Britney Spears Parking Lot

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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.