a Jimmy Buffet concert: wildest party of the summer

A maroon 15-passenger van barrels down a four lane highway towards Philadelphia and follows the sign reading “Last Exit Before Bridge”. The van wasn’t headed for Philly, better yet, Camden, NJ, the location for the wildest party of the entire summer, a Jimmy Buffett concert.

Inside the long, dark red bus-like vehicle were 14 sweaty people dressed mostly in unbuttoned flower print shirts, shorts and flip flops. Four people were sitting on coolers filled with Corona, Coors Light, Yuengling, Amstel Light, and also some sandwiches and a few trays of cheese, to be eaten with the several boxes of crackers strewn somewhere inside this mess of eager folks, party supplies and booze.

Those fortunate enough to place their asses on a bench seat were sitting over folding chairs, a fold-out tarp, another case or two of beer, and a box with a mix of goodies: honey roasted peanuts, tortilla chips accompanied by salsa, and the biggest bottles of Jose Quervo, Captain Morgan and Smirnoff Vodka money can buy.

The van flew down the back roads of Camden, anxiously approaching the destination. Inside, another two beer bottles was tossed underneath the seat as Tim and Frank cracked open two more. “I think I’ll have a Yuengling this time,” said Frank. He was on his fourth. “We’re going to be late!” someone hollered.

“We’ll be fi ne, it’s only 1:45,” the driver replied. We had wanted to be there almost an hour ago. Now there was a line to get in and park. $15 dollars to park.

Thousands were already there. Blue, white, green tarps could be seen all over the parking lot. A yellow moving truck was parked with the back open exposing speakers that were at least 4 feet tall. The reggae music rang out. On the far right, some people lounged in a small baby pool in the back of a pick up truck; how appropriate for this hot July day.

Frank and Jeff, with beers in hand, took a walk to scope out the scene of the parking lot. The cloudless sky allowed the sun to beat through onto their sweating bodies. Sunglasses are a must.

A group of concertgoers made a bar that looked like a huge pirate ship. It was 9 feet high, at least 15 feet long and it was painted flawlessly. It was obvious that the creators were totally proud of their constructive capabilities. They were being interviewed by Philly’s NBC station. A few strides away, a group of people, probably in their late 30’s, stood around chatting with red cups in hand. Nothing out of the ordinary, except that they were standing on a patch of beautifully green grass in the middle of a hot, black parking lot. They had actually brought in sod to the tailgate for the Jimmy Buffet concert.

Of course, it wasn’t long before the unforgettable tune was heard in the distance, and the line that everyone can sing approached. Across the parking lot, voices cried out, “WASTING AWAY AGAIN IN MARGARITAVILLE!” Some nearly screaming.

The concert wasn’t scheduled to start for another 5 hours, yet the parking lots were full. No one else was allowed in. They began putting people in the lot designated for the minor league baseball team, a block down the main strip. Where the maroon van had parked was jumping with silliness.

Small water guns were filled with tequila and Tim shot the girls in bikinis as they strolled by unsuspecting. Hey, it was a good conversation starter. “Hey!” one girl nearly yelled with an angry tone. “Hey, how you doin’?” replied Tim, as he stood up and offered them a drink. You didn’t have to mention that it was Jose Quervo in the gun unless they noticed it wasn’t water. By the time the “water gun with tequila” phenomena died down, 5 or 6 people looked like the got in a fight with a fire fighter trying to put out a blaze. But water, no way, viva tequila!

The excitement grew as the hours of partying passed. Similar to Deadheads - the loyal followers of the Grateful Dead - Parrot Heads are the devoted fans of the long-running star Buffett. And they were hungry for some “Cheeseburger in Paradise.” Buffet, 57, had a new album out called Meet Me In Margaritaville: The Ultimate Collection. Released in 2003, it features some classic favorites like “Cheeseburger in Paradise”, “Fins”, and “Why Don’t We Get Drunk (and Screw)”. But, this double disk album also has new songs such as “Everybody’s Talkin’” and “Sail on Sailor” with new recordings of “The Captain and the Kid” and “He Went to Paris”.

