So right now we’re waiting for Irene to arrive. No, that’s not a cousin or a long lost friend; it’s the Category 2/Category 1/Tropical Storm (depending on whom you ask, and when) that is “barreling” up the East Coast today.
And, apparently, there is nothing else going on in anywhere the world. No other news anywhere. It’s sort of like Superbowl Sunday, only wetter.
Listen, I get that a hurricane is a big thing: it’s dangerous and destructive. I get that people are actually harmed by wind and water – some lose their possessions, and some lose their lives. But the breathless anticipation on every news channel is rapidly wearing down my nerves. We’re at the point where, having talked about Irene intensely for about five days now, newcasters have started interviewing each other. Two or three days ago, it was all about FEMA representatives and governors of states warning people about potential evacuations and advising about emergency measures. That was helpful. I think there was a passing comment about Irene hitting the Bahamas and “flattening houses.” And by passing, I mean not even a full, stand-alone sentence.
Since then, there’s been this anxious Paul Revere-esque alarm going on no matter which station, whether TV or radio, you turn to. By Friday night, residents in the Northeast were warned to stay indoors for the weekend, to fill our bathtubs and gather our flashlights in case the water or electricity was lost. “Stay tuned for our continuing coverage of Hurricane Irene,” the news stations said.
It occurs to me that there is big business in keeping the population nervous. People tuning in to CNN or MSNBC or network news will sit through commercials to get the latest updates. They will skim web pages, including the advertisements, as they work on their computers. That all translates to money in the network’s pocket.
Now, I’m not saying that there is anything evil going on here. But in the time of 24-hour coverage, there’s only so many ways you can say the same thing (“hey, there’s a hurricane coming”) before you start ratcheting up the rhetoric. If you start just repeating yourself, people will turn the channel – in search of “news.” Or, as I’m tempted to do, they’ll just stop listening.
It’s still fairly early morning, and we’re all already bored from being inside all yesterday. It doesn’t help that, when you look out the window, it just looks like a regular rainy morning. We were supposed to drive to a beach house yesterday about an hour up the coast; we’ve put that off until Monday, agreeing that we’d rather ride out a big storm in our own house rather than in a strange house in walking distance of angry high tides.
I’m listening to National Public Radio this morning (instead of getting the kids ready for church), trying to get a sense of when the worst of the storm will hit. The anchor is talking to the reporter who, like so many reporters before him, stands on the beach, being buffeted by wind and pelted by blowing sand, as if we wouldn’t otherwise believe him. (Guys, it’s radio. You could be sitting in the studio using sound effects; we wouldn’t know the difference.) “Uh, what’s it like out there at this hour?” asks the anchor. “It’s starting to get gusty,” the reporter replies. “The clouds are moving across the sky from left to right.” No, seriously, that’s what he said. Well, that clears it up nicely, I think disgustedly, since I couldn’t possibly tell that from my own window.
Flights are cancelled. (Obviously.) People are advised to stay off the streets, which will probably flood. (Yes, got that.) A couple of tree limbs have fallen on some driveways. (You don’t say.) There are power outages. (Right, flashlights and candles, got it.) All of these are reported in the same overwrought, stumbling-over-words urgency.
You know what? They just got the number two guy in Al Qaida. Syria is doing stuff. And there’s a devastating drought in Somalia. I’d like to hear about those things, too, please.
Oh, right, there’s a hurricane coming. I guess everything else can wait.
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