What Nina said.

As of the last post, your humble narrator was conquering North America and being smug about it.

He even had the audacity to use the word 'conquering' when the verb should really be something closer to 'inspecting.' Or perhaps it was North America which was inspecting him. There was sex, drugs and a whole lot of Greyhound buses filled with crackheads and the occasional saint. There was Jews and stuffed crust pizzas and seemingly endless art galleries which your humble narrator stumbled through, feeling overwhelmed and mostly dumb and wishing all the while that his Art History-themed friends were there to slap him around a bit.

And then, after three plane rides and all the duty free alcohol my tired arms could carry, I collapsed back in my beloved New Zealand. A faction of the Mills clan met me at the airport; their smiles too wide to be taken sincerely. They kept up the facade all afternoon; the younger siblings clawing for presents, the older ones eyeing up the Duty Free. Exhausted, I caved in at about 9 o'clock and with one last bout of thank yous, they clutched their precious treasures to their chests and went about their various strands of their busy lives: school, sport, op shopping, breakups, Facebook.

And so your narrator, more humble than ever, found himself back to pre-Japan square one. And in typical square one style, he again began working at Unity Books; Wellington's premium independent bookshop and employ of Liberal Arts graduates. It is a wonderful, gleaming place. Like a gay bar, it's almost impossible to get anything done. But oh, if only gay bars were as full of rich pickings. "Pick me" the books whisper one by one as I begin my early morning rounds. "I'll keep you up all night and give you a good go again in the morning..." The fiction wall is particularly awful, especially during long, hot afternoons around the A to F section. The Faulkners and the Easton Ellises pant heavily, shelves apart. "ohhh, just the first paragraph" they moan. "We were maaaade for each other...." I swallow heavily and swing back into the Film & Music table which is an even bigger mistake. Big, glossy encyclopedias pledge life commitments, happy to sit submissively in my bookcase for decades, so long as I promise to pull them out for a bit of fun on the occasional rainy day. Most days, I leave the store exhausted, with my brow sweaty and my pants half undone.

At Unity, it is important to 'fit in.' This means having a favourite David Bowie album, and unless it's Low, it doesn't count. This means preferring cheap red wine to expensive white and using the phrase "Coetzee-esque" without batting an eyelid. It means reading The Lovely Bones ironically and rolling your eyes at anyone who buys Eckart Tolle. Being in a band helps, being an aspiring poet helps more. It's wonderful but frequently difficult to keep up; whether The Smiths are a valid band changes on an almost weekly basis. As a group, the Unity Staff with their quirks and passion for soap-opera-indie-kid lifestyles fall somewhere between Black Books and Empire Records. They wish.

Then there are the customers. Last week, an old man stamped his foot in a rage after discovering we didn't have any books about crop circles, furiously crying "what kind of book shop are you?" There was the frustrated housewife who couldn't find any kids books for her two year old with an extended reading level because none of the smart ones were 'pop up-ey enough'. It took all my all of strength not to yell at her "Margaret! Margaret!" I doubt she would have understood. My favourite customers are the Narnians. These are the middle aged men (in the closet, another literary pun, geddit?)with red faces who spend a good half an hour browsing the biography section, easing closer and closer to the Gay & Lesbian table as if by accident. Once finding themselves here, they glace quicky around and whip a paperback edition of erotic man tales (usually Up the Back Passage or Daddies) off the table before darting back to biography. They turn up at the counter ten minutes later, eyes averted, the offending text momentarily hidden under a small stack of Evelyn Waughs. I smile and flush everything quickly into a brown paper bag, forcefully mentioning the weather and watching the relief spill over their face. The other end of the scale is the nineteen year old boys in singlets and dyed blonde locks. They take a few fertive glances at the queer table and might even pick up a book or two, but they never make it to the counter, never able to meet the eyes of the knowing bookseller who stand behind it. Worry not my readers, they'll be back.

The sun sets across the bay, a glass of chardonnay sits beside me. Nick Lowe, Junior Boys and Lady Gaga crank it on the itunes. Life is good. The future is bright and the tepid wasteland of Urakawa is far behind. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little alarm bell rings the word "future" over and over again. But that's for next week.

San Francisco; good for your joints

San Francisco: famous for hippies, Vertigo, Full House, that Judy Garland song, that Rufus-Wainwright-covering-Judy-Garland song, cable cars, Mrs. Doubtfire and the massive bridge. Basically, it is a legend of a city and I was happy to be immersed in its colourful, liberal-themed waters.

San Francisco seemed to have aspect of city that a twenty-three year old wannabe hipster like me could possibly desire. As I began to know the neighborhoods, I planned out my daily life if I was lucky enough to be an American citizen. It would begin with early morning lectures at Berkeley, scribbling notes about muck racking American literature and ranting about saving the planet over a steaming espresso in a biodegradable cup. After several hours of this and feeling sufficiently ready to take on the real world, I would hope on the subway to the Haight; stoner capital of the city, for some Grade-A grass smoked out of a bong that looked like a post-modern vase (especially after a few hits). This would be followed up by a dazed stroll in the Golden Gate park, where hippies and homeless people lie sprawled in the sunshine, too happy or blazed to care about anything.

When the munchies began to set in, I would take a trolley car down the hill to the Mission district, and gorge myself on a Pacho Villa burrito, savouring every bite and assuring myself one again that this was the food of the gods. And then, feeling fulfilled and ready for some fun, it would be a quick stroll up to the Castro, where the men hold hands and rainbow flags blow in the wind. If you can't find someone to pick up here, you're way too straight.

And that isn't even everything. San Francisco also has City Lights; the bookstore that began the Beat generation and a wet dream for any English major worth his rock salt. Here, I forced myself to buy yet another book (the fifth in a week; I have no idea if slash how I will be able to keep this up) from the 'mmmm yeah I like it' recommendations shelf. The thin, grey eyed man behind the counter said nothing but gave me one of those 'good choice' hand gestures by making his thumb and first finger into a circle and pursing his lips. I nodded. We understood each other.

Unable to resist, I also made a reluctant tourist couple take a photo me grinning manically standing in Jack Kerouac alley with my copy of On the Road. I was amused and really, that is all that counts. Chinatown, also brilliant, spills over a few blocks away. It is always crowded, usually with withered old ladies buying sacks of breadfruit and the odd American husband-and-wife-tourist team, looking decidedly out of their comfort zone and trying to find the way out.

The homeless people of San Francisco are much more entertaining that in Los Angeles. Here, they love you even if you don't give you money, and if you do, they might even reward you for it. I threw a few quarters at a smelly woman in the Mission district and she was so stoked that she jumped up and began a kind of wasted tap dance. The best part was that she wasn't wearing any shoes. Everyone in San Francisco has a favourite homeless person story. My personal favourite

is the man with crazy eyes who we spotted on the subway. He had a boom box above his head which was playing Kid A at full volume and he was yelling the lyrics to everyone in the carriage as they tried politely (terrified) to ignore him. The thing was, the words he were singing didn't make any sense, but were instead some sort of nonsense language he had made up. It took me a while to figure this out though. I guess that's Kid A for you.

Perhaps my favourite part of the city though has to be Dolares park. It is here, on a Friday afternoon, that all the hipsters come to drink red wine and talk politics. You can hear them arguing several blocks away, but by the time the sun sets, everyone has mellowed down and even the anarchists have started playing Frisbee. My favourite part was when a blonde girl stripped down to her bra and knickers and went careening down the hill in a wheelchair (I have no idea where she got the wheelchair from, perhaps some kind paraplegic swapped it with her for a case of wine) . At the bottom of the hill, it hit a bump and she went sprawling onto the grass. For a few seconds, I thought the evening might have been over, but then she stumbled back up, unstrapped her bra and, with a wasted smile on her face, began pushing the wheelchair, topless, back up the hill. No one else seemed particularly impressed or surprised and I even heard some snarky hippy girl remark "She's not as good as that naked mime that was here last week."

People, we have come a long way from Japan. And thank god for that.

Adventures in the desert

After three days in L.A., I was screaming to leave. To be fair, it has a few treats which the New Zealander in me was somewhat partial to. For one thing, the museums are epic palaces, where the curators chuck a few Picassos in a corner gallery on the fourth floor and smirk as the tourists climb over each other to snap photos of them. My favourite exhibition involved three basketballs floating in a tank of dishwashing liquid. There was no explanation. I considered asking the Chinese woman on gallery duty, but she gave me a weary look as if to say: "Don't even think about it." Still, she surely got the better end of the deal than the woman who had to guard the bottom gallery, which featured a large red lump of copper and nothing else. This piece was labelled 'Untitled'. I walked out in disgust.

