I've looked at America from both sides now and I can't decide which side to choose because I live here. Aside from all that, I think that if I were a bit more honest (and if everyone were) I'd admit that what annoys me about Americans annoys me about everyone. Most liberals who talk about how stupid conservatives are merely mask their contempt for humanity. That's the political way of saying it from the right side of the fence. You see I had to say it that way because it was losing my contempt for the American Middle Class that was part of my conversion from Left to Right. But I could imagine that the things I can't stand about stupid liberals is several parts misanthropy.
There's a lot to explain in that but I was reminded very much of that sort of intellectual class warfare yesterday at the Long Beach Gran Prix.
I got together with some of my gamer buds, and I expected some of my professional buds to show up as well. None of the professionals showed up, lots of the gamers did and there wasn't much of a middle ground. It's hard for me to say what that middle ground might be. But put it this way. I had black chinos, a silk mock turtle and some Eccos in the trunk for the dinner at The Madison. Nobody showed up for that group. For the bulk of the day however, it was fatigue cargo shorts and tire-tread boots with a beer in the left hand. Easy for me, easy for the gamer gang.
After the day at the races when it was time for the rock concert featuring Puddle of Mudd, I knew it was time for me to head home. I had a blast of a day which included public drunkenness. I can count the number of times I've been intoxicated outside during the day. As of yesterday that would be two. The other time I don't remember, but I'm just saying two in case I do finally remember the other time. Oh wait. Danita W. back when I was 26. What a pool party that was. Oh yeah and the greek picnic at Cheviot Hills Park. Well, all of that was 1987, so whatever. I haven't been that kind of homeboy for a long time, but I'm not hating those who are. I've just been living my kind of sophisticated life for many years and I can't remember the last time I thought it was funny to attach a piece of toilet paper to somebody's back pocket and make sure that the girls in tanktops were watching us clown our buddy. That's one taste of the kind of fun I had at the Gran Prix.
So I kinda wondered if my professional buds knew something about the Long Beach Gran Prix that I didn't know - which is why they all had previous engagements. Of course there is always the probability which I never exclude which is that I'm just annoying company and I have no very close, regular friends for a good reasons one of which is the very kind of overanalysis that occupies me writing this very essay at 8 on a Sunday evening. But the same kind of restraint that doesn't get drunk won't let me say that outright.
Still, you have to admit, even if you are a gearhead as I unabashedly am, that there is something very amusement park-ish to this event. Since I had a general admission pass and didn't quite find my way to a reserved, shaded, catered seat (many of which were empty) I had to put on the dark shades and ball cap like the rest of the horde. To what end? To watch cars go fast. To hear cars get loud. To eat hot links and drink beer. To check out the grid girls. To stroll through the exhibits and say "Whoa dude, check this out!". To stand open mouthed as young men on dirtbikes flipped them sideway in midair. To put my hands on the tires of drift cars which an hour earlier were 220 degrees hot and tracing smoking spirals of burning rubber on the streets of Long Beach. To swear to myself that one day I'm going to Bondurant. To think to myself that I would be a better driver than Raven Symone and that if I were a celebrity, I'd definitely get into this race. To wonder how fast that incredibly deep roar coming from the Panoz Esperante is pushing the matte black racer.
I'm standing in the parking structure at the north end of the course leaning into that flows over the concrete wall two floors up. The security guard 100 yards south of me doesn't see me or my buds - we came up through the service entrance trying to get a view of turn 9. We're at the back straight just before the braking markers count off the feet 300, 200, 100 that the cars will negotiate in split seconds. We're right at the point where they let off the gas and apply the brakes and the engines pop backfires as loud as anti-aircraft rounds. The cars bounce off the bumps and hang a right and accellerate away, but the extraordinary noise coming through the tunnel under the convention center and echoing off concrete canyon between the parking structure and the high rise apartments is astonishing. It's hard to believe such a ruckus can come from something that size. But it keeps coming, car after car during the qualifying runs for the Indy race. There's Danica Patrick in the black Motorola car. We are all taxing the chips of our cellphones and digital cameras. There's no way to capture the speed, the roar, the chest cavity vibrations. I call my son who is 100 miles east at Lake Arrowhead with his Scout troop to leave him an explosive voice mail. He actually picks up. He asks incredulously, "Are those cars?".
