Sunday afternoon was clear. A light breeze, low 70s. My rooftop looks out on Long Beach Harbor and the Queen Mary. Race cars buzzed like gigantic insects at a safe distance. Below an oval swimming pool was refracting the sunlight so as to give it the appearance of literally sparkling like a massive, multifaceted aquamarine gem. Helicopters circled overheard. Parachutists dropped from the blue, trailing streamers and a big American flag. Then the big moment: a pair of fighter jets swooped by, dragging along a beautifully unnatural roar that crescendoed just below the threshold of what would have been uncomfortably loud.

That’s a lot of free entertainment. And I was the only one getting it. I never understand how that happens.

Let me tell you, I could not care less about auto racing. And it isn’t like I’m so enamored of aviation that I’ll venture to an air show. Helicopters? Parachutes? Fun rides, but I’m no enthusiast.

But spectacle, stimulation, perfect springtime weather as we finally begin to leave the winter behind — these I dig. Like a lot of us. That’s why I don’t get how I could ever find myself alone on top of my 100-unit building while all this is going on.

And it’s not just my building. There weren’t 20 atop the Pike parking structure, a lower vantage point but even closer to the action — and freely accessible to one and all. The rooftops and balconies of other downtown structure were similarly empty.

Naturally, many people had other things to do. But Long Beach is a city of a half-million souls. So it puzzles me why more people don’t take advantage of the free show when the circus comes to town. Especially when it’s being staged in your backyard.

People seem more responsive to the Gay Pride Parade. I suspect much of this has to do with the political/civil-rights aspect of the whole shebang, because the floats are a hell of a lot less dramatic than fighter jets. But the real stimulation there is social; it’s the turnout itself, the celebratory atmosphere. That’s certainly why I’m there. I’m down with the cause and all that, but I show for the spectacle. I’m taking advantage of what comes to town.

I try never to miss this stuff. Drag a giant rock through my neighborhood, and I’ll come out and watch it go by. Throw that rock a party? I’m there! Bring Comic-Con to the Convention Center? I’ll walk through to witness the wacky. Demolish the old courthouse when the new one’s ready, and I won’t miss it for the world. 

A woman came out on the roof a couple of minutes after the jets had flown off down the coastline. “Shoot!” she said. “I wanted to take pictures.” Then she was gone, disappointed at the missed opportunity and declining to spend any of the free time she obviously had to enjoy the atmosphere that remained.

I don’t get it. I don’t know how you don’t spend a free half-hour just enjoying the day, the combination of sun and sky and sound. I don’t know why no one else had The Dandy Warhols Come Down (or some rough equivalent) coming out of their earbuds while gazing down for a bit at the sparkly blue. I don’t know why there weren’t dozens of small groups of people on top of the Pike parking structure, friends who ventured out together to enjoy a small part of the afternoon in a novel sensory situation. Simple, easily obtainable pleasures.

This is not about what anyone should do; I just wonder if sometimes we cut ourselves off from enjoyable offerings put right in front of our faces because we’ve attached a negative conception to a pleasant actuality. Yes, the Grand Prix is cars looping around and burning obnoxious amounts of petrol and rubber. But it also offers a banquet of lovely sensory input — especially on a day like Sunday, when Nature couldn’t have been more cooperative in providing a pleasant experience in our neck of the proverbial woods. 

But let’s say that on balance the Grand Prix is a bad deal. Pick an argument. Let’s say the good the Grand Prix does for the local economy doesn’t offset the bad it does to the environment. Let’s say the jet flyover is a waste of taxpayer dollars, that it doesn’t fit into the normal flight time needed by pilots and planes. Let’s the Grand Prix attracts an unseemly element to our fair city, an element that does more damage than can be offset by the infusion of their tourist dollars. These would be reasons to wish the event away or work toward that end.

But these would not be reasons not to enjoy what it offers while it’s here. I don’t know whether variety is the spice of life, but we all need some. An event like the Grand Prix — particularly around 1 p.m. on its last day — peppers Long Beach life with a bit of the unusual.

I’m surprised more people don’t eat it up.