Watch the Britney Spears Parking Lot Video!

T here's a rumor going around that tonight, beneath Tacoma's mighty dome, Britney Spears will give one lucky fan a lap dance. It will be the creepy public grinding of a lifetime. "She pulls someone onstage at every concert," explains Tyler, age 19, who has been waiting in the parking lot since 10:30 a.m. and is dressed something like the Wikipedia entry for "Wade Robson Project." (Which means: His fedora matches his vest, he is wearing sunglasses in the rain, and he looks awesome.) Tyler's friends breathlessly corroborate.

"What would you guys do for that lap dance?" I ask.

"I'd kill everyone," shouts Casey, 18, who is wearing a homemade "It's Britney, BITCH!" T-shirt and tells us that he wrote his senior research paper on Britney Spears and Her Effects on the American Economy. "No prisoners. I don't know why this is a question."

When we first pulled into the Tacoma Dome parking lot—around 2:00 p.m. on the day of Britney's "Circus" tour—we thought there was no one there. The place felt sad and smelled vaguely like burning rubber, like someone had been driving with his emergency brake on (omg, METAPHOR!). The Britney of Circus and 2009 is Post-Peak Britney, and it's also Post-Fall Britney, which I guess makes it Post-Post-Peak Britney, if you're into that sort of thing. Anyway, it's definitely Redemption Britney, and it seemed like the kids didn't care enough anymore to stand in line all day for front-row seats and the chance to feel their eyeballs sting with just one drop of her precious Louisiana groin-sweat. How sad.

But then we find them—the diehards—about 50 or so parked in lawn chairs and sleeping bags in a little pen by the dome's entrance. Nearby stands an unmanned merch tent filled with Britney T-shirts and baby onesies that read "Oops! I Did It Again!" (I believe that is a reference to baby poop). Most of these fans have been here since 11:00 a.m. or noon, but a few, we are told, had (needlessly, crazily) secured their first-in-line spots the previous night at 3:00 a.m. We wander through the crowd. There are the requisite Mean Girls—orange foundation, meticulously flat-ironed hair, frightening bitchiness. More notable is the misfit contingent: gay teens from Central Washington, awkward goths still battling acne, and shy, chubby girls who are earnestness personified.

A hot-pink tour bus rumbles by. "Oh! Oh! That's her dancers' bus!" Tyler tells us, while the rest of them snap pictures.

"How do you know that?"

"We—some of our friends that we made here—were talking with a guy who travels around with them."

"Like a roadie?"

"I guess." He points to a building a few miles away on the Tacoma skyline. "She's staying in that hotel over there with the M on it. It's called the Murano." Everyone stares at it longingly.

Almost all the fans are between the ages of 16 and 19. They were in elementary school when "Baby One More Time" came out. Mere babes. That means that the only Britney they've really known, in their teenage consciousness, is the drug-scrambled, radioactive-prostitute, let-the-baby-drive-the-car, G.I. Jane Britney. The Britney who said, "Kehvin... do you think it's pahssible to time-travel speed?... Because ah think sum people are ahead of uuus!" The crazy Britney! That is their Britney, and that is why they love Britney.

We circulate, asking the same handful of questions: What do you love about Britney? If you could say one thing to Britney right now, what would it be? Is Britney a good mom?

"What don't I love about Britney?" "I feel like we'd get along." "I've seen every single show she's done." "I've loved her since I was 10. I still love her." "It's, like, childhood memories." "I like her style, it's really different." "Britney, I love you so much and you're my hero!" "I love her attitude, and I love that she doesn't care about what other people think. And she's really pretty." "She's Britney. She's herself."

Everyone—literally everyone—agrees that Britney is a good mom (which, by the way, she empirically is not). "Definitely." "I think she's a great mom." Someone, unbelievably, tries to support that assertion with the info "She pays Kevin $5,000 a week to take care of the kids!"

It's amazing and endearing. It turns out I'm a much bigger fan of Britney fans than I am of Britney. The ideas that they have about her—she's independent, she's unique, she doesn't care what other people think—seem like the exact opposite of the actual Britney, who's not much more than a narcissistic, kinda-dumb kid being shuffled through a career too big for her to handle. But I guess it makes sense: To teenagers, still living under the tyranny of mom and dad (not to mention whatever pressures come with being a small-town gay), Britney's form of half-crazy, half-manufactured rebellion is exactly what independence looks like. (I.e., "My mom would KILL me if I shaved my head. My mom would KILL me if I had two babies with the guy who released 'Popozao.' My mom would KILL me if I showed the world my hoo-ha.")

And of course Britney cares what other people think. She cares so much what other people think that she's been pulverized into a bald pile of crazy by their scrutiny. She cares so much that she cares whether or not people think she cares what they think. And she cares a whole lot what one particular group of people thinks—the press; specifically, she cares to not hear what we think anymore. The day before the concert, I received this e-mail from a publicist:

"The venue forwarded your request for Britney—it's a no comp tour, so all tickets have to be purchased ahead of time. I've attached the label's VIP ticket form—level 1 seats (should be approx $150)."

It's a no-comp tour. Press people can pay $150 like everyone else. Fair enough, Britney! This is why we're lurking around the parking lot instead of inside the dome. I don't have $150 to spend on a Britney Spears concert any more than I have a unicorn horn or a best friend who is also a gorilla.

Over by the still-abandoned merch tent, we meet Mickey, 19, and Angela, 17. Mickey is wearing gold-lamé hot pants, a clown shirt covered in ice-cream cones, and black fishnets. He is bashful and sincere, and his message for Britney is telling: "I mean, I've gone through my problems. I would give anything just to hug her and tell her everything's gonna be okay." This revelation is so adorable and heartbreaking that I almost fall down. He doesn't just want to absorb Britney as a fan—he wants to help Britney as a fellow sufferer of the stupid shit life throws at you. Britney needs nurturing, you can tell, and these kids want to help. Mickey has—he tells us, and then he shows us—a homemade tattoo on his butt that says "Britney Spears." (Above it is a drawing of a stamp that reads "TRAMP"—an actual tramp stamp.) I relay to Mickey the intel from Tyler about Britney's suite at the Murano Hotel. I think he might start crying. "Thank you so much," he says. He means it.