It’s been raining in San Francisco for several days, the kind of gentle, melancholy rain that reminds you of French black and white films of the 50’s. Nothing really remarkable about this spate, winter weather here gets around to this kind of thing every year, more or less. The thing about this time was the hand wringing and dire predictions from meteorologists a few days before the storm got going.
They were all wound up, with cries of flash floods and whatnot, which, looking out my window at the perfectly well behaved storm, seems really over done. In retrospect, these almost-hysterics came out right as Chicago and other unfortunate locales were dealing with the Polar Vortex. The Vortex resulted in several people dying, the New York Times seriously over-working the word “brutal,” and, apparently, tipping several local weatherperson into hissy fits of forecasting envy.
I understand it must not be easy being a Bay Area weatherperson; the weather here never gets much more severe than somebody leaving the air conditioner on too long. Seven or eight months of the year there is no rain and the temperature never varies beyond about a 50 – 70 degree window. So meteorologists have the same prediction day in and day out “Sunny and mild with a chance of fog.” Not terribly dramatic. You could file a months worth of reports in one day and spend the rest of the time playing video games, but somehow that seems to weigh on the poor dears’ souls.
There they are, glumly going through the motions and watching some weather girl in Minneapolis blithely tossing around terms like “hypothermia” and all they have is low level fog. Maybe they sort of over reacted to yet another dully predictable prediction. Who can blame them?
Now they have been reduced to dithering about the possibility of snow. Snow! In S.F.! The last time it snowed here was 1976, so OK, striking, but these poor queens are about to wet their pants over it. Just calm down, you want to tell them, you are embarrassing yourself. Again, one doesn’t know whether to feel pity or disgust. Sad really.
And now, humpy men in the rain. Or at least water:
Are you cold sweetie? Let me rub those nipples for you.