By Morgan O’Neill
The thought just occurred to me that two things you cannot or should not do outdoors in a hurricane is one; try to read a book and two, wear lingerie. You might argue that the incongruity of this argument is ridiculous. Who would wear lingerie outdoors in a hurricane? Who would try to read a book outdoors in a hurricane? And, really, what does this have to do with literature? Well, if a penguin can wear a tuxedo in an arctic storm, why not? And if a female Weather Channel reporter standing outdoors in Battery Park can take the time to tell me what she is wearing underneath, then anything is possible.
The Perfect Storm chronicles the confluence of two weather systems uniting to create a mega-storm. No women were members of the six man crew on the Andrea Gail and Sebastian Junger told a great story about the travails of men at sea who knowingly challenge her wrath when she is more than a little upset. The pace of the story leaves no time to contemplate sartorial decisions or certainly what lingerie might be aboard the Andrea Gail. On the other hand, because the 24/7 news cycle heralding the lethargic arrival of the storm of the century must fill the interminable air time with inane chatter about this perfect storm anything is possible.
With nothing else to say given that the storm was moving at 13 miles per hour I was told that the white caps on the Hudson were getting bigger and bigger and bigger and wetter and wetter. Well you get the gist of it. So, the weathercaster, I think her name was Sandy, or Mandy or Peaches or April started to tell me what she was wearing. No, not the rain gear, galoshes and such, but underneath. So as you might imagine, my warped mind jumped to something silky, something soft, something intriguing because what she was telling me was not. So, let’s go there.
The Perfect Storm is upon us. Armageddon is here. The world is coming to an end. The Mayans told me so and so do the election polls, but Sandy, oh Sandy is dressed to kill.
