The Rainbow Trail

The rainbow trail, it comes and goes.

Animal Instinct, by Benjamin Vozzo and Kalyna Sparks

Animal Instinct is a photo set exploring the dichotomy between a life path devoted to preserving what we've destroyed, and one enshrined to promote our self exteriors.  

More than fiction, less than fact... for some we attempt to toy with the middle ground.

Arriving at the edge of one basin, sometimes it will kick in, the amygdala. 

Only those that switch it off learn to truly make peace with this rapture.

And we rely on those who can't. 

Blending, fading.

Take it from me, and her... we'll know enough to unmask ourselves to the world.

What's behind yours? 

Now you're listening. 

Kid from Sydney speaks about Occupy Wall Street

I met this kid at Occupy Sydney on Saturday. He told me why he was occupying - legend.


SlimJim

The Lazy Activist

This is a very interesting time to exist socially and politically. There is never ending information for anything that needs to be known for our generation. It's increasingly becoming easier and easier to search, find, share, tag, send, upload, download, print, publish, connect, organise and check in through the online world. A big part to play in this has been the brilliant innovation of social media sites that have gradually introduced tools and tricks so that we can index everything “real” that goes on in our daily lives. We must thank Google as well, who have made searching for relevant information a whole lot less painful for our tired minds. 

I'm only being semi-sarcastic by saying we should thank the giants of social and digital media (Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, Google), because they really have helped shape a new kind of political activism that was much more difficult to achieve 15 years ago. And why should political activism be different to anything else anyway? Social media has been a godsend for corporations, media publications, not-for-profits, charities, businesses, industry, photographers, bloggers, travellers and everyone in between.

The most striking example of the power to connect people who are seeking political and revolutionary change has been seen in the Arab uprisings of 2010-2011. Thanks to the tools of Twitter, Facebook and YouTube (as well as the hope and bravery of protesters), what started out as small demonstrations in Tahrir Square and Sidi Bouzid ended up resulting in the fall of two corrupt governments a tangible prospect for democratic reform in parts of North Africa and the Middle East. And it's not just the Arab world that has utilised social media to spread the word and the sentiment for political change. It happened in Iran and Moldova during 2009, and similarly for organised anti-austerity protests in a host of other countries that are feeling the strain of massive debt.

But for a moment, let's look at the users of social media in western countries that have access to see and share real time content of this political activism. On Facebook, someone can post a video of a mass protest, and a semi-politically minded young person in Australia, the US or Canada can “Like” the content through a click of a button, and hence give the impression that they have digested the content and approve of its distribution on social networking mediums. Or we could simply retweet an interesting blog post from an anonymous blogger in Syria who is describing the execution of protesters by government forces. It is important we have these mediums to distribute content to people who would otherwise remain ignorant of what struggles are happening around the world.

But are the little tricks and tools of social media giving us a false sense of having done our bit?

Do we find we can hold our heads up a little higher knowing we have sought out (or merely stumbled upon) something that everyone in the world should be talking about in educated discussions, because we share it on Facebook and Twitter? We retweet, Like, share and comment, but how often do we protest on the street, write to our politicians, force discussion on our friends and give meaningful support for political change for less fortunate nations?

After all, it actually takes much more of an effort to sign a protest sheet from GetUp! than to simply click a button on Facebook, because you have to fill our your name, email address and postcode and be subject to a weekly newsletter asking you to repeat that gruelling protest again and again. Now that's what I call hardcore activism!

It's not just activism that has been the victim of wireless technology's ability to meet our endless desire for convenience. I'm sure many people can put up a good argument that our sense of direction has gone down a few grades since GPS devices hit the scene. And search engines may be affecting our short term memories because, hey, it's quicker to pick up an iPhone and Google it than to rack our brains searching for the answer!

But we've shown we can do it even here in Australia. Look at the live cattle export debate, where a massive online push from GetUp! saw the government enforced ban (albeit a temporary one) enacted. If there weren't so many people tweeting about how shocking the footage of inhumane executions were, maybe a week later Australians would have simply forgotten about how moved they when they watched the footage of our cattle suffering a torturous death. 
 

There is a sense of overwhelming chaos in the flurry of information that reaches our computer screens. We take out bits and pieces that catch our eye, and reach a sense of satisfaction when we are able to adequately consume something that is relevant to our interests and values.

It does seem like sometimes we want to keep social mediums for simply socialising and remaining positive. And I must concede that if things really got to the dire stage in Australia, I'm sure my generation would use social media as the first port of call to organise a revolution. However what happened in Tunisia and Egypt and many other countries around the world shows us that people have the power, and we have the tools to engage one another in a way that have never been possible before. Imagine what could happen in Syria and Libya, or even the US and the UK, if the world's youth came out in fierce solidarity to protect the democratic rights of people across the world. 

All in all, social media is brilliant. It has given us the power to gather meaningful support and make changes that maybe wouldn't have occurred otherwise - or at least not as quickly as they did. And I'm certainly not arguing for Facebook and Twitter to become solely political vehicles for ideological change. We need Lady Gaga and the Kardashians to be on our feeds so we remain relatively sane. But it's easy to see how we could, or maybe already have, become victims to the way information is gathered, shared and critiqued on social media sites. Instead of being controlled by them, let's control these mediums from an passionate perspective. Be mindful that there's more potential and influence in each and every one of us than there is in a view count on YouTube.

-bdvz

Toomelah by Ivan Sen

As I only managed to get time to see one film at this year's Sydney Film Festival, I am stoked my last minute choice was Ivan Sen's Toomelah

The film is a raw and unique look into the community of Toomelah on the NSW and Queensland border. Before the film screened, director Ivan Sen said the film is not supposed to be political in nature, but the harsh realities of life in remote Aboriginal communities is significant from start to finish.

The protagonist is bright eyed, 12 year old Daniel Conners. Daniel lives with his mother and grandmother, and his alcoholic father makes an unwelcome appearance in his life every so often. Daniel is sent away from school for acting up, and manages to fall into a solid friendship with the much older gangsters of Toomelah. At a similar time, his great aunty returns to the town. She is a victim of the stolen generation, and wanders through the mission contemplating the impact of her removal from the land. One of the most striking scenes happens early on in the film, when the inquisitive Daniel observes his aunt watching a few children play on the road. The noise and joy of the children's laughter caps any enjoyment felt by Daniel, as the despairing look on his aged Aunt's face makes him aware she is contemplating something lost. Sen is able to subtly express the culmination of all this lost time in one single moment. The brief scene is a fantastic, considering its ability to convey so much in such a short amount of time.

The performances of Daniel and Danieka Connors, who plays his sweetheart Tanitia, are incredible. If it wasn't for the adult characters in the film, you could swear you were watching an arthouse documentary. Despite having limited dialogue, Daniel is riveting to watch. It's the fascinating fascination of a ten year old mind who has to deal with situations everyday that none of us could fathom. It gripped me and the rest of the audience at the festival, even when this captivation was sometimes confronting. Daniel often utters the word cunt and in one scene is sent by his mum to go and buy a stick of marijuana. This resilience and maturity is admirable, even though it is usually unnerving. He is exposed to drugs, sex, crime, violence, homelessness and alcoholism as if they are issues that kids are born to deal with. There is little regard for age, as Daniel is treated almost like a peer amoung his adult gang friends. Not only that, but his mother's nonchalant (or just stoned) tone of voice almost gives Daniel an authority to make up his mind about decisions he shouldn't have to make. But there is an earnest love for Daniel from both his parents, even though their substance abuse clouds the quality of attention they give to him. The film is also visually stunning, as the rugged and scarce landscape of the outback town is made more perplexing with the rusted cars that are strewn across the overgrown grass lawns of the newly built brick homes.

There are great humorous moments in the film as well, especially those that capture the cute love story between Daniel and Tanitia. The screenplay is well done, and is an aspect that is as authentic as the casting of the film. The events of the film have an impact on everyone, and they culminate in a conflict that will have you asking whether your eyes are deceiving you. The shocking images pass quickly, and there is little overblown emotion shown by anyone in Toomelah despite how people are left broken and separated as a result. It's the paradox of beauty and despair on a massive scale that makes you want to visit the town to have a greater understanding of its history and future.

Without giving away the ending, I'll say that the despairing circumstances omnipresent throughout the film do offer an unexpected glimmer of hope for Daniel and the future. This is probably one of the best Indigenous films in a long time, not only because of the performances and screenplay, but because of its ability to reflect the modern issues facing Indigenous communities today. The past is wrapped up in everything that occurs – the repercussions of the missions, the stolen generation, assimilation and self determination are visible by way of alcoholism, drug abuse, unemployment and incarceration. Education is the key to everything, and I believe the film goes full circle in conveying this message.

The Top 10 M.I.A. Tracks of All Time

Preface: I think M.I.A. is easily one of the best artists of the 21^st Century. Her brilliance lies in being a non-classifiable, genre defying artist that sticks out amongst the standard clones of the music industry. I don't believe there is another artist out there that is so confusingly or unsuccessfully labelled. We've been conditioned in this digital age to have easy consuming experiences, and this applies to music as it does to everything else. But instead of making the listening experience for the modern day music aficionado easier, M.I.A. challenges it and makes it something to be discussed. Name me one other artist that can or has been put into these categories: Electronic, Grime, Dancehall, Baile Funk, World, Club, Rap, Electro, Hip-Hop, Pop, Alternative, R&B, Avant-Garde, Synthpunk, Reggae. I'm sure there are more labels that I and anyone else can put out there do describe her music, and that's just my point. An artist who has been eclectically influenced and is a massive influencer to others, M.I.A. has kept her style and motifs strong in all of her records. Her mixtapes aren't included in this list but they are also awesome listening experiences in their own right. Recently, M.I.A. took on the identity of Vicki Leekx, the music world's parallel Julian Assange. Brilliant and untouched, there's a lot more where that came from. My interpretation of these tracks are simply my own and could be way off the money if you asked her yourself what these songs are about. But hey, they say art in the eyes of the beholder and I think that's what a lot of her songs and style are. 
Enjoy the best of M.I.A.

10. XXXO (iTunes play count - 65)

I thought this song was average at first, because it seemed like all the effort M.I.A. had put into pushing the boundaries with Born Free were lost on a safe R&B style pop hit. I was wrong. XXXO is easily one of M.I.A.'s catchiest tunes and a fascinating depiction of detached technological love and hidden meaning. It is a little bit electronic, very melodic and the lyrics are deeper than they originally appear. iPhones, Twitter, uploading and Tarantino get a shout out in this radio friendly hit that is a lot more than you think. Part of me believes Maya is taking the piss with this song, as she sings “You want me be somebody who I'm really not” to both those who want her to stay away from the mainstream, as well as to those who want to make to be the next marketable female pop star. It is the song that represents the paradox of M.I.A. and how she feels when approached to be the face of some fashion label or soft drink brand. And hey, maybe part of her does want to do that. If this is how she responds to that decision making process, then all the more to her. The song I originally thought was average is now the second most played song on my iTunes. 

9. Jimmy (iTunes play count - 63)

A semi-remake of an 80's Bollywood dance tune, the sounds in Jimmy are unlike any other M.I.A. song. This song cements its producer Switch as the best match for Ms. Arulpragasam when it comes to making an incredible beat. An outdated yet obviously awesome disco song goes thought the pair's vortexed minds and comes out as a psychedelic, cool and infectious tune. No one else would get away with singing Jimmy except M.I.A. For a disco influenced song, it does so well at not being cheesy or being intentionally so daggy it's cool. To add to this, it is easily the most danceable M.I.A. track that exists. The back story behind this song is what makes extra special, as M.I.A. sings about a real life date request she received to go travel though Dafur and Liberia. Now that's my kind of date. 

 

8. Pull up the People (iTunes play count - 47)

Find a M.I.A. song that has a beat better than this and I'll give you $20 (no pun intended). This song off her first album Arular is a club floor filler and one of the best examples of M.I.A.'s signature lyrical style. It has a simple message and doesn't beat around the bush in stating that we need to “Pull up the People/Pull up the Poor”. The verses let us know a bit more about the emerging M.I.A. as she tells us, “I'm a fighter, A nice nice fighter/I'm a soldier on that road”. The bombs blow and the beats bang, and that's that M.I.A. thang that has stayed with her all of her career. This song just makes you want to go to an underground club somewhere, get 50 people on the dance floor, and see them drop when the beat hits. It also has one of the coolest endings of any M.I.A. track, as the bassline stops and an eery sound lingers as the chorus line is repeated until fade out.

 

7. Bucky Done Gone (iTunes play count - 44)

If it wasn't for this song, I don't know if M.I.A. would have made it as far as she did. Bucky Done Gone was the genre defying smash that was played in any club that was considered cool from London to New York, Paris to Sydney. It put her on the map to kids that were looking for something new to dance to around the world, and way before they even knew what the fuck she was on about. One part Baile Funk, one part Grime, one part Dancehall and one part Electro equals this mad song. To me the lyrics try to depict various aspects of street culture that are shared from place to place around the world. The favela horns of Brazil blend effortlessly with British street slang. What sounds like “We want Bucky Done Gone” is actually “What you want/Bucky Done Gone” to most lyric sites, but I prefer to sing it how it sounds, and to me it sounds like the universal cry of each of the world's repressed party people who don't want to do anything but dance. When M.I.A. sings “Get Crackin', Get Get Crackin!'”, I think of a whole riot of kids trying to get into a space so they can lose their shit. It's a carefree song with real edge and the undisputed track that exposed M.I.A. to the club scene years before the urban world woke up to her sound.

6. Galang (iTunes play count - 64)

I originally wrote about this song in my blog post about the songs that represent the cities they are made in. I chose Galang as a quintessentially Londoner track and don't shy away from that choice at all. Galang was written by M.I.A. about trying to make it in London. It is a bit grimey, kind of electronic, a bit hip-hopish, and also has a fusion of dancehall throughout it. She sings "London Calling, Speak the Slang" as the street culture obsessed listener is forced to amalgamate the spirit and resistance of The Clash to their own 21^st Century world. Sometimes I don't even know if M.I.A. is aware of how effortlessly she is able to bring two polarising genres of music together and unify the social aspects of their emergence and meaning. She has recently spoken of her wish that she could have grown up when the spirit of punk was emerging in London and around the world, as well as acknowledging how it was underground and urban music that she identified with when growing up. No one else is really able to link such experiences perfectly together, but she can. The chants of Galang at the rear of the song make it an euphoric and worldly experience, nudging it into the Classics section of any music collector that wants to be seen to have taste in only what matters. 

5.  XR2 (iTunes play count - 60)

This is my favourite M.I.A. song, but I understand it probably isn't her best. It was easily the most dropped M.I.A. song at festivals around the time Kala came out and appropriately gave people who were into that scene a taste of the raves of the 90s. XR2 took the now overused-to-death sound of favela horns and woke up every dance floor that was blest enough to have it pumped from its walls. M.I.A.'s lyrics are understated on purpose, giving an effect of coolness that is just too good. I just picture M.I.A. in the back seat of some old pimped out car, on the way to some rave on the outskirts of London with people that exemplify this idea of being too cool for your own good. What I love about this song more than anything is the lyrical connection with London raves during the 90s. Whilst M.I.A wishes she was around for the emergence of punk music, I wish I was a London raver in the 90s when the cops and the government were trying to shut down and kill the scene. Electronic music is probably the only movement since the 60s that has captivated people for so long and on such a global scale. Its heart probably peaked in the 90s when there was so much resistance and authoritarian aggression to stop acid house parties. M.I.A. still homages her connection to urban culture in her three letter initial tirade at the end of the song, referencing NYC, R&B, BIG, TLC and SWV. But it's the lyrics “Took a pill good time all the time” and “DJs, MCs Pirate raves/ Keep it secret, Light it mate” that brilliantly embody the goings on of real dance parties before they became fake. 

4. Paper Planes (iTunes play count - 59)

This is the song that M.I.A. will be known for among mainstream audiences, partially because of its use in the film Slumdog Millionaire and on the advertisement for stoner flick Pineapple Express. But Paper Planes wouldn't have gotten there unless it was killer track - it is probably one of the best songs of the naughties. The riff comes from The Clash classic 'Straight to Hell' and it instantly gives the go ahead for a chorus of cheers when it chimes in at any party. Lyrically you can't fault it either, as Maya cleverly plays with stereotypes about oppressed immigrants to expose the ludicrous nature of seeing the world in black and white . The chorus “all I wanna do is *bang* *bang* *bang* and ah *ka-ching* and take your money” pokes fun at those who all too often stereotype immigrants as those who are taking our jobs and stealing our handbags and shooting their guns at us! It's funny to laugh at that hysteria, except if you are an immigrant who is affected by profiling everyday. I see it as a song for those who are pushed to the peripheries of society when all they're trying to do is survive in a big concrete jungle. It's an anthem, it's meaningful and it's perfect. 

3. Born Free (iTunes play count - 49)

Easily the most underrated M.I.A. track that exists. Born Free is a heavy, angry, noisy electronic song that gives the big FUCK YOU to the critics. This is M.I.A. rejecting the path set out for her; not because she can, but because she has to. M.I.A. steps up her indie-cred again by sampling Ghost Rider by synth-punk band Suicide. This is the song that represents the anger and hostility of not being able to get through to those who shut you down or try to shut you up. It's so good because it's actually telling us to scream louder and piss em off more when the message isn't going through their heads. It's abrasive, radio unfriendly and a song your parents may ask you to turn down before asking "how is that music?!?". 
The video and the song were easily the best of their kind in 2010, but sadly, most people really missed the boat. The video can be interpreted in many ways, and I guess it was just it got the response that it did because it further validates M.I.A.'s point. There is so much desensitisation to real violence, that genocide and war crimes don't raise an eyebrow anymore when presented to the tech savvy audience. Look deeper at the reaction of YouTube in pulling the video from its site, and you'll see that society has developed a hypocritical obsession with trying to protect kids from accessing meaning and information about real issues. I hear passion and truth when I listen to this song, and I will love it forever. 

2. Bamboo Banga (iTunes play count – 73)

What can be said about this song that does it justice? If anyone asked me to introduce them to M.I.A.'s music, I would tell them to go listen to this song. The intro, the bassline, the car exhaust sound effects, the barking dogs, the Bollywood singers, and THE WORDS!...I'm getting shivers just thinking about it. This song is an experience from start to finish and is made all the more complete with echoes, repetitive chants and lyrical intonation that is fucking flawless. It is the simple lines like “Strike match/Light fire/Who's that girl called Maya/M.I.A. coming back with POWER POWER” that makes you wish you came up with something that sounds 4D. When the chorus hits, there's an eruption of corrupt sounds that somehow mesh together in the most immaculate manner. This song is an intense, addictive and blood-rushing experience that can't be ignored by anyone. If you don't like this song, you'll never get into M.I.A. and you don't deserve to. I'm sure when she first heard the finished product of this song she marvelled at the paradox of chaotic perfection. I almost cum my pants every time I hear it. It is just unlike any party song that has ever been created. On a Monday night when you're bored, close your eyes put this song on. Now watch the hummers, barking greyhounds, fluro zig zags, dancing American dudes, Bollywood dancers and pieces of bamboo float around M.I.A. shouting into a bullhorn. Bamboo Banga is creativity in its rawest form, from those who were born with it in their blood. Fuck Yeah.

