Last year it was Sandy. I can't really complain. Living 30 miles north of New York City, we had it easy compared to the millions of poor souls wading through the fetid swamps of the five boroughs: a few downed tree limbs (none of which crushed my senile Jeep) and no power, but only for a couple of days.
The year before was Snowmageddon, a.k.a. the Snowpocalypse. Again, no power, but that time it was really cold. And to add insult to injury, my town cancelled trick-or-treating. We went anyway, in the pitch black, and the people who opened their doors seemed pathetically happy to see us. As we were them.
Mother Nature gave us a reprieve this year, but I wouldn't count on too many more. It's a brave new world out there.
Ah well. If nothing else, we can greet the next hurriphoonado with panache, as my daughter Nika did last year, in a butt-length mullet, Dead Boys Young, Loud & Snotty shirt and some gold Elvis glasses.