I was walking around with a beer in hand, shooting the shit and literally watching other people shoot the shit out of some bottles. I overheard someone say, “It’s Golden Hour…that magical light that all the photographers cream their pants over.” I’m no photographer but figured I should grab the camera anyway to look like I know what photographers do and snapped a photo of this sun saturated mountainside. Then I changed out of my shorts and into pants. Not because I had Golden Hour cream in them but simply because the desert can be a cold bitch at night.
When golfing with gasoline soaked balls, cooler heads prevail. Sypniewski uses his everlasting ice cream headache acquired from a healthy pint-a-day ice cream diet to stay focused in the intense heat.
A passed out birthday boy awakes to the warm feeling of being surrounded by his best friends and the warmer feeling of being encircled by a ring of fire. Look closely and you will see he’s throwing some horns to acknowledge the radness that occurred during his slumber.