1. $20 (iTunes play count - 52)

Such a hard decision to come up with the best M.I.A. track but I have to give it to $20. There is inexplicable element to this song that transcends both political message and personal exploration. I'll give it a go anyway. M.I.A. conveys purpose and identity effortlessly in most of her tracks, but this piece of art is about finding the balance of that creative journey. When we're trying to convey an important message, we need to justify why we're the ones saying it before making it brutally clear why we're there. The delivery of words in this song is M.I.A. at her most confident and sure, stating “Talking about y'all's such a bore/I'd rather talk about moi”. This song is about her ongoing message: it's an experiment. That experiment is to present unknown realities to two different worlds and to see what happens. More than legitimising her right to speak up for the oppressed, she is personalising her link between the haves and have nots and saying maybe you are the ones that have not, and they actually have. And what is the result? Mind bending. There isn't supposed to be an easy thing to grasp or do, to understand the harsh realities of the world outside of our comfort bubbles. For example M.I.A. emphatically lays it out on the table singing about AK47s, “$20 ain't shit to you/But that's how much they are”. Just like that, an unknown reality for one part of the world is thrust upon those from another part in terms they'll understand. But it still challenges us. $20 samples two classic tracks: The Pixies' Where is My Mind by way of the chorus and New Order's Blue Monday by way of the beat. Yes, what huge ask to pull off samples of that magnitude. But M.I.A. does more than justice to both. Maya even forebodes about her future obsession with the internet and references the industry's obsession with slutting up pop stars so they will sell records. What gets me the most is the melodic chant that plays throughout the background,  as well as the sustained “YEAAAAAAAAHHHHHH” that lingers as your brain releases serotonin just before M.I.A. chimes in with “War, WAr, WAR”. The final verse of the song gives Maya her music and art's purpose. “I put people on a map/that never seen a map/I show them somethin' they've never seen/And hope they make it back...”. This song is more than music. It's even more than art. It's the ultimate message of identity and legitimising a purpose beyond self that we all need to and eventually will do in our lives. 

20 dolla by M.I.A., Video by Weirdcore, for M.I.A. tour 2007 from weirdcore on Vimeo.

Honourable mentions: Sunshowers, It Takes a Muscle, Ladykilla (Diplo Remix), Worldtown, Boyz

AUSONIA

Is the clock still ticking for the Time 100?

The Time 100 for 2011

Time Magazine copped a lot of flack for choosing Mark Zuckerberg over Julian Assange as Person of the Year in 2010, especially given the Australian journalist led every other candidate in the Readers' Choice poll by hundreds of thousands of votes. The US Magazine has now just released the official editorial selection of the Time 100 - a 'boardroom' view of the most influential people in the world. The list had some worthy entrants, including many people who were instrumental in orchestrating the recent uprisings in the Arab world. Egyptian democratic activist Wael Ghonim, Libyan anti-government lawyer Fathi Terbil and Tunisian rapper El Général were all appropriately featured on the list for their positive role in encouraging action to overthrow the governments of their countries. But there was one person in particular who was left off the Time 100 list who could not only have featured, but could have arguably come in at number 1. Mohamed Bouazizi. The man set himself alight on the streets of Sidi Bouzid and died 18 days later, but not before unleashing the first wave of major protests that have since become known as the 'Arab Spring'. Tunisia, Egypt, Yemen, Bahrain, Libya, Syria and Algeria are some of the countries that that have toppled governments, started civil wars, been places of violent crackdowns and forced rulers to engage in political reforms - all because of the domino effect of citizen protest action that began with the self immolation of Bouazizi. 

 

Bouazizi sparked protests that toppled the Tunisian Government

The Tunisian street vendor was featured on the Readers' Choice Poll, coming in 17^th place. This begs the question, why was he left off the official Time 100 list? The only reason it can be attributed to is the magazine wanted to distance itself from glorifying or advocating suicide as a way to be influential. Without an explanation, his absence from the list screams political correctness, even when it is lacking in various other parts of the Time 100. Bouazizi was not the only person left off the editorial selection that featured on the Readers' Choice poll. Sri Lankan President Mahinda Rajapaksa came in at number 4 in the people's choice, but didn't even manage to rate a mention in final list. Rajapaksa is the subject of an ongoing UN investigation into suspected war crimes against Tamil civilians in Sri Lanka. If it is going to be the editorial decision to leave off any person who is seen as having a “negative” or “questionable” influence, then why did Time include these two figures in the polling options to begin with? It must be made clear that in no way am I comparing Bouazizi or his actions to that of Rajapaksa, as the Tunisian merely undertook one negative action against himself that had an ultimately noble effect in inducing political reform. Rajapaksa's actions being labelled as ultimately positive is a big stretch, as suspected genocide shouldn't rate very well as a way to influence anyone. But if the influence of the Editors' Time 100 is required to be uniquely positive, why were suspected US-Yemeni terrorist Anwar al-Awlaki and Libyan power broker Saif al-Islam Gaddafi on it? After all, these figures weren't even an option in the public vote. 

 

The action of Bouazizi should not be encouraged to be repeated, but it doesn't take away the fact that it was the most influential event of 2010 . The Arab uprisings have been the story of the decade so far, and may continue for years to come. Bouazizi has become the symbol for the oppressed people who are victims of their corrupt government regimes - the lone citizen who paid the ultimate price to protest against an increasingly unfair societal division. Now compare this to American actress/comedian Amy Poehler, who came in 4^th place in the Time 100. I'm not questioning her comedic talent, but I am questioning both the level of influence she has in the world, and the magazine who thinks it outshines that of Mohamed Bouazizi.

Final houses demolished at The Block in Redfern

Today saw the final houses left at The Block in Redfern demolished. Work will soon begin on 62 new houses that will be built at the site. I just went down to Eveleigh Street an hour ago and took these photos of what was left. It was fairly quiet, with only a handful of on-lookers watching the lone bulldozer scrape up the grey, dusty rubble. I sincerely hope that The Block remains the home for Redfern's Indigenous community and that the new houses give them the fresh start they deserve.

