Gather round, all ye Parrotheads! Because I’m here to announce the government has just adopted a plan to lasso you all up and corral you in Kansas internment camps where your silly hats and overly loud Hawaiian shirts won’t pose a menace to the morals (and eyeballs!) of the more self-respecting members of our fair society! Just kidding, folks. While Jimmy Buffett has his fair share of slaggers I’m not one of them—sure, “Cheeseburger in Paradise” irks me no end, but I sing along to “Margaritaville” every time it comes on the radio, and “Come Monday” always melts my heart.
Buffett has carved himself a unique niche in American popular culture—he’s our great nation’s Official Tropical Escapist Balladeer, whose every song celebrates the freedom to sit on the shady porch of a dilapidated Gulf Coast beach house doing nothing but drinking margaritas all day without suffering the kinds of baleful consequences that land so many daily drinkers in the gloomy rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous.
Relentlessly upbeat even when he’s singing about being down and out, Buffett’s as sunny as the sky above Key West, and just like the sun he wants to shine his warmth down upon all of us. The guy is, let’s face it, charming, and who can resist charming? Well lots of people, actually, but once again I’m not one of them even if I am a nasty cynic of the sort who usually casts a gimlet eye upon the type of guy who possesses the annoying knack of looking at the bright side of everything, including a slow slide into cirrhosis of the liver.