“I’d rather shoot him,” she said, laughing. “Will you and Sarah be next to the set watching the show?”
“Of course,” I said. “Watching The Ellen Bellamy Show is the high point of our day. Don’t you like having the Director of the FBI and the Secretary of Homeland Security in your corner?”
“Hey, I don’t just want you two in my corner,” Ellen said, “I want your honest feedback after the show. The climate change types like to play with bullshit. I don’t, and I’m sure Sarah, you, and not to mention President Blake, all feel the same way. We need facts, not scientific poetry. I gotta take a shower and get ready for the show.”
“I could use a shower too.”
“Good idea, handsome. Take off that robe and follow me.”
Chapter 20
“A snowy July good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to The Ellen Bellamy Show.” That scar on her face from her childhood accident is more like a dimple, and looked especially great on camera. I think the makeup people recognize that too.
“I’m your host, Ellen Bellamy, and the subject of today’s show is—you guessed it—the weather. Before I introduce our guest, let’s hear from our smiley-faced NBC weatherman, Al Roker.”
“Hi Ellen, and hello to our viewers,” Roker said, “stuck in front of your TVs because there’s nowhere to go in this nonstop blizzard. I’ve been poring over the weather charts and computer readouts all day, and I’m shocked to say that I don’t see any end to this mess. We thought we were able to predict the end of the blizzard two nights ago, but daylight came along, and the snow was still falling. A couple of our producers asked if I had an excuse for not doing what I’m supposed to do—predict the weather. But I can’t. This morning I was on a conference call with meteorologists across the country, including the National Weather Service, and we all agree on one thing: we can’t predict this weather pattern, at least not yet. So, my forecast is this—no change in the weather. More snow is on the way unless we can find a scientifically accurate way to say otherwise. Over to you, Ellen.”
“I don’t often plug my colleagues on the show, but I have to say that Al Roker is one of the smartest people I know, and definitely the smartest meteorologist. If Al is stumped, so am I. Now it’s my pleasure to introduce our special guest (like it’s really a pleasure to introduce a flaming asshole), Professor Dwight Peterson of NOAA.”
“Good afternoon, Ellen, and good afternoon to your viewers,” Peterson said.
“Professor, please give us your take on the past 24 hours. Meteorologists nationwide predicted that the snow would end two nights ago. Well, as we all know, it didn’t, and the blizzard continues without let-up.”
Sarah Watson and I stood next to each other watching the taping. Because of the weather, Ellen interviewed her guest by telephone and a remote TV camera at his brother’s apartment in upper Manhattan.
“This is all quite predictable, Ellen,” Peterson said.
“It’s a good thing Peterson is in a different location,” Sarah said. “Judging from the look on Ellen’s face, I think she would have slugged the guy just now.”
“Predictable?” Ellen said, her voice close to maximum volume. “I remind you, professor, that last week—just a few days ago—you were on my show talking about the terrible heat wave, which you blamed on climate change, and you summarized your talk by saying that the heat wave was ‘predictable.’ So, what is it? Hot or cold?”
“It’s all included in the pattern of climate, Ellen,” Peterson said. “Global warming has many different faces.”
“Global warming?” Ellen yelled (she actually yelled). Do I have to remind you that it’s 15 fucking degrees Fahrenheit outside?”
Sarah leaned over to me and whispered, “I think that was alliterative brilliance the way Ellen worked in the word ‘fucking’ just before the word ‘Fahrenheit.’”
I cracked up. “Hey, wise guy, listen to the show. I bet a couple of producers just had heart attacks over Ellen’s losing it.”
Ellen didn’t apologize for her language (which NBC tradition would for years refer to as “the f-bomb heard round the world”). She just sat there waiting for Peterson to answer.
“Well, I grant you that it’s cold outside.”
“I’ll take that admission as scientific progress,” Ellen said, with a look that was even colder than the outside temperature.
“But you see,” said the chastened-looking professor, “air temperature is a relative thing…”
“No, it isn’t,” Ellen said, immediately. “Fifteen degrees is fifteen degrees, and it’s only relative to other numbers, and let me advise you that fifteen degrees is (here comes another f-bomb, I thought) seventeen degrees below freezing, Ikey, and that, sir, is known as cold.”
The sound engineer was unable to block out the laughter and cheering on the set. She called the guy “Ikey,” apparently thinking that he no longer deserved the title, “professor.”
“But climate is vastly more complex than meteorology,” Peterson said, looking like a dog that just crapped on the rug. “I took my PhD in climate studies because I thought meteorology was too simplistic. It’s a highly complicated field, and I understand that you find it daunting.” A snide swipe at Ellen’s supposed thick-headedness.
“I’ve clocked as many classroom hours as you have, professor, although in fields that have answers to questions, like mathematics, engineering, and architecture. Please don’t be condescending to me or our audience. Why don’t you admit that you’re spouting nonsense? Fifteen degrees Fahrenheit is cold, and 95 degrees, the temperature just before this cold wave, is hot. Most people do not have a hard time understanding that, and I recommend that you recognize it as well. Thank you for coming on my show.” She didn’t smile as she “thanked” him.
Ellen and I sipped coffee in my dining room after her show. At 5:25 in the evening, the daylight looked like afternoon, what you’d expect for mid-July. The snow was still coming down heavily. “So, our English friend Nigel Deming is on board with most experts who think that this crazy weather is a result of climate change,” Ellen said. “The only new thing that Deming brought to the game is his hunch that the climate change originates in space. I mean where the hell else would it originate, in a sewer?”
“I’ve had it up to my eyeballs with experts,” I said. “What do you think?”
“I can’t buy that this summer blizzard was caused by long-term changes in climate,” Ellen said. “These ‘climatistas’ as they’ve been called, are in the business of promoting their theories and raking in grant money. Hey, I don’t doubt that climate change is a real thing, and human activities are partly to blame, but to say that this sudden calamity is the sole result of climate change is nonsense. Do you think the way I handled Peterson will throw a wet blanket on the true believers who want to use my show to flex their brain-muscles?”
“I think any climate change expert you have on the show in the future will want to control the pause button,” I said. “I’ve never been prouder of you. Most media stars just want to burnish their own reputations. You perform like a real journalist—You look for the truth, even if you use an f-bomb to seek it.”
Chapter 21
“Hey, Rick. You said before that we’re going to have a special guest for dinner tonight,” Ellen said. “I’m up to my eyeballs with special guests. Please tell me it’s not a climate change expert. Who is it?”