The bulldozers clean up the rubble from the houses

There will be 62 new houses built at the site

Eveleigh Street

The Block is home to much of Redfern's Indigenous Community

LOS ANGELES

Los Angeles

Santa Monica Beach

The roads from LAX to Santa Monica leave me with no doubt I am in LA. The intersecting cascade of lane ways cut off a clear (or should I say smoggy) view of the ever sprawling city. Heading down the freeway, the traffic begins. A slow but steady crawl is made a little more enjoyable by the warm Spring sun and a view of what I think is the Hollywood hills in the foreground. Thank god we make a turn off and head down Santa Monica Boulevard (SMB), which is going to be the main pathway I'll traverse over the next four days. I arrive in Santa Monica, and I am pleasantly surprised at its beauty and cleanliness – something I didn't associate with LA. There are thousands more palm trees than those I've already seen, and they're scattered across the paved walkways and an elevated shoreline. Wealthy looking locals and tourists roam the streets, sipping their tall lattes and walking their canine friends as the afternoon sun begins its descent into the murky depths of the Pacific Ocean. I feel scattered, but I decide that a moment sleeping is a moment lost, so I head to 3^rd Street Promenade. Here are the standard mid end shops that are found in most major commercial centres in LA. It is these shops that I will spend a decent chunk of my savings on my trip. I only last about an hour, after finally reassuring myself that I have ample time and brain energy to buy some cool shit tomorrow. I head down to the pier, where the grey wooden floor planks head one by one over the shoreline and allow me to literally enter the ocean without getting wet. The sun sets in one of those moments I realise I should be photographing, so I take out my camera and do the view an injustice. The lights on the carnival rides are now starting to shine brighter; every minute their radiance gets more intense as darkness descends on the coast.

I wake up bright and early the next day - actually before it is even bright. I decide I'll walk to Venice Beach. Along the shoreline, low key runners and cyclists escape the daylight rush of fitness fanatics by utilising the pros of dawn. A constant bike lane cuts off the brown sand of the beach, so I can avoid getting unwanted crumbs in my shoes. Santa Monica beach is bigger than any I have ever seen - in length and in depth. Every 100 or so metres, a sole beach house sits pensive and quaintly just a short distance from the shoreline. It is the kind of place you would take your girlfriend for a first kiss or maybe even a shag if you're daring. I am walking for at least 25 minutes before I reach the famous Venice Beach. But it's only 7am and everything is shut. I walk past a few homeless bums and a sparse set of locals who are beginning to consider setting up their weird and freaky niche products to offer people later in the day. I decide to head back to Santa Monica and get a bus up the boulevard and check out what's happening in Hollywood. My bus driver is an African American lady with long fake red and blue nails, who makes sure that her hair is in check after she helps a wheelchair bound old man onto the bus. I get the usual sense of excitement when I pass Beverley Hills and see signs for West Hollywood. I get off somewhere unknown along SMB and begin a long walk in the general direction of the Hollywood sign. I am kind of astounded as to how many little corner shopping villages there are with the usual mix of crappy take away food eateries and stores full of useless shit. Every block has one, and there are a lot of blocks I pass. 

Signage in Hollywood along Santa Monica Boulevard

There are some hidden gems along the road that make me glad I'm here. This sign is the first to make me chuckle. I am starting to notice the quirks of the city that really do remind you that you're in a bizarre world of contradictions. One such quirk is the frequency of bail bond lending establishments on nearly every block.  

Bail Bond loan establishments are not hard to find on the streets of LA

There is a streak of tragedy that runs through this city, and I guess its become more prominent since the financial crisis took a shit on America. There are stores and signs promising the world, but ridden along every block is some poor homeless cunt who has twenty huge bags of recyclable cans and bottles so he can make probably around $5 to buy a pack of smokes, a beer and a burger. This is no enlightened epiphany I'm having, but it still makes you think that this city has it all. Extremely rich, rich, upper middle class, middle class, lower middle class, poor and homeless. A walk past some of the studios of the major television stations isn't as remarkable when viewed from a wider angle outside a TV screen. These studios are scattered in between outdated orange buildings with signs for laundromats and Thai massage parlours; as well as cheap Mexican eateries and 99cent fish burger advertisements. My legs are beginning to hate me a little more so I sit at a bus stop and wait for the next one heading to Downtown LA. A loud African American girl sits next to me, sucking a lollipop and carrying a bag of diabetes disguised as rainbow candies.

“Hiiiiiiii,” she says. “Hey,” I reply.

Then her friend who I guess is about 16 and is pushing a cute baby in a stroller chimes in and says, “Sir, how long have you been waiting for the bus?”

What is it with Americans and saying Sir and Ma’am?

“About 3 minutes,” I reply.

“Oh you have an accent!!,” interjects my friend who abruptly pops the lollipop out of her mouth to make the statement. “Where are you from?”

“Australia,” I reply, well aware of what is coming next.

“Oh I love your accent, it's so cute... it's my favourite.”
“Thanks,” I say half flattered, half unimpressed at the generic response you get once you tell anyone here you are Australian. But I'm secretly impressed that this girl has been my first random encounter of what I hope are many in the coming days.

The bus arrives and I head further up SMB into the neighbourhoods of Silver Lake and Echo Point. I heard there were some good vintage shops and cool cafes, but its still only about 10am and like most hipster hoods, they don't really wake up until early afternoon. I eat lunch in a little Thai restaurant that is nestled in one of those defunct shopping villages I was telling you about earlier. I remind myself that I have to tip, as this is my first eating out experience so far in the country. It is kind of confusing where you tip and where you don't, but you kind of get the hang of it after a day. It's actually kind of fun, until you realise it is your money you are giving away because Americans pay ridiculous taxes and have a minimum wage of $7.25 an hour.

I assume Venice Beach is in full swing by now, so I head back there on the bus. It takes about 45 minutes or even an hour, but I enjoy the trip anyway as the journey takes me down SMB; through Hollywood, West Hollywood, Beverley Hills, West LA and Santa Monica; before turning on Ocean Ave and heading south to Venice.

Venice Beach Mural Painting

Venice Beach is like a seedy, crazy mix of shops and market stalls along the coast line for about 1 or 2 kilometres. There are around 1000 sunglasses shops, dozens of medical marijuana doctors, market stalls selling souvenir memorabilia and even an American Apparel outlet store. There are snake charmers, magicians, plenty of tarot readers, tattoo parlours, basketball courts, surfing shops and juice bars. And talk about a mix of clientele. Venice Beach is frequented by overseas and interstate tourists, black people, Mexicans, white people, freaks, surfers, crazies, rollerbladers, bums, trendy kids, the rich, ghetto gangsters and - it wouldn't be LA without them - homeless people. But I guess it's this mix that makes it so popular – it's intense, colourful, vibrant, and sketchy. After walking along and being meowed at by a shirtless man who has obviously taken too much acid in his time, I take my second and not final walk up the coastline back to Santa Monica.

