CAROLINE'S CORNER: NEVER TOO OLD TO BE A PARROT HEAD

Several years ago when I heard Jimmy Buffett sing the words, "Mother, Mother Ocean, I have heard your call," I knew I had heard the person with the words that could transport me to the ocean in my mind when I can't go there physically. To this day when I'm too far from the ocean, I turn on a Jimmy Buffett tape and go there in my dreams.

I was not aware that Buffett had a colossal number of fans in St. Louis and that he performs there annually until my friend Sandy called me and invited me to go to Riverport with her and be a "parrothead," (the name Buffett's fans have given themselves).

Sunday night was the big performance and Sandy was already in St. Louis. At 9 a.m. that day I said to Boulware, "I'm a little nervous about getting in a traffic jam and missing the concert. When do you think I should leave?"

Boulware, always the practical one, answered, "Since I don't know how many traffic jams you will encounter and how long each one will last, why don't you leave now?"

I nervously waited until 2 p.m., and then I headed north, dressed in my Jimmy Buffett T-shirt, my parrot earrings, and with parrot pins placed around on the T-shirt.

Feeling quite conspicuous in my Buffett ensemble, I stopped to buy a hot-dog. As I drove north and took my first bite of hot-dog, the inevitable happened. The big plop plop happened, and there were two big yellow globs on my shirts and one on my linen slacks.

"Just calm down," I told myself. "Stop at the next exit and get rid of the Mustard Monster."

The days of bathrooms with nice thick paper towels are long gone. There was the typical blower hand dryer, which was no help to me in my time of crisis.

I hopped back into the car and headed north again, planning to stop at the next exit and willing a thick roll of paper towels to be in the bathroom. To no avail. I started working on the Mustard Monster with one of those thin napkins you find in most restaurants. As I rubbed, I found myself muttering, "Out, out, darned spot." After one rub, my shirt no longer had only large blobs of mustard. It had large blobs of mustard topped with particles of paper towel crumbs.

Having to face reality, I surrendered to the Mustard Monster and took him to the concert with me.

As we drove into the parking lot of Riverport, it became apparent that no one would see the spots on my clothing. They were too busy looking at Sandy and me. Out of 30,000 concert-goers, about 30 were our age, and the rest were under 25.

Since Buffett has been around since the '60s, and is about our age, Sandy and I had expected the concert to be a reunion of old Buffett fans. No such luck. My white hair looked about as strange as Newt Gingrich at a meeting of yellow dog Democrats.

"Where did you hear about Jimmy Buffett?" I asked several people who were young enough to be our grandchildren.

"From our moms," they all answered.

"Where is your mom tonight?" I asked one young girl.

"Oh, she's too old to be here," she answered. "She's at home listening to 'Margaritaville' on my stereo."

We did not let the age thing bother us. After all, these "children" had spent a lot of money to hear a man who is our age. And we have one up on them. When they get to their fifth decade, it is highly unlikely they will be able to see a Jimmy Buffett concert. He'll be in his 80s then. And who do they have now that their grandchildren will bother to see in concert in 2025?