The motel arrived eventually. For some reason, I had assumed that the highway would be a continuous stream of endless strip malls and motels. I would be offered a never-ending range of price and quality. Two hours out of the airport, and I resorted to asking someone for the nearest – not the cheapest or best – motel. At just over 30 dollars, the Super Z in Hampstead, Texas had perhaps been robbed of the other letters in its name, or sold them off in leaner times. A “Slea” and a “y” were missing from the second word.
The room was big, and had a television larger than my fridge in the UK, and a fridge larger than my last car in the UK. I flicked the super-sized screen to watch ‘Urban Cowboy‘ – John Travolta’s unlikely mechanical cowboy flick from 1980. It seemed an appropriate choice for my Texas initiation. I was shocked when waking up to not find Jerry Hall and another cowgal entangled in my limbs, as had happened to Travolta’s character, Bud. Mind you, it is only day one, and I haven’t had the chance to strut my Travolta two-step. Or beaten up any women.
Judging by the post film TV, Texas interests are divided between:
2% straight white porn, mainly focussing on oral sex given by women
8% god and guilt
24% high jinks with cows in one way or another
14% turning your recession ridden possessions into CASH, yes CASH, CASH with a reverb as you say CASH or managing your credit card debt now that the economy is screwed
8% sports events of stupefying boringness and slow pace
24% crime (real) – police shows, crimes against taste in the dress sense of weather casters
20% crime (pretend), and random mutilations – Stallone, Norris, Arnold and Willis were within one sweep of the channels this evening