George Michael, get away from my drink.

Colin, my gracious host attempted to explain the intricacies of American Football over some Christmas eve beers. I Apportioned false interest for a good few hours until waning after the third game and admitting that I couldn't bear another. I rocked a bus into Downtown Seattle for tonight's pleasing American misadventure. I sashayed into a quiet bar on 'University Street'. Inside we had a hipster bartender serving a grubby permaculture enthusiast. He sat his shot glass on the bar and motioned me to follow him. We walked across the street and into another bar. The gin was in hipsters veins and the night had began rolling, he was right, who was he to try to stop it. "Will, It's Xmas eve and we've earned it, the boss got a bit 'a dough anyway". I agree. We had earned it. I'm not sure what I had done to earn it but who am I to question the man? He locked his bar and that was that.

We roved up and down a strip of bars and ran into Permaculture Guy, he was busy chatting to a Negro girl. Moving on, the new brotherhood attempted to pick up 'babes', forgetting about all the gin drank at our hipster's establishment. I spewed up in the toilet and bartenders pretty friend left unannounced. The nights fate did dawn on us and I slept sideways on hipsters futon. It was a good sleep, I heard him leave at 7am to go clean the drunken mess we left in his bar. The inquisitive housecat, George Michael, kept trying to fit his head into my glass of water. Apparently The Permaculture Enthusiast paid for his beers with DMT, our hipster bartender told me this when he returned. Fucking George Michael finally knocked my water over as our hipster bartender smoked the DMT. So that was Xmas morning in Seattle. Hungover, disciplining George Micheal and watching our hipster bartender grapple with the otherworldly spirals of Dimethyltryptamine.

When it was time to wade through Seattles morning mist to Colin's (The sport dude's house and where my bags were) house I discovered I had lost his address. Supposedly I had put it in my wallet during American football class. I had a foggy two hour jaunt through Seattlan suburbia trying to recall atleast a portion of Colin's address. I did curry some morale from a chance witnessing of a woman hysterically screaming as her golden retriever mauled a squirrel. I failed to work out America's grid system, I gave up. I was enjoying Christmas less and less with every step. Feeling rather homeless and lonely, refuge was taken in Starbucks. The wholemeal chap whom lent his laptop congratulated me on my resourcefulness in my time of need. Later that night I minded Colin's house and he headed out with his surrogate family. A lonely Christmas was spent eating microwavables and watching my sundrenched family drink beers in front of a webcam. Thank god for technology.

I met Dustin in a car park. I had organised a lift off him from a carpooling website. Dustin was an archetypal hipster with a Volvo fetish. I had organised to ride with him to hipster Zion, Portland. Dustin had square sunnies, a quality scarf, played in a folk-pop act and drove a wooden paneled Wagon. He was self-aware and able to laugh at himself. Great, so we hung shit on hipsters the whole way there. Dustin predicted that hipsters would start using home phones in the their share-houses. Doing away with mobiles altogether and making themselves 'hard to get onto'. Over a coffee we watched the fixed gear bikes careen past, I thanked Dustin for the ride and parted ways. I've got him on Facebook but we haven't chatted since! I arrived in Portland two days ago (that's what the draft says but you know its bullshit) and I've been lodging with friends of my Australian mate Kroctopolis and his girlfriend Ivy. It's a big mouldy share-house with a shitload of people in it. They have a Christmas tree made out of books and a dog that wants to rape me. Ivy called Tabitha, head mistress of Portland house, and organised my visit. On account of Ivy, Tabitha is now obliged to show me the time of my life as well.

The biggest small city in the world and Orlando Bloom as a beggar

Into Nevada, The Orchards and I took the scenic route to Reno. Crooning to rusty old Johnny Cash, we entered the gate into Bodie. An and actual Ghost town/tourist attraction that once was a genuine wild west frontier town. It was after hours, we entered anyway. How can you live with yourself knowing you could have seen a ghost town? As The Sloth was parking the car a meaty looking Sheriff with a crew cut and a big gun came out from his shack. He took ages to reach the car as he was attempting to maintain his 5 angry german shepards and he kept getting tangled in their leads. He was livid that that someone would ignore his nice signs. Meatman advised us that "you had better boogie on out of here" and that we were 'lucky' we could leave without a citation. What is that? 


Back on the road again I was pleased with my virgin stirring of the long arm of the law in the good o'l USA. In Reno we stayed in a Casino on the 40th floor. Twas Mmtton dressed and muttony mutton. The place was huge, it had its own tram system that Sloth and I only used once. It was all show, quicker to walk. You can smoke inside and get as drunk as you want and curse! Sloth and I sat and sipped our brews on guard for potential gang bangs. Present to unspoken fact that this really is a soulless place. The windows are bolted tightly shut in our ivory tower bedroom. So what if I want to end it all in Reno?  If we lose all our money at least reserve us the dignity to jump out of your windows. We've rented them fair and square. 


The Orchards opted for the usual Burger King vegan 'options'. We thundered through Oregon and laughed at the new accent. Rolling into late night Portland for a hot curry and a cheap hotel room with The Fruit Pickers. I want to come back through Portland on my way to Mexico to see some good bands, drink coffee in a trendy manner and watch hipsters self-consciously ride bikes. We ate out of Petrol stations and shitty diners. I try not to eat hamburgers as a kind of personal sentiment of self-respect. In America this has a jarring effect of your culinary freedoms. It's like having a pervasive, lifestyle defining allergy! Freedom... The freedom to forcibly stuff hamburgers into the minds and throats of we the people. Through Washington state and into the end of the line, Port Angeles. I took some fabulous in-car snaps of some Indian Casinos and reservations in Cherokee country. Then a ferry to Canada, a new mode of transport, exciting! On the ferry we bought some nice duty-free rum, sat, sipped and watched the two American speed boats with mounted machine guns chauffeur us out of the land of the free.


America was amazing, the average Joe always impressed me with their hospitality and generosity. But in the official sphere, it went off the rails long ago. Terror runs through the once bold Maverick's veins. Even the Sloth and I are suspects of an attack. Unprovoked we could berserk and cracka bottle of captain morgans private blend on a custom officers forehead . Back in the Orachardmover, the Sloth introduced me to his new home. Victoria, British Columbia. I liked it there, girls would comment on my exotic accent. We picked up the long awaited Hannah Orchard at the ferry the next day. Peta and I observed the belated reunion. The Orchard had grown. Mini Orchard had come from Hawaii and would feel the cold. I understood, feeling a little ripped off too. I imagined a sundreched beerfest on a rooftop in Melbourne somewhere, then put my gloves back on. Of the few days I spent in the abode of the Sloth we drove to a nearby mountain to slide around on snowboard and i uncharacteristically smoked the weed. Had to, you can't turn down vodka in Russia and you can't offend a proud British Colombian when he hands you that burning BC bud.


I had a great time In Canada, even bought a flag (a novelty one that some smartarse had made with a weed leaf in place of a maple). I was keen to head south even if it meant being alone for Christmas in a few days. The Sloth chofured me back to the ferry and I would soon be going it alone back down the west coast. We got sloppy about the amazing time and in turn missed the ferry. Thanks for reading guys. I know this one took a little while, so deal with it. Ther are far better blogs to be reading anyway. So... Peta receives the quote of Victoria. Driving through the downtown and looking out the window, Peta and I noticed a young beggar, appeared strangely sharp and had Orlando Blooms moustache. Peta looked to me "Will, that guy is way too attractive to be homeless"

Melbourne goodbyes and Californian beginings

Written in the car near the northern Californian state line. Wasn't i going to Mexico, that's what I was telling everyone else. So three days ago, The Orchard family (Peta, still a Godfrey but 'the orchard family' sounds so good) picked me up from Los Angeles International. When we found the car, Eamon propositioned me to return with them to Canada. Probably my only opportunity to do a Pan-American road trip with The Sloth himself, I agreed. My vague ideas or 'plans' were now swiftly forgotten and we cruised out of the airport with a car full of shit wondering what to do at 8am into big dirty LA. I didn't feel tired, strangely. My last night in Melbourne was a sleepless one, seeing the closest thing I can think of to god, onstage. The Omar Rodriguez-Lopez group was the perfect way to spend a final Melbourne night. Kroctopolis, Beau, mini-beau, bradman and I had a largely entertaining night, sipping post-omar beers at bar open, getting lost trying to make intelligent shortcuts thru the Merri creek and spying to the band buy kebabs on brunswick St. My brothers made sure my last night was a good one. After three hours sleep and a jaunt at lowlands with Irish Dave, The Moustache and my lovely Lizardbreath, we went to the Airport to drop me off. This Blog is about my thoughts and some of my experiences heading thru Estados Unidos, Mexico and eventually Cuba, its going to be self-indulged, long winded and rude. I might get too deep and probably alienate any subscription to such a blog. If i offend you, don't be, I'm writing an honest blog and if your in it, I'm sure it means i love you. It's mine and your welcome to see it. there's a small chance i might even say something funny...

