Wizzer's World

Ok. We need to talk about this “Hurricane Season” thing. People go around saying this like it’s ski season or duck-hunting season; something during which those people who are so inclined as to participate go and purchase odd-looking and expensive gear, disappear on a three day weekend and come back with a brace of pheasant or a full-body cast. This is misleading in extremis. There’s no choice here, innocent bystanders get the shaft right along with the storm-groupies and heavy-weather-whores. And there’s the major problem: I like my power. My internet. My gaming console du jour. My Inter-freaking-net. And dame hurricane lays trump on all that mess. All she allows for is beer-drinking and candle-light fornication. Which, in case you’re wondering, I have no problems with. But I want it on my own terms. Human beings long ago broke from the estrus cycle; I see no need to have some nasty wind and rain dictate a return.

I’m not even going to dignify comments about the bread-milk-egg hoarding that commences as the first damp gales roll in, nor will I stoop to comments about the relative plunge in driving skill as the season approaches; let that be another ran- er, blog all it’s own.