Will America Ever Love Formula One?
The Grand Prix is coming to America. To Austin, TX next year, and New Jersey come 2013. But will it take? GQ editor Daniel Riley beholds the sport and spectacle of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. And runs into his famous neighbor at the afterparty:


Someone has ordered a glass container of champagne that can hardly be  called a bottle because it’s even larger than the ones the race winner  will shower his fans with on Sunday night. When a notable order is  placed, a procession of lycra dresses and the girls they’re  half-concealing fire up sparklers and lead the purchase to its new  owner. During each sparkler session, the dark goes light for a moment,  the eyes of most men trailing one of the marching women whose ass looks  as though it was conceived by a balloon artist. On one such occasion, I  spot something across the room that’s familiar, un-mistakable, from my  neighborhood in New York: Adrien Brody’s nose.
He’s all alone, black blazer and black V-neck, thumbing his phone like a  twelve-year-old whose friends are late meeting him at the movies. He  looks around every few minutes, sadly, until finally a table of what  appear to be rich, local Emiratis invites him to drink with them. Like  me, he sips wordlessly, probably a little unsure. But then we are saved:  a troupe of cross-dressing pirates appears. We can relax in our  silence, and watch.
The pirates, mostly women with mascara mustaches doing a sort of Beaux  Arts Jack Sparrow thing, assume a ballet dancer’s fourth or fifth  position atop scattered booths, and one, suitably flexible, arranges  herself in a chandelier that’s affixed with champagne bottles. The  pirates are all clearly waiting for something to happen, for someone to  start. But the DJ carries on aimlessly, sparking a fellow on the other  side of the room, a pirate midget it turns out, to hop from his perch,  commit to a short-legged sprint across the dance floor, and reprimand  the DJ for his mis-timing. Then it happens: the music is cued, the  dancing commences, the champagne-chandelier acrobat twists toward the  ceiling. Adrien Brody looks happier.

Will America Ever Love Formula One?

The Grand Prix is coming to America. To Austin, TX next year, and New Jersey come 2013. But will it take? GQ editor Daniel Riley beholds the sport and spectacle of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. And runs into his famous neighbor at the afterparty:

Someone has ordered a glass container of champagne that can hardly be called a bottle because it’s even larger than the ones the race winner will shower his fans with on Sunday night. When a notable order is placed, a procession of lycra dresses and the girls they’re half-concealing fire up sparklers and lead the purchase to its new owner. During each sparkler session, the dark goes light for a moment, the eyes of most men trailing one of the marching women whose ass looks as though it was conceived by a balloon artist. On one such occasion, I spot something across the room that’s familiar, un-mistakable, from my neighborhood in New York: Adrien Brody’s nose.

He’s all alone, black blazer and black V-neck, thumbing his phone like a twelve-year-old whose friends are late meeting him at the movies. He looks around every few minutes, sadly, until finally a table of what appear to be rich, local Emiratis invites him to drink with them. Like me, he sips wordlessly, probably a little unsure. But then we are saved: a troupe of cross-dressing pirates appears. We can relax in our silence, and watch.

The pirates, mostly women with mascara mustaches doing a sort of Beaux Arts Jack Sparrow thing, assume a ballet dancer’s fourth or fifth position atop scattered booths, and one, suitably flexible, arranges herself in a chandelier that’s affixed with champagne bottles. The pirates are all clearly waiting for something to happen, for someone to start. But the DJ carries on aimlessly, sparking a fellow on the other side of the room, a pirate midget it turns out, to hop from his perch, commit to a short-legged sprint across the dance floor, and reprimand the DJ for his mis-timing. Then it happens: the music is cued, the dancing commences, the champagne-chandelier acrobat twists toward the ceiling. Adrien Brody looks happier.

  1. honoora reblogged this from gq
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  4. sergionavarrete reblogged this from gq and added:
    Will America Ever Love Formula One?
  5. anokguyfromjersey reblogged this from caels
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  8. stevemeller reblogged this from npr and added:
    Will America Ever Love Formula One?
  9. admiralperez reblogged this from gq and added:
    I am America (best texan accent) and I love F1.
  10. theessentialcomponent reblogged this from npr and added:
    Wanna goooo!
  11. cdnjacks reblogged this from gq and added:
    One race in 2003 is all it took for me. The smell of high octane gas. The sonic boom of a car down shifting and breaking...
  12. patlinus reblogged this from gq
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  15. hoc-eritis reblogged this from gq and added:
    Great read, you’ll find the whole article here.
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  20. slotman reblogged this from npr and added:
    Really good read. And no, F1 is not going to catch on in this country anytime soon. Americans want their heroes to be...
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