Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody ever does anything about it.
— Mark Twain, attributed.
How beautifully blue the sky,
The glass is rising very high,
Continue fine I hope it may,
And yet it rained but yesterday.
Tomorrow it may pour again
(I hear the country wants some rain),
Yet people say, I know not why,
That we shall have a warm July.
—chattering chorus from The Pirates of Penzance
"I'm still not impressed," I said, taking another sip of my Lava Flow and trying to act as if we were discussing something like baseball or the weather instead of the death of my husband.
Natalie Teeger, Mr. Monk Goes to Hawaii
<Kuiper> Well, it rained today, but as a whole it's been warmer than it was last week.
<kikuichimonji> Why does it seem like every time you join this channel, you end up talking about the weather?
<kikuichimonji> Is your life so unimaginably dull that you can't think of any events in your life to describe that might be more interesting than the weather?
<kikuichimonji> Let's think of something for you to talk about other than the weather.
<kikuichimonji> I mean, we barely even know anything about you, other than where you live.
<kikuichimonji> Let's start there. What do you do for a living?
<Kuiper> I'm a meteorologist.
Before any modern man talks with authority about loving men, I insist (I insist with violence) that he shall always be very much pleased when his barber tries to talk to him. His barber is humanity: let him love that. If he is not pleased at this, I will not accept any substitute in the way of interest in the Congo or the future of Japan. If a man cannot love his barber whom he has seen, how shall he love the Japanese whom he has not seen?
It is urged against the barber that he begins by talking about the weather; so do all dukes and diplomatists, only that they talk about it with ostentatious fatigue and indifference, whereas the barber talks about it with an astonishing, nay incredible, freshness of interest.
—G. K. Chesterton, Tremendous Trifles