COMMENTS & CURIOSITIES

Peter Buffa

Floyd is a big bully. But he and all his hurricane siblings are

fascinating, are they not? There’s just something about those moments

when Mother Nature yawns and stretches and knocks over everything in the

room that puts us in our place. Whatever the ZIP Code, we all get our

turn. Earthquakes and fire for the Left Coast, tornadoes and floods for

the Great Midsection, hurricanes for the Right Coast. Speaking of Floyd,

have you ever wondered how they come up with those names? OK, you

haven’t. But would it kill you to humor me for once? Thank you so much.

Anyway, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, NOAA for

short, compiles alphabetical lists of names for hurricanes years in

advance. Speaking of names, am I the only one who thinks “NOAA” is a

great name for the agency that studies the world’s oceans? How about the

Los Angeles Department of Water -- “DWP.” Where were we? Oh yeah, I

remember.

The official hurricane names for 1999 are Arlene, Bret, Cindy, Dennis,

Emily, Floyd, Gert and on and on. Next year, the little beasts will be

named Alberto, Beryl, Chris, Debby, Ernesto, Florence, Gordon, et al. So

when scientists are sitting around thinking deep thoughts about

hurricanes and someone mentions Hurricane Bodacious (I made that up) in

1964, they all know that Bodacious (letter “b”) was the second hurricane

of the 1964 season. Pretty clever, huh? It’s also interesting how they

classify storms. Baby hurricanes are called “tropical disturbances” and

originate along the West African coast. If they eat a balanced diet and

get enough exercise as they drift westward, they become “tropical

cyclones.” Think of it as the hurricane teenage years. We see a puny

imitation of a cyclone around here once in a while and call it a

“waterspout.” When the winds in a tropical cyclone reach 39 miles per

hour, NOAA pats it on the head and says, ‘Congratulations, son. You’re a

tropical storm.” When the winds in a tropical storm reach 74 miles per

hour, it’s a full-grown hurricane. What started as a mean-spirited,

misguided kid who liked to play in the water is now a nasty, abusive

adult.

A Level 1 hurricane -- what meteorologists laughingly call “weak” --

packs winds of 74 to 95 miles per hour. A Level 2 or “moderate” hurricane

carries winds of 96 to 110 mph. So it goes, until you reach Level 5 --

“devastating” -- which means winds of 156 mph and above. It’s hard to

appreciate what winds at those speeds are like if you haven’t experienced

them firsthand. You know those great scenes in the news of Santa Ana

winds in Ontario or Indio, where reporters have to hang on to something

for dear life and their hair looks like Gumby? That’s about a 60 or 70

mile an hour wind. If you’ve ever been in a 100 mph wind (I have and once

was enough, thank you) you won’t forget it. Very few people have felt a

150 mph wind and lived to tell about it. And keep in mind that a strong

tornado produces winds of over 200 mph. No wonder Toto was so wired all

the time.

And that brings us to the never-ending discussion about who’s got it

worse. We watch the coverage of Hurricane Julio, shake our heads and

wonder “Why would anyone live there?”

People in Charleston gasp at the scenes of a 5.2 earthquake caught on

a mini-mart’s surveillance camera, shake their heads and wonder “Why

would anyone live there?” Both coasts watch people in Tulsa clean up

after the third major twister in five years, shake their heads and wonder

well, you know the rest. The answer is pretty simple. We all live

“there,” year after year because it’s home. Of course, we all have our

own rationalizations. “At least our earthquakes are over in a few seconds

and rarely does anyone die.” “Yeah, but our hurricanes move slowly and we

have plenty of warning.”

“Our tornadoes are no big deal unless you’re right in its path.” Let’s

face it, live wherever you want, but there are some things that will

always find you. Death, taxes, traffic, fast-food, Barney, SnackWells and

Mother Nature.

Speaking of SnackWells (if you don’t know what “non sequitur” means,

watch this) what’s going on with our supermarkets lately? Is it midlife

crisis in the meat department? Self-esteem problems in produce? As best I

can figure out, if it used to be an Albertson’s, now it’s a Vons,

possibly, but what happened to Lucky and what is SavMax? Supermarkets are

important to me because I am the hunter-gatherer in our clan. I hunt, I

gather, I throw the white bags in the trunk, I go home. I think all the

supermarkets should do whatever they have to do, call themselves whatever

they want, have a group hug and get on with it. I have only one request.

Don’t move anything. Please. I try to be open-minded. I try never to be a

NIMBY person. But once I memorize where everything is -- and I figure out

the shortest route between the Barilla linguine and the SnackWell

chocolate mint cremes (somebody stop me) -- if you move anything, the

whole system collapses. I become dazed and confused and I end up

muttering to the nice lady in the white nurse’s uniform by the door with

the can full of coins. What are those people collecting for anyway? If

the women are nurses, are the men in the white suits doctors? I don’t get

it. So there you have it. Avoid Floyd, check your earthquake kit, and

make a quick floor plan next time you go to the supermarket in case they

change names and move stuff around again. I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Fridays.

E-mail him at [email protected].