Well, we road-tripped to Dallas for Jimmy Buffett. Why not? Detective Sandy lives for this. It’s her annual Margaritaville fix. The concert was at Pizza Hut Park in Frisco, Texas, just north of Dallas. Frisco is like Dunwoody with cowboy hats. Sandy’s brother lives in Dallas so we camped at his house and spent a couple of days bumming around before Saturday’s concert.
Saturday’s plan was to start tailgating at 9 a.m. for a 7:30 p.m. concert. Ten-hour tailgating. I’m not that young anymore but I do remember 10-hour tailgating stories, told to me, about things that I did. They usually ended with the words “nekid” or “profusely bleeding.” This time Detective Sandy and I decided we’d take the high road (not that high road) and handle the designated driver duties. This meant the other five in our group had the green light to begin carrying the tequila torch to Margaritaville. They didn’t disappoint.
You know how when you’re not drinking and everyone else around you is, how irritating that is? This was not the case. If you’ve attended Buffett before you know that the actual concert isn’t the climax of the day’s activities. Not at all. It’s the tailgating and the non-stop sideshows that make it all worth it. Having been part of the sideshow in the past (see nekid) I thoroughly enjoyed the endless “Parade of the Clowns” all the while enjoying a big cigar and Diet Coke. (I hid the Diet Coke in a plastic cup as to not be chastised by the passing drunks.)
I counted 51 portable “Tiki” bars, 168 four-wheelers, golf carts, and any other thing smaller than a car converted to anything from the aforesaid “Tiki” bars to the infamous “Volcano” consisting of two clear plastic tubes attached to the top of the volcano where liquor is poured down the tube (painted red for the lava effect) and to the receiver, a guy who had a mullet and whom I offended when I commented on his “Joe Dirt” mullet wig before I found out it wasn’t a wig. He had a pair of cutoff jeans, tube socks, two coconuts and a hula skirt. The guy stood up and yelled “Whooooooooweeeeeeee,” then threw up and passed out.
The other version of that is the “Luge.” (You can see the Luge on my Facebook thing page.)
By 1 p.m. the clouds cleared, it got warmer, and the booze started kicking into all those hard-core tailgating commandos. (See profusely bleeding.) Have you ever seen two really, really drunk guys fight? They look like bicycle racers fighting. Slap-slap-slap-slap.
By 5 p.m. it was getting uglier. Of the five in our group, three were missing and the other two forgot the three missing folks were with us so they don’t miss them. They kept saying they wished they could have been there. We kept telling them they were here—somewhere. Detective Sandy and I left again to tour the parking lots. We counted 37 portable toilets that were by now mostly ignored by the guys in coconut bras and hula skirts as they just peed where they stood.
We counted about 15 helium-filled inflatable dolls soaring overhead like small pornographic blimps. There were over 32 golf carts and other small vehicles with signs that read “Show Me Your Boobs.”
As we made the rounds, we realized that from what we could tell, a good deal of these folks would probably never see the concert.
By 7 p.m. we were back at ground central and now only missing two people. We headed for the line and found the line was really, really, long—over a quarter-mile from the gates. It would take an hour or more to get to the gates. The only way to get inside before the concert started would be to cut in line. As adults, we believe in doing what’s right even if it means standing in line.
Five minutes later we were walking in the gate having cut right in line up front. (We forgot that almost all were cross-eyed drunks who had no clue who the hell was coming or going—booyah!)
My mission had been accomplished. Detective Sandy made it to the start of the show and once again the planets had aligned and tranquility prevailed. About forty-five minutes into the show, the others in our group more or less found their way in—like lost cattle, walking all the way down the aisle and then back up—and then down again before they realized where we were. I would have called out to them but I wanted to see how long they would keep walking up and down.
Many, many people ran amok that night. It was like the “Running of the Bozos.” Personal hygiene took a second seat to tequila-drenched “I love you baby” and all across the parking lots as the after-concert phase-two tailgating commenced to the tune of “Why don’t we get drunk and”—well, anyway, I thought about all those inflatable dolls and wondered if they were going to be okay.
Even if Jimmy Buffett isn’t your cup of tequila, make the trip to Lakewood next spring and check out the sideshow. It’s a good dose of pure and all natural mindless entertainment!