Just because I’m nowhere near the coast this weekend doesn’t mean Hurricane Sandy ain’t on my brain. Twice now I’ve caught myself fondling granola bars in the pantry. When it gets dark, I’m gonna go in the garage and blind-roll my poncho. If that goes okay, I’ll probably drive around for awhile with the radio blasting static. Just when I’m about to rip my eyelids off and stuff them in my ears, I’ll stop by that car wash and find an empty bay. My fancycam’s in pretty good shape now, but once I’m done with a certain turbo-hose setting, it’ll spit and whistle like Katrina herself gave it the clap. When the quarters run out, I’ll lash myself to the windshield, bribe a transient to pelt me with rock salt as I attempt a spoken word performance of the Traveling Wilburys’ first album. I figure I can get through ’Tweeter and the Monkey Man’ before any security weasels show up. That’s when I plan to initiate a low-speed chase across three counties – a meandering pursuit in which I’ll scrub up against every available guardrail while calling into local radio shows with fake flash-flooding updates. Chances are that’ll never get old, but if it does, I’m gonna duck into a laundromat and demand they let me sit around in my underwear back by the dirty clothes heap. I don’t want to hurt anybody, but if I’m gonna wind down from simulated hurricane smotherage, I’ll need to knock back a half dozen PBJ’s and three tall boys of the kind of lukewarm beer you find in abandoned gas stations. By then I’ll be pretty tapped, so look for me to wrap things up by man-hauling my provisions to the closest Port-A-Pottie, where I plan to crawl inside and finally get some shut-eye.

Then I’m gonna get up and do it all over again, until that bookie I know calls my cell phone and berates me for not dumpster surfing LIVE(!) the way some putz on his Netflix stream just did.

Maybe then I’ll stop feeling so guilty.