After doing a bit of shopping, I have some new clothes so I decide that after dinner I will head out. I play it by ear, or by eye I should say, considering I am travelling solo here in LA. I get on the bus and head up SMB and now I'm starting to feel like I know this route pretty well. Maybe that thought is a little premature, because after planning on getting off at West Hollywood, I end up somewhere way further up. I get off in what is obviously a dodgy area. Near me four black people (two guys and two girls) are facing a wall of a hugh beige bricked square building on the corner of SMB and some unremarkable side street, their feet apart and their hands behind their heads. Blue and red lights flash behind them, as a diagonally parked police vehicle is semi mounting the curb. It seems as if the driver anticipated the four in question would flee the scene, so he tried to make a half assed attempt to block them. Any attempt to escape was obviously unsuccessful. I walk past pretending not to look, but actually fascinated with what I think is going on. Drug bust? Prostitution ring? Weapons charges? Who knows. By the time I arrive at the bus stop two blocks away, I have pushed my iPhone, wallet and passport further down into my pockets. But this action also has me thinking. I know those people may have broken the law or done something wrong in the eyes of the law, but it does kind of feel as if the chances of seeing black or Latino people getting arrested are much higher in LA. And this could be because they “supposedly” commit more crimes; or more likely that they are subject to racial profiling by authorities.

I get on the bus and head back down to West Hollywood. I stop at the first bar I see, and walk in and order a vodka tonic. Vodka drinks are on special today and are only $4. Score! I sit outside and assess the people around me. There are only about 15 other people there, but it is a very small bar. I drink half my drink and am then approached by a overtly camp man who invites me to go sit with him and his friends. I was listening to their conversation previous to this point. It went something along the lines of:

“How can you say Mariah hasn't had a good album since Butterfly?!?!” and, “Girrrrll, it breaks my heart to see what Whitney did to her voice...”

I accept the friendly offer and go sit with them. By now I have been alerted that I am in a gay bar, but this doesn't bother me at all so I stay and chat to them. Now these three guys are extremely nice and inquisitive. One is a professional drag queen, the other a choreographer for Glee and the third a theatre director - so you can imagine what most of the conversation is going to revolve around from their end. When I tell them what I do and my what my interests are, I am met with a bit of a stunned look. Not knowing where to take the conversation, the pro drag queen (not dressed as a drag queen that night I may add) figures he will be able to display his intelligence a little better if he asks me about my opinion about America. Not only do I give the most watered down criticism I have probably ever given in my life, I also throw in a little appreciation for the country. The reason I do is because I would hate some cunt coming to Australia and criticising my country even though I would run my mouth off about shit I don't like about it myself. That being said, I am honest and talked about my progressive views and how America is behind the world in a lot of ways that relate to moving forward. They are obviously progressive themselves which is nice to see. But I do get the sense that two of them are more interested in celebrities than anything that I believe is worth giving a shit about. For example, one is surprised that we know who Oprah is in Australia and can't really understand when I say the most equivalent rags to riches story in Australia probably relates to a media mogul or business tycoon rather than some superstar celebrity. I am impressed that the Glee choreographer knows California is introducing a carbon price when I drop the same fact about Australia. All this being said, they are extremely friendly and like most Americans, are very hospitable. To me they display the usual self paranoia of progressive America - they know there is a generalised negative perception about the country, and they're trying to fix it or understand why. I say goodbye as they enter the inside of the bar and break it down to Mariah Carey's greatest hits – choreography and all.

The night doesn't really end there, as I get in a cab and enter a long conversation with a Persian taxi driver. He is asking me random things about whether I am religious or not, and before you know if I unleash some of the bottled up criticism I held in when asked about America back at the bar. He then proceeds to tell me that after living in America for 12 years, he still gets followed and unfairly targeted for what I assume is being an ethic looking person with an Islamic last name. He tells me how he can't wait to leave America for anywhere else, and says that everything in the country is controlled by the mafia. By now I'm trying to establish whether he is telling the truth or is just an overly paranoid individual who thinks the world is out to get him. He points out the window as he talks about businesses closing down, as if to imply that what he once thought was the land of opportunity has failed him and his dreams. Now things get a little more blurry when I think he suggests that they listen to his conversations over the taxi radio speakers, as if some US intelligence organisation has or is spying on him. I kind of feel bad for the guy, maybe I'm too gullible but maybe he is telling the truth, how would I know? I decide to leave him a bit of a tip when I get out. He says he can't stop for too long because he will get booked. By now it's about 2AM, and I look out the window and not only is there not one car, there isn't one person even on the road. Maybe this dude is just a bit of a nut-job. I wish the man good luck, get out of the cab,and off he drives.

The next day I decided its time to check out Downtown LA and venture off SMB. I get on a bus from halfway between Venice Beach and Santa Monica, which heads right up Venice Boulevard (VB) into Los Angeles. Now there is a different feel along VB in comparison to SMB. It is much more residential and has a higher proportion of Latino people from what I can tell. It also looks a little poorer - especially the closer the bus gets to the city. Along the way I'm feeling pensive, and just when I'm trying to establish an opinion about LA, a church sign stands out of nowhere. It says 'America! Where are we going? Come hear'. A nice play on words from the religious folks who think America is going down the toilet because of a lack of Jesus. It's kind of ironic, as some people believe that the exact opposite is what is causing so many problems in the country. But as I look around on the bus, I realise that there are so many different types of people in the US. It is multi-cultural, multi-racial, multi-class-melting pot of individuals. It's going to be a bumpy ride for cities like LA, and even the USA as a whole; but I'm starting to think the country may be better off in the long run once tolerance can champion its way across all aspects of society. Variety is the spice of life, and what a boring shit hole it would be if it didn't have even the fucked up little quirks that it does. This is one of those moments I'll remember.

