Texas Attempted: The Oscar-winning stuff

We spend the night at my uncle's - a night beset with feline revelations. I find a cat under my bed, and then another in the closet. They meow at me as I release them and then leave the room like affronted prostitutes.

I have a dream that I am with another woman, a nice blond. I wonder what that symbolises. I am digitally exploring her when I am awoken by my mother at 6.15. The rest of the family is catching the early flight to Washington, so she has come to rouse my brother and harass him as he goes through his Autistic bathroom routines. I grunt goodbye to them and roll over, but it is too late - my blond affair has absconded from the fantasy realm. The bitch.

It's late morning and the cats are after my waffles. I swat at them with my breakfast spoon while my uncle tells me about the fire at Atlanta Airport (where my family are catching a connecting flight). We laugh at their misfortune while Peach the cat steals my maple syrup.

My own flight is at 8pm, so my uncle and aunt take me for lunch. Sushi. My first time. My uncle leads me around the restaurant buffet, placing strange bits of fish on my plate, all freshly massaged by the finest samurai. I then fumble with the chopsticks as I cram large chunks of marine life into my gob, along with wasabi death-mustard and strips of ginger. It's a whole new experience.

'So, did you enjoy your holiday?' asks my aunt, watching me through the steam of her green tea.
'Yeah, it was alright. I just wanted something a bit more authentic. I don't feel like I've seen the real Texas.'
'Get in the car.' says my uncle, paying the bill.

My salvation looms. We drive to Fort Worth, dodging the Harley Davidsons as we enter the traditional cowboy town. We park next to an Indian with a horse who talks like George Bush (the Indian, not the horse). From there we enter Billy Bob's, "the largest honkytonk in the world". A honkytonk is basically a mother-fucker-class bar, complete with bull-riding ring, cowboy shop, arcade and line dancing floor. A drinks bar is situated every twenty feet or so along each wall.

I glance around, just in case a naked Arnold Schwarzenegger should come in and ask me to take off my clothes. I then get distracted by the pretty lights. Instead of a glitter-ball they have a saddle, covered in reflectors and hanging over the line-dancing floor. Genius.

Outside the honkytonk are the pens where they run the nationwide cattle auctions. I peer through the fence at the Texan Longhorns, cows as big as Minis. I'd like to see Michael Caine try and push one of these fuckers off a cliff. Their horns are 6ft long, which is convenient, given their name.

There's also some bison, but they can go fuck themselves.

After marvelling at the Longhorns we walk down the main street, where everything is cowboyesque. We pass the place where Chuck Norris filmed that thing he was in, where he played the Texas Ranger. I make an "Ooh" sound, but then my uncle leads me towards the old brothel, which is now a boot shop. I'm sure there's a connection there somewhere. The brothel/boot shop sells everything that a cowboy needs, with the exception of scented candles and mudpacks. I poke a pair of $8000 boots made from stingrays and then play with a whip.

Over by the counter is a hat maker. He's been making hats for 32 years. He made his first when he was 7 and went into business when he was 19. I watch him shape his next cowboy hat on the steamer.

'So, where you from?' he asks.
'Boston, the re...'
'Oh, from England huh? You grew up with Blue Peter?'
'Er...yeah, sure.'

He points to the wall by the counter. There, above the rows of hats and belts, I spy the Blue Peter badge.

'Them folks came over a few years back and filmed me making hats.'

Chuck Norris, big cows and Blue Peter: is there anything this town doesn't have?

On the way out I am confronted by a Longhorn. I freeze. But it's alright, it's just Big Jake, being led around by the Indian whose horse doesn't speak like George Bush. Big Jake has a saddle on and looks very depressed.

'You wanna ride Big Jake?' asks my aunt.
'No,' I reply, lying like a full bowl of jelly beans.

We return to my uncle's house where I pack the last of my things, fishing cats out of my suitcase and measuring my toiletries. And with that done I go outside and sit with my aunt by the pool.

And now we reach the serious moment. The Oscar-winning scene.

She feels it, like she always has: my sadness, deep, fundamental.

'Are you happy?' she asks.
'No,' I reply instantly. It's the only thing I'm ever certain of.
'What defines your life?'

This takes me longer. A lot longer. I sit there for heavy minutes, staring at the ground.

'I don't know.'

'My defining moment was when I decided I wasn't gonna be like my parents. You're a spectator, Greg - you watch things, you never participate. You have to put all the bad things that have happened in your life behind you. Don't stand for that shit.'
'I just don't know where I fit in.'
'Is that a bad thing?'

And so, as we drive to the airport, I touch upon the problem. It wasn't an authentic Texas moment I was looking for; it was a person, a man who is not alone. A man who doesn't hide himself behind idiotic travel anecdotes.

As the plane takes off from Dallas I feel the ache in my nose and jaw, the one that comes before tears. What defines my life? Loneliness. I groom my pain and bear it with me, to make a better writer of myself. I watch in order to lament. And were I to ever reach out to someone it would destroy me. Mine is a tragic book written beautifully. I cannot burn it.

Washington... please... give me something. Destroy me. I beg you.

I have to stop now. The stewardesses are behind the curtains, gossiping about the young man in Seat 25B who's broken into tears.

Texas: attempted.