Wastin' away again in...a conch shell...with my ass in a lawn chair.

Gawd how I loved Jimmy Buffett.    I sank neck deep in the hot-tub of lost salt shakers and pirate dreams.  I savored the literary lines of Quixotic adventures.  I went to Paris, wearing a pencil thin moustache, ran in to a chum and ended up with one more tattoo.

Then I heard Kenny. You might have hear of him, Kenny Chesney.

Then...

Then I heard Zac Brown.

Then...

Then it dawned on me.

I had slipped into a dream.  Having been to one of the "Rocks" in the Caribbean I knew a little about fast cars and tiki bars, bartenders kissed by the sun, clear blue ocean waters.  I had experienced first hand the lure of white sand beaches and tall icy-fruity-rum drinks with little umbrellas.  So I knew exactly how this dream would end.

Yet the songs persisted.  They demanded.  They commanded ... me.  They insisted that my entire existence wouldn't be worth an ol' pickup-dawg-ex-wife song if I didn't sell everything and buy a boat.

Today is Monday.  I was able to steal an extra 10 minutes to sit on the porch this morning before resuming my real world responsibilities.  I suppose the dream is ok for celebrities who can afford to slink off to some tropical get away after a season of stadium shows.  But those extra 10 minutes are worth more than any dream.