I ate these crab cakes yesterday that looked like little hush puppies, they were pretty good, not the best, but still good. The best ones, well one, I ever had was this big crab cake at Dulles airport in D.C.-it was like 20 dollars or something, but the size of a king dong, and delicious.

The whole reason I was eating the crab cakes was because I was skipping out on the hectic rush hours of L.A. via Miami to go drink wine in Palm Springs. I had spent the day before slowly oozing down the expressway to Newport Beach set on buying this Honda C70.

It’s a scooter that shifts like a motorcycle but with no clutch. Totally sick! Traffic was moving about as fast as that fat bitch at the DMV stands up after tugging out her tampon and taking a shit at Wendy’s. By the time I dropped it off for the tune up, I was getting pit stains in my sport coat and the sun was dropping behind the tops of downtown’s skyline.

Around six or so I got back to HQ and happily sat on my ass smoking doobies and watching Magnum, P.I. until traffic died down, then it was off to Palm Springs.

My girlfriend had a room at the Hilton and a facial the next afternoon, so I skated around the whole 20 blocks, observing that it was filled with the most retirees and B.E.A.R.S (Bearded Eager Ass Ramming Something i.e.fat-gay-bald-dudes) per capita in the States.

I bought myself a lemonade in this coffee shop that was like that scene in Being John Malcovich, you know, where he sees himself a billion times, but I’m not a pudgy, gay, bearded man so the whole thing kind of fucked me up.

They were all hugging and rubbing each other, speaking in rumbling affected declarations of passion or outrage over last night’s indiscretions. After I tore myself away from that ant farm, I ended up playing blackjack in this casino and winning 180 bucks that I used to pay for the crab cakes and some greyhounds.

My dealer was this Cambodian who kept saying, “But I want you to win, so you win.” Or some shit along those lines. I kept me telling her that I wanted to go for a holiday in Cambodia, but I don’t think she got it.

All good things must come to an end, so I hopped back on the I-10, which reopened after a sick wild fire that delayed my blackjack triumph for a couple hours and had subsided early that morning.

I made it back to L.A. in time to get an ounce from the dude that lives in the apartment underneath the keyboard player from Fishbone. Then, I ate a croissanwich watching Puffy’s fucking tour-de-fucking-force performance in Carlito’s Way 2 and passed out.

Arne Svenson is a photographer, he lives over in New York, home of the most flaccid coke dicks on the Yeast Coast, but he was born over in Santa Monica. He took reconstructions of a bunch of abducted and fucked peoples’ faces and snapped some flicks of them. Western Project Gallery in Culver City, California just wrapped up a show that I missed because I was getting drunk with a Cambodian in Palm Springs. I’m also opening a skate shop called Unitard, so this discourse is late as all fuck.

-Sven Barth