... ..the money shot ....October 4, 2004   I live on a bayou that feeds into a chain of rivers and lakes that empties into the Gulf of Mexico.  I'm about an hour from the coast by car.  In a few more years, I will live five minutes from the coast without ever having moved.  My people will ignore coastal erosion until we awaken with sand in our nostrils and starfish clamped to our faces.  But hurricanes still manage to grab our attention. If a hurricane's eye strikes the mouth of the Calcasieu River, the surge will push water from the gulf all the way into my television set where it will drench Jim Cantore.  Poor Jim.  He and the other Weather Channel reporters attract ridicule for nothing more than doing their jobs.  The Weather Channel crew has sworn an oath to the science of meteorology, the ethics of journalism, and the drama of theater.  Picture Stanley Kowalski, his face contorted, one hand clutching a streetcar, the other grasping a microphone.  His muscular body horizontally bisects the darkened sky.  Gale force winds have blown him parallel to the ground and he screams to be heard above the howling wind.  "Frances!" he yells.  "Frances!" Then there's the shapely Stephanie Abrams.  Her shoulder-length hair is pulled into a ponytail and threaded through the rear opening of her adjustable cap.  She wears a standard issue black T-shirt, her ample bosom straining against the storm soaked cotton fabric.  The rain blows sideways and stings her dimpled cheeks.  Stephanie blinks and her eyelashes flutter in moist anticipation of the coming volley.  She waits for the money shot. previous..|..current..|..archives..|..4th quarter index..|..next

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