The other highpoint of L.A. is the beaches. Santa Monica and Venice are both expanses of golden sand and crystal blue water which can make you fall to your knees after a year in small town Japan. Santa Monica has one of the piers featuring carnival rides and chilli cheese dogs and screaming kids in every direction. I lay on the sand and inadvertently burnt myself to a crisp, making the next week of my trip somewhat or a scarlet nightmare. Venice Beach is much more chilled out; hippies and hipsters rule the roost and medical marijuana shops nestle between tattoo parlours and t-shirt boutiques. There are psychics and and 60 year old men with dreadlocks crowding around ghetto blasters smoking joints the size of whiteboard markers. For ten dollars, you can have your face painted onto a grain of rice or buy a custom made magic wand. I am not kidding. A little further down, marathon men lift babels and do pilates, showing off their killer bods against the palm trees. Once again, the tourist stop and snap photos. The men flex and love it.

Post-Venice, I decided that L.A. was no longer the city for me. San Francisco beckoned and the thought of food that wasn't deep fried or served between two piece of white bread was too tempting to ignore. And then, Greyhound ticket in hand, I had a revelation. Vegas! Why not? San Fran could wait a day and so I hopped on the bus at the other end of the station and off we set into the desert. The woman sitting off me was probably 70 but looked about 150 and spend the first three hours telling me about all the Broadway shows she visited in New York. Her favourite phrase was 'Oh you have to go, you HAVE to go!' in a Jewish voice that haunted me for days to come. Her second favourite phrase was 'Whaaatt?' which she screeched out every time I asked her anything, screwing up her little face and pointed to her hearing aid. After about 10 minutes, I was ready to give up. Unfortunately, she wasn't.

Upon getting to Vegas, I was accosted by the bus driver. He told me his name was Jim and that he wondered if I could tell him about New Zealand over dinner. His shout. I was somewhat speechless but being adventurous and on a budget, I accepted. I guess in retrospect this might have been a mistake; he did look slightly like a serial killer (dyed blonde hair, semi-pot belly and large glasses), but he did have a soothing narration voice.

Before dinner, Jim wanted to show me something on the top story of of his hotel. It was at this point that I had my first moment of freak out, slipping a Biro into my pocket and wiping the sweat off my forehead and trying not to think about 'it rubs the lotion on its skin.' It turned out that Jim, a tour guide first and foremost, simply wanted to show me a view of the Vegas skyline at sunset. It was sweet, really. I took a couple of snaps and tried to make my stomach rumble on cue. We had an awkward slash enjoyable meal at the oldest casino in Vegas, in which the waitress asked if we were father and son. I ordered a country fried steak which involves a piece of crumbed meat covered in white sauce. Jim had the triple cheese burger and asked me about The Lord of the Rings in between bites. He told me has was a republican and made a semi-racist remark about Obama. I ordered dessert.

After Jim waved me off on the downtown bus, I had nine hours to explore before getting back on the Greyhound. Vegas lay spread out before me, like some kind of hooker with her knickers down. What I love about it is how if you take away the fancy (ridiculous) casino outer cases, the whole place is the same. In every building, people sit around blackjack tables in their cargo pants, nervously drumming their fingers on the table with one hand and sucking down a cigarette with the other. There are ATMs in the casinos, usually proceeded by lines of people with their credit cards out. There is bound to be more people looking sad than happy and there is always one person quietly sobbing by the door. You can even get your food delivered to your slot machine so you don't have to stop your losing streak to nourish your body with french fries.

There are limos everywhere in Vegas. They seem to be full of twenty-something boys on stag nights. They spill out onto the main street, yelling about strippers and 'winning big.' No one is very impressed. Every now and then, a truly glamorous couple can be spotting; a silver haired gentlemen in a tuxedo steering his diamond studded wife through the throng of rabble outside Cesar's Palace. They have clearly seen too many Rat Pack movies and will spend their next vacation in the Bahamas.

Inside all the big casinos lie the shows. Video screens show you what campy delights you are missing out on as you trek from one dire room to another. Cher's up there, somehow still belting out 'If I could turn back time' amidst a shower of glitter and screaming fans. At the Bellagio, you can see Bill Cosby, back from the entertainment dead with another wacky stand up show about 'those darned kids.' Worse still is Better Midler. Her concert, 'The Showgirl must go on," Is the sensation of Vegas, and you can't turn your head without seeing it flashing around somewhere. In the show, Bette (Sixty-three), runs around in her bra and knickers, dancing with a pink feather boa as a bunch of men in G-strings chase her with a massive butterfly net. The song she is singing is called "Big knockers."

By 3am, I was ready to leave Vegas forever. People were up way past their bedtime and all the 'all you can eat seafood' buffets were closed. As I boarded the bus, A tiny man with a grey beard danced almost perfectly to Creedance's 'Bad Moon Rising.' I watched him from the window and once again snapped my camera. Vegas was lucky to have him; he was about the only real thing I'd seen all night.

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.