It could only have been fate that steered me to Al Roker this morning. Just one week after I changed the route of my Farmers Market-to-Oak Lawn bike commute, shifting from one plowing straight through Downtown and McKinney Avenue to one skirting the edges past City Hall and Victory Park, there he was, standing in the shade of a Live Oak in Pioneer Plaza, waiting for the cameras to roll. What had seemed an impulsive need for a change of scenery suddenly seemed like the tug of an invisible hand, guiding me toward the prime deity of American meteorology.
Only I didn't realize at first that it was Al Roker. In my mind's eye, he's still rather rotund, his bald pate uncapped by a hipster fedora. When I asked one of the besuited G-men types what they were filming -- I counted three, though more may have been hiding in the bushes -- he eyed me with what I took to be disbelief, though I couldn't be sure as his mirrored aviators disguised all human emotion. You don't know who that is?More »