The sky turned from hazy blue to bright red as the sun began to set behind the tall buildings of the Philadelphia cityscape. Crowds had diminished in the parking lot and moved like cattle in the direction of the venue. It was a 10 minute walk from the main parking lot party.

Outside the entrance, Frank – a 5’8” 21 year old Italian guy – recognizes a former fellow employee of his. The 300 lb. black man was selling straw hats for $4 and he instantly remembered the little guy and yells “Frankie!”

Frank hustles over. The huge man grabs him and completely lifts Frank off the ground, bear hugging him and fl ailing from side to side causing Frank’s legs to swing back and forth like a limp piece of rope. The group bought five hats off the guy, and casually cruised into the concert wearing their new straw hats that stuck out 6” in all directions. No eyeballs were poked out, luckily.

Pandemonium brews inside. Thousands of people of all ages cram into the outdoor concert venue, and the overpriced beers continue to flow: $11 for a yard of Yuengling, 6 bucks for a 16 oz. Many had been drinking for 8 hours when Buffet and his band took to the stage. Someone fumbled to stomach a pretzel to soak up some of the intoxicating liquid in their gut. Then the drunk dancing began immediately following the first notes. The crowd was loving it. Buffet and his boys played two sets, both about an hour or so long, closing the night with their signature song “Margaritaville.”

The maroon van again was packed with people as it fought its way out of the traffic jam in the parking lot.

Eventually, after getting a little lost in downtown Camden, the van and its throng of drunkies found its way to Cooper Hospital where a not so sober lady was being treated for a broken wrist. She declared she was shoved, but she had been drinking all day in the sun at the biggest party of the summer, the tailgate for the Jimmy Buffet show.

spin it with fear

I can only assume that to justify something that is so completely unjustifiable one must turn to fear tactics. And fear is certainly a very powerful tool, especially thanks to American life over the last, say, five or six years.

The “logical” way to morally justify prying into someone’s private life is just start throwing around words and phrases like “aiding terrorists” and “9/11”. It is perfectly legal and acceptable for the US government to eavesdrop and spy on those known or suspect to have terrorist intentions WITH A WARRANT.

This system was set up decades ago in order to permit the government to keep tabs on those “bad guys” while maintaining the integrity of our laws and constitution. From what I’ve read, the superior court who approves and disapproves these warrants that allow the government to spy on people has only given the thumbs down for a handful while giving the green light for hundreds of thousands.

This is where there’s an issue with some people. It does not seem incredibly difficult to take the necessary steps in order to obtain a spying warrant, so where’s the problem? Why scrap a law that was put in place about 30 years ago just out of the blue? Serious damage has been sustained by America by way of terrorism, namely the destruction of the WTC back in 2001. This would at least encourage a more stringent plan for thwarting terrorist, which I am in total support of across the board. We don’t need another 9/11, that’s for damn sure. But I don’t like the fact that George W. Bush and his cronies basically decided they didn’t need to get approval for spying. It was okay now that Americans have suffered a substantial loss at the hands of terrorist. If fingers are pointed (which they were after all this eavesdropping and spying business went public and flew to the forefront of our society) just play the 9/11 card.

It seems to me, and many others regardless of political or professional association, that whenever the Bush administration is put under any kind of scrutiny they spin the situation to make it appear as though those criticizing are anti-American or pro-terrorist. After all, it’s so easy. “What? You don’t approve of the US Government spying on Americans to detect terrorists? Then what are you hiding? If you aren’t with us, you’re against us and therefore a terrorist.”And so goes on the black and white, cut and dry views of our unparalleled leaders. Personally, I have nothing to hide from the government wishing to spy upon me. I’m not planning to blow stuff up or kill anyone. Just not my bag, baby.

So why does the thought of knowing that my government can (or has!) eavesdropped on my phone calls or emails bother me so much? HELLO!? It’s a very unnerving feeling knowing that the hierarchy I live my life under has such power and control.

The government just asks that we trust them to make the right decisions on who to listen to and who to ignore.

Trust? Trust an administration led by a President who’s dubious victory to gain office has been followed by years are deception and deceit? I’ve always thought that the Bush administration has had America by the balls and just continues to squeeze and squeeze.

