Once again, the old Weatherhuman is graduating to join the great pantheon of weatherbeings in the sky, and the torch is being passed to me.

I like to think of it as a cosmic event, like the birth of the starbaby in 2001, but without the 20-minute acid-dream sequence and just as much fun if you’re stoned.

Tuesday’s forecast: Newsprint-stained fingers as thousands of jibbering apes gather around my two-inch monolith.