Eying it up

I must be a Grade A idiot.

Hurricane Lili (in certain parts of the South, that’s Hurrikun Lili) currently gusts at 165 mph. She threatens to turn from a Category 4 to Category 5 storm, turning sand into bullets, bayous into oceans, casinos into splinters. She is a tight, raging bitch and she is set to teach the parrishes on the Lousiana coast the true meaning of the word “perish.”

And I, the Uber Idiot, sit several hundred miles away, trying to find a good excuse to drive to dangerous parts West.

It is a chemical imbalance, a hormonal anomoly, and mid-life crisis all wrapped into one. It is the man in me. The man who wants what he cannot have.

I have never seen a tornado. I have never seen a bear (even in a zoo). And I have never stood naked as a hurricane with a woman’s name beat the hell of me. And to be fair, I’ve never see any sort of hurricane. The closest I ever came was Non-Hurricane Dennis and a lonely waterspout that lasted about as long as my fascination with the storm that spawned it.

If Lili threated the South Carolina coast, I would be on my knees, begging my bosses to send me into harms way. It isn’t a death wish. It’s an adrenaline wish. I want nature to scare me. I want to hear the creaking boards, strained ten-penny nails, and howling house eves. I want to crouch behind hotel beds as windows blow in and the storm surge carries my luggage out into the Gulf.

Alas, Lili has her sights set on a Cajun man. And while I maybe ragin’…I ain’t Cajun.

Be safe, people of Lousiana. Be careful of Lili’s spite. Be wary of her scorn.

And I’m sorry you must endure it.

It was meant for me.