After spending more than an hour in the car driving to Pizza Hut Park in Frisco (a not-yet-ready-for-primetime suburb 30 miles north of Dallas), we finally pulled into the parking lot hayfield to anchor our sailboat so we could head into the Jimmy Buffett show. As I reached in my pocket to pull out a twenty dollar bill for the parking attendant (”no change sir, parking is $20″), my heart skipped a few beats as panic immediately set in. “Golly gee, Carey” I calmly said, “I left the gosh darn tickets on the kitchen counter.”
At 6 pm there would be no way to schlep the 60 mile round trip to fetch the tickets. Quickly, I went thru the mental checklist again.
Babysitter. Check.
Patchwork Plaid Madras Shirt + Flip Flops. Check.
Limes. Check.
Tequila. Check. Bonus points for getting Margaritaville Tequila
Adult Sippy Cups. Check.
Roadies. Check.
Directions to Parrothead Party in Parking Lot. (the RV at the end of the row between the double Texas flags and the guy in the pirate costume sitting on top of his RV). Check.
Everything? Not exactly.
A quick phone call confirmed my worst fears: our ducats were indeed on the counter, right next to the cutting board, which was still sticky with fresh lime juice. How could I forget those silly little tickets? Maybe I was thinking of visions of good times that brought so much pleasure (like the 2006 Buffett show), that make me want to go back again?
When Carey asked me what we were going to do, I said I was going to pray and that she should dial the same number. Wondering aloud whether the big man upstairs gave a rat’s ass about whether someone dumb enough to leave their tickets behind could get into the Buffett show, I optimistically decided, YES, He does. Yes, the good Lord enjoys it when His people are happy and joyful, both of which we would be if we got to see Jimmy.
Walking switfly, deliberately thru the parking lot I kept my eyes straight ahead, fearing even a single glance at the reveling Parrotheads dressed in their best Hawaiian shirts and hula skirts, would turn me into a pillar of salt, Margarita salt.
Approaching the ticket booths, the first thing I saw was a Sold Out sign. 27,000 tickets. All spoken for. Stopping to survey the options, Carey attempted to herd me to the nearest window, not realizing I was studying my options, looking for a friendly face. A compassionate face. Or even an easy mark. Whatever it took. I was waiting for some divine inspiration when I spotted the kind-looking gent behind window number four.
Explaining my unexplainable omission, he interrupted me with a one-word magical question, “Ticketmaster?” Less than 60 seconds later, two tickets magically (thank you Lord) were dispensed from the ticket machine. Carey said she’d like to hang onto her own ticket this time. I didn’t object. I was too busy taking a big slurp from my big boy sippy cup. Yum.
If you’ve been to a Jimmy Buffett show, you feel both my pain and my relief. If you haven’t been, you just won’t get it. Seeing Buffett recharges my batteries and has almost become a predictor of how the next year will pan out. Miss the Buffett show? Might be a pretty lame year coming up. See Jimmy? Everything’s going to be alright. I don’t know how to explain it. Unadulterated fun. It’s a change in lattitude that always results in a change in attitude.
Smiling now, with fellow Parrothead Dave Shaw before the show
at the show. big smiles now.
