Ping Pong, Smack & Crack in “America’s Safest City”‘

It took about a week to realise that I’d travelled across the world to arrive at what was essentially the American version of my hometown.

Toowoomba, meet Simi Valley.

Situated 40 miles out of LA, Simi Valley used to be a quaint little place. 20 years ago it was given the illustrious title of “America’s Safest City” and young parents flocked to it, snapping up Pleasant Avenue houses and jobs at the new plant just out of town.

At six o’clock everyday clean cut husband descended the Ronald Reagan Freeway just in time to watch the sun go down over that little slice of civilisation cut out of rocky Californian desert. They told themselves the travel time wasn’t that bad – after all, they were only 45 minutes away from the beach, which is always nice for the kids. Wives made weekend cupcakes and church morning teas showcased their “cute” Sear dresses and stiff, country club hair.

Cut to 2013. Continue reading

The Day I Met Anthony Kiedis

I  was 22 and travelling the US by myself in a sketchy Dodge Caravan which had survived 14 years on this earth before it encountered me. I was with Austin – a guy I’d met at Santa Monica Boulevard who had made “The Whip” him and his surfboard’s permanent home just a few days after I’d asked him for a light. Continue reading

Le Palais De Rat

“Welcome to The Cross”

Day time Kings Cross is not a place you go purely for the sake of a friendly visit.

Slick, stone-faced business men in navy suits, sunglasses and shiny brown shoes brush past the scaly, withered forms of old prostitutes in ragged clothes. The beautiful (or, at the least, passable) girls sucked into Sydney’s proverbial Pleasure Island work their trade from the safety of the innumerable titty bars lining the strip.

Homeless crackies and smackies, robbed long ago of their desire for even a direction to walk in, wander like ghouls driven by one aim alone. Vacant eyes don’t read the token quotes about finding merit in the muck the government, in some vain attempt at creating culture, has facetiously etched into the pavement.

Except under threat of the law the poor never leave and the rich only pass through, strolling hurriedly through the succession of discount gift shops, money exchanges, kebab stores, pawn brokers, brothels, bars, burger joints, curry houses and tobacconists that constitute Kings Cross.

It is between these last two establishments that the hostel is situated – a slim wooden door creating an unremarkable break in the shop fronts sits underneath a tall, cracked, cream-coloured facade.

As a general rule the hostel only accepted foreign guests. The locals, being junkies, prostitutes, or both, could not be trusted. But as luck would have it the clerk was still quite drunk from the night before when I arrived at midday to check in and, after looking me over and no doubt deciding that attractiveness somehow equates to honesty, he made me an exception.

He was a tall, pale man (British, of course) with a hideously unkempt ginger beard, which, combined with a large yellow patch of plaque on his left incisor rendered his otherwise pleasant face utterly unattractive. He was friendly, but he had the miserable quality of becoming quite easily aggravated by the mere prospect of having to do any more than the bare minimum required of him.

As he found me a key I told him about how my handbag had been pickpocketed the previous day whilst I waited in the local Centrelink queue. Glancing up, he handed me my key, two worn sets of sheets and a pillow case. “Welcome to The Cross” he said with a sardonic half smile..

My room was on the top floor, four flights of stairs up from the reception and six from the front door. The hostel walls had been painted with colourful graffiti-style murals of beach scenes and Australian wildlife. The intention was twofold: to greet incoming guests with a “fun” contemporary atmosphere, and to mask the layers of filth which had accumulated over the years to the extent that the walls were now smeared from top to bottom with stains of unknown origins.

“Free breakfast” (read: two pieces of home brand bread and a bowl of cereal – if there was any of either left), fast wifi, and the invitation to use two hard drives containing six hundred pirated movies could only get this place so far.

You only had to see once the pockets of dirt and dust grease had glued to every crevice of the garishly painted purple skirting boards and banisters, to observe the ancient cigarette butts nestled indefinitely in the astroturfed stairs, to breathe in one whiff of the maggoted death emerging from the doors of the communal refrigerator, to recoil from the various gobs of phlegm and unidentifiable brown matter making their slow descent down every surface of the shower to cling to the hairs in the drain, to notice that one large piece of hardened grey snot permanently adorning the top left corner of the toilet door, to unwittingly reach your hand into the sea of crumbs, hair and plastic captured in the foam abyss between the couch cushions (all of the seams having split long ago), to hear the rustle and hushed whispers of street rats raiding the fridges in the early hours of the morning, to spy the long red list of tenants more than a week behind in their rent plastered on the reception wall, to read the words “fuck off” scrawled onto a white board glued to the safe chained to the kitchen wall, to know what kind of place this was.

It was a place of last resort.

Not having hit rock bottom in my life, I only lasted a week.

The all-encompassing grime was one thing, but when my mie goreng noodles were stolen from the back pack under my bed, and whole Aldi bag of groceries (including my prized salami) disappeared from the fridge (nothing was sacred to the junkies who raided the hostel’s fridge whilst its occupants slept) I could take it no longer.

Seven nights and six days into my stay I slipped quietly out of that crack in a wall, never to return again and forever suspicious of the pack of gypsies on the second floor and the intolerable German couple who had bunked across from me.


An uneasy feeling crept into my gut the moment I laid eyes on him. The meth-induced yellow tinge of his plaque-encrusted smile, the wet gangrenous look of his sandelled feet, the dart of his beady eyes, they all urged me to be certain I was never left alone with Steven. Continue reading

Why Don’t You Just Leave? First Contact Recap


Stray dogs and shirtless kids wander under street light as the team enters Elcho Island. Their car pelted with rocks, Bo-dene announces it’s “the scariest place I’ve been in my life”.

The weary travellers are welcomed into Timmy Gudumurrkuwuy’s furniture-free household of seventeen. Well-meaning police officer Trent asks, “Is this, like, your kitchen, dining and lounge all in one?”

Yep. Continue reading

10 Simple Errors Every Rookie Writer Makes

So you think you can write, ey? You may have some natural ability but unrefined talent will only get you so far. Like most skills, writing well takes practise and it only takes a few slips in tense, a single sentence fragment, or a meandering introduction to make a reader file your content in the “meh”  tray forever. Avoid looking like a n00b and giving your editor/teacher/professor/clients a frustration-induced brain aneurysm by following this simple list of tips for rookie writers I devised when sifting through my own contributor’s articles.

Continue reading

5 Times it’s OK To Judge at a Festival

The magic of the outdoor festival lies not just in gathering as a tribe to collectively bust a move to psychedelic tunes you can’t find anywhere else; it’s the freedom discovered under a gum tree a million miles from the pesky world (with it’s laws and bills and deadlines) that makes these gatherings such a sweet relief!

A bush festival is a place where, no longer bound by the usual constraints of “civilised society”, you can frolic in free and naked ecstasy. It’s a place where nobody cares what you wear, no demands are made on your time, and you can express yourself without fear.

So, logically it follows that nothing is more anti-festival than the presence of a big fat judgey cat sitting up on their moral high horse judging all the filthy hippies below. Right?

Wrong! Whilst you’ll often hear the phrase, “I don’t judge maaan” (except of course, judgements relating to judgey people, who are judged to be despicable judgers!) uttered at a festival, there are in fact times when it’s not only perfectly acceptable to judge, but it’s necessary. Of course, we aren’t talking about judging someone’s value as a person here, we are talking about judging  behaviours and attitudes which fly in the face of the outdoor festival creed. Continue reading