’t missed the most important meal of the day, which is of course the free meal. While the lunch speaker was apparently told he’d be speaking to an elementary school and assembles colorful metal poles to demonstrate how tall 20 feet of storm surge is, tales of the previous night’s misadventures are passed around. Highlights include a girl who lost a butt-shaking contest and a guy who was briefly hospitalized after hitting his head on a barstool.

After an afternoon nap attack, I meet up with Erica, the only other attendee from Princeton and a (definitely not sketchy) first-year grad student for an evening ramble that winds up at Mother’s, home of the “world’s best baked ham.” Unfortunately, the chaotic flavor riot set off by a phalanx of sauces and toppings precludes definitive judgment on whether Mother’s baked ham is truly a world beater. Still, it’s like there’s a party in my mouth, and I’m invited, which is a win in my book.

When I arrive back at the hotel, the hallway is blocked by about 30 weather balloons. Young meteorologists are trashing the Embassy Suites like dorkier and less dead Keith Moons. Loaf on.