Hurricane Ian

The name seems about right…

The last time a hurricane hit Florida was maybe 3 or 4 years ago. I’ve already forgotten the name of the thing. Hurricane Bob, was it? Larry?

This one is called Hurricane Ian.

“If you name your kid Ian you’ve condemned him to a lifetime of misery and failure,” my friend Jay said to me yesterday. “I know two Ian’s and they’re total screwups.”

I found myself nodding along with his observation. I’ve only known one Ian in my life, and he was a screwup too. So between the two of us we only knew three Ian’s; it’s not much of a sample size, but for the sake of conversation I was perfectly willing to cast judgement on the thousands of Ian’s worldwide.

My lasting memory of Ian is from the second grade, where it seemed he was always being led by the wrist to the principle’s office while he thrashed and screamed and tried to break loose.

I can still picture him: his hair lay perfectly flat, and was interrupted only by a spiky cowlick that looked something like a small cluster of antennae sprouting from the back of his head. His facial features were perpetually tensed and scrunched up; they congregated in the middle of his face and suggested an obstinance that I had great difficulty understanding in those days.

I was much too scared to do anything but behave back then. I knew I’d have my Dad to deal with if I didn’t, and that kept me in line. But this kid, Ian, he didn’t appear to be afraid of anything.

By the time this last hurricane hit Florida — Steve or Alfred or whatever it was called — I’d seen so many news updates leading up to it that said so many different things, that I didn’t even realize what was happening.

I thought the worst of it was going to arrive in the morning, so I spent the night chewing my nails and expecting eventual disaster.

But here’s the thing: the worst of it was going on outside my window that very night. I was in the throes of the thing and didn’t even realize it. I kept looking out my window and thinking that if this was just the beginning, then I was going to be in some serious trouble come morning.

But in the morning things calmed down and the sun broke, and when I looked out my window I saw crowds of people milling about, picking up branches and so forth, and getting on with their lives.

Ignorance has its merits

“Stay safe!”

That’s sort of the clarion call here in Florida when a storm is approaching. You can’t do anything or go anywhere without someone offering you these words, ad nauseam.

It’s purpose is to foster solidarity or some such thing, but over time it begins to feel like an order, or a demand.

It’s a useless utterance, but people simply insist on saying it, as if the thought hadn’t previously occurred to you when you first heard about the category 5 storm headed your way days prior. “Honey I ran into a nice man at the gas station today. He told me we should stay safe and I think he’s right! These hurricanes are dangerous business!”

People get kinda caught up in this “stay safe” thing here. They’re almost dogmatic about it. You get the feeling they think it just might make some kind of difference in the outcome. They often strike me as the type of people who might actually offer admonishments after discovering you in a full body cast at the hospital, post-hurricane. “Dude, what the hell? I told you to stay safe! Why didn’t you listen???”

Even more annoying are the declarations of heroism certain idiots unfailingly utter after a hurricane has passed and their Land Rover is still in one piece.

These utterances eventually find their way onto t-shirts, and they say things like, “Orlando Strong!” or “Tampa Strong!”, and so forth.

These people tend to act as if they single-handedly thwarted the hurricane by fighting it with their bare fists. They can usually be seen on the local news, after the hurricane has passed, picking up branches and complaining about not showering for a few days or lamenting the absence of electricity, all while doing their best to make it seem like some kind of stoic sacrifice.

This is exactly how our ancestors lived not even 100 years ago. It was just a day in the life for them — an afterthought at best — but for us it’s a perfect opportunity to laud our heroism with a Facebook photo op.

You’d think they survived a bout with pancreatic cancer by the way they sell it. Its basically groups of people with their arms slung around each other, with big, wide self-congratulatory grins, patting themselves on the back for picking up a few branches and not using their laptops for a few days.

Florida Strong!

“It’s a cat 4 but it will eventually become a cat 5 before it hits land…”

“Cat”.

The word is often delivered with the self-assuredness of someone who imagines they can actually talk to the hurricane and trick it into revealing its diabolical plans.

These people have the weather channel on a 24 hour loop and fancy themselves experts. They quote meteorologists verbatim and pass the words off as their own.

They relish the aura of authority it gives them and live for correcting your misunderstandings. Even if they were violently swooped up by the monster, they’d still manage to demonstrate their superiority as they were being sucked into oblivion. “Told you it was a cat 5! It meets all the standards indicated by the Saffir-Simpson hurricane wind scale. Please tell my wife I love her! Ahhhhhhhh!!!”

It’s only a matter of time before people begin politicizing hurricanes too. In fact, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened yet.

Surely it will happen soon. Surely some woke freak will be lecturing us all in the near future about hurricane genders. “How do you know Ian is a male? He was only assigned male at birth. Maybe Ian identifies as female. Or non-binary!”

It’ll happen. Just watch. You think I’m joking but I’m not. Some lunatic feminist will be up on a pulpit, explaining how hurricane names are symptomatic of the “patriarchy”, or “toxic masculinity”. College courses will be made available, titled “Decolonizing Hurricanes: How Hurricanes Contribute To Rape Culture”…

…and those insufferable hens on “The View” will almost certainly drag race into it. “Why aren’t more hurricanes named Hakeem, or Shantelle?” one of them will ask, and the rest will nod dumbly in unison. And then that will become a thing too.

The world has gone mad, and it’s not a place I’m terribly interested in living in, to be honest. And perhaps Ian sensed that as he abruptly changed course from his original path and took a hard right in my direction. “Let’s put this Knittel guy out of his misery, it’s the least we can do…”

I’m right in this thing’s path, it seems, and I anticipate a long night. In my mind I see myself reading by candlelight, or something like that, as it’s fury rages just outside my window. But I’ll likely be far too nervous to do anything but lay in bed and wait for it all to end.

Signing off for now, medium readers. I’ll see ya on the other side. Wish me luck.

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