The genius of capitalism—it’s official. I have no life. You might come to that same conclusion if, like me, you’ve spent the past 36 hours glued to the network called The Weather Channel. This means that over that period, I’ve missed ESPN’s telecasts of the Australian Open, and even the Scott-and-Laci–grade hype leading up to today’s NFL Conference championship games (for the record: I like the Eagles and Pats).
Now, for events like the latter two, you’re ready to pay the price: blowing off that potentially career-altering invite to your boss’s ski house, ignoring the due date on the bills piled on your desk, or fielding the scornful looks cast by your ballet-loving mother-in-law when you answer the door at 3 P.M., still in your sweats.
But the Weather Channel?
It's the blizzard I'm watching, of course. It caused the cancellation of my Saturday evening flight to Melbourne and the Australian Open, as well as (I’ve just learned) my re-booking for later today. So I felt obliged to bring you up to date, because I promised that I would begin posting from Down Under bright and early on Monday.
Right now, it looks like I won’t get to Melbourne until Wednesday morning (if you have any idea what day that would be here in the U.S., feel free to write in), unless my editor decides to pull the plug on the whole sorry adventure.
Meanwhile, though, I’ve decided to keep my word and get this diary going. Now here’s the really sick thing about my last two days. I’ve come to really like The Weather Channel, in a Prozac Nation kind of way. I enjoy watching the Doppler radar images tic-tic-tic across the screen. I like the footage of Ford Pintos and Toyota Celicas traveling sideways down some frozen street. I find the network’s special retro brand of Muzak soothing—it’s reminiscent of elevators from the 1970s at their best—or worst.
And I admire the on-the-scene reporters, huddled deep in their down parkas (do you think they get endorsement deals, like tennis players, for those extra-large Gore-Tex breast patches?). There they stand, snow-lashed, on deserted, dimly lit streets, their features barely discernible. The only "color" on set for those folks is the occasional snowplow grinding by in the faint yellow background. You won’t find Katie Couric, Dan Rather, or any of those other lightweights out there; the Weather Channel reporters are the real deal!
It’s interesting, though, how our perceptions change. A few years ago, the closest thing I could envision to a 24-hour weather channel was a diner full of senior citizens. But let’s all remember that it wasn’t very long ago that the idea of a 24-hour sports network seemed ludicrous. Who’s laughing at ESPN now?
As a tennis guy, I’m especially happy about the way ESPN has ramped up its Grand Slam coverage; the anchor desk manned by Chris Fowler, the deep talent pool of commentators and reporters, the in-studio analysis sessions (Brad Gilbert is a natural, but what’s with those Fu Manchu eyebrows?) . . . all of them have managed to do what no broadcaster has cared or dared to do before—show the degree to which a major championship is not just an endless stream of matches on some stadium court, but a two-week happening, a riot of colors and sounds and themes and plots, an ongoing news story that changes almost by the moment. ESPN has figured out what some of us have known all along: that the men's and women's finals are almost an anti-climactic formality.
ESPN is starting to get it.
Well. I’ve gotten myself so fired up that I’m going to finish this up, so I can catch the Maria Sharapova–Silvia Elia Farina match on ESPN. Now that the blizzard is over and my travel plans are all set, it’s good-bye to The Weather Channel. I’ll be spending the rest of the day switching between the NFL games and ESPN’s tennis coverage.
In my sweats.