La Fiesta de Fiestas In Words (and Pictures)

nik.mercer — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 17:22:10 -0700

The only thing more painful than ripping a band-aid off a gash is cutting that all-too-nostalgic Anthem Coachella party I.D. bracelet off. With its blindingly silver metallic finish, it's hard to fend off the memories of the mayhem from a weekend that occurred not too long ago. And yet, here we are, lovingly stroking our psycho-wardesque bracelets, staring off into the computer screens of our nine to five where we happily punctuate monochrome suits with themed mash up ensembles of neon, vintage chic. Let's collectively take this moment to purge―to let go of a weekend so elusive and so addictive, I've been OD-ing on Almost Famous and Woodstock to calm my cravings for La Fiesta de Fiestas.

The drive to Indio isn't a far cry from the drive to Las Vegas―windows rolled down, anticipation streaming like those mirage stripes in the window. There's that same feeling you get when you hit the border casinos, the aroma of cigarettes and beer stains hinting at the Las Vegas strip a mere hour away. For Coachella, when you reach those mesmerizing windmills―those white bird of paradise power turbines that elegantly rotate their way out of the Palm Springs landscape―you know you've entered another state of mind: a weekend desert hypnosis of hipsterdom.

I showed up pre-Fiestation of the Cree Estate, but it didn't take long before the place transformed into the classic Californian summer bash: a random Southwestern style abode in the desert rented for the pleasure of a few mediocre looking bros in graphic tees, utilizing their only sanctioned occasion to wear flip flops, drowning in a sea of summer dress cuties, stripping down to fluorescent bathing suits while still managing to keep their lipstick in place. It was a full grill going behind sun bathers tanning on expansive lawns, sipping on clear party plastic cups.

To be succinct, it was 2Pac's classic pool party video for the 1993 fun-loving West Coast rap anthem, "I Get Around."

… but with white people and pimped out by sponsors.

Photo No. 1

Photo No. 2

It took two spins of Justin Miller's set before one of the three available pools had been invaded by bathers hotboxing a floaty pool bus and American Apparel bikini bitches straddling the blow-up goose.

Photo No. 3

Like an outdoor throwback to Warhol's factory, Anthem had also set up a screen-printing station where guests could mass manufacture their own tees with the party's logo.

Photo No. 4

The free duds didn't stop there, as Levi's stylists distributed handpicked skinnies to their most grateful consumers. But even the hipsterettes in crochet dresses and boho hats sitting pretty at wet n'wild's mani/pedi station couldn't make a grander entrance than the star of the party: the Anthem donkey. Amidst the throngs of thongs, there was an authentic ass in a crowd of asses.

Photo No. 5

As the open bar dispensed delicious Izzie mixers, margaritas, and Newcastles to yours truly, I slowly began to understand the phenomena of hipsterdom, and my fascination for a genre that has so grotesquely characterized my generation. There's nothing more to being a douchey hipster kid than recognizing you need a schtick – a gimmick that makes people want to take Polaroids of you. It's not about your music chops, or if you can discern a dj set from Tokyo between a dj set from Milan. And no, it's not about being a fashionista or a cultural intellectual. Nonetheless, this is a skill that should not be underrated. While some of us may utilize brain cells for the exploits of the sciences, or the arts, hipsters scientifically master the art of being eye-catching in their costumes du jour with an accessory centerpiece…suspenders, fanciful sunglasses, S&M leg braces…anything to make you kookier than the dude next to you.

All you need to do is send one clear message: I'm a fool for fashion, and I'm proud of it. Yeah, I'm dressed like a fucking sailor so you shouldn't be surprised when me and my posse cannonball directly into a blow up crab.

Yup, I may be a 35-year old Jesus look-alike, but I can still rock this shredded tie-dye top harder any bahama-mama, stella-getcha-groove back wannabe..

Yeah, I'm wearing a furry crotched speedo, so you should let me freak dance with you like a fucking animal. Brown Chicky Brown Cow, BIOTCH.

And you know what? For this weekend of lazy, senseless partying, there isn't a more appropriate way to let it all go than fooling around, hipster style.

Photo No. 6 - 11