Living the dream (or the song at least)

America.

The song "American Boy" by Estelle is destined to be the (somewhat cliched) soundtrack of the next ten weeks. Amid the tourist spots, Greyhound buses and endless slices of pizza, I try to find a 5.7 boy that's just my type; preferably Jewish, gorgeous and a social smoker. I've kept eyes open but as of yet he has alluded me. Still there have been variants of the American hero so far, B-Grade versions though they may be.

In L.A., exhausted from the lack of sleep on my twelve hour flight, I met a boy named Dwight on the train out to Hollywood Boulevard. He was a skinny guy with a lazy eye and appeared to be gay despite having just come from church. Terrified of the homeless man that sat rocking back and fourth behind me, I clung to Dwight like a life raft. I made pathetic 'wow America' remarks and made my eyes go as wide as possible and it seemed to work. He helped me find a hostel on Hollywood Blvd., a hideous place where a fat woman in sweat pants took my US $25 and took me to a tiny sweat bunk bed room, which smelled like vomit (which made sense after I looked at the floor in the bathroom). At the end of the corridor sat a black dwarf on a stool. He appeared to hate everyone.

Dwight, getting more confident by the minute, took me to a Mexican restaurant down the street and watched as I ravenously ate the smallest taco I'd ever seen. The conversation began to lull as he talked about Jesus and his lazy eye jumped around excitedly. He also slipped into the conversation that he lived in a Gay & Lesbian Co-op with three other roommates, but that he had only slept with one of them. With each sentence, I recoiled slightly, eventually making some excuse about jet lag and stumbling back to the hostel.

Hollywood Blvd. is filled with homeless people and tourists and it is hard to know which are the more repellent. The poor (literally) homeless people push trolleys down the sidewalk, desperately grabbing at empty bottles from the recycle bin and snarling at people who are waiting, terrified, for the lights to change. The quieter one sits sedated on the pavement, holding out a cup for change that never gets filled or even used. Some of them have tiny, malnourished cats that roam the three feet of sidewalk their string leash will allow them. These cats are an attempt to cull the tourists into sympathy donations, but it doesn't seem to work. Often, the cats are even more nose wrinkling than their owners. I almost stood on one of the cats as I ambled down the Boulevard. It's owner yelled at me through his mouth of broken teeth and I apologised and dropped a small america coin into his coca cola cup. He smiled at me in graitude and then spat forcefully onto the pavement.

The tourists appear in clumps; large women from the Midwest and sweaty men with Loafers herding a bunch of screaming kids towards the Disney museum. Hundreds of them stand outside the Chinese theatre, posing for photos with Jack Sparrow and the cast of Looney Toons; all of whom have disturbingly thick Mexican accents. The only food that is available on the Hollywood strip is fast food; an endless parade of pizza, burgers and chili cheese dogs. No one wants anything else. Men who know the score seduce the tourist with maps of celebrity cribs, and they head off in open top buses, their necks craned like meerkats.

The most bizarre spot on the Blvd. was Michael Jackson's Hollywood star. Two months after his demise, a gaggle of tourists could be seen stroking it and snapping teary photos. One even got down on the filthy pavement and curled herself around it like a cat. She was crying quietly and the rest of the tour stood round awkwardly, unsure of how such a crisis should be resolved.

Later on, Dwight turned up at the hostel, wondering if I wanted to take a stroll down the strip to see his favourite church. I politely declined and told him I would catch up with him tomorrow. He nodded hopefully and trundled away. It occured to me that he might have been one of the dullest people I have ever met. He was an American boy alright, but no one would ever sing a song about him.

I curled up in my bunk bed and tried to sleep. The two French boys in the bunk over proceeded to get drunk and walk around in their underwear, drowning themselves in cologne. Somewhere amid this, I drifted off, waking to sunshine and the sound of car horns. L.A. was still there, big and beautiful in a sleazy kind of way. I was in America. Finally.

Fuck Yeah.