Notes on the delights of watching the Parrot Head migration

By SUE CARLTON
Published November 8, 2006

Last weekend, when politicians were last-minute stumping, Saddam was getting sentenced and the Bucs were going from sorry to sorrier, I was in Key West, contemplating the possibility of an Amish Parrot Head.

As you may already know, Parrot Heads are seemingly normal people, with jobs and mortgages, who happen to be unusually devoted to islandy singer Jimmy Buffett (and the zillions of beach bar guitarists of varying talent who emulate him.)

Maybe the devotion isn’t so much to Buffett as to his salty escapist theme. Forget the office, the boss, the sad, sorry state of the world. You fix us another mojito and I’ll reel in this fine fish from the warm island surf. …That kind of thing must have your average Scranton insurance agent staring wistfully out the window the minute the sleet starts to fall.

Hordes of Parrot Heads from around the country (and our own state) descend on Key West for an annual get-together. In case you didn’t recognize them in their bright tropical shirts, a few sported actual stuffed parrots on their heads. Our cabdriver, Big Al, told us they’re known for impressive charitable works, though to us last weekend they seemed focused on not spilling plastic cups of sticky-sweet drinks. Okay, so was almost everyone else in Key West.

I was there to celebrate with a friend who thought this would be a good place to turn 40. (Pretty Parrot-Headed, if you think about it.) Reading T-shirts, we identified revelers from Nebraska, Arizona, and the aforementioned one from Amish Country.

Despite sporting a picture of a straw-hatted Amish guy in a beach chair, these Parrot Heads apparently were not actual Amish — people famously dedicated to a simple life that doesn’t include a cold Corona and a handful of boiled shrimp. Anyway, how would they get those buggies through the sand?

I try hard not to be a grumpy native Floridian, even as I watch tourists stream off cruise ships like fire ants. This weekend, I appreciated seeing one of them go belly-down to get a photo of an ordinary brown lizard, appreciated when they ventured away from the safe streets of Banana Republic and Sunglass Hut.

We saw them tour the old cemetery, with its rich family histories etched on tombstones. (Best inscription: I’m Just Resting My Eyes.) Granted, some didn’t get out of their golf carts.

A table of tourists sat near us at a funky outdoor restaurant one morning, feeding scrambled eggs to the Key West chickens so pervasive they give new meaning to “free range.’’ Chickens and eggs. You don’t want to think about it too much.

More than 83-million visitors came to Florida last year, and who could blame them? What a bizarre and wondrous place. Steamy Miami seems to have nothing to do with hilly Tallahassee.

In between you can buy strawberries, fresh corn, boiled (or “bowled,’’ as some of us around here say) peanuts on the roadside.

On the way to visit my dad in rural Central Florida, I pass a rodeo ranch that doubles as a cowboy church, equal amounts roping and praying. Where else but here?

Like me, those out-of-town Parrot Heads are probably back at work, mired in phone messages and election news and dental appointments. And in between, maybe thinking about a little salt and lime.

[Last modified November 8, 2006, 06:24:13]