Scenario A: There you are putting the pedal to the medal in your Previa, listening to your favorite "Call Me May Be" remix, heading to the nearest beach showing some sort of swell and just as you're about 4 miles away, it hits you like the worst Montezuma's Revenge you've experienced since your 13th birthday - CAR-MA-FUCKING-GEDDON! You're screwed in that lil' farkin' egg van wishing you had a tent to pitch that you could sleep in for the 2 days that it'll take you to get to the beach!
Scenario B: You wake up Friday morning in your Beverly Hills mansion, wearing your favorite mink coat, listening to Sade (live in your living room) and as you flick your wrist to get Hanz to prepare the chopper - it dawns on you that there's an extravagant gathering going on this weekend in Palm Springs filled with exquisitely tropical beats, butt-floss-rockin' humans, and an unlimited supply of suds and spirits that would make sir Dom Pérignon look like a chump! Gee golly, I'm no farking Brain Surgeon but you don't have to be a mathematician to know which scenario adds up...
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| Photo: Daniel Curtis |



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