Repeat after me: I am not a Parrot Head

A couple of Sundays ago, I got this text: "Did you get tickets to Buffett."

Church and Wal-Mart had suddenly shifted into church and Buffett on the beach.

This Son of the South was playing in Gulf Shores, Ala., a free concert to help draw tourists and Save Our Gulf from the encroaching oil with nothing more than good vibes and a bunch of T-shirt sales. For weeks, this had been THE event to be at, whether you stood in line for a handful of free tickets at the local pawnshop (true!) or snagged them online or rented a condo just to get the package, even though you lived 30 minutes away.

Two tickets to Margaritaville in the land of the Parrot Head faithful. (Thanks Teresa King)

After a couple of hours in the sun watching a sea of people, including men in grass skirts and coconut bras and women in LA chic (Lower Alabama straw hats, swimsuit tops and cutoffs)  - most swilling down Jimmy's own Land Shark (the only beer sold), Buffett performed a slick, acoustically perfect, tight set, which was broadcast live on Country Music TV.

We witnessed it and then we watched the replay ... and watched the replay.

So, why, when I get out of the shower, do these words drift through my head?

"Come Monday, it'll be all right. Come Monday I'll be holding you tight. I spent four lonely days in a brown LA haze and I just want you back by my side."

Or ... the dreaded: "I like mine with lettuce and tomato, Heinz 57 and French fried potatoes."

But the words of this troubadour that keep circling my head are from a "Pirate Looks At Forty." We were wading through this barefoot crowd as Buffett struck up the song and it seemed everyone sang along:

"Mother, mother ocean, I have heard your call.

"Wanted to sail upon your waters since I was three feet tall.

"You've seen it all, you've seen it all."