As many of my brethren on the Eastern seaboard know, it’s hurricane season up in the heezy. Those of you in the panhandle of the Sunshine State, know it a just a bit more than you probably care to acknowledge. You guys are repeatedly hit with the brunt of Mother Nature’s shit show. Up here in New York City, we generally don’t give two shits about no stinkin’ hurricanes – that is, until we do. City dweller’s typical idea of hurricane preparedness is ensuring the subway’s running and making damned sure that the nearest local watering hole has an available stool or two. That’s why I’m shocked as shit when I visit the local grocery and big-box stores, 3 days ahead of Hurricane Sandy’s predicted landfall, only to watch in horror the soccer moms, old farts, and just about everybody else start prying every last pseudo-survival item off the shelves.