Note to Self...

Note to self:

Next time the Astros really suck, the next time they are having such a lousy season that they can't pay people to buy tickets to their games, buy all the Astros T-shirts you can find.

Right now there are two kinds of people in the Houston area. Those who have Astros shirts, and those who are trying to find them. We fall into both categories. Friday, after wriggling my way into a mob of people in Foley's, I was able to secure an Astros World Series shirt. It was really for Julia, but the smallest size I could find was a women's medium. So I thought I would wash it and dry it to see how small I could get it. It's 100% cotton, so after drying, it looks a little weird. Julia still wants to wear it, though. I think I might keep it for myself, since it actually fits me, and try to find Julia one her size. I need to hurry before the Series is over.

On a heavier note, I'm still reading Garrison Keillor's "Good Poems for Hard Times." Yes, I'm still on my poetry thing and you're just going to have to deal with it. Here's another one I wanted to share:

"September Twelfth, 2001
by X.J. Kennedy

Two caught on film who hurtle
from the eighty-second floor,
choosing between a fireball
and to jump holding hands,

aren't us. I wake beside you,
stretch, scratch, taste the air,
the incredible joy of coffee
and the morning light.

Alive, we open eyelids
on our pitiful share of time,
we bubbles rising and bursting
in a boiling pot."

I felt like this in the weeks following the attacks. It was so weird to go on with life as usual when so many people had died so horribly. Why wasn't it us instead of them? Will it be us next time?