Over in the arena is the BMX show. There is a man named Mike Metzger who has the microphone and he is talking about his life. His life is jumping motorcycles and he is one of the best in the world. And he has a Hollywood promoter and a crew of freestyle motorcycle and bmx jumpers and a band called Day Zero behind him. He can't stop talking about the fact that he broke his back and has 3 fused vertabrae. He loves Jesus and he wants to be the absolute best. He tells us we should do the same. Go fast or go home. For two years he could do nothing, but now he's back. His crew is risking life and limb for the thrill and the roar of the crowd. He is extreme personified. He has the world record for the longest backflip on a motorcycle - over the fountains at Ceasar's Palace. The band cranks it up in the style of POD, hard Christian rock about values and achievement and they start flying their machines through the air. It's the church of the flipping dirtbike with its apostles of orthopaedic trauma, and every time they sail off the ramp 30 feet above your head you hold your breath. And they land it. And they're pushing beyond what anybody you know could ever do, and suddenly ladies on elephants and men on tightropes all seem idiotically stupid. This is what daredevils really do, and they are so close to death and dismemberment that they pray in public.
In the lobby of the convention center is set of boring hybrid vehicles. A man in a pale blue work shirt dusts them off with a long chamois brush. People walk through barely turning their heads as they make the trip over to the Patrón Añejo bar. One of the major sponsors is Patrón Spirits. I know about Gray Goose, but I had no idea there was an equivalent tequila. Not until Friday did the term Patrón penetrate my noggin until I saw this video. And all at once that little asshole in my head starts telling me that this is not a classy scene.
Over in the bar, the bartender enlists me and my buds to get his back. His name is Jeremiah and he tells me that the place gets really crazy on Saturday night, and guess what, it's Saturday night. So when he tells some jaggoff that he's had enough to drink that we should back him up, okay? Sure. I'm naturally there. I break up fights, it's a big brother instinct. The chick next to me is impressed. "Hey, you've been deputized", she slurs. Except that my buds and I are already ordering up Tecates, I've had two Jack & Cokes and now we're ordering shots of Patrón. Fifty bucks for the five of us. A toast to a new daughter born four days ago. We are the change we are expected to defend against. After a fourth bathroom break, we head back into the sun, but I was wearing my sunglasses and ball cap inside already. After the BMX show we had an hour to drink before the Le Mans race, and now we are thoroughly toasted in the toasty sun. We amble around and get split up somehow, get back together after the race and have more beers. Right about now it's time to clown. I didn't realize that I was supposed to drink this much until it's too late, and I'm kinda mad at myself for not buying more drinks for the gang.
By the time the entire joint is breaking up in preparation for the concert, everything is funny. I buy a giant sausage with peppers in a french roll and laugh at everybody. I gotta get out of here, but I've got to take the bus back to Belmont Shores three miles away where I parked. I send my regrets to the fellas by text and fall asleep on the bus which is swelled with more loud people in expensive sunglasses and short sleeve shirts. After my own 90 mph blitz up the 710 freeway, I get home to my XBox and run a couple virtual laps in Grid. I'm completely exhausted. I've been on my feet all day only sitting on the two bus trips and in the bar. Unlike a trip to Magic Mountain, I don't retain any deja vus of vertigo, and there is nothing that can recreate the sounds of motorsports in my head. I turn up the volume on the stereo hooked up to the big screen. The effect is unimpressive. I search to see if my DVR captured any of what I actually saw - nothing yet. I download a cellphone and an camera's worth of images. OK now I'm sober. I realize there is no way to capture it. You've got to go there. You've got to be there. And now that I wasn't there any longer I knew I was missing out.
I'm trying to guess what is the demographic for motorsports in the US. It's not important, really because everybody has their own reasons for enjoying it. Still, you cannot be any sort of American and not know the prejudices against NASCAR race fans or drag race fans or lowrider fans or Harley fans or monster truck fans or BMX fans. Even here at Long Beach which is primarily an Indy Car event, I started talking smack about the fact that there's more than just left turns on this course. In fact, one of my professional buds did actually ditch me for a date at a NASCAR race - or at least that's what he told me. The American LeMans is the closest we have to the class act of the sport, F1. If Long Beach has any brains, they'll bring back F1 and maybe the Rolex Series as well. There are more than enough people here in LA to pack this venue and there is something for everybody - even if you just pull your yacht up for the weekend.
I've had an odd kind of thrill this weekend which is the pure adrenaline rush of racing against the intellectual prejudice against people who dig pure adrenaline rushes. I'm definitely a gearhead and I definitely will return next year. I'll know exactly what to expect. I'm on the side of the motorsports. Yeah for the extreme competence and the raw competition - for the noise and the power. All that is just like airshows. But I'll also come for the beer and the brats, for the cigars and the ogling, for the boyish clowning and the walking around dazed. For the crowds and the circus and knowing that it's just fun for the sake of fun - for forgetting about the economy and the geopolitics. For the NOS drinks and the NOS Girls. That's weekend in Long Beach I can do every year.
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