Forecast: lame

By MEDIA FARM

del.ico.us | digg it! | reddit!

print | email | 3 Comments

YOUR AVERAGE WEATHER FORECASTER uses ambivalent language to temper their role as a glorified tarot card reader. They dress up in (pant)suits to stand in front of a blank screen and wave their hands around, directing digital clouds. So, while last week you had to change your pants because Zeus pissed all over them, weather reporters freaked out, because you were actually paying attention to them, begging them to predict the future.

For example, poor Alan Dunham, a meteorologist for the National Weather Service in Taunton, was asked by the Boston Herald to predict whether there would be Fourth of July fireworks four days ahead of time.

For the Fourth, weather watchers "can't rule out a thunderstorm," said Dunham. "Saturday will be hit or miss. It's still too early to tell if weather will interfere with fireworks."

Really, what does that tell you, except a drawn-out "I don't have a fucking clue"?

Over at WHDH, anchor Frances Rivera, appearing somewhat subdued in an outfit that didn't entirely make her look like a circus clown, did a health piece about seasonal affective disorder (SAD!), which involved shooting footage of a lot of rain-soaked Bostonians complaining and asking Guy Maytal of Massachusetts General Hospital why people get SAD. (Maytal essentially said that darkness makes us depressed and inactive, so we become gloomy globs of fat sitting on our couches until the sun comes out). Using top-notch journalistic tactics that didn't involve leaving the studio to face all that icky weather, she also interviewed their very own chief meteorologist, Pete Bouchard, whose quote was very technical, delving into the methodology behind weatherology: "I haven't gotten any death threats yet, but we're close to being, like, fisticuffs. It's mostly an issue of people being fed up with what's going on, and they want some relief."

Aw! Meteorologists! On July 3rd, WBZ's Ken Barlow had a wardrobe malfunction during his spiel. He was playing with his butt on camera so much, he was forced to admit with the sort of nasal apology some people use to explain they have allergies, "My jacket's all wrinkled up." This came after he'd announced, "I think we're going to start to see the end tomorrow! Seventy-one degrees right now! The end of this bad weather, that is." He apparently needed to clarify this point in case anyone was starting to reach for their emergency apocalypse kit.

Too bad no one at the Boston Globe got that memo. Their website went nutty with weather exclusives, including a slideshow teaching readers how to build an ark à la Noah (from the Bible, godless heathens). The first step is to get a large quantity of gopherwood (don't know what the hell that is? Neither does the Globe, apparently!). Then, prepare a framework on which you'll attach the outer hull—you're on your own with this one, too, though the recommended dimensions are 450 by 75 feet, "but you can adapt the dimensions to fit in your backyard," assuming your yard isn't mammoth, and that you have one. And then all you need to do is attach the outer hull and coat it with pitch! Then, just float along in your giant boat and await further instructions from boston.com. You're welcome, readers!

The Globe further out-lamed itself with a websclusive video of arts reporter Geoff Edgers, who is used to offering up his unneeded opinion. This time, he told us, he doesn't like rain.

The web rant opens with the word "rant" gyrating in graffiti-style spray paint and a thick Seinfeld rip-off baseline ... updated with a record scratching! So you know it's hip! We watch Edgers sit down in a chair, wearing a T-shirt, even though you know he popped out of his mother wearing a collared shirt and glasses, and tell us, "If I wanted to live in England, I would have gotten half my teeth ripped out and gotten some scones. If I wanted to live in Seattle, I mean, I'm starting to feel like Kurt Cobain near the end." It's enough to make you wish someone would rip half his teeth out, just so he could have something real to stutter on about.

Because the only thing lamer than shitty weather in the summer is complaining about shitty weather in the summer ... or, complaining about complaining about shitty—oops!