Texas Attempted: Stone and paper

The next day we set out on foot, and we track down the gem - the cherry on the cake. After a one hour walk we find the Corcoran Gallery, which shares our family name. My father bristles with glee, anticipating the jokes, the wit, the humour he can unleash. I sigh, but inside I prepare the very same jokes. I despise and imitate my father in all things. When I get to the counter I flash my passport at the attendant and ask her for a "Corcoran Discount". She is the Ice Woman... unreachable, aloof.

I look at the large plaque by the entrance that reads "Corcoran - dedicated to art". And at the foot of the gallery stairs, an angel stoops to kiss a mortal woman. William Wilson Corcoran, founder of the museum, was clearly from my side of the family. I read about him and his search to find rare exhibits, his creation of the Corcoran College, his vast foundation that spans the States. Stone and paper - good on you, Bill.

Unfortunately, beyond the angel statue and the odd portrait of Al Pacino, there is nothing of remarkable interest in the Corcoran Gallery. I crouch next to a table of animal scultpures that blares alarms at me whenever I get too close. The artist must have a side-line in toilets. But for the most part I follow my brother around as he moves from painting to painting, frowning. He is trying to understand it, this thing called art. He knows it's important - his mother has told him so. He tries. Like me and chit-chat.

On the way back from the Gallery we stop at a Starbucks.

'Four Starbucks please.' says my Dad, placing his money on the counter. By now I have lost the will to complain. I mouth the word "Cappuccino" to the perplexed waitress. I imagine her gossiping with her friends behind the curtain, about the handsome young man in the corner who's genetically fucked.

The day has been punctuated by my mother slapping me whenever I express myself. It seems she has mistaken my misanthropic Nietszchean optimism for irritability. Such is the definition of my life: whenever I raise my voice people assume I have a psychological problem.

Back at the hotel, we have dinner in the mother-fucker class banquet hall, where we are served by a a Puerterican, an Asian and a black man, all three of them infinitely more content, intelligent and verbally dexterous than us. As we wait for our food my parents spy me writing in my little black book.

'Are you writing disparaging comments about us?' asks my mother.

'Yes,' I reply, looking back at her. It is a moment of affirmation, and we let the seconds pass, our eyes locked in cold war.

'Why?' she barks.

'Because it's funny,' I answer, a fire of liberty burning inside me. I feel like Thomas Jefferson, haunted by profundity.

'I don't want to be a part of some anecdote.'

'Yes you do. You'll be famous.'

Tick, tock, tick, tock. My nerve breaks. I laugh and look down at the table.

Damn.

After dessert I go to reception and bitch about my laptop. My wireless isn't working - it's like not being able to get an erection. I grip the top of the desk, peering over at the Mexican lady, my eyes like a spayed puppy. She hands me the viagra - a wireless signal booster whatchamacallit. I scuttle away and plug the whatchamacallit into the thingamebob. Huzzah! My penis is huge!