Return to Margaritaville
Wastin' away again in Margaritaville,
Searching for my lost shaker of salt.
Some people claim that there's a woman to blame,
But I know it's nobody's fault.
-- "Margaritaville," 1977
ONE MORNING IN MID-MARCH, I HIT THE SPEED-DIAL BUTTON AGAIN, AGAIN AND AGAIN. Finally, after 30 minutes, I got through to Ticketmaster.
"Buffett at Nissan Pavilion on June 28," I requested.
"Sorry, the event is sold out," a female voice on the other end informed me.
No surprise. As a Parrothead for nearly four decades, I knew well that obtaining a couple of tickets for Jimmy Buffett's annual show in the area was no given. I'd done the mall sleepovers, waited in line after line at Ticketmaster, surfed eBay and StubHub, and paid well more than I could afford with no regrets. I've been in the last row on the lawn, second-row center orchestra and everywhere in between. With 20 or more concerts under my belt, an autographed copy of one of Buffett's books and purchases of all his vinyl LPs, eight-tracks, cassettes, CDs and DVDs, I'd banked a lifetime of Buffett experiences. Missing one concert wasn't going to ruin my summer.
A week later, my wife, Jill, called me at my office, sounding like she'd just run the 100-yard dash.
"Guess what? You're not gonna believe this. We got tickets to Buffett."
Her girlfriend from Boston, she explained, was going out with a guy from Scottsdale who knew a guy from Palm Beach who worked with another guy from Palm Beach named Buffett. Not only were we getting tickets to Nissan, but they'd be complimentary tickets. And, oh yeah, we were getting backstage passes, too.