Or how to love the invasion

Insufferably loud noise. A weeklong cross between the sound of fires at the gates of hell and the whine of mosquitoes. Overheated rubber molecules mixing with the air you breathe so that your lungs are like a wetsuit. The locust-like landings of all these people with fannypacks, wicked-looking Oakley sunglasses and T-shirts with legends that indicate their readiness to mate stretched over bellies of Midwestern build.

The Toyota Grand Prix of Long Beach is a great time, maybe the greatest time of the year. My introduction came in 2005, when a Northrop Grumman B-2 Spirit Stealth Bomber buzzed my 14th-floor apartment in the Villa Riviera and caused a moment of real feral panic and arrhythmia-inducing terror. My instincts told me I was about to die. An expletive left my mouth. The walls and air vibrated with violence. But once it passed, I had to admit: It was cool precisely because it was out-of-body loud. And big. So American, like the event itself.

For some of us, the value of the Grand Prix lies in the fact that at no other time does our fair city find itself privy to such a grand living theater of the absurd. What was on display last year was so charming (in its way) that I made notes on the sort of stuff you should not miss:

• Visit the lines of Port-a-Potties and you will witness the following:
Guy 1: “Dude!”
Guy 1 approaches Guy 2, beer in hand, arms outstretched, sunglasses above a vapid smile reminiscent of Tom Cruise in Top Gun. 
Guy 1 (continuing): “Dude! This is awesome!”

• Temporary cantinas are demarcated with floppy plastic fencing. Flimsy chairs and tables tempt you with the promise of respite, while gigantic, pneumatic representations of booze bottles tell you what it’s all about. But if you have properly functioning eardrums, come no closer. The PA systems pump out the most generic and shameful hodgepodge of Top 40 you grew up with (“Love in an Elevator,” a shrill snare remix of the theme from Cheers) at a decibel level seemingly set to “DAMAGE.” Can they possibly be serious? Oh, yes—deadly.

• Those jets! Last year it was a pair of fighters. I was on the roof of the Sovereign and as a wily veteran knew that the end of our national anthem was the cue, but saw nothing in the proximate sky. Then, approaching too rapidly to be real—silent until hurtling perilously close—the planes came, wings and fuselages pushing a wall of thunder that broke upon me from everywhere. I ducked (instinct) just as they split off from each other and rose. My understanding is that you ought not be walking your dog anywhere near the water around noon on the day of the main event, or else the poor thing will suffer. But damn, get yourself some earplugs and feel that military love.

• Ever seen professional jerky-hawking in action? I passed the better part of a half-hour watching a pair of pros in matching striped outfits calling out to passersby from behind bins of more than a dozen jerky varietals (Mooie Louie, Chernobyl, Oaky Smoky from Muscogee). I was most mesmerized during a 15-minute stretch in which a young man ruminated on free samples while tasting, considering and discussing the merits of each new gustatory experience. He moved around a corner from one row of bins to another. “That station is redundant,” called his hawker nervously. (Do they work on commission?) Eventually the customer pulled from his baggy pockets wadded currency, his hands floating at his sides like a gunslinger’s over six-shooters. His body posture communicated one unmistakable message: I am the pimp. The hawker prepared several bags of leathery cow flesh, receiving for his time and attention not only several bills (peeled off one by one), but also a handshake as heartfelt as if he’d facilitated the purchase of the meat lover’s first home.

• You know how some guys sport Shaq and Kobe Bryant jerseys? Grand Prix fans are no different: They take on the attire of their favorite drivers. And it’s a whole-body affair: hat, jumpsuit, team colors, patches and gloves. Like a Star Trek convention in which adults take on the habit of kids dressing as adults, I saw two spectators wearing helmets. Through their be-logoed costumes, these fans do much free advertising for global corporations dedicated to the auto aftermarket (Pennzoil, Michelin). What I have yet to ascertain is whether these fans have followed their basketball/football counterparts in wearing “throwback” unis.

• I don’t know the percentage of American womankind who can be found wearing belly shirts at any given time and place, but it’s quite clear that the Grand Prix is an aberration. Ordinarily this would be a paradisiacal proposition, but not here. The age range and appearance of those attending the Grand Prix is surprisingly broad, but the typical feminine attire reflects none of that diversity. It’s belly shirts for all!

• Check out the beer girls, not for their own merits (which may be many), but to watch people fawn over . . . nothing. Near the Long Beach Arena I passed a line that stretched perhaps 100 yards and—like a Soviet-era Russian wanting to stand in a line because lines always lead to cabbage or toilet paper—I queued up for whatever the hell it was for. Sitting behind a table was my answer: the Tecate Girls, who were giving autographs. Later, walking on Pine, I heard spontaneous applause rising like the sound of surf (if the surf could also whistle) for the Coors Light Girls, because, well, they’re the Coors Light Girls.

• Once upon a time somebody thought it a good idea to scatter the Grand Prix landscape with little towers of discarded vulcanized rubber and erect a sign in front of each: FREE. Incapable of resisting the equation “cheap + car-related anything,” race fans scurried to retrieve these thick, dirty prizes (to use as a base for a homemade coffee table? A swing? Exercise equipment? A barricade at the End Times?). Last year, I saw a father with his pre-teen daughter in tow spending special time with dad because she was assigned the duty of tire-toting. They stopped for a moment, and she dropped her burden, wiped the sweat from her tiny forehead, noted my sympathetic observation of her plight, and set the world record for Youngest Person to Give an Ironic Smile.
This is just a sampling of what you can find beginning Thursday on streets very near to you. So don’t accept that free trip to the Los Angeles Zoo or flee the state for the weekend. The circus is coming to town!

TOYOTA GRAND PRIX OF LONG BEACH LONG BEACH CONVENTION AND ENTERTAINMENT CENTER | 300 E OCEAN BLVD | LONG BEACH 90802 | GPLB.COM | EVENTS BEGIN THURS | QUALIFYING RACES FRI | CELEBRITY RACE AND DRIFT CHALLENGE SAT | CHAMPIONSHIP RACE SUN | $20-125

Tags: 2008, circus, grand prix, invasion, Long Beach