Keeping an eye on Frankenstorm Sandy’s track through South Jersey on the way to the City of Bodily Harm and beyond has been mighty grim for this relocated Fluffyan. There’s gonna be a lot of wet cheesesteaks and soggy scrapple to account for.
Most of my family lives in Philadelphia and south Jersey, including Uncle Reds and Aunt Gloria, who have lived in a fabulous brick house right on the Margate beach for decades — I hope they evacuated. Other members of the clan are scattered from the beaches to communities just over the barrier island bridges, all of which are getting hammered at historic levels.
(No, I’m not related to Snooki. That pack of assholes infest North Jersey, an entirely separate fuckin world and they can fuckin have it.)
All four major bridges linking Philly to Jersey have been closed. I suspect this is unprecedented. I can’t remember a time when this happened, even during severe snow storms. If there’s one thing people on both sides of the river understand, it’s the need to escape, to run like hell. Not this week. You’re stuck.
All the interstates are closed, including the Schuylkill Expressway, the most travelled road in the state. Can you imagine closing down 95, 595, the Turnpike, 836, 112, and the Palmetto? This is three times as bad. Plus: all public transportation has been suspended.
And all the bars are closed!!
It’s probably the worst disaster to strike the region since Gene F. Mauch managed the Phillies. On the positive side, Wilson Goode (“the Wharton Graduate”) isn’t calling the shots any more. Also: political news finally got knocked off the headlines.
When Guido and I told everybody we were relocating to South Florida, they warned us about dealing with hurricanes. How would we deal with that threat, year after year? Did we know what we were getting into? Twenty-five years later, the irony is as thick as the humidity.