The Master of Deviation
Pink. The audience is a resounding shade of pink, their collective tint suggestive of far too much tropical sun and several rounds of lunchtime drinks. "Damn," says a fellow in one of the more ridiculous floral shirts ever created, a mélange of colors that simply do not exist anywhere in the natural world. "We look like tourists."
"That's because," his pal says, a bit too glumly for a party animal on a rippin' trip to the islands, "we are."
It's 3:30 in the afternoon in an open-air courtyard at the exceptionally well-named Point of Sale Mall hard by the gleaming, downtown cruise-ship docks of St. Thomas, in the U.S. Virgin Islands. The assembled crowd, having spilled ashore from one of the bulbous white cruise ships nearby, represents the Atlanta chapter of what has become an international string of Parrothead Clubs, whose members worship at the altar of all things Jimmy Buffett. They're on their yearly swing through the islands (during which, it should be noted, they raise money for charity), and they're more than ready to be entertained by an authentic island character.
They're not kept waiting.
For suddenly, there before them stands a rather strapping dude in dark shades and baggy Hawai'ian shirt, his Harley-Davidson mug haloed by an unruly blonde helmet, wearing a pair of khakis that look like they were last washed and ironed during the Clinton administration.
