Margaritaville

As you may have heard, Jimmy Buffett passed away on Friday. He was a legendary singer-songwriter, undoubtedly most famous for the song, “Margaritaville.”

I knew he was a very successful individual, financially speaking, but I didn’t know until this week that his net worth was estimated to be a billion dollars. That’s a lot of dollars.

He parlayed the song, “Margaritaville,” into an absolute empire of a lifestyle brand, which now includes tortilla chips, cookbooks, RV parks, blenders, pool floats, casinos, slip-on shoes, pickleball paddles, drink mixes, retirement communities, patio furniture, hotels, salsa, various frozen shrimp meals, at least one cruise ship, and of course, the Margaritaville restaurant chain that spans the globe. I mean, my goodness, the word “Margaritaville” doesn’t even flag your spell check!

In case there is some scenario involving a time machine or interstellar space travel you’ve endured that has prevented you from ever hearing the song, “Margaritaville,” it’s a heartwarming tale about a man who has been spending some quality time away from home, drinking delicious frozen cocktails, playing his guitar, eating delicious shrimp, every once in a while discovering that he has gotten a new tattoo after a few too many of the frozen drinks, and slowly coming to the realization that he is the one to blame for his failed relationship.

It's a great song with a catchy tune and it’s fun to sing along to with your friends. I never thought too much about it past that until I heard a stand-up comedian describe it as the most depressing song ever written.

Now, obviously, you might argue that there are far more depressing songs out there. Anything from an opera where everyone dies would be a natural trump card to the relatively tame, “Margaritaville.” Or anything by the Doors. There’s a lot of material to counter the claim. That is, until you put it into context with Jimmy’s empire.

In the song, we are led to believe that our boozy hero is somewhere tropical, or south of the border. The refrain that we all love to sing along with is, “Wastin’ away again in Margaritaville, searchin’ for my lost shaker of salt…”

On the surface, it seems to be an almost enviable situation. Leaving all your worries behind on some tropical beach somewhere. When Jimmy Buffett wrote the song, Margaritaville was just an idea. An unknown destination. A far-off paradise.

But that’s not where Margaritaville really is today. Thanks to his incredible marketing efforts over the years, the destination is no longer unknown, and the stand-up comedian might just have a point. “Wastin’ away again in Margaritaville” takes on an entirely different tone when the lyrical scenario is playing out in the parking lot of a shopping mall in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.

RIP, Mr. Buffett. Thanks for all the great songs.

And this sweet pickleball racket with the parrot on it.

Cheers,

-Smidge

 

Copyright © 2023 Marc Schmatjen

 

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Eggnog?

Yes, it’s that time of year again, when the debate rages around the yule log, merry and bright – is it eggnog or egg nog? One word or two?

While you argue amongst yourselves, I thought I’d share my foolproof recipe for this traditional holiday beverage.

Ingredients:

6 large egg yolks

3/4 cup sugar

2 cups milk

2 whole cloves

Pinch cinnamon

1 cup heavy cream

1 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg (lightly packed)

1-1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract

4 egg whites

Your favorite bourbon whiskey

Instructions:

Gather together all the ingredients except the bourbon, and find a large saucepan. Throw all of the gathered ingredients into the trash and use the saucepan to defend yourself against anyone attempting to give you eggnog. Pour the bourbon over ice and enjoy with or without regular Coca-Cola. Your choice!

Eggnog, as the name explicitly states, contains eggs as a primary ingredient. You are not Rocky Balboa. Eggs are not a beverage. They are meant to be eaten with bacon and used to make cookies and cakes. They are basically snot until cooked, and therefore it should be obvious to anyone not to drink them.

Eggnog was invented long ago during a horrific drought and ensuing bourbon shortage, by some very poor, very uneducated peasants. They got bored with the straight cows’ milk and did something unspeakable – added raw eggs to it.

When the drought was over and people heard about what they had done, they tried to save face by pretending it was a good idea and adding bourbon to make it a “festive” holiday drink. In reality, they were just trying to get drunk and forget they were drinking eggs.

Let’s not perpetuate this horrible mistake onto another unsuspecting generation. Stop the madness. Keep your children safe. Tell them to just say no to nogs of any kind.

See you soon,

-Smidge

 

Copyright © 2022 Marc Schmatjen

 

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Crypto-cartography

You probably woke up this morning wondering, “What wacky geographical oddities can come from the accidental or purposeful intersection of cryptography and cartography?”

Am I right?

Of course I am, and the answer is quite obvious: Point Roberts, Washington.

If you are not familiar, I will give you a few minutes now to look it up on Google maps…

OK, you’re back, and you obviously just said to yourself, whose idiotic idea was that?? Was the guy drawing the map drunk?

The answer is, probably yes. (And also, The Tipsy Cartographers would be a great name for a rock band.)

No matter the sobriety level of the map makers, after the war of 1812 they created a goofy little puzzle on the upper left corner of Washington, but couldn’t quite put their collective finger on the glaringly obvious answer.

 

British and American map meeting:

OK, so about midway across Minnesota we’re gonna stop following the rivers and just draw a straight line across this sucker on the 49^th parallel, and boom, we’ve got ourselves a border.

What about Vancouver Island out in the Pacific? That line will go straight across the middle of it.

How about we make the line angled and squiggly once we get into the water? The British can have Vancouver Island and the U.S. will take the San Juans? Cool?

Cool.

OK, great work everyone. Let’s go have some more beers.

 

A month later:

Um, we have a little situation out in Washington. We checked a little closer, and the 49^th kinda cuts off a little piece of what should totally be Canada, right up here in the corner, see?

What the hell, Roberts? You drew the line. What were you thinking?

