Meteorologists gone wild! Part 2

NEW ORLEANS, La. —Jan. 21 —Defying the hurtful stereotype of the mild-mannered meteorologist, a tropical cyclone symposium sensationally degenerates into an epic smackdown between dueling hurricane researchers clashing over the projected impacts of global warming. Climate-change proponent Greg Holland grows increasingly annoyed with a line of questioning from the extremely aptly named Chris Landsea, finally snapping, “I refuse to answer that question, it’s a stupid question.” This touches off a wave of scandalized gasps in the packed hall. Later, Landsea begins a response to an apologetic undergrad with “I don’t believe in stupid questions,” earning a ripple of appreciative laughter. Advantage: Landsea.

Later that afternoon whilst I snare some high-production-value swag from the NASA exhibit, Erica shares priceless intelligence about a $100,000 blowout being thrown by a satellite contractor later that night. Ostensibly, the party is invitation-only. While this is later belied by an infiltration of multiple drunk high school chicks, to be safe I mumble something vague about “satellites … really being the way to go” while shaking the project manager’s hand on the way in. Not only is the free food (and open bar) more than dinnerable, the company has thoughtfully procured a team of can-can girls, the musical stylings of Rockin’ Dobsie and the Zydeco Twisters, tarot card readers and a heavily tranqued gator for photo ops. A+++ would buy satellites from again!!

A nightcap stroll through the French Quarter reveals Bourbon Street’s predatory debasement greatly exceeds the golden ratio of one part disgust to 1.618 parts amusement. Pick a side, UniseXXX Club. We’re at war.

Jan. 22 — A television camera is trained on me for the duration of former Hurricane Center Director Max Mayfield’s keynote address, forcing a pressure-packed half-hour gauntlet of meaningful chin stroking and pseudo-significant nods. Afterwards, I cleanse my palette with a talk titled, “Does it Rain More Often on Weekends?”

The answer, as it turns out, is no. No it does not.

As the evening’s crash target, Erica and I have selected the University of Oklahoma, hosting a soiree to promote the “WeatherSphere,” which near as anyone can figure is some type of consortium or possibly a hovercraft. My suggestion to change the name to “ThunderDome” (proposed motto: two forecasters enter, one forecaster leaves) is poorly received by OU deans.

Jan. 23 — Casino night. In the best decision of the day, I hand over a wad of worthless fiat currency to Erica, who despite my trenchant explication of 13’s legendary volatility (as the union of the Perfidy of the Six and The Luckiness of the Seven, it’s a number literally at war with itself), won’t let me lose more than a single 20. An hour later, after being taken in by slots promising Sizzlin’ and/or Red Hot Sevens, I cash out a cautionary $0.01.

A final attempt to tap into New Orleans’ ample reserve of paranormal terror in the name of science proves strangely inconclusive. While a photograph of a graveyard reveals high concentrations of floating souls, a control snapshot of an adjacent Chevron is negative for telltale luminous orbs. Immediately thereafter, a young woman at a stoplight opens her car door and vomits prodigiously, then drives away … all directly in front of a cop.

Aftermath — Thursday morning, Erica and I forestall the ascendancies of our respective burnouts with an IMAX film on Katrina which, while penguin content is shoehorned into it, I find disorienting due to a lack of Morgan Freeman narration. On the way out, she photographs me cranking that in front of the “Soulja Boy” tour bus, which has accrued several additional parking tickets.

I’d had a STELLA! time in New Orleans, but serious fatigue was closing hard, a point driven home when I accidentally walked into a women’s bathroom at the airport. The next day I’d bomb a linear algebra exam (turns out the image of the kernal is NOT found on the KFC Famous Bowl) and three days later I shamefully won’t be able to remember the name of the fat dead guy from the Three Tenors during a Jeopardy audition. But stepping on the plane, I’m fully in touch with the Inner Weather Guy and key Doppler chakras; a man on a mission and just zinced enough to be totally confident.

See: Meteorologists Gone Wild! Part 1