Let us now praise famous men. In particular, let us praise Jimmy Buffett.

Unlike many who have become famous, the singer of catchy escapist tunes appears not to have made himself into the back end of a horse. On the other hand, his many fans arguably do make spectacles of themselves, as optometrists do at their office parties. In the case of the Jimmy Buffett fans, they have this thing for putting parrots on their heads.

Let me be clear: There is nothing wrong with people putting parrots on their heads, although I do not myself don any type of bird to listen to music. That's because the top of my head increasingly resembles Ayers Rock and no parrot would have anything to grab on to. Maybe I could get a cooperative possum to nestle up there, or perhaps the friendly Irish version, the opossum.

But parrots are the favored species for the Jimmy Buffett fans, who tend to be of a certain age. In fact, they are certain of their age every time they get up in the morning after a margarita-heavy night and their bones creak a bit. (I know the feeling.)

It is likely to be a common feeling after Jimmy Buffett returns to the Pittsburgh area for a concert on June 23 at the Post-Gazette Pavilion. It is a tribute to the singer's popularity that when the tickets went on sale last month, they sold out faster than it takes someone to take offense at a Reg Henry column, which is pretty darn fast.

What makes people puts parrots on their heads and floral shirts on their backs and flock to Jimmy Buffett concerts? Alcoholic beverages are involved, certainly. The melodies are bright and enjoyable, to be sure, but neither are they classic in the sense that Beethoven's Fifth or Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs' Wooly Bully are immortal.

No, Jimmy Buffett's genius is in conveying his audience to a place that we all want to be, a lotus land where the lotus eaters eat cheeseburgers. We call this place Margaritaville and it exists in the imagination somewhere around Key West, the Florida Keys and the Caribbean islands.

What makes this so appealing is that Jimmy Buffett didn't make up this enchanted place. While you can get there by putting a parrot on your head and going to a concert, it also exists in the flesh, sand, rock and vegetation out there amid the big blue expanse of ocean, just waiting for the right tide in our lives to take us.

I know. I was just there. If I had been there longer, I think I might have forgotten what it is to get up in the morning and put on a coat and tie and come into the word factory. I would have just wasted away with a goofy grin.

Unfortunately, I was away only for a week. With my wife and daughter I had the good fortune to take an island-hopping passage on the Amerigo, which is owned by good friends from Sewickley who had their 16-year-old son with them. It is good to have good friends.

Loyal readers -- and I tip my possum to all six of you -- will remember that the Amerigo was the 56-foot sloop in which I crossed the Atlantic in 2002 as part of a six-man crew, braving mountainous seas, shrieking winds and no frothing beer until we got to St. Lucia, where the local brewery put on an extra shift for our arrival.

Amerigo's captain then was a talkative Aussie and now is an Irishman from Belfast, Alan Gallaugher, who stays quietly competent, even when an incompetent hand such as myself is at the wheel.

We started off in St. Maarten, half French and half Dutch, a lovely island that doesn't know whether to make heavy sauces or grow tulips. Then we sailed to Anguilla, part of the British West Indies, where goats and chickens abound. The previous week, Jimmy Buffett had a concert on Anguilla. Parrotheads short of parrots could have put chickens on their heads. After all, a few margaritas into a concert and nobody is an ornithologist.

Finally, we sailed to St. Barts, a beautiful jewel in the French West Indies, a haunt of the Chief Parrot Himself (he has a spiffy new boat in the harbor). Style and opulence were on every side, except at the beach where the French women were so poor they couldn't afford tops to their swimsuits. I even found a great bar -- Le Select -- which serves a cheeseburger in paradise.

What is the moral and purpose of this tale, other than, you know, to make you jealous? It is to observe that the parrotheads are not the silly ones. That dishonor belongs to those of us who stay beached on this shore without any imagination or desire for fun.