National Parrot Head Day

I was a little kid when Muppet Treasure Island came out. Jimmy Buffett featuring Kermit the Frog dropped Caribbean Amphibian for the soundtrack. The two icons of not taking life too seriously went on a publicity tour together. I think I saw them together on Good Morning America. My family insisted I watch, thinking I was going to kid bop out to these bangers. I had no context and didn’t understand what I was watching or why it was supposed to be humorous or why my little ass should have been rocking out. That was my first experience with Jimmy.

When I was young, lazy, and pushing off adulthood with all of my might, Kenny Chesney’s Beer in Mexico was pretty much the soundtrack to my life. I was trying to escape responsibility and was blissfully unaware there was an entire genre of escapist tropical drinking music that I was too basic to be familiar with. How I wish I could hop in the ol’ time machine and tell my 2008-09 self to rotate in Jimmy Buffett to go with my Chesney, Petty, Dave Matthews, and Bob Dylan. I would have grown up to be a completely different person.

I love Key West. As long as there is no immediate threat of a tropical storm, I’m down to go pretty much any time. I’ve even been to South Florida in the dead of summer; the heat wasn’t as scary as advertised. If Hemingway, Dos Passos, Capote, Silverstein, Tennessee Williams, or Jimmy set foot in a place and hijinks or hilarity ensued, I’ve been there, probably at least twice. The original Margaritaville is there (my wife’s not a fan, but low key I am). Red Stripe and a hot dog at the Chartroom is a delicacy that if you know, you know. Jimmy’s old place is by Louie’s Backyard, and there is usually an epic sand sculpture or two to check out. I don’t believe in ghosts, but if I did, I’d swear the ghost of Jimmy Buffett remains at his old haunts in Key West.

One completely counterintuitive thing I love about Key West is that for all of the live bands, busking quasi homeless singers and guitarists, and tropical DJs, almost nobody ever plays any Jimmy Buffett music. You can’t even pay them to play it. Once you’re there, why play it? You’ve escaped to tropical paradise, no need to listen to tropical paradise escapist music. It is not Disney; you don’t need to blast the Aladdin song just because you are at the Magic Kingdom. It is adult Disney, and we don’t do that. I’ve seen many first timers and tourists complain LOUDLY about this. I never understood people who go to places and don’t research faux pas in advance.

Lately my Buffett song of choice has been the Wrigleyville live cut of There’s a Woman Going Crazy on Caroline Street and Jimmy’s cover of Wildflowers. I love walking beers or rum drinks and walking on Caroline Street. As much as I love Duval Street, off Duval is where the real action is. You’ll see people posing for pictures at the intersection of Caroline and Duval, amateurs. Still, the song is a happy jaunt to a simpler time. Love it.

Don’t tell my wife, but I had a rum runner with lunch yesterday. I’m currently wearing a Bermuda shirt with linen pants. I may not be on a tropical island, but I’m damn sure going to enjoy summer. I’m still not quite sure how I am going to observe National Parrot Head Day, leaning toward going to the Downer Classic bike race and throwing a few back. Every day is National Parrot Head Day in the Faraca household. Might even fire up the old Margaritaville machine. Doubt it, it has been collecting dust for years. Then again, I do have the matching glassware, and an official sat shaker.

Part of me does wonder if most of Jimmy’s fandom will just die with the Baby Boomers. Probably. The days of working in an office all year and then going to Key West or Cancun seem to be largely over. I’m not saying all Parrot Heads are 70+, but well over half are. Drinking culture has receded and with weed being quasi legal, the Coral Reefer Band doesn’t have that edgy quality it once did. Plus, the grittiness of Key West in the 70s, or even in the cocaine cowboy era, is long gone. Jimmy kind of reminds me of Frank Sinatra. Still awesome. Still relevant. But likely going to fade over time. Bummer. But for now, I am writing this on National Parrot Head Day.