So, I’ve finally reached that weird point in my life that I swore I’d never get near. Five years at the same job, not a bad job, some nice co-workers, but mind-numbingly boring, and a career-ending dead end because, apparently, I’ve wedged myself into it with unmatched expertise with the Peter Principle. For five years now, I’ve been hoarding vacation days like a doomsday prepper stockpiling canned beans, because I’m too married to my work to leave it unattended for more than an afternoon. Finally, management stomped their loafers and forced me to take time off this year, probably worried I’d try to save all six weeks of accrued PTO at once.

So, time off. Fine. November is National Novel Writing Month. I’ll take it then, so I can get some uninterrupted writing done. I can survive nine days, right? I’ve done it before. I usually spend it down in Studio B listening to music, drinking beer, and ignoring the giant list of things I wrote down that I wanted to do around the house during my vacation. I don’t know why I got the bug up my butt to actually do something different this year. I can only attribute this to a particularly destructive bender at Eddy’s, and my friend, Steph, stealing my phone and booking the entire thing while I was in the bathroom. It’s exactly the sort of thing I would never do, but exactly the type of crime she would commit in the name of Yacht Rock, and … here we are.

Now, I admit, I am on record decrying Parrotheads as the second-worst musical fandom in existence, and I say this with all the love of a 1970s prog junkie that once defended Tales from Topographic Oceans simply on the premise of, “You aren’t a Yes fan. You can’t bash that album. Only we are allowed to bash that album.” I’m just saying, where Mr. Buffet is concerned, his fandom is no longer about his music. It’s more about tailgating, wearing ugly shirts, and inflatable cheeseburgers on your head … oh, and sunburn. So, again, it seems unlikely I would have chosen a destination with this particular theme of my own free will. I immediately posted that, should I be converted into a Parrothead, or somehow fall in love and marry one during my stay, I promise to keep it to myself out of sheer shame.

On the other hand, once I got the hang of the place, I found I really didn’t exactly hate it. First up. Wait a minute. Landshark Lager?! I love Landshark. I frequently buy that for the magic fridge in Studio B during the dog days of summer. That’s a fine Anheuser-Busch product right there. I had no idea it was the house beer at all Jimmy Buffett locations, but … okay … the guy has taste in beer. Add in margaritas priced like it’s 1977, plus the occasional friendly parrothead insisting on buying me one, and suddenly Buffett-world starts to look like an all-inclusive writer’s retreat.

Then there is the marketing genius himself. You think Gene Simmons knew how to self-promote? Buffett has him beat hands down. This man has built an empire so thorough that you could literally be born, live, shop, vacation, retire, and die entirely within the Margaritaville brand. First off, hey, I didn’t know he was a New York Times bestselling writer. I mean, it’s not that big a feat if you’re already a celebrity. John Travolta did it with a cookbook. Again, thanks to the helpful parrotheads, once they find out I was there to write a book and really didn’t know anything about Jimmy Buffet, I had a half-dozen copies of Tales from Margaritaville and Where Is Joe Merchant shoved at me courtesy of the “Joe Merchant’s Merch Emporium” right there in the middle of the resort between two of the bars. If you ever doubted late-stage capitalism’s ability to monetize literally anything, take a stroll through that magical place. Jimmy Buffett branded blenders, flip-flops, frozen shrimp, tequila, coffee, and condoms (one can only assume they are salt and lime-flavored for her pleasure).

The most surprising thing about the entire experience is that I realized I don’t actually hate Jimmy Buffett’s music, and I knew surprisingly more of it than I thought, having grown up in the world of 70s AM radio. I even got most of the “Buffett in-jokes” they had plastered around the place.

However, I did turn down the discount subscription to “Jimmy Buffett Radio.” I think there’s definitely a time and a place for Buffett music, and it’s when you’re on a beach under a palm tree. It’s like Christmas music. It’s fine when you’re in the mood, but really not something I want to hear during the rush-hour commute on a Wednesday morning. So no, not a parrothead, but not a hater either.

Seriously, though, so damned pleased I decided to take that vacation. Typing on a beach at sunrise, or in a bar while strangers cheer you on and ply you with tequila because they desperately want you to finish your novel? That’s bliss.

So, thanks, Jimmy. I’m not joining your cult, but I’m also not calling the FBI on you either. Now, if you’ll excuse me, NaNoWriMo calls. I need to stop writing this … and get back to writing that.