It has come back to me that some of you people have expressed doubt about the validity of my reportage. I don’t have to do this, you know. I could just settle into my plaid Barcalounger with the built-in drink holder and watch Cupcake Wars with the rest of you, but chose instead to be the Cassandra (if Cassandra were a man, a very manly kind of man, bursting with hair and testosterone sweat, instead of a goddess, which would not make a good role model for me, god knows) of Hampton Roads (or Tidewater, or Greater Virginia Beach--a Lesser Virginia Beach being an impossibility) warning all of impending, or in this case post-impending, doom. Why anyone would accuse me of making up this stuff, I can’t fathom. This is a photograph, for crying out loud! How much more validity do you need? Well, fine. If you want to ignore the fact that this area has been obliterated by a meteor and blithely go about your little lives, be my guest. But when you discover that your back yard is a minefield of glowing postapocalyptic embers, don’t come crying to me.