I don't think anyone knows how much they love 80s music until it's played live by a band on the Fourth of July. Although for some reason I couldn't manage to break my cool pose (no alcohol in the park), inside my guts were jumping to the band yesterday at Wilson Park in Torrance.
I hate crowds, but I love examining them in minute detail. I prowl through them like a counter-terrorist agent looking for Ramzi Yousef, (when I'm not sprawled on a picnic blanket reading 'The Man Who Warned America'). Yesterday was no exception. I was wearing the mensch suit - picnic variation. Red bandana, blue muscle shirt, Oakley shades, red long shorts, Sketcher's sandals. When it got cold, I put on the grey hoodie. I have a weird kind of man-thing going that I can't quite explain. But I always find the top dog in a crowded place and acknowledge him but also let him know that I'm there. This counts for airport security and cops at large crowded places. It's a subtle thing. For some reason it seems to be mutual, except that it never works with firefighters - especially those down here in the South Bay who I think are pretty boys.
So I'm cruising this massive picnic which must have a good hundred thousand in attendance and I swing through all the different spontaneous neighborhoods that have aggregated on the lawns. To the Northwest are the line of mobile homes and the various bellies attached to them. Nobody has managed a decent BBQ, but what can I say? These were the earlybirds with their red white and blue face painted kids, canvas directors chairs, extendable awnings and monsterous coolers. Then there were the campers around the main stage with their large tents and unnecessary mosquito netting. Way back on Southeast end were immigrant families, sportos in their numeric gear, flygirls popping gum, skateboarders, volleyballers, tattooed rockers & ex-cons. In between was everyone in-between few of which were of the blogging classes.
Vendors hawking silly string and those stupid little things that pop when they hit the sidewalk were making a killing. The air was filled with whooshing, screaming and popping. A little kid who looked like a miniature Dennis Rodman ambushed his friends with a two-fisted spray of blue foaming strings. There were Dippin' Dots and Funnel Cakes, grilled corncobs, Kettle Corn and teriyaki meats on sticks. There was a rubberband gun vendor who had fashioned 20 different types of wooden 'replicas' from Mac 10s to Barettas to Chicago style Tommy guns. There were rug vendors who had Scooby Doo, Sponge Bob, and Confederate Battle Flags. (He seemed overstocked on the Queensized bedspreads, they were on deep discount and not moving). There there were porcelain frogs, $5 massages, sports trading cards, miniature kites, chinese calligraphy, $3 lipsticks and the ever present princess crowns with thier gold plastic stars and flowing multicolored ribbons. The Scientologists set up a booth. There was a prayer booth attended by some non-demonationalists. The Republicans were registering voters and offering a petition to keep the cross on the County Seal (I signed of course - they need 170k by 7/7).
All over people were staking out there few square feet with blankets or portable cabanas. Kids played pickle at the diamonds. Soccer balls and farting balloons squirted past. Teens played with gameboys or talked conspiratorily into their cellphones. Dads kicked their feet out lazily. The variety was stupendous. The local gymnastics joint had a demonstration; the spousal unit and I considered how much better gym class would be than soccer.
Men and women stood in line for the portapotties as short old people were weaved patiently through the crowds by their sons and daughters. Strollers of various dimensions with unidentifyable extentions and attachments jutted in an out of traffic. When it was announced that a little two year old girl with a pink top and blue jeans could be found at the information booth, I suddenly realised that I could find two within 90 seconds. The generators purred, the stadium lights came up at dusk and the band played better than anyone could have expected.
By the time I went back to the bourgiest corner of the park, the tents had come down and the front of the stage was packed. With a rebel yell, the crowd yelled more more more. When the band played 'Lets Go Crazy', all did. Their music stopped the world and we melted together. There was nothing they couldn't play, from Gary Newman to Foreigner to The Ramones. That's what I liked about them. And best of all, they didn't claim to be the Sultans of Swing. Sweet.
As I returned from returning the gaze of the cops outposted at the lookout point atop the multifunction building, I got in a few more chapters before the lights went down and the rockets went up. I was full of Dippin' Dots, BBQ chicken, honey glazed beans, grilled yams, hot cocoa, Nutter Butters, Canada Dry ginger ale, stawberry topped Funnel Cake, hot links and oreos. I could practically see the colors of my own belches. Unlike the previous year at the pier, these pyrotechnics were most definitely worth the wait. Lots of boom, and the shaped charges actually worked. We got apples and smiley faces! Incredible.
It took about 25 minutes to get out of the parking lot, and then the first incident of the night had at least 10 patrol cars screeching towards the east down Carson Blvd. We arrived at home completely bushed. I dropped the girls off to bed and found a couple other crunchy sweet ways to destroy my diet and make me look less fierce in a muscle shirt. Hey, but I'm free. Life is easy, kitchy-comfy and danceable.
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