Imagine the absence of any generational gap, the meshing of all socio-economic classes and radiant smiles on all drunk and sober faces. Is this heaven? No, and it’s not a deserted baseball park in the middle of a corn field. Welcome to a Jimmy Buffett concert.

The vast array of Bermuda shirts, grass skirts, bikini tops and coconut bras (predominately found on men) could not detract even the most standoffish of Buffet fans from chipping in for some overpriced beer.

Jimmy Buffett has cornered one side of the market by providing, in the simplest of terms, