Far away from my physical habitat (Toronto, Ontario, Canada) this summer, I found my metaphysical home marching down 5th Avenue as part of New York City’s Annual National Puerto Rican Day Parade. OK. You got me. I’m not exactly Puerto Rican. And I may have used the verb “march” rather loosely. I actually found myself at 53rd and 5th because, like any good pseudo-intellectual summer intern, I was trying to cross over to the Museum of Modern Art. Still, while I was more the awed spectator than active partaker, I found the experience to be unexpectedly illuminating. Or, maybe it was the lead-up to it. For days leading up to the parade, friends had been preparing me for Armageddon. Colleagues who rank high on my politically correct scale had plans to stock up on food and water, triple-bolt their doors, and wait for the storm to pass. It was like Y2K … but instead of a computer glitch, we were awaiting the day when our neighbors decided to throw a party.