For some reason, people don’t mind.

Republicans are using this extraordinary fiasco to their advantage… somehow. I find this amazing. If you disapprove of any practice by our current administration you are automatically un-American. If you’re against America, you MUST be a terrorist. Hey, not everything is so black and white.

Fear has become so ubiquitous in the last few years; I don’t see it subsiding until we find a president dedicated on a return to normalcy. That is, granting that the “global struggle against violent extremism” is over. Which it won’t.

Damn, I don’t have any answers.

gas station attendants

New Jersey is unique in countless ways. I’ve spent enough times away from the haunts of the Garden State to know that this place is full of nauseating nuances; enough to drive foreigners (and I’m talking about anyone not born and raised here) to the verge of madness. It’s the jug handles and the lame-o drinking laws – what’s the 10:00 p.m. closing time of liquor stores all about anyway?

But one thing makes me love this state that I’ve called home my whole life: gas stations. Today the wind chill is in the low twenties or high teens. The sun is shining in the crystal clear blue sky but the hard-blowing wind is quite literally a “harsh reminder” that winter is here, baby. No doubt about that.

Next to the stupid little red light reminding me that my trunk is ajar (that has remained on since late October when that dumb f--k hit my car) is the little orange light. It has a nice glow to it, but is a reminder that it’s time to fuel up my busted ride.

The light had been on last Saturday night when I began my drive to Sea Isle City. I stopped into a Shell station, rolled down the window and said, “Eight dollars of regular, please. Cash.” I let loose an anxious/embarrassed laugh. Eight bucks was all I had in my wallet and I was trying to save myself from a 12 dollar surcharge from Commerce when my checking acct. dips below $100. “I’m going for broke here,” I said and the gas station attendant didn’t respond. Either he can’t really speak English or he just doesn’t feel like talking to some asshole driving a baby blue ’94 Accord with a busted rear end. About 15 seconds later the pump clicked signaling it’d pumped eight dollars worth of 89 octane fuel. I’m ready to roll. “You’re not broke until you move out on your own,” or something like that said the nice man who took my eight dollars. I laughed. (How did he know I still live at home with my parents?)

Today was similar, except two dollars more. I pulled up to a Sunoco and whipped out a crisp 10 dollar bill and followed my request with a “please”. Again, it was only about 15 seconds or so before the pump clicked. I thought about how this old man must be freezing his ass off sitting outside on a day like today. I handed over the bill and said “thank you;” he replied with a sincere “you’re welcome.” I smiled, turned and wished him a simple good day or something polite like that. The nice old man with the grey beard and cheap black gloves wished me the same. He was probably someone’s grandfather, or else he’d probably make a good one. He seemed really nice.

It then occurred to me that this guy, despite his obvious upbringing in another country, could empathize with a guy who’s driving a beat up car and getting 10 dollars of gas when it costs $2.27 a gallon. He probably knows what it’s like to not be able to fill a tank of gas. He probably can imagine a situation such as my own when spending 30 bucks on gas isn’t practical on a particular day. Not that I’m broke on anything, it’s just that I’m trying to be frugal with my money until my next paycheck b/c I tend to spend a lot right away and then just be careful with the rest until the next payday rolls around. I don’t see anything really wrong with it.

And just like the guy at the Shell station, the nice, old Sunoco worker understood a young guy who is coughing up only eight or 10 bucks to put enough gas in their car (that’s certainly seen better days). They seem to be empathetic, like a starving artist who attends an art show to see a bunch of pieces of shit hanging on the walls. They understand situations; good or bad, we’ve had them all whether our art is done with a brush or a buttons that read 89, 91 and 93.

Okay I’m stretching in saying that button on a gas pump are some form of art. And maybe I’m giving these gas station attendants a bit more credit than is due. But it’s amazing how small, seemingly meaningless encounters can prompt a story.

first "real" blog...?

I've written thousands of words on a myspace blog, but I recently realized that myspace is small time for someone who takes pride in their writting (from time to time.)

So, a toast to new beginnings, in the blogging world at least. Drink up, baby.