FUCKIN PAROTTHEADS

Jimmy Buffett shows were second in line as my most hated shows to work. The Grateful Dead being the first. Hated might be a little strong, I didn’t drink back then, so perhaps that accounts for at least sixty percent of my grumpiness. Had I been lubricated on Chablis—like the rest of them—I would have had more fun. The whole, pseudo-laid-back-this-is-our-only-time-to-let-loose attitude was just sad to me. It had such a forced chill feeling. These middle-aged workin’ stiffs pretending they’re on vacation on a tropical island, rather than the Sacramento fairgrounds. Granted, I myself am now middle-aged, this residual judgment and impression is from the seventeen-year-old version of me. The point is, I was dead sober, and they seemed to be faking it: a strange display of forced relaxation. Those crazy “Parrotheads”. Come on, his music isn’t that great. How is this STILL a thing? I worked at his shows in the 80’s, yet I just heard an announcement on the radio about someone winning tickets to his concert. Which is exactly when this thought ran through my mind: Who gives a fuck about Jimmy Buffet? It’s not that I don’t like happy people, or begrudge folks a good time, it was the obvious irony: the Hawaiian shirts, warm white wine, long-term couples who had seen happier days, and the oppressively flat, oven-like city of Sacramento. It was the same thing when he played at The Shoreline Amphitheatre in Mountain View. The venue (or state I imagine) didn’t make a difference. The crowd was exactly the same. But when I think of Jimmy Buffett, I picture working at Cal Expo, selling official concert swag to drunk, pod-like Parrotheads.

 

 

 

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