Russell Moran - A Climate of Doubt

“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.”

“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?”

“Mike Watson, Sarah’s husband,” I said.

“What a great guy,” Ellen said. “After his latest book, I think he’s my favorite novelist. How did he get clearance from Emergency Management to come here?”

“Sarah called Emergency Management and asked to speak to the director himself. She ended the conversation with the words, ‘I don’t give a rat’s ass what you have to do, just make it happen.’ Sarah knows how to work around bureaucracies.”

Mike and Sarah Watson came into the dining room at 6:15. I had met Mike a few times before, and I agree with Ellen that he’s a great guy. He’s 5’10,” about 55 years old, slim, with sandy brown hair, and he’s seems to be enthusiastic about everything. A few months ago, his latest novel, The Deep River , hit The New York Times Best Seller List at number three.

He grabbed my hand and pumped his usual handshake. Ellen and I congratulated him on making the best seller list, and he graciously thanked us. After dinner, we steered the conversation toward novel writing. We were both tired of talking about the weather, and so was Sarah.

“Mike,” Ellen said, “tell us where you get your ideas for writing fiction. I’ve written a couple of non-fiction books on architecture that have done well, but I’d love to write a novel someday. Do your ideas just show up out of nowhere?”

“It’s like Stephen King says, stories exist in the world like fossils, and it’s the novelist’s job to unearth them,” Mike said. “I get my ideas from just looking, listening, and paying attention to the world around me. Suddenly, a story reveals itself. I come up with some characters and follow them as they create the scenes that make up the story. Last year I was fishing with a friend on his boat on a wide river near his house in Connecticut. When I asked him how deep the water was, he said fifty feet in spots. Ever since I almost drowned as a kid, I’ve been nervous around water. I was also aware that a story had showed up. The Deep River is about a guy who’s afraid of water and finds himself alone on a small boat with no means of propulsion. I won’t spoil it for you in case you read it.”

“I read it and loved it,” Ellen said. “I wish I had it with me for you to autograph.”

“Don’t worry, Ellen, I’ll send you a signed copy as soon as delivery service starts up again.”

“I wonder how you look at this weird weather we’re having,” I said. “I bet a story idea has come to you. I feel like I’m living as a character in a novel with this crap. It isn’t the reality I’m used to, or the reality that anybody’s used to.”