When I moved to New York City as a single young stallion umpteen years ago, the last thing on my mind was the possibility of being engulfed in a hurricane. Mugged? Flat broke? Long, long periods of time without the kind favours of a girl? Yes, yes and yes. All that happened. But a hurricane? No way. It just goes to show you; you think you have all the angles and possibilities accounted for but it turns out you’re just a punk who can’t tell art from a fart.

Back home, our power inexplicably came back on after only two days. Jersey Central Power and Light pulled a Muhammad Ali rope-a-dope. They said it would take 7-10 days and did it in only two. Now they look like Gods. The fact that we live near a hospital might have helped. The juice is only flowing to a small enclave of houses. Many are still in the dark. Mrs. Wife has hosted an unending parade of people who stopped over to charge their electronics, use our shower and get a hot meal. School is closed until the 13th so she’s also minding a gaggle of children whose parents both work and cannot take time off. That woman is a SAINT, I tell ya.

A large swath of Manhattan is still without power. My morning commute takes me in through the Lincoln Tunnel. Just before disappearing underground, I’m treated to a spectacular sweeping view of Manhattan. Currently, there’s a demarcation line right around 23rd Street. North of that line, the lights of Broadway are burning bright. South of that, it’s pitch black. It looks like a big budget sci-fi horror show. The New York City Marathon has been cancelled, which is a pretty BIG DEAL out here. People arrived from all over the world to run. Now there’s no reason for them to get out of bed early Sunday morning.

Instead of posting pictures of the destruction, of which I have plenty in my iPhone and which I’m sure you’re sick of seeing, I’ve decided to post this video. I recorded it a week before the storm. A love letter to my poor, broken city. Autumn in Central Park. A gentle saxophone plays while tourists stroll and take pictures. The musician sways. A reflection in the water.

Thanks for your on- and off-line messages, everyone. It was a long night. One for the ages. I’ve never seen or heard anything like it. Yes, it sounded like a freight train. That old metaphor. There are trees down all around us leaning up against houses and puncturing roofs and walls but, thankfully, nothing smashed into Casa de Unbearable. I hear the city is a real mess but I won’t get back there until tomorrow or Thursday.

I’d love to watch storm coverage on TV— I hear the photos and videos are spectacular—but we won’t have power for quite some time. I’m so bored. How many games of Crazy 8’s can you play and how many times can you sing “The Lion Sleeps Tonight?” I’ll never bad mouth TV again.

We’re going to get a little rain.

There have been fights. People were cutting in line for gasoline. A woman shot past a queue in her white Lexus SUV and pulled up to a pump. It almost caused a riot. The local hardware store only had four generators in stock for about 200 customers who had been waiting for them to open since it was dark outside. You can imagine how that went over.

As hurricane Sandy approaches off the Atlantic from the east, it will collide with a severe winter storm that’s moving across the country from the west. The local media have christened it “Frankenstorm,” which I love. New York will shut down the entire transit system at 7:00 p.m., so you’d better be where you want to be for the next three or so days.

I have a ticket tomorrow night to see The Daily Show correspondent Assif Mandvi in a well-received off-Broadway drama. Not many people are aware of it, but he’s a hell of an actor. The entire run is sold out so even though I’ll be refunded, I’ll not get to see his performance. What rotten luck!

“If you marry that shiksa and have children, they’ll only be half Jewish. If they marry out of the faith, those children will only be a quarter Jewish. What’s the logical conclusion? We Jews have been set upon for centuries but we’re still standing. We’ve flourished despite the waves of hatred and violence that have washed over us. And now, when it’s easier to be Jewish than at any other time in human history, you’d throw it all away? You have an obligation to something greater than the self. Where is your sense of belonging?”

“I won’t turn my back on the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with to one day maybe, maybe, find someone who meets with rabbinical approval. You’re a staunch traditionalist but when was the last time you read the Bible? Many of the ancient laws have been dismissed as barbaric. The faith is already being watered down without my help. And your demand for racial purity sounds frighteningly familiar. It’s the same philosophy that Nazism was rooted in.”

An argument for the ages. For all nationalities. Those paraphrased words aren’t mine, but I sure wish I could write like that. It’s two days later and Joshua Harmon’s new play Bad Jews is still rattling around inside my head. Two people screaming at each other in a confined space (the theater only has 62 seats) for 1:40 without an intermission about what it means to be Jewish. It doesn’t necessarily make for a pleasant evening, but it makes for a great one.

It ended on a somewhat contrived note that took me out of the story, but that’s a minor quibble. What preceded it was really powerful stuff. Not for the faint. I don’t know if I’d recommend it to everyone because it’s exhausting, but if you’re in the mood to dig down deep, it’ll challenge you.

They’re both right, you know? There’s no winner in that argument.

The girlies disappear into a corn maze (a maize maze!) at the annual autumn festival in suburban New Jersey.

I follow behind to insure they don’t get “lost.” Don’t tell them but it freaks me out a little bit. I have a touch of claustrophobia and am relieved when we come out the other side.