Here's the situation. I'm home because everyone along the path of Hurricane/Tropical Storm Sandra (we haven't been formally introduced so I feel foolish calling her 'Sandy') is home.
Whatever work we are supposed to have will keep which is more than you can say about a lot of other things, near at hand in my town, like Howard T. Brown Park at the confluence of the Shetucket, Thames and Yantic Rivers (Sofee Noblick shared this image which she borrowed by WFSB television).
Or how about someplace that's beyond iconic, albeit somewhat far away at least for me, Times Square (and how oddly disconcerting when viewed without the usual complement of people running around everywhere).
If this were a snow day, I could battle my way to the garage and futz around until I got the snow blower started. It might take a few hours, but it would be something. As it is, I have had doctor's appointments canceled out from under me and calls from where I work encouraging me to stay where I am (classy in San Diego?) and even our Governor, Dannel Malloy has told folks to stay off the roads unless you have a hall pass (I may be making part of that up but I doubt it).
And you thought I might offer you Springsteen's Atlantic City? You're close, but not quite.
"The hurricane party's windin' down and we're all waitin' for the end
And I don't won't another drink, I only want that last one again
He gave me such a fine glow, smokin' slow, now I should probably be homeward bound
There's just no one to talk to when the lines go down
I guess that in the morning I'll go lookin' for my gray-striped cat
My old house can take the weather so I'm not too concerned about that
It was built to take the wind back in nineteen-and-ten when this was one damned fine town
But now there's no one to talk to when the lines go down
Some insurance man-biker is yellin' out for one more beer
But a part-time pirate just can't get much respect around here
We got our problems too, man we'll get to you
In just a minute, sit your drunk ass down
Yeah, there's no one to talk to when the lines go down
Now there's water up past the wheel wells of my Ford and I don't guess that it'll run
But I left a pack of Winston's on the dash, could you fetch 'em for me son?
The morning's first cigarette, that's as good as it gets all day I should know by now
But there's no one to talk to when the lines go down."