When the Thundersnowlightning Hits Your Sky Like a Big Pizza Pie, That's Cantore

I need to start by apologizing for my abhorrent lack of coverage of Denver's deep freeze. It's shameful, I know, but I have a reason. It's called gargoyling (see third entry). Some of you may call it twin fire. Whatever the preferred term, shitting lava while projectile vomiting into the bathtub is sure to take the wind out of the sails of even the most hardy blogger, and old Flip is no exception. Sunday night saw my body expel every last drop of its contents and then some which left me in a confused and semi-catatonic state for the next 24 hours. The only activities I could muster energy for was drinking Gatorade(TM), laying on the couch, eating pho and swallowing a vicodin. Things were grim and stinky around FKS headquarters. Luckily, I put my energy into the right activities and am mended as of today . . . just in time to go back to work and enjoy temperatures that would make a Canadian blush.

Yes sir, Old Man Winter came shuffling back to town like a crusty drunk - smacking us all on the knuckles with his cane as he wandered by. He also called us "sons of whores" and "daughters of juggalos." Dude's a crotchety dick. But he did remind us that we live at the bosom of the mighty Rocky Mountains. Denver can indeed be a cruel and unusual place to live in terms of weather. On Friday the high temperature was inching near 70. On Tuesday it barely tickled zero. But so what? Those saps back east would give a lot of cash and appendages for wild swings in temperature. Having feet of snow on the ground for months on end, unless you're in the mountains, is akin to having a cheese grater rubbed slowly up and down your thighs. You feel the pain every inch of the way.

But that's neither here nor there. This post isn't about us. It's about longtime friend of the site, popular action figure and all around bad ass meteorologist Jim Cantore. The exuberance, passion, bewilderment and unadulterated joy displayed by Mr. Cantore on Michigan Avenue last night was simply a sight to behold. I left the weather channel on all evening as I went about my chores (read: napping, masturbation, sighing, sitting in the sauna, sipping spicy Spanish wine) and would rush back to the television anytime they cut live to Cantore. I imagine, by now, you've seen his reaction to the bolt of lightning, but there was more goodness where that came from:



Mother Nature is clearly Cantore's mistress. Look for a Windy City Jim action figure in stores near you . . . coming soon.

And I would be remiss if I didn't give Coniglio some props. He eschewed the coattails of the National Weather Service and correctly predicted the snow Sunday night/Monday morning would be between 1-4 inches (NWS predicted 3-6). Way to trust your gut, sir. You have fortitude and that's all we ask for in our meteorologists. It's why Jimmy Cantore's so god damned awesome. Keep up the good work, Marty.

Crystal Balls Out

It's a dark day, my friends. If you haven't heard the news, brace yourselves (and this is going to hit Billy Axelrod particularly hard), FKS favorite Crystal Egger has gone corporate. According to our good friends at the Denver Post, Crystal has begun employment with the Weather Channel. This is what she had to say about leaving the Mile High City:

"It was an honor to live there for four years. But I won't need a snow shovel when I report on your first blizzard." She may have possibly continued, "I will miss Flip Washington most of all. His intense love for weather and for me made my time in Denver the most passionate period of my life. I owe everything I have to him."

It's flattering, no doubt, but also disturbing. I know it won't be long before my idol Jim Cantore woos her with his superior understanding of the pressure gradient and it absolutely sears my soul. But what the hell, it was a good ride while it lasted. I salute Crystal for her service here. Her forecasting, for the most part, was conservative. But her attitude and expert use of makeup were always positive. I'm going to miss her. Farewell, my sweet snow angel.

Speaking of Weather Channel talent, I encountered what appears to be a forecasting mirage during my travels this summer. Let me set the scene . . . I was driving recklessly from Seattle to Denver one brilliant day in July with the intention of stopping in Bozeman, Montana for drinks, regrettable romance and maybe a few winks. Due to a glut in Yellowstone tourists, every hotel from Bozeman eastward was full. At 2:00AM, I finally found a place in Billings . . . a Howard Johnson's with sticky carpets and an air conditioner that rattled the entire room.

It was also filled with bikers who preferred to stay not in their rooms, but in the parking lot outside. Said parking lot was adjacent to my room. This meant I had the honor of listening to them scream like animals and break bottles for two hours. It reminded of college . . . but with a sinister edge.

Circumstances as they were, I knew I wasn't going to get much sleep so I flipped on the Weather Channel. This is what appeared:

Needless to say, things got lusty in a hurry. What she was forecasting is all a blur. How she forecasted it will forever be burned into my psyche. Ninety one degrees never felt so good. But I never caught her name. And a review of the Weather Channel's personalities page provides no clues to this weather vixen's identity. So I turn to you, dear readers, and ask you to use your disturbing internet stalking skills and reveal the name behind the face. Inquiring weather minds want to know.

Lastly, please enjoy the scene I witnessed as I left the HoJo at 9:30AM: