And little baby kittens because, why not?
Frankenstorm or Fakenstorm?
Kidding, guys. I’m totally kidding. It’s not fake. My brother’s apartment building is effectively below sea level which is fun for me because that leaves him here but in the upper areas of New York City: crickets.
I don’t want to throw you under a bus, Stormin’ Sandy. I appreciate your alleged power to implore 75 MPH winds and even more your effort to give lackluster Halloween costumes (see: any homage to Grease) fresh pertinence. But in the only two red flag hurricane warnings I’ve endured as a New Yorker, there’s been just one common denominator. (Well, two–the excess kosher wine still left at supermarkets despite impending crisis is notable.)
Overwhelming performance anxiety.
I’d like to blame this on a number of things. Primarily, Hurricanes obviously crave massive attention. Irene wanted America to shut the shit up about Kim Kardashian’s wedding and the 17 million dollars the couple clocked in. Guess what? It worked, we did. A year and change later, it seems Sandy redirects our attention, holding no regard for the forthcoming elections. We can perhaps credit this to disgruntled jealously for lack of an ability to vote but regardless, she don’t care about no binders, no women, no binders full of them.
Mayor Bloomberg’s attempt at addressing the city in Spanish should not go unnoticed either. If I were a hurricane and I heard Bloomberg talking about closingamos el subwayo for preparato neccessito, I too would spare inhabitants and their belongings out of pity.
Now, Weather.com still says the worst is yet to come so there is a chance that in approximately one hour, you will want to ridicule me for having marginalized this hurricane (you will also, however, be unable to on the account of a power outtage) but in the mean time, I want to liken Frankenstorm to a small assembly of little baby kittens searching for companionship and pay homage to all the Sandys that have changed my life.
Collages by Charlotte Fassler
To be honest, actually, Sandy Cohen has done nothing for my character. Sure, he’s a pillar for the quintessential American dad, in hour long dramas at least, but I don’t really watch The O.C. I don’t really care for lawyers. It is, however, very hip to pretend you are Adam Brody’s father and for that, he is here. Next to him, you will find Phillip Seymour Hoffman as Sandy Lyle–yes, that kid from Crocodile Tears. I feel very sorry if this rings no bell and strongly encourage you rent the movie Along Came Polly immediately if not sooner. He sharts, calls himself white chocolate, rocks out to performance solos that are not his and perhaps most importantly, shouts on more than one occasion: “let it rain.”
Above the two, Spongebob Squarepants’ friend Sandy Cheeks. In addition to the unresolved sexual tension between the sponge and squirrel in question, it is important to note that she is a model citizen. Originally from Houston, Texas, she relocated to the bottom of the ocean in the name of a science experiment. There’s a perpetual glass container over her head and I’ve got to wonder how that adhesive flower continues to stick.
Next to Sandy Cheeks: Pecan Sandies. The cookies you should eat to pass time. They’re nonperishable and in some instances, like the one strategically photographed, feature a sunburned, saggy vagina in their center.
Below the cookie–Sandy Koufax! I don’t know much about him because I suck at male trivia but I do know that he is Jewish and chose observing Yom Kippur over pitching at a very important game one time in the 60s. If you are a man and I were still single–would this be the reference that changed the way you look at me?
Finally, at far right, the many faces of Sandy: the ingenue, she who wears too much leather, arguably the most vivid depiction of a female hurricane, (see: hair.)
And before I go, here are just some pajamas (the photographed are Equipment, the ones I am currently wearing are Only Hearts,) you should buy to wear during the storm and then continue to wear through the course of the week and perhaps out to a store opening because nothing is cooler than innerwear as outerwear except for little pigeons and panda suits.