Wells-Antropova impulsively drove out to Palm Springs yesterday. Three elements: (a) the bone-dry, 100-degree heat, (b) a little hiking in Indian Canyon on Sunday morning, and (c) the loud, coarse, after-dark culture on Palm Canyon Drive. The revelers are 90% under-30. No exaggeration — a third of the Palm Springs youth brigade is balloon-shaped, and a fair number of female Jabbas were wearing skin-tight, form-fitting knit dresses…”no apologies, this is who I am.” Karaoke bars (20somethings belting tunes that were popular when their parents were teens), loud bands delivering ’60s standards (“So Glad You Made It,’ “A Hard Day’s Night”). Fellini Satyricon meets Animal House. The elite movie folk who flocked here in the 1930s would be horrified at the devolution of their once-elegant getaway community. Then again the Spanish-styled Casa Cody (HE’s favorite PS hotel) is unchanged, and the rocky-brown hills to the south are eternal.