Chapter MMMCCXXXIII: In which he exults over a weather forecast....
Okay, campers. Your old stupid pal wandered back from vacation to find himself yet again working another stretch where he worked nine 10-12 hour days out of ten days. And while this has something to do with his disposition becoming less and less sunny along a plottable curve, it may work out for the best.
You see? There are plans to attend Southern Brewer's Fest
down in Chattaboogie. It's a chance to see friends, taunt Jason, and celebrate the fact that my friend Chewie Finally
found a job....
And your old pal was afraid that rain would dampen the occasion, as it did the almost annual camping trek a couple or three weekends ago.....
But the fine folks at News Channel 9 are predicting fair skies (and helluva not-hot day, to boot).
Can I go local for a second, and comment on Channel 9's weather team?
David Glenn looks like a dentist, and absolutely the opposite of a weather psychic. And there's a part of me that still wonders if he's up to the task of dealing with the Chattaboogie Weather Juggernaut Dream Team of Paul "I have a beard" Barys and Neal "Multi Mortgage" Pascal over on channel 3. I give him the benefit of the doubt, though his magic is somewhat lessened without Jed Mescon to egg him on at 5 in the morning. Jed Mescon owns the morning. Remember that, y'all. He made fellow blogger Thom Benson a star.
Let me also take a minute to address the Haystacks Calhoun of Chattanooga weathermen: How large will Bill Race become before he reaches critical mass? And I'm not talking about fat, necessarily. Bill Race is expanding in all directions of the compass, suffering (exulting) in his own personal Big Bang. Indeed, that might be why Bill Race is a weatherman, because he's now tall enough to gauge weather patterns at an atmospheric level. I'm of the belief that he's part sasquatch, and is wandering somewhere in the mass of an imported pickup truck. What is he? Nine feet tall? Does Bill Race look at all that stuff Michael Phelps ate before swimming and scoff as he's gnawing suckling pig in one hand and popping muffins like Hershey Kisses with the other during his own personal Second Breakfast? Bill Race's picture has not changed on News Channel 9's website in ten years, simply because a panoramic camera is too expensive.
My only request is that David Glenn or Bill Race neither be the one to break it to me that it will rain on my Saturday off (only my fourth this year not associated with a vacation). I fear for David Glenn's safety should he be the one to say "it'll rain on your personal hops and barley parade." And I fear for mine around Bill Race, no matter what the weather. Seriously, I'm 6'4" and I don't much cotton to having to look up to anybody. It's why me and Dikembe Motumbo are no longer friends.
If Channel 9 must break that news, please let it be Allison Chinchar.
Because I have a television crush on her. If she were the one to tell my parents died in a catapult accident, and that I was dying of cancer of the nostrils, I'd probably be okay, responding only with a very shy smile.
And she's done much in assuaging my much documented anti-Ohio bias. Can I just say that?
I have nothing more to say on this matter, without embarassing myself further.
Anyway. With Brewer's Fest some 2 days away, I do find myself wishing David Neal still worked in Chattanooga, even if he had that creepy mustache. That man was a psychic, and he would not just be able to tell me whether it would rain that day, but what the exact temperature would be, and just how many IPA's I'd imbibe before the whole shebang was said and done Saturday, and I'd wandered my tipsy self to Mellow Mushroom to sober up over a calzone. And aside from watching Andy Griffith re-runs and looking to see if Luther Masingale is announcing your dog was found in St. Elmo, David Neal's weather forecast was the only reason to watch channel 12.
Take that Joe Legge.