The Britney place

Spears is the flight attendant without a plane, the girl next door to a house never built.

By Merle Kessler

Aug 9, 2000 | Late one recent summer afternoon, I found myself standing with thousands of other people on a concrete walkway. We were facing a chain-link fence and gate, before which stood laid-back and sunburned security guards.

Behind us, an FM radio station had set up a stage, on which, in exchange for a chance of free front row tickets, young girls were encouraged to commit karaoke with the Britney Spears tune of their choice. As each sang her personal favorite, the DJs would encourage the crowd before the stage to "make some noise!" Then they would hurl wadded-up T-shirts at them.

I was there, with my daughter and her friend, to see Britney in person. We had about an hour to kill before the gates slid open. All around us, 8-year-old girls clutched homemade "I luv you Britney" posters. Magic Marker tattoos -- "I heart Britney" -- appeared on every other arm. Behind me, a suburban mom dialed out on her cellphone: "We're in line at the gate. We'll see you inside." On my left, two Latino boys, maybe 14 and 10, braced Britney pictures against the gentle breeze and the sway of the crowd. One of the sponsors of the event, I-Zone, had set up a huge banner, about 12 feet by 6. We were encouraged to autograph this banner, which presumably would be presented to Ms. Spears for storage in her hope chest. A typical entry: "Hello Britney, I'm John and I would love to meet you."

I-Zone makes little cameras that produce sticky photographs -- kind of a Post-It/snapshot combo -- that young people can plaster on book bags and clothing. But since these photos are only slightly larger than postage stamps, any identifying characteristics of the people pictured are lost. This somewhat diminishes their value as mementos. Still, the banner was covered with these little snapshots, giving it, despite the bright colors and logos, a somber air -- the kind of artifact one gives to a grieving family after a funeral service.

My daughter has the door to her bedroom plastered with pictures of Britney. The door, in fact, is called "The Britney Door." In the middle of her collage is the written statement, "I'm not obsessed with Britney. You just don't understand the concept."

In my case, that's true enough. When I was her age, was there anything even remotely resembling Britney? We had Annette, I suppose, and Hayley Mills. Sandra Dee. That sort of thing. If they made personal appearances, they were at car lot grand openings in Encino, Calif., where they'd wave at the crowd, then move on to the next "event."

Some of them made records, and probably toured behind them. But teen events back in my day were afterthoughts -- held in high school gyms or the auditorium at the Elks Club. The teen market was not the focus of the entertainment industry.

Britney is miles beyond that. She has sponsors. Besides the sticky-pictures people, she had Youtopia.com. An alarmingly healthy young blond woman was passing out postcards on its behalf throughout the crowd. On its front was a picture of Britney (of course); on its back was a list of the "cool stuff" available on the site, including "live virtual experiences with Britney," "chatting with Britney," "virtual dating" and MUCH MORE!

Britney's tunes were playing over the loudspeaker. Everybody knew the words to every song. Moms, dads, teens, preteens -- all of them were mouthing the words. Eight-year-olds were doing gesture-perfect imitations of Britney's moves.

Behind us, the DJ was saying, "We need to see some moves up here." A 4-year-old had taken the stage. I couldn't see her, but she was wearing a fairy princess hat and a pink cone with a ribbon at its tip. As she sang along with "Baby One More Time," I could see the top of the pink cone wobbling just above the heads of the crowd.

Herbal Essence was another sponsor, as was the "Got Milk?" campaign. Pictures of Britney endorsing these concepts looked down on us as we moved forward. Signs warned us that weapons and illegal drugs, among other things, were not allowed inside. Rounding the pathway, coming around the hill, the amphitheater beckoned on the left, and on our right: souvenirs, beer, bratwurst, lattes and Radio Disney. The DJ there kept shouting at us to "make some noise" as we walked by. He also claimed to offer "awesome" prizes, many of them Britney-related.

I-Zone and "Got Milk?" had partnered up in that irritating new-economy way. They had a booth in which you could be photographed next to a life-sized poster of a milk-mustached Britney. You were provided with a milk mustache of your own: a piece of white tape. Walking by, I noticed half a dozen or so unclaimed photographs lying on a table. The show was emceed by a fellow named Slam (he spelled it for us), who was also Britney's drummer. After the obligatory "Wassup!" he reinforced the benign but firm zero-tolerance attitude of the facility by asking us to buy the blue and green glowsticks being sold and hold those aloft, instead of the potentially dangerous cigarette lighters, matches or cigarettes (forbidden, of course).

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