Where Ya Gonna Go When the Volcano Blows?
Jimmy Buffett. If you were born between the years 1950 and 1990, you know who I'm talking about.
All you little post-90 teeny-boppers... skeedaddle on outta here. You won't know who, or what, I'm talking about.
As a kid I grew up on Fort Myers Beach, Florida (roughly three hours south-west of Orlando). My mother was married to Al Thomas, the manager of Fish Tale Marina, on the south-end of the island. Al was your typical crusty sea captain: a leather-skinned, bearded old man with blood-shot eyes, wearing cut-off jean shorts and clutching a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in a Coozie.
He owned a massive deep-sea yacht called the Summer Love II (the original Summer Love sank in a hurricane). There were auxiliary controls in a one-man tower that would guide the ship from above... The controls were slave-linked to the manuals below; whenever Al shifted a gear or turned the main steering wheel, the corresponding gear-shaft or the steering wheel on the tower would turn accordingly. This is hard to describe, especially after six beers. Essentially he had a second set of controls on a giant one-man tower above the deck of the ship. I used to stand on that tower and pretend that I was guiding the ship while dodging emerging nautical monsters and sea-gods.
We used to take the Summer Love II to the Florida Keys and hunt lobster. We'd eat them fresh, that night, with melted butter and mashed potatoes. Occasionally Mom would take me to spend the day in Key West. I remember seeing lots of guys holding hands. I was maybe 9 or 10.
All this time the soundtrack to our lives was Jimmy Buffett. He was Al and Mom's favorite musician. I remember seeing him once or twice as a kid in Florida. There were a lot of tanned old people drinking beers and red-colored drinks in the audience. Still, out of all of Mom's cheesy music... there was something about Jimmy Buffett I liked. Even at age 10, his music spoke to me.
It reminded me of palm trees, sand, salt-water, bikinis, coconut-scented sun-tan lotion, rum, lobsters, rich old people with sunglasses. It reminded me of Florida. Of Mom. Of the girl in the Hot Pink Shorts (another post entirely).
Jimmy Buffett. I haven't heard any of his recent stuff... that is, anything recorded post '89... But he's like this strange amalgam of Hank Williams and Don Ho... a mix of gritty country twang and swaying breezy Equatorial (or Caribbean?) rum music... with a bit of Hunter S. Thompson and Jack Sparrow thrown in.
When I listen to him I crave nothing more than a hammock on a desolate beach, with a beautiful woman in one arm, and a pitcher of margaritas in the other.
And maybe a can of mosquito-repellant.
But regardless... Nothing beats kissing a girl when you're on the beach and buzzed on booze...
All you little post-90 teeny-boppers... skeedaddle on outta here. You won't know who, or what, I'm talking about.
As a kid I grew up on Fort Myers Beach, Florida (roughly three hours south-west of Orlando). My mother was married to Al Thomas, the manager of Fish Tale Marina, on the south-end of the island. Al was your typical crusty sea captain: a leather-skinned, bearded old man with blood-shot eyes, wearing cut-off jean shorts and clutching a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in a Coozie.
He owned a massive deep-sea yacht called the Summer Love II (the original Summer Love sank in a hurricane). There were auxiliary controls in a one-man tower that would guide the ship from above... The controls were slave-linked to the manuals below; whenever Al shifted a gear or turned the main steering wheel, the corresponding gear-shaft or the steering wheel on the tower would turn accordingly. This is hard to describe, especially after six beers. Essentially he had a second set of controls on a giant one-man tower above the deck of the ship. I used to stand on that tower and pretend that I was guiding the ship while dodging emerging nautical monsters and sea-gods.
We used to take the Summer Love II to the Florida Keys and hunt lobster. We'd eat them fresh, that night, with melted butter and mashed potatoes. Occasionally Mom would take me to spend the day in Key West. I remember seeing lots of guys holding hands. I was maybe 9 or 10.
All this time the soundtrack to our lives was Jimmy Buffett. He was Al and Mom's favorite musician. I remember seeing him once or twice as a kid in Florida. There were a lot of tanned old people drinking beers and red-colored drinks in the audience. Still, out of all of Mom's cheesy music... there was something about Jimmy Buffett I liked. Even at age 10, his music spoke to me.
It reminded me of palm trees, sand, salt-water, bikinis, coconut-scented sun-tan lotion, rum, lobsters, rich old people with sunglasses. It reminded me of Florida. Of Mom. Of the girl in the Hot Pink Shorts (another post entirely).
Jimmy Buffett. I haven't heard any of his recent stuff... that is, anything recorded post '89... But he's like this strange amalgam of Hank Williams and Don Ho... a mix of gritty country twang and swaying breezy Equatorial (or Caribbean?) rum music... with a bit of Hunter S. Thompson and Jack Sparrow thrown in.
When I listen to him I crave nothing more than a hammock on a desolate beach, with a beautiful woman in one arm, and a pitcher of margaritas in the other.
And maybe a can of mosquito-repellant.
But regardless... Nothing beats kissing a girl when you're on the beach and buzzed on booze...
posted by Billy at 10:31 PM
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