Parrotheads

They have no shame.  Especially the men.  I will give a shout-out to the men who, either of their own accord or under pressure from their women, donned their Margaritaville Hawaiian shirts to attend tonight's Jimmy Buffett concert at Bethel Woods.  (Full disclosure:  even I wore a rather subdued Hawaiian shirt, although my companions did not.)  But the true Parrotheads, the ones who were quite primed after their tailgating parties, went way beyond colorful shirts with palm tree decor.  And it wasn't just the head ornaments . . . the parrots, cheeseburgers, and shark fins . . . that identified one as a Parrothead.  Grass skirts were seen aplenty.  In fact, some wore grass skirts on their heads.

But the men wearing the parrots on their heads, the grass skirts, AND the coconut-shell bras were the ones that got the attention!  (The more modest of these men chose smaller scallop shells for their bikini tops.)  After thanking the Universe that my male companions did not attire themselves this way, I thought more about the men who do.

(And before I go any further, let me just clarify that there are many, many female Parrotheads similarly attired, maybe more than their male counterparts.  But women have never really had a problem displaying their feathers, so it was not that surprising to see them in full Parrothead regalia.  So my post is more about the men.  Is that okay?)

While it would be easy to dismiss the decorated Parrotheads as crazies, nutcases, idiots, whatever, perhaps there's another way to look at it.  A man would have to have quite a lot of confidence to display himself so colorfully.  Or better yet, he would have to possess a certain attitude, one that says, "Hey, I'm here to have fun.  Got a problem with that?"

And fun was evident throughout the evening and the venue!  Jimmy promoted it, celebrated it, was energized by it.  Now it may be true that a lot of the spirited fun was a result of the plastic cups full of an amber liquid (and I said a silent prayer that there were designated drivers among the revelers), but the music, the colors, the giant screen displaying beaches and palm trees behind the Coral Reef Band . . . it would be hard not to have fun in such an environment.  (Although I could have done without the beachballs constantly bopping me on the head.)

So, sure, tonight I fell in love with the Parrothead culture.  And if I never experience it again, that's okay.  Because, you know, if you ever see me wearing a cheeseburger on my head, just shoot me.