Well, here I am in Texas, land of my birth and home of a bakery that spells one of their offerings as “petifores.” Oh god.
My brother Mike has entered a hospice as part of the final stage of his cancer. I decided to come visit, but now I’m not sure why. 1) the hospice is three hours away, much closer to Diane von Austinburg and I’m unclear on how much visiting I’ll be able to do and 2) my other brother Ed says Mike is pretty befogged by morphine. I vividly remember how little R Man was in touch at that point. But I want to see Mike’s wife, who is absolutely charming and I want to show support. Or something. Whatever, I’m straightening my Florence Nightengale cap, prepared to visit the shit out of whoever will see me.
So I’m here, tucked into a nice hotel in a sort of out of the way neighborhood. Its location makes it all the odder that the professional football teams playing against Houston stay here. The hotel is always very coy about admitting that, but Secret Agent Fred and I ran into them last time we were here and they were checking in. Believe me, it’s not easy to hide a lobby-full of gigantic tightends lummoxing about. Just now I was squeezed into an elevator with three of them and I thought I might faint.
Baby, let me tell you, those are some big mens.