The heart of darkness lies in the desert, and it’s delicious
By Ellen Griley

ILLUSTRATION by COURTNEY OQUIST

There were just a few minutes of desert sun left in the day, and as I stood on the patio of some very wealthy person’s Rancho Mirage manse, gazing over the enormous pool—an enormous pool overflowing with young bikini- and Speedo-clad hotties of every variety, smoking cigarettes, spilling beer and making out, flanked by a towering inflatable swan and something called a “pool bus”—life seemed to rapidly slow down, as though I was pausing an already slow-motion sequence on some wild animal show on the Discovery Channel. Except today there would be no convenient distance coming courtesy of a hi-def television: I was in it, in the shit. And all of these beautiful, beautiful people, I suddenly couldn’t see any of them. I could only see animals—groping, clawing, foraging, dying. It was terrifying. But also very serene: I, too, was one of them, and for a few minutes, seconds maybe, it didn’t seem to matter what anyone looked like or listened to on their iPod. Back sometime around 3 p.m. we’d set our brains on auto-pilot, and were now functioning at the very base levels of human behavior.
Welcome to Coachella.

* * *

I’d set out to do Coachella right this year—to skip the show (three years in a row had been enough) and instead enjoy the weekend at my folks’ (air-conditioned) Palm Desert condo. There was a pool there, and better yet, a big kitchen—or at least bigger than my own. As a bonus, I would be playing host to a few friends who were actually going to the show. In the days leading up to the weekend, I pictured myself laying by the pool and sipping margaritas before spending a luxurious evening trying out new recipes. By the time everyone returned home, I imagined, I would have a full spread waiting for them—rehydrate, replenish, and send my pals to bed good and ready for the next day.

In reality, I never went to the pool. Or cooked. Friday night pretty much set the tone for the weekend: those of us who weren’t at the show set up camp in the kitchen, drinking wine mixed with Hansen’s Mandarin Lime soda. Those who had gone to the show launched a barrage of text messages around 12:30 a.m.—“We r stuck,” “Traffic sux,” “Don’t wait up.” The first car to arrive was at 2 a.m. The condo is 12 miles from the polo fields.

Björk was great, everyone agreed, but was she worth it? I couldn’t tell. 4 a.m., and everyone’s finally home and in bed. Terrific.

* * *

Turns out I wasn’t the only one with this idea—to skip the show, to host some friends, to relax. The people at Anthem magazine had it, too, except instead of someone’s parents’ condo, they’d rented someone’s mansion, a sprawling property off Bob Hope with bountiful grapefruit trees, gorgeous Spanish-style tiles inside and a swim-up pool bar. Also, they’d invited close to 300 of their closest pals. If I had fantasized in the days leading up to Coachella about playing mom, these guys were the cool mom: the mom who doesn’t mind if too many kids are in the bounce house, the mom who buys booze for all your friends, the mom who doesn’t mind if you spill your marg in the pool, the mom who’ll join you in that pool.

It was by far the best party I’ve been to in a long, long time, maybe ever. Took a while to get over some fashion ridiculousness, sure (cut off shorts, bandannas and cowboy boots belong on little boys playing dress up, not 30-year-old men) but after a few free Budweiser Selects, and free tacos courtesy of Memphis, plus free ice cream (thanks, Ice Cream Man!), plus free . . . right. Where was I? Oh: even cool moms sometimes double as Avon and Tupperware ladies.

Still, if being able to party like a millionaire means sitting through a few couple sales pitches—or just drinking them—then this was the day to do it. Everywhere you looked, people were laughing, smiling or kissing. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would go to Coachella when there are parties like this going on: no messy port-a-potties, no parking lots, no Red Hot Chili Peppers fans. I remember reclining on the grass beneath a cluster of palm trees at one point, feeling as though all the places I’d ever been to—London, Louisville, Hawaii—couldn’t compare to this single moment on this incredible property: for going on four hours now, I hadn’t needed to worry about a single thing. Not about what to eat, or what to drink, or how to get home, or, especially, how I was going to pay for it all. It was magical.

* * *

I also remember reclining on the same patch of grass and realizing just how much money there is in America. It troubled me to think about that, so I stopped.

* * *

About a minute and a half after I first gazed out over the frolicking animals inside the pool, feeling as though I were one with them, an animal and nothing more, I began to gag. No really: Jack Daniels was wrestling with Bud in my stomach, and both were winning. I was the loser here. The sun was close to setting now, and with it, all the beauty I had witnessed during the day. There was nothing left for anyone to do but keep going or go home.

And this is when I began to feel human again—not better than anyone else, just human. I couldn’t take it, all of it. I wanted to be back at the condo, cooking a dinner that would be cold long before any of my friends could eat it, taking care of them. Providing for them.

I threw up.

I hailed a cab.

God bless Coachella!