In talking with “young people”, I’ve found out that around the age of 35 is the cut-off for having a clue what a “pop top” was. As a lifeguard on a sand beach in the early / mid 1970s, I know exactly what the little “blades from Hell” are. It was only for a few years that they were manufactured. Then aluminum-can companies realized that it was not necessary to detach the little scimitar of death from the top of the can -- you could make it so that the opener stayed connected to the can, thereby decreasing the likelihood that it was going to end up slicing open someone’s foot out on the beach. If you ever stepped on one, you know what I’m talking about.

I am going to have to work for the rest of my days. I cannot retire now because I was retired from the age of 20 to the age of 35. I wanted to retire when I was young enough to enjoy it. And enjoy it I did. Some people want to retire and open a little double-wide, redneck bar off A-1-A in Rockledge, Florida. Not me. I spent my retirement years in Margaritaville. Where is “Margaritaville”? The Old Pirate says you get to it through the bottom of a bottle of Mezcal. Personally, I didn’t find the brand name to be particularly crucial -- the roadmap still read the same way. And for me, the roadmap didn’t lead past a grocery store to buy fruit (no slices of lemon), and it didn’t lead past a restaurant (no salt poured on my hand). The roadmap just said one thing: “Drink this.”

But the day came that I had to straighten up. There were too many people who deserved more than my best, and I felt like if I gave them less than my best, I was cheating them, and they deserved better. The first thing I gave up was tequila. But when I listen to the words of songs about tequila, I can tell that the songwriter has visited Margaritaville.

Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off:




Jose Cuervo, You Are A Friend Of Mine:




Wasted Away Again In Margaritaville: