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There is a certain level of excitement when a major hurricane is churning off the East Coast. There's a run on plywood at the Home Depot. I can fill my garage with cases of beer without getting a hard time from the wife. She's putting fresh batteries in flashlights, pulling out the candles and filling plastic containers with water.

I like to go to the beach during these times. The surf is always a little bit choppier and rougher. A stiff breeze keeps the mosquitoes at bay. Thick, fluffy cumulus clouds scud across the sky. I'm filling up all my red gas containers and getting the propane tanks filled. Doing an oil change on the generator and testing it out - just in case.

When a hurricane is nearby, the air gets kind of heavier, more tropical. I get in the mood to mix pitchers of margaritas and drink them out on my picnic table in the backyard while listening to the radio. I start getting phone calls and emails from far-away friends and relatives concerned about me being in the "path of a monster" as according to the Weather Channel - even if landfall is projected to be some 600 miles down the coast from where I am. Apparently I am in jeopardy just by living on the Eastern Seaboard.

When a hurricane does pass over my house, even if it's blown-out remnants, it's always an event. Businesses shut down. Highways close. I'm walking my dog around the neighborhood with a gusty wind and periodic downpours and neighbors think I'm crazy for being out in it. Branches blow off trees and I like the way the bigger trees sway back and forth and my dog and I pass through the swirling winds. If we get drenched - no big deal. The rains are so warm and I'm usually in shorts and sandals anyway. My dog doesn't care and appears to even like getting wet.

For some reason, hurricanes and beer go together. After a hurricane passes by, everybody has recycle bins full of empty beer cans on trash day. Some wine bottles but not as much as what you see after Thanksgiving and Christmas.