Sorry, sir. We didn’t know that little point stuck out so far. But it’ll be an easy fix.

Nope, Nothing we can do now.

Um… all I have to do is squiggle the line a little sooner.

No can do.

But nobody lives there, yet. It’s less than five square miles.

Nope.

Um… so the plan is to have a small American town that you literally can’t leave by road unless you go through Canada?

That’s exactly what has to happen now, Roberts. We’ll pretend we planned it. No other way around it.

But there is a very easy way. Like I said, I can just…

Roberts! You’re being insubordinate! Just for that I’m going to name it after you, so you’ll always remember your failure.

Um… yes, sir.

 

A month later:

Sir?

What is it, Elm?

We have a little situation in Muskeg Bay in Minnesota…

 

See you soon,

-Smidge

 

Copyright © 2021 Marc Schmatjen

 

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The Bay to Breakers

We live near San Francisco. That is to say, we live far enough away from it that our house didn’t cost five hundred thousand dollars per square millimeter, but close enough that we can drive there in less than two hours. A short drive into San Francisco is a great way to escape the United States for a day. If you haven’t been, you should really consider keeping it that way.

I take that back. San Francisco does have two redeeming features. For reasons unknown, Mike Rowe lives there, and the Giants play there in one of the best ballparks in the nation. I have no idea where Mike lives, but if you can get across the bay bridge on I-80 before the many construction errors and omissions cause it to fail and drop into the water, and make a hard left after you finish thanking the Lord that you made it across, and duck into AT&T Park for a day game, you won’t regret it. Just don’t get lost on your way out and accidentally wind up in ANY other part of the city.

If you do get lost and venture more than three feet in any direction from the baseball safe haven, do not leave your vehicle, unless you enjoy “aggressive panhandling.” This is San Francisco’s cute term for verbally abusive and violent bums. Don’t want to give up a dollar? Well then be prepared to be followed for a few blocks while the nice man provides you with your own personal obscenity sound track. If you visit enough parts of the city, you can get that soundtrack in over thirteen different languages.

Looking for tips on the proper way to shoot heroin? No problem. Just visit any one of the city’s numerous parks. I would suggest Golden Gate Park, since it’s the largest, offering over one thousand acres of helpful drug addicts and prostitutes. Yes, prostitutes, too. Want a hooker with your smack? You’re in luck. San Francisco is the Amazon.com of prostitution; you name it, they have it.

In keeping with this proud city’s complete lack of any sort of moral code, this past Sunday they ran the 102^nd annual Bay to Breakers.

From the official website:

San Francisco’s Bay to Breakers is the oldest consecutively run annual footrace in the world, a staple to the City by the Bay since May 1912. With a starting point near the San Francisco Bay, a few blocks from The Embarcadero, the 12K race runs west through the city and finishes at the Great Highway where breakers crash onto the Pacific Coast’s Ocean Beach. A quintessential San Francisco experience for 102 years, the race is interwoven into the fabric of the city and is a true reflection and celebration of life between the breakers and the Bay.

Now, I assume that in 1912, it was an actual race, but in 2014, it is anything but. Actually, it is a lot of butt. The Bay to Breakers had devolved over the years into nothing more than a drunken, naked mosh pit. It’s sort of like if they held Burning Man on your street. Excessive drinking and rampant nudity – everything you look for in a good road race. Any other city in the free world would choose to go one way or the other with it; actual road race or huge all-city beer garden orgy; but the City by the Bay is still pretending it’s a real race while completely unable to control it. The San Francisco city council is the government equivalent of the parents who first tell their child no, then immediately cave when the kid throws himself on the floor in a fit. Except, in the city council’s case, they never said no in the first place.

The race starts only after everyone has successfully blown a 0.19 or higher on the Official Bay to Breakers Breathalyzer. As a convenience, the course is extremely straight, not unlike some of the participants. This minimizes the amount of runners who get lost on their way west. I think this year over one third of all the starters actually found the Pacific Ocean. On a map. Days later. The course conveniently heads straight through the heart of Haight-Ashbury, so if you’re low on hash or plastic rainbow beads mid-race, you can refuel. The crowd of runners then continues on through Golden Gate Park, where many of the park’s inhabitants wonder, “Oh man, is this a raid?” The race ends at the ocean where you must cross the finish line completely naked and immediately blow at least a 0.23 or higher on the Official BtBB in order for your time to count. If you cannot do this, beer bongs are provided until you qualify.

If you were not already familiar with this “quintessential San Francisco experience,” please DO NOT Google any images of the event. You will not be able to un-see what the internet will bring you. You have been warned. That being said, those that are unaware of the “nature” of the race - as it were – will be very misled by its website. I would urge the Bay to Breakers webmaster to update it as soon as possible.

One glaring error I found from the FAQ’s:

Is alcohol or other substances allowed on the race course?

Absolutely not. All alcohol and other illicit substances will be removed from the race course immediately. The person with the item will be ejected from the event and is subject to arrest.

This was obviously cut-and-pasted from a real race’s website. I think what they meant to say was, “Of course, but only if you’re naked or in a ridiculous costume, and only if you share.”

There are too many other errors and deficiencies to name here, not the least of which is the front page copy I shared earlier. I assume by “celebration of life” they obviously meant “graphic public how-to demonstrations on how life is so often created; drunk naked people.” And I hope, for San Francisco’s sake, the website is also wrong about the race being “a true reflection” of life in the city. They are in worse shape than I thought if that’s the case.

I will never know, however, since I will continue to maintain my two-hour perimeter, here in the safe zone, where we leave our reasonably-priced homes to run our road races sober and with our clothes on. Crazy, I know.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2014 Marc Schmatjen

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