September 19, 2004

This last weekend, Hurricane Ivan, most likely as a result of peer pressure, obliterated Gulf Shores, Alabama and swept throughout the entire state, not that you would know it from listening to Harding's prayer-leader-person during chapel Friday morning, who made sure to ask for prayers for all those suffering in Florida, Georgia, and, oh yeah, almost forgot. Louisiana. This seemed rather strange, considering that the eye of the hurricane hit none of those states, especially not Louisiana, the not-hitting of which merited a continual run of coverage on several TV news channels as well as the Associated Press: "Yup, we sure didn't get hit," said New Orleans resident Boniface Lamareoux. "You can tell because there ain't seventy feet of seawater over your head."

I'll grant you that the panhandle of Florida took quite a bit of damage, but this is no excuse for completely ignoring the state where the hurricane eyewall actually made landfall , and the state where the eye spent a pretty sizeable quantity of time, at least, according to www.weather.com (bringing you current, up-to-date information on Hurricane Ivan provided it is 4 PM last Wednesday). Nope, not even a smidgen of prayer for the denizens of Alabama, because as everyone knows, hurricanes just don't come to Alabama, even when the satellites show one already inside Alabama , because hurricanes only go to Florida and North Carolina . This is perfectly logical, as Florida and North Carolina both resemble various body parts normally shrouded in pants thrust out into the Atlantic as if to say to hurricanes, "Bite me!" ( Note for later: find a less disturbing metaphor ) But hurricanes don't have to hit Florida or North Carolina. Occasionally, they come to Alabama, and I think it's perfectly reasonable to ask for a little prayer for the people whose homes are now floating towards Haiti (probably sparking a civil war) or buried under twenty feet of sand.

But let's talk about how Hurricane Ivan affected my hometown, Tuscaloosa , whose total hurricane damage, after factoring in both downed trees and a new wind chime for Mrs. Irene Jacobson's back porch, comes to $4.34 plus tax. You would not know this, however, if all you had to go on was my email inbox, which is still set to receive emails from my Tuscaloosa summer workplace. Wednesday, my inbox was suddenly choked with emails like this:

"Re: WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!!!! National Weather Service advises Alabamians not to panic."

This upset me a little bit, because there I was, at college in Arkansas, where the most exciting weather tends to be the twice-a-year downpours that invariably come to Searcy when students are trying to move their computers into their dorms, and all my friends were about to be wiped away by a hurricane the likes of which haven't been seen for what. four days now? Lucky punks!

Because that is how we Tuscaloosans view eminent bad weather. We close the schools, close the government offices, hunker down in our homes, prepare for an afternoon of collective excitement unlike anything since Alabama actually had a decent football team, and watch as it all takes place outside our windows, "it all" referring to "absolutely nothing." This is because as soon as the weather overhears that Tuscaloosa has shut everything down and is ready for some morbid bad-weather fun, it veers off and hits Birmingham or something like that, leaving everyone kind of. disappointed.

I suppose if we were sane, we might have said, upon reflection, "We were so blessed to not have any major damage from Ivan." What we Tuscaloosans actually said was more along the lines of "Why does the rest of Alabama get to have all the fun?" I'm sure the rest of Alabama is wondering the same thing.

This is true whether we are talking about hurricanes or blizzards, because Tuscaloosa is at precisely the wrong latitude to feel the brunt of either of those things. Blizzards typically dump everything they have in Florence and Huntsville and then peter into measly rain by the time they reach the closed elementary schools of Tuscaloosa. Hurricanes wipe out the Gulf Coast and then suddenly dissipate into a few gusts of wind as soon as they get near Tuscaloosa, making actual "POOF" sound effects over the Doppler radar. It's very unfair.

Not that we don't get our fair share of tornadoes. Tornadoes blow into town all the time, but they're not nearly as exciting, seeing as how you have about five minutes after the siren goes off to feel that lovely tingly anticipation-of-danger feeling we Tuscaloosans yearn for so badly, and then, when it's done, the rubbernecking-worthy damage is typically highly localized. You see, Tuscaloosa is a place where there are many trees, unlike, say, Kansas, where tornadoes can be enjoyed from a distance. In order to actually see or hear the tornado (it sounds like a freight train, according to absolutely everybody whose ever been in a tornado or made up having been in a tornado, even people who have never, in their lives, heard a freight train) in Tuscaloosa, you must be within sucking radius of the funnel, and only a fortunate few Tuscaloosans can "'nader-chase" their way into it in time.

Therefore, Tuscaloosa really needs some kind of widespread weather disaster and soon, before we all get really bored and start trying to reorganize the school system again. Pray for us. Chapel-prayer-leader-people, this means you.