With the exception of CraneGate, I’ve done my damnedest to avoid any and all Sandy storm porn. Sure, we’re wired to be fascinated by catastrophes. So to a point I get all the jaw-dropping photo round ups—cascades at the new World Trade Center site, row upon row of submerged cabs, etc.—that have blitzed the Internet since Monday. And to a point I maybe got the sly chortling that came along with being high and dry in an otherwise unaffected corner of a hurricane’s path, laying there under that new Afghan like a beached whale, live tweeting a special storm screening of Wrestlemania on VHS between pulls of La Fin Du Monde.
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