#deserpoolparty

First stop, Details@Midnight, a party that involved parking in a lot to be shuttled to a mysterious location. That location turned out to be about five minutes away across from a Walgreens, although once you were behind the hedges you forgot about the stripmall half a block away. The sprawling ground was dotted with backlit teepees, some reserved for the VIPs, and I was immediately greeted with a mini mug of Patron XO Cafe and an accompanying tequila-infused cake pop. Thus began the trend of tequila-infused everything all weekend. I overate blackberry tequila Coolhaus sandwiches and mango margarita ice pops as I wandered around, hogging the photo booth and waiting in an obnoxiously long line to screen print a shirt I’ll only wear when working out.

DJs reign supreme at Coachella parties, not bands, and so while NYC DJs (and couple) Hannah Bronfman and Brendan Fallis spun I peeped the blatantly empty VIP section. Suddenly, in a whirlwind moment, Selena Gomez and Kylie Jenner appeared with an entourage. They turned for a few pics with fans, Selena smoked a cigarette, and then they were gone into the ether. After that VIP filled with people I couldn’t name, while Teen Wolf celebs Max Carver and Holland Roden eschewed the VIP for the free grilled cheese bus. A far wiser choice. As we zoomed back through the desert at 2 am I learned the important lesson -- Palm Spring may have all the restaurants, but the big parties are going to be Indio. Relegated to hour and a half round trips through terrifying sandstorms, my Coachella virgin status was already showing.

My laryngitis transitioned from inaudible whispering only to raspy two-pack-a-day habit chic by Saturday morning, which make negotiating with the door person at the Lacoste pool party less linguistics gymnastics. We got in ahead of the lengthening line and made a bee-line for the limited towels and an umbrella and set up camp for the day. I’d planned to party hop, but once I had shade and access to more unlimited tequila-infused treats, I wasn’t going to another daytime event. The plethora of free activities, booze and epic people watching would keep me entertained all day.

What I learned first is my attempt at the fashion game was way amateur, at least for the ladies.  Male fashion consisted of shorts and tank top. That’s all. A few dudes stepped outside of the box, but who could even notice with all the crop top crocheted vests and pom-pom headbands coordinated with your playsuit. I also forgot the key accessory of fauxchella -- your blog photographer with his DSLR posing you in front of hedges and on dirt roads to get the perfect outfit snap. I had to settle for iPhone selfies.

In an effort to up my game, I stopped by a tent full of Tarte Cosmetics and, when I accepted their offer of a full body bronzing treatment, I was immediately rubbed down by two women wearing soft mittens as my friends looked on aghast. I’m a pasty girl, and the difference was dramatic. Their social media person snapped pictures, and I fully expect to end up on a powerpoint presentation to some marketing executives in the near future about the success of their pop up activation. Fully bronzed, I then proceeded to leave brown residue on all the lovely white cushions, since I was basically covered in an entire bottle of makeup. Now that’s branding!

Unfortunately, because of my pampering, I missed out on making my own decorated Lacoste shoes (free shoes!) but did get a branded #LiveBeautifully temporary tattoo on my arm. Moet brought out a airstream trailer full of champagne. During my one loop around the VIP section I barely paid attention to Lea Michele (allegedly paid 20,000 dollars just to attend) and her BFF Jon Groff because someone was holding a toddler decked out in  crisp Lacoste attire. I also didn’t notice Katy Perry sitting right next to Michele, or a lot of the other celebs since everyone is so decked out. I would much rather stare at the man with a feathered shoulder decoration and loin cloth than watch Elijah Wood spin, although the music was great. No complaints. The only celeb that caught my eye was Steven Tyler; I actually gasped when he walked by my towel, and then  proceeded to stand around taking pictures with girls in bikinis exactly how you imagine Steven Tyler would do. I have no idea how Steven Tyler embodies the Lacoste brand enough to warrant and invite, but I’m glad he did.

While Pharrell Williams invited Gwen Stefani on stage Saturday night, the fauxchella crowd was facing the big party showdown -- H&M vs Neon Carnival. If you weren’t going to one, you were going to the other, and you were talking with everyone all day about the choice you were about to make (“We’re def not going to H&M, Neon Carnival is the shit!”). Since H&M denied me access, I’m quite biased to Neon Carnival, but my spy inside H&M reported back that it was just “okay.” They announced their Alexander Wang collab, and Iggy Azalea performed, but that doesn’t differentiate it from any old brand party you can attend in New York or LA on any given night.  Neon Carnival, on the other hand, is an actual carnival. There’s free booze, a huge dance floor and DJs, and also carnival games. I got mad competitive on horse racing skeeball, collected an armful of cheap stuffed bears, and bought into that zenlike youthful exuberance on the ferris wheel. Once you’re at an exclusive party, careening into the sky with the wind threatening to blow your flower crown right off, you’ve bought into all the hype. This is the best place to be, all your friends throwing shade back home are just jealous, and that bro wearing face paint is just expressing his inner artist.

By the end of the night the place flooded with celebs, but it’s dark and everyone starts to look the same in the sprawling airport hanger space. It was time to bounce, and in doing so I lucked into my most VIP moment of the weekend. I noticed that Buick was offering free rides to mostly celebs if they tweeted about the cars. Feeling ballsy, I asked for a ride and got it. Apparently my social media presence was enough of a draw, and I have to say a free ride that would have cost me close to 200 dollars was the best branded experience of the whole festival.

Definitely feeling worse for the wear and nursing a Neon hangover, the final stop Sunday was the Guess Hotel Party, which succeeded in feeling intimate and exclusive in a way the rest of the events had failed all weekend. The Viceroy is small, and the free stuff flowed immediately. I broke the cardinal rule of coolness by jumping straight in the pool and climbing on an inflatable orange wedge. Overt coolness radiated from the beach chairs around, and I floated drinking my Jack and Coke that had been given a kitschy name for the event, squirting my friends with water from my branded water gun, I felt bliss.

Out of my Stockholm syndrome moment on the drive home, I began to laugh. The aggressive branding of artistic experiences is nothing new (I go to SXSW every year) but the level to which fauxchella made the music side of Coachella forgettable was exceptional. My mother asked me what bands I saw at events and I realized -- not a single one. Even the DJs weren’t big deals. I forgot Elijah Wood was spinning until I read a press recap later, and I couldn’t tell you who was the “best” DJ I heard because they all faded into . It’s not a complaint, really, but exactly what I’d signed up for with my weekend. Once there its easy to succumb to the Coachella cult, but I made it out of Palm Springs without wearing a feathered headdress or a bindi, and for that I am thankful.

Yes, I’m going back next year. I might even buy an actual event ticket this time.