Margaritaville: Land of Enchanted Lady Pirates and Drunken Accountants

Last Saturday in Frisco, Texas, I attended an event dubbed the largest gathering of uncoordinated, rhythm-challenged white people in North America.

Welcome to Margaritaville.

Yes, once again off we flew to Dallas to do some family visiting and tailgating at Jimmy Buffett, the 2013 "It's Good to be Me" tour. Frisco is just outside of Dallas and perfect for outdoor soccer (yawn) and concerts. Yes, Texas in May. 40 degrees as the sun set and anything but comfortable. I accompanied my Parrothead wife and spent the day tailgating,  looking at the lovely girls in grass skirts and coconut bras and well, unfortunately, fat guys wearing the same. Still, it was fun and everyone made new friends unitl they all got so hammered that they forgot who they were. 

If you have not tailgated at a Buffett concert, you need to go. The concert itself is secondary, for many, to the show in the parking lot. It's got the enthusiasm of the old Grateful Dead parking lot activity except without the acid. It's a combination of extreme people watching and extreme fat guy watching. Well, maybe that's a bit harsh. No, wait! Fat guys in grass skirts are what they are and they are proud of it!

After several hours of tailgating and pirate watching, we shuffled to the stadium. The temperature dropped steadily so by the time we got inside, the wind was at such a pace that we were faced with temperatures so cold that many a man would surly freeze his coconuts off. It got so cold that my wife, the dedicated soldier in the Parrothead Army, decided to call it quits after just six songs.

We retreated to the large inside bar area that I had assumed was off-limits. (Silly me. Check the door next time.) We entered into a room with comfortable temperatures and wall to wall drunken guys in grass skirts, lady pirates, and accountants with cheeseburger hats who spoke drunkenese quite well. Being the designated driver, I found a nice glass front comfortable row of glass-front unoccupied recliners facing the stage. What luck! As I distanced myself from the drunken masses, I sat. Perfect! All I needed was a smuggled in non-alcoholic drink, made to look like an alcoholic drink as to not tip off the drunken pirates who were now losing the ability to communicate other than aggresively grunting.

"That row of chairs of off limits." came a voice from the curtin next to the row of comfortable chairs. The attendant was dressed in a black suit, white shirt, black clip-on tie and disgruntled look.

"They're empty." I said as if for some reason that were not obvious.

"I know but they are reserved."

"Ah, may I ask for whom?"

The attendant, obviously impressed that given this crowd which had grown into a large grunting frenzy of cave people, I was able to actually carry on the conversation to this point.

"Certainly sir. They are reserved for the people who did not show up for this show."

"I see. They are reserved for those who will not use them. Are they special people, perhaps celebrities?"

"Some are, yes."

It was then that I decided that arguing was not an effective strategy. My sobriety made me superior to all in this room and it was only I who could have pulled this off. I decided I would have to convince him that I was indeed, a celebrity!

Minutes later, as the attendant brought me my ginger ale disguised as a margarita, and as I watched the show in my comfortable recliner, he asked for an autograph.

It was then I realized that the name Justin Bieber wasn't so easy to spell.

For those of you who have never partaken a Buffett concert and especially the tailgating, go. For every fat guy with a grass skirt and coconut bra, there are ten lovely lady pirates and girls who do give credit to palm leaves and little else. Plan ahead. Take a camera or better yet, two and a designated driver. If you drink, drink responsibly. You'll be the only one. Remember that there's a reason we say "I have a tequila story" and that story is usually best left untold.

So remember: In the dark of night when the music is over and you pirates stagger back to your home port, keep in mind that not every grass skirt is what it appears to be. If that is part of your tequila story, it is indeed best left untold. 

Arrgg!