Out of rock face canyons and sledable dunes, appears suddenly the over abundant houses and prim and proper gardens of Malibu. Gated communities “greet” me, where I peak over barbed wire to catch a glimpse of olympic sized pools lined with geometrically finite stone masonry the ancient Egyptians would be proud of. Painted ceramic tiles, a multicolored brick road leading me passed houses of so called geniuses, heavily sagging foolishly on stilts above the unpredicting foaming surface of sea below.  A university with a funny name like Pepperdew or Perriwinkle with old school razor blade cut lawns lead me down a deep hill to something I had become accustomed to in California, a pier. But this pier was different. Rather than tipped with a mooring station for boats, or a fine dining establishment, I rode my bicycle to it’s edge only to interupt a school of fishermen, dressed in faded blues and yellows and fishy smells and baseball hats. To my immediate right, a big, bright, red door.

Guacamole Burger at Ruby's Diner

Ruby’s Diner, with it’s one metal legged laminated tables, topped by old school color coded condiment squeeze bottles, with walls covered in posters of well proportioned 50s vixens modelling burgers and malts that they had obviously never tasted, was a much needed sit down in a time where daddyo meant cool, not your pimp. As always, I was hungry and as always I looked for the most filling thing on the menu. Looking out the window I caught a glimpse of one fisherman’s hat, it’s brim, a few shreds of orange cotton and revealed cardboard. I felt me and that hat hard a lot in common at that moment. Indecisive as ever, close my eyes, point and the Gauc Burger and shake were placed in front of me, much to my surprise and my abyss of a stomach’s delight.