Downtown LA is home to a vibrant market and fashion district

Now as the bus approaches downtown, I'm starting to see the Latino influence more and more. I get off the bus in the fashion district, otherwise known as Mexico. Seriously – at least 80 percent of the people in and around the shops are Latino. But I love anything south of the border, so I'm in heaven. The district is made up of streets of shops that surround the main drag known as Maple Street. Here you can get cool sunglasses for $5, iPhone cases for a third of their usual price, tacky but possibly cool clothes, cheap Converse shoes, luggage and anything a good market will offer. I am constantly hearing Spanish and only little bits of English here and there. Most people are here with their families, walking into the makeshift shop setups to check out some gold jewellery or to buy a new statue of Mary. Shop owners call out to people in both Spanish and English, trying to guess what language the person uses by how they look, what they're wearing and who they're with. I get a mixture of both, and I'm kind of disappointed when they guess correctly that I speak English. There are only about six or seven different types of shops here, but hundreds of each one. A plump Latino lady at a phone accessories shop calls out to a younger girl across from her, who is demonstrating how to use a hair curler to change her $50. The girl interrupts her demonstration, pulls out a few smaller notes from her bum bag, whilst the plump lady waddles over and exchanges a $50 for the smaller change. I wander through the maze of streets and conclude that this is the Marrakech of the USA. I come out with a pair of sunnies, a pair of $30-what-I-think-are-legitimate Chucks, and a cool ring. Further up in the fashion district, more authentic fabric shops line Los Angeles Street for those who insist on DIY clothing. Not only is everything very cheap, but there are just sooooo many shops. How do these people make any money? Maybe they don't, but they all look happy and are living a vibrant life in LA that many tourists may miss if they blink and play it safe without venturing into the heart of the Downtown district. The city centre itself lacks massive high rise buildings, which is taking me by surprise. Red brick traditional dwellings with New York-style fire stairwells are coated with advertisements for banks and insurance firms. I see an awesome mural painting in front of me to my right. It is written in Spanish and says Generacion tras generacion (Generation to generation) with a cute family gathering painted underneath. I take a moment to think about Spanish speaking Americans. What would the USA or even LA be without Mexicans? Seriously, ever labour or service job I've seen taking place in the city has been fulfilled by a Mexican/Latino. Whilst there are calls to curb illegal immigration and make it harder for people to seek a better life, people are forgetting that without these immigrants, there is no America. The country would simply fall apart if there was nobody to wash windows, clean hotels, cook in restaurants, collect rubbish, park cars, drive cabs and do any other job some greedy rich bastard doesn't want to do himself. You may think I'm taking the piss here by generalising, but I'm not. In downtown Los Angeles, I found a new appreciation for Mexicans and Latinos in America. I think they're fucking awesome and not only are they the backbone of the economy, they also add a vital cultural element to many areas of the USA – in particular LA.

Walking up to Union Square, I stop by a market that is taking place next to a main building. On my right is a Tsunami relief donation drop off set up on the road. Yes, you guessed it. Americans even have drive through charities. I walk past and drop off a few dollars - a crappy gesture for Japan who is currently beyond fucked with the terrible and incomprehensible events that have taken place in the country. Inside the market I explore the various eco-friendly stalls that are set up and frequented by the suited up business types who flock to the nearest bit of grass on their break to soak up the always pleasant Californian sun. I come across two people from Amnesty International who are sitting at a desk campaigning against the death penalty. They greet me and I stop and chat to them. After asking me where I am from, one of them tells me he was on Channel 10 news in Australia being interviewed about a worldwide shortage of the lethal injection drug they use in prisons for people on death row. I was fascinated by this, and I'm also very interested in their cause. They tell me some alarming statistics and I admit shock when I find out that this so called progressive state is one of the 35 that still has capital punishment. They talk about the cost of having people on death row and mentioned the rehabilitation of criminal Stanley Tookie Williams, who was executed in 2005 after winning a Nobel Peace Prize for his work creating anti-gang and anti-violence literature. I find out that someone is four times as likely to receive the death penalty if they kill a white person than if they kill a Latino, and three times as likely than if they kill a black person. It is just another example of how inequality seems to rear its head by way of race in this city.
I head back on the bus which goes from Union Square to Sunset Boulevard and then onto SMB. After passing through the same neighbourhoods I've been before, I get off down past Beverley Hills at Century City Mall and do some more shopping. 

I get back on the bus and sit at the rear. The bus makes a sudden stop, and my no frills black plastic back housing my new Converse sneakers falls off the seat and onto the floor. An inquisitive looking fifty-something African American man with piercing green eyes says to me in a deep and friendly voice,

“Oh, you got yourself some Chucks there.”

“Yeah,” I reply.

“Show me, show me!”, he says.

I take them out and then go on a rant about how expensive they are where I'm from.

“Where you from son?”

“Australia.” I say.

“Oh man, Australia – that's cool”.

He then proceeded to quiz me on what is and isn't expensive back home. Nearly everything in comparison to the States is, I tell him.

Out of nowhere he says, “Paul Hogan!”. I look a bit odd because I am confused, I do get the link between Australia and Paul Hogan, but the outburst is a bit random. He says, “Have you seen those t-shirts? Paul Hogan for President...”, as he signals the hypothetical position of the writing on his own shirt. I laugh and tell him about his recent trouble with the law back in Australia for alleged tax evasion. Not much chance of Paul Hogan becoming President, or should I say Prime Minister, at all. The bus crawls along, it is now about 4pm and the traffic is notorious at this time along this part of SMB near West LA. I hear a whistle and look over and its my new friend opposite me again. In a cool and calculated manner, he pulls a small bud of weed from his bag and with a flick of his head asks, “how's this over there?” I reply saying I don't do that stuff anymore, but when I did I guess it was good and readily available. He then tells me of his grand plans to go down to the shore this evening, roll himself a joint and have a drink whilst all of his “friends” will exclaim their excitement to see him, including a beautiful girl who he implies has busty breasts. This guy says it all in his mannerisms. He tells me he lives around 70 miles away, and that he takes the trip down every week to Santa Monica beach - but he always tells the girls he “has to be good”. He is a harmless, friendly but probably insane dude who has made my afternoon. He even pulls out and starts reading a magazine entitled “Mary Jane”. Once the bus arrives in Santa Monica and I alight, he wishes me a good trip and I appreciatively thank him and wish him a good evening on the beach.

