On Friday, I was in Long Beach, and ventured into the Grand Prix festivities. How was the crowd? Let’s just say the ass-belly level was at "ORANGE."You couldn’t throw a punch without spotting an iPhone photo op. But the problem was, I’d be risking my life. Rednecks drunk on Tecaté don’t like having their picture snapped, and I’d prefer they not serve my Jew ass for Easter dinner. So I kept it cool, and the only thing I have is the innocuous shot above. It is pretty wild that the racecourse goes right through downtown streets, so the hayseeds can sit at that dueling piano bar on the right and inhale all the exhaust to their hillbilly delight.
I hate dueling piano bars.
Here are a few of the pics I would have taken: shirtless boy taking picture of shirtless dad with arm around pregnant, bikini-clad mom. Homeless black guy who told me he was a racing fan. (Smallest demographic ever.) Inside the convention center, where various racing displays had been set up, there were fights (plural) going on constantly. And a big vendor tent for an erectile dysfunction pill.
It was about as uncomfortable as I’ve ever felt. And I’ve been to the White Castle on Fordham road in the Bronx.
So there you have it: The Long Beach Grand Prix – where your safest bet is inside a 225 mph IndyCar.
