The Jimmy Buffett concert was everything I knew it would be. Full of fun songs, fake palm trees, and people so stupefyingly drunk I would be amazed if they all got home ok.
We had Jell-O shots handed to us through our car window on the way in. The parking lot was a sea of girls in grass skirts and cars bearing giant shark fins. There was beer, sand, and enough pot smoke to make Jerry Garcia smile.
On the walk in to the show we saw a guy, too drunk to stand, leaning precariously on the stair rail, looking for all the world like he was about to initiate a face-first plunge down the concrete steps. His lady friend stood at the top with a drink in her hand and an angry, embarrassed look on her face.
Beach balls floated above as we listened to the "Big 8" songs and sang along and danced like tourists at a Sandals resort.
They were all there, from two year old girls in sun dresses to old men in Hawaiian shirts and scruffy beards. Two girls danced in front of us erotically, kissing each other like melting popsicles.
We had lots of fun basking in the slacker lifestyle for a few hours and dreaming of starch-white sand and electric-blue water.
And watching carefully for fins.
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