Why Irma Scares the Hell Out of Me (...And Probably Should Scare You Too)

Until very recently I lived in Gainesville, Florida. For eighteen years, from the summer of 1999, I called that bucolic and indefatigably smarty-farty little burg my home, and the best part is that I'd had no particular exigency for moving there in the first place: I visited for a pair of (mercifully unsuccessful) job interviews in '97 and '98, liked the place, and ... well ... just moved there. It was home for me until the first of August when I relocated to Phnom Penh, Cambodia. None of which is the topic of today's column. The topic of today's column is that I want very, very much for my friends and loved ones still living in the Sunshine State to be very, very, very afraid of Hurricane Irma. Moreso than at least some of them are. This column is an open letter to them, crafted with love but backed with the deepest and most shamelessly melodramatic of concern. My case for worry has four basic points.

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