We were thrilled to learn that an actual hurricane was headed all the way to Manhattan.

Those of us in the northeast only got the tail ends growing up – the oozing (yet benign), detached organs once belonging to Hugo and Andrew and Gloria, and so on. Kids our age in Miami and Charleston and some magical place called “The Outer Banks” were being interviewed by Tom Brokaw on the evening news while horizontal rain pelted them every which way – the type of natural disaster that looks a whole lot like the coolest water park in the world.

The tri-state area, on the other hand, was soon thereafter blanketed with five-to-seven days of non-descript gray piss – just enough to cancel a little league game or a weekend camping trip or (almost) anything else a 12-year-old boy had to look forward to at the end of the summer.

But under the right circumstances, it can be a grand old time…»

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