That night I decide I will head out again to see what more the Los Angeles nightlife can offer. I don't make the same mistake of heading too far up SMB, and I get off much closer to my base around West Hollywood. I find a busy looking spot on a side street, with a fairly normal crowd occupying the spacious outside section of a brown bricked nightclub. I walk in, act as if I am familiar to the place and head straight to the bar that is located to the room on the right. I order my standard Vodka Tonic, but this time it costs $10. I feel a little ripped off but at least the bar tender free pours the spirits so I'm really get more bang for my buck. I grab my drink and head back outside but through a different exit to where I came in. A small corridor leads to the bathrooms and another decent sized room with an equally impressive bar. I sit at a vacant table with four seats and cop a few stares from the crowd that is made up with people in their mid twenties to forty year olds. I would never do this in Sydney, but travelling solo in a foreign city leaves you no choice but to put yourself out there – especially if you want some sort of interaction with a local and not some backpacker who probably has lived around 10 kilometres away from you for most of your life. I realise it's time for another drink when the sucking noise of the last bits of my iced down Vodka remnants becomes more coarse. I head to the bar in that room, order another VT and rapidly get through it. I go to the bathrooms to check them out, still not having much luck on the social front. Now this is probably the nicest looking men's toilet I have ever been into. It is kind of appropriate that I wee in a toilet that has a money bill thrown in it, but I don't think that was there on purpose. I redirect my piss away from the water and on the side of the rim of the bowl to make out that it is in fact a $20 bill. For around half a second I consider picking it up, but my self respect still remains victorious despite feelings of letting loose in this city. I reassure myself that I would have only picked it up if it was a $100. I walk out of the bathroom to the communal men's and women's hand basin, where a Mexican man helps me to do what I learnt to do at the age of 2. I ponder whether the dimly lit mirror borders make people look hotter than they are, or maybe the two strong Vodkas are kind of kicking in giving everyone a nice glow. A hybrid of Mexican-Americana decorations line the black basin in a successful attempt to glamorise the cultural reality of the city. Back outside the music has progressed from Lady Gaga and Rihanna to Duck Sauce and Yolanda Be Cool. Not much, but it's a fairly generic American club remember and they're only just starting to get the hang of it – so I am enjoying the tunes. After my next drink, the night speeds up and finally I make some friends. Outside, two horse riding show jumpers begin talking to me about LA. I sense their ranger-esque accents mean they are also from out of town. The night gets a little blurry, and all of a sudden I'm sitting with some Latin Americans who are living in LA and are very impressed at where I'm from. It hits 4AM, and the club clears out rapidly thanks to liquor law legislation. I am invited to continue drinking at one of their apartments and I'm so impressed with myself for making friends that I tell myself to fuck it and go and keep partying on. We get in the car, and the driver who is a 32 year old who looks kind of Asian but is actually from Cuba starts playing me his almost hardstyle remix of a song but some other unknown DJ. I don't know any better in my drunken state and tell him that I like it, whilst he skips to the next track to show it's a something more than a hobby for him. The car pulls into a service station further up the hills of West Hollywood, as two of the people in the car stop for cigarettes. A Swedish dude who looks kind of Arabic, and a Colombian dude who I swear was Mexican return to the car with me and my Cuban friend and continue to generally talk about stupid shit. We finally arrive at the apartment that is located somewhere I have no clue. They make me a cocktail, we sit down and someone who was already at the apartment proceeds to tell me about his girlfriend coming from Christchurch and how he left just before the earthquake struck. I came to LA to get away from the news, so I look interested for around 3 minutes before welcoming the change of conversation back to stupid shit. It's getting late and I feel like maybe I should leave, but they tell me to crash and before you know it we are all clonked out.

I wake up in the morning at about 9am, well earlier than usual after a big night, complete with blue lips and clear skin as if I've been on pills the night before – let me assure you I wasn't. I am surprisingly not hungover, but duck to the bathroom to clear the phlegm out of my throat and get the fuck out of there. One of them is awake and surprisingly offers to drive me back to Santa Monica. I say that's not necessary, but he insists as he has to pass through there on his way to work. I hop in a white mini van that has nothing in the rear and he takes me about 15 minutes along some highway before entering Santa Monica.

Where the fuck did we go last night?, I think to myself before saying, “Last night was awesome, so random but fun”. He agrees and says “...yeah it was a cool night.” I get dropped off by who I now know is a dude named Diego. If I was from here, I reckon he and his mates are a cool group of guys I would like to be friends with. I get back to the hostel, shower, get dressed and tell myself to deal with a developing hangover and go enjoy my last day in LA.

I begin with a lot of walking around Beverley Hills, including a short stint through Rodeo Drive, where overpriced designer shops sit in and around the gridded district. This is a world away from the shops of Downtown LA yesterday, and they charge probably about 1000 times more per item. I see no one famous, but then gratifyingly acknowledge to myself that I probably wouldn't know who the fuck they are anyway if I did. I eat the most beautiful, fresh Sushi as I walk beneath the palm tree lined sandy walkway that runs parallel to SMB in Beverley Hills. As I approach the “Welcome to Beverley Hills” sign, an well to do looking family races out of a limo and excitedly scurries towards the sign. There is a father, mother and three daughters – one quite young and the other two in their teen years. They all grab a section of the pole and make a cheesy pose underneath the sign as their limo driver says “Say Los Angeleeeeeeeeeeees!!!,” and takes the photo. I wonder who they are to have enough money to cruise around a city like this in a limo? My curiosity, however, doesn't have enough legs to go and ask – partly due to my nonchalant attitude thanks to the alcohol induced events of last night.

I realise I would like one more pensive walk along the coastline before I have to pack my stuff up and head to the airport. I head

The view looking north from Santa Monica

back to Venice Beach and walk right up to near the end of Santa Monica. It is breathtaking walk at this time of year, because it isn't over swamped with people desperate to get to the beach. I figure it would be pretty cool to be from California when I peer out at the vast Pacific Ocean to my left and towards to faded cliff face to my front that blend in with the inland hills that give any view in LA a grand backdrop. There is just so much to see and do here, and the most interesting things aren't the theme parks or tours of stars' homes, but the daily interactions you have with regular people. Back up from the beach, I pick up my broken luggage and my weighed down shoulder bag and struggle onto the bus to Union Square, determined to avoid wussing out and getting a cab. As I get off a little before the station, feeling like there is just one more surprise in store for me in LA. I struggle with my failing excuse for a suitcase, but I'm glad that I get off early. Across the road, a protest is taking place with about 10 people opposing SB 1070, which is a bill introduced give authorities increased power to stamp out illegal immigrants – particularly those coming from Mexico. The protestors are dressed in native american attire and are beating drums and chanting in what looks and sounds like a welcome dance you see in one of those guided tours. It is anything but this. The signs read, “Somos trabajadores no criminales” - we are workers, not criminals, and are held by two solemn looking young men. Their facial expressions are tinted with fatigue and even despair. I genuinely feel for these people and their plight. I have come to this country and this city with plenty of money to see and do what I want. They come here with nothing but the clothes on their back and a dream to make a better life. I'm glad this was one of the final images I will have of this city, because it is an important one.

Protest against SB 1070

I get on the bus that goes straight to LAX. On the way, a lone snow capped mountain sticks out more than usual, given the 90 degree heat of the day. My sunglasses give the smog in the city a dirty brown tinge, which lingers over the cascading hills that border the city to the north and east. I leave the 1800-Get-Thin billboards behind me, as the highway passes over suburban LA. I'm sure the suburbs I pass are home to millions more interesting people that I wish I could have met on this trip. I really loved my time in this city. I can see why people would hate LA, but to me it is never boring and is full of everything that is great and shit about America. For some reason I felt like LA taught me how to live for myself and to do whatever I want to. It is a crazy cocktail of the dreams, failures, lunacy, persistence, ecstasy, sadness, success, beauty, ugliness, friendliness, fakeness and reality that lives in all of us.

Songs to listen to whilst roaming the streets of LA:

California Love – Tupac ft Dr Dre

Really Wanna Be in LA – Eagles of Death Metal

Live from Avalon, Hollywood – Stanton Warriors

Alejandro – Lady Gaga

Sabotage – Beastie Boys

Brimful of Asha (Cornershop) – Fatboy Slim