With the mercury barometer staying at 30 inches, Sunny Spartos and beloved weathermen Mr. H and Storm Range laugh it up in meteorology camp. Dear readers, our five-day forecast is as follows: A high-pressure system (that’s the good one!) will sweep across the Rockies, past Quebec, underneath Lake Champlain, before descending upon our lovely island and bringing with it balmy breezes, backyard luaus, and tropical drinks. With the help of our new Accu Radar Tracker 500 (constructed in Storm’s tent using bits of string and a magnifying glass during a burst of arts-and-craft activity), we predict this with 100 percent certainty. After all, we at weather camp should know: We’re a realistic, affable, hard-drinking bunch. Take that, Kent Brockman!
At the totally hormonal TIKI ROOM (4 West 22nd Street, 646-230-1444), this weather girl expects it’s gonna be raining stockbrokers! Storm and Spartos scope the hot singles scene while H fetches a lip-smacking Tiki Me Home ($10, Absolut Mandarin, pineapple juice, strawberries), a melon-balling Topless Tiki ($10, Absolut Kurant, Midori, lime juice), and a hula-hooping Freak My Tiki ($10, Kebevich Melon, peach schnapps, cranberry and lime juice). Tini Mar-tikis in hand, they head past the crammed bar and explore the sexy Polynesian cave in back, where they sidle into one of the table-service-only faux-bamboo nooks. Storm seductively tosses his blond hair to Ratt’s “Round and Round” while H orders a second 32-ounce, flaming, frozen Mai Tai ($26, Bacardi Dark, triple sec, orgeat syrup, pineapple, sweet and sour). “It’s like likkid ektathy,” he slurs. It is in a drunken stupor, then, that H makes the near fatal decision of picking up a mysterious idol adjacent to the men’s urinal . . .
After suffering a terrible surfing accident off the coast of Madagascar involving a rare, poisonous arachnid, H bails out of camp early. “Crybaby! Mama’s boy!” taunt Spartos and Storm, before rocking TAVARU (192 Third Avenue, 471-9807) like a hurricane (meteorologists so love the Scorpions). Actually, Storm is the only one doing any kind of rocking—bumping and grinding his adoring fans in navy pantsuits to a tune by Linkin Park, telling them his favorite one about the weathercock and the weather vane, and getting more belligerent with every swallow of cold, salty Passionate Margarita ($8, Jose Cuervo, Alizé Gold, triple sec, lime juice). Tired of the main floor’s frat-boy antics (“First weather school, then the network boardroom, and now this!”), Spartos sulks in a rear corner awash in aqua, where she sips on a temporarily empowering Tavaru ($8, Mount Gay, Myers Dark, peach schnapps, grenadine, orange and pineapple juice), wishing it had been Storm on that damn Billabong.
The cold front lifts at mellow BONGO (299 Tenth Avenue, 947-3654) after Storm compliments Spartos on her new hairdo and pink powersuit. “Weather camp has been so uplifting,” coos Spartos. They’re seated on a comfy mod couch that faces a wall of glass overlooking Chelsea Waterside Park, drinking a delightful, sparkly Bongo “299” ($8, Lillet, champagne, sour mix, lime juice, club soda) and an invigorating Bongo Negroni ($10, Van Gogh gin, Campari, sweet vermouth). “The lack of enthusiasm’s contagious!” exclaims Storm, as he glances at all the gallery-goers relaxing to the “White Album,” pausing at the blue-green sea-glass vessels that give the contemporary space a comforting, rustic feel. “Let’s never, ever leave weather camp!” —