Rock me like a hurricane

Greetings from windswept Brooklyn,

We have survived the worst of Hurricane Sandy due to a structured plan with an emphasis on routine, logic and higher order thinking. I would take credit for this but Ruiz said that people who know me read this and they would soon realise I was being dishonest.

The onset of Hurricane Sandy created tension and uncertainty in the Connors household as the closest we had been to a natural disaster was when I allowed Nobby to cut my hair in the summer of 2004. I can only hope the devastation and damage inflicted across the eastern coast of the United States does not surpass the horror that I endured thanks to the uncoordinated flailings of a clueless man.

Once the gravitas of the situation became clear we sprang into action. Natalie collated important documents, communicated with our families and set about hurricane proofing our place. I was no less pragmatic as I ensured that my workout singlet, hair pomade and latest GQ were within arms length. The storm was upon us in a flash and our main concern were the ten foot glass windows in the living room. Natalie's engineering background came to the fore as she duct taped - nay, "gorilla taped" - the windows into place as we waited for the tempest. In the midst of the storm she calmly worked on an upcoming presentation, while I jeopardised our future by consuming the majority of our food supplies in a frenzy of panic. I am an emotional eater, don't judge me. Thankfully minimal damage was inflicted to property and people in Bed Stuy and Ruiz's claims as the heir-apparent to McGyver appear to be well justified.

In the week leading up to Hurricane Sandy I decided to give my karma credit a boost by returning to charity work. I selected BARC, a no-kill dog shelter, as my ticket to paradise. I was required to walk dogs that had been abandoned by their owners, the only proviso was that the majority of these dogs would be BIG dogs and generally of the pitbull variety. I think it has been established that "heroic" will never be a shortlisted adjective for my tombstone, so I approached this undertaking with a fair degree of trepidation.

After completing the necessary paperwork and ignoring the briefing, myself and three other dogooders (see what I did there? don't worry if you don't get it, it's not that clever) were marshalled into an area to receive the first of the two dogs we would walk. I strategically placed myself at the rear of the line and from the commotion behind the door it was a sensible strategy. The first three dogs were a female pitbull, a german shepherd and a mongrel of enormous girth and energy. The trio of dogs tested the strength of their leash and the resolve of their volunteer as they dragged them towards the door and out into the night. I steeled myself for an onslaught of pent up canine energy. I was then presented with a pint-sized, docile, snow white terrier called Lola. As we strolled through Williamsburg, I directed Lola to piss on hipster's fixies (and truth be told I helped her out when she was running low).

I thought that the organiser must have decided to soften my entry into the experience and the second dog I would walk would obviously be Cujo's older brother. I again waited to see what the dog lottery would spin up for me. The two dogs I saw dragging their walkers outside were a mastiff that would have nudged 100 kilos and a ginger samoyed that I was tempted to lie down on and take a nap on, such was the thickness and lustre of its coat. I braced myself, and this time I was handed Woody, a minature pomeranian. I could see why Woody would be rejected as a dog as I could palm him if I did not feel like walking him.  Overall, I felt good about helping two very friendly dogs get some fresh air and I will probably return to assist again.

Natalie had been getting harrassed on her way to mass for the past fortnight, so I was enlisted as her chaperone to St. John the Baptist Roman Catholic Church on Sunday. The journey was uneventful for Natalie, but my presence has the lightning-rod effect of drawing trouble. I drew the ire of a tough 10-year old who, while walking past holding his mum's hand, menacingly whispered "Run, whiteboy, run!" to me. Thankfully my marathon training had not diminished my fast twitch fibres and we had our choice of pews due to our punctuality.

The service itself was like nothing I had ever experienced with people testifying whenever the spirit moved them. If I had ever wondered what had happened to the Commodores once Lionel Ritchie left them, I had my answer now. The funky rhythm they were laying down under the guise of the church band ensured that the congregation were nodding their heads to the good book and the phat beats. I know I will return, especially if the pancakes that Natalie promises me for attending keep coming. Man cannot live on bread alone.

We thank everyone who expressed concern for our wellbeing during the past week. We knew we were going to be ok because as Billy Joel said only the good die young.

Connors