By LA Weekly
By Henry Rollins
By Weekly Photographers
By Shea Serrano
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Dan Weiss
By Erica E. Phillips
By Kai Flanders
What would a pool party at Frank Sinatra’s Palm Springs Estate be like? I pictured a bunch of hipsters afraid of getting their hair wet, sitting fully clothed around a pool, lest their pasty flesh get colored by the sun. Or would it be packed with chicks and dudes with hot tan bodies floating around all sexy sexy like a beer commercial? Bathing suit. Jesus, I’d have to wear a bathing suit . . . in front of strangers. I felt like I was 11 all over again as I desperately searched my suitcase in vain for an oversize T-shirt.
By the time we arrived at Anthem magazine’s Coachella satellite party, the place was jam-packed. Some people wore bathing suits, but most of the girls were in short-short American Apparel-esque jumpers and wedge heels, or bathing suits with cowboy boots. Flip-flops are apparently out. I looked down at my Havaianas, which suddenly looked about as sexy as Tevas. There were a few partiers in the pool, but mainly larger-than-human-size rubber duckies, an octopus and a Loch Ness monster. We bee-lined it for the bar, then staked out the last bit of real estate on the poolside grass. Within a few minutes our bodies were glistening with sweat. Fuck it. We released our pasty bodies from their hiding cloaks and hopped into the pool, beers in hand. Slowly, one by one, the girls kicked off their heels, the boys took off their T-shirts and the pool filled with people. The DJ turned it out and suddenly there was a feverish dance party in the pool, punctuated by heavy splashing. No one seemed to care about the bands they were missing back at the polo fields. Girls got their hair wet. The duckies were mounted. Someone found a way to the flat ’50s-era roof and jumped into the pool. Copycats followed — even a gaggle of giggling girls made the leap — until some dude, possibly a sober individual aware of insurance liability, put the kibosh on the high flyers.
The sun was about to set by the time we dripped back to the festival to catch the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Massive Attack and Madonna. Some wet chicks left looking Tammy Faye Baker after a cardio workout. Me, I hid my pool hair under a cowboy hat and was grateful for my waterproof mascara.
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