So anyway, looking at a map and we choose to go to Venice beach 'cause I heard it in a Sublime song. On the map I see a bunch of other Sublime songs, Chili Peppers, poems by Ginsberg, Zappa's house where Morrison slept on the floor, San Bernardino (Ray lives there in a Winnebago and he looks like a potato), where did Hendrix bang a groupie? I'm reminded of how much these strange people love to sing about their lives in the good o'l USA. People love talking here, where people normally keep their head down, here they are selling themselves to total stranger and everyone lunges at conversational opportunity. After seeing the neo-anarchist hippies wake up on Venice each next a camera crew shooting a coke commercial, we got back in the car to partake in the non stop party on LA's 20 lane inner city freeways. Double lane overtaking, sugarmommas applying makeup in their long SUV's and the luxury of the carpool lane that no one is using. We checked into a best western in Hollywood and I had a shower while Peta and Eamon had a laptop party. We ate at a hipster vegan restaurant because that's how us and organic, cultured fixed gear bicycle riding Californians do it. Also because the eamonator has gone vegan and i'll support him with that. Shit, I'd actually go vegan if I could eat that food every night.

Afterward the sloth and i strolled around searching for a bar where we could chill and do a years worth of catching up. After a few more pints and strolls I accidentally stood on Donald Trumps star. Where would Hollywood be without "the apprentice". We gorked inside L Ron Hubbards 'winter wonderland' and then into an open air bar called 'the egyptian'. we had some shots here because they had a wine barrel full of free peanuts and a good rock band with a cute singer (very important). I told Eamon about my recent ideas and he told me about his potential new beginnings as a maths teacher until my eye turned to the singer again. On departure I complimented on her singing and found out that she was half Latino half Syrian (!!!). I promised her fans in Australia and a lucrative deal with brainchild records. She was an accomplished singer and a powerful performer. I got her email address on the side of my arm. At a karaoke bar I signed sloth and i up for a duet of LA woman to his unwit. As a pre-performance warmup we had an Irish car bomb with an Irish guitarist from a band also called 'eamon'. Our duet consisted of me rolling on the floor screaming in drunken Morrison fashion whilst Eamon 'got serious' with that bleary eyed drunken look of conviction. With Irish joining the retinue we headed to the 'rock' bar and were refused entry immediately. Irish and sloth took off whilst I questioned the refusal. He conceded, it was my 'first night in your amazing country'. American pride, a bouncers weakness. I ran after the Sloth and he'd already lost Irish, more antics in the 'Rock bar' until last round. On the sidewalk we met a bunch of punks on cocaine whom gracefully took us to thier apartment. We had a good time there and talked about Kangaroo's and John Howards bushlicking. We had to leave as a combined consequence of a bitters in arms gone wrong and our gracefull host wanting to bang his girlfriend. Drunken sandwich making at Subway ensued and an argument with a swift young Republican infront of me was how it all ended. Out the door we wen't when the sandwich artist threatened to call the police.

Since that night we have driven many miles north to Oregon. Up thru the valley into Fresno, past some hill billy's and into Yosemite National Park. Stunning landscape, a mammoth slate wall forged by a glacier 30,000 years ago. I drove illegally thru the vast park for Eamon. In the highlands we stopped at a frozen over lake that an agog park ranger and his family skated on. The Sloth and I waltzed around on the ice too and the extatic Ranger said it was the first time in 22 years that this was possible. I slipped on my ass and near broke it, to the humour of all.

So thank's for reading family and friends, love you all very much. Right now we are at Burger King, in Delano, Northern California. And a further 800 miles further from what will be my eventual destination. Mexico. So anyway, Delano! A small town populated by Red Indian farmers and also the location of Eamon's quote of the day. “I hope they accidentally put cheese in my burger”, looks to me “I'm such a shit vegan, will”.