The view from the hotel window

is not very pleasant to look at. We are driving down to Florida, the opposite direction from all those cars driving NORTH, away from the full-of-rage Hurricane Fay. It's funny; every time we pass a television we see those familiar angry white swirls of terror, and I swear I can almost hear a voice mutter darkly and excitedly, "Just give me the chance and I will cook your liver and feed your heart to my cat." That is Hurricane Fay personified: a formidable, hard woman, a flying-apart-at-the-seams woman, the kind that will go out of their way to whack you off the sidewalk with her clanking floral-print bag of cat food. Only this time I'm not being knocked over by a bag of clanking cat food; it's a 75 MPH MURDEROUS WIND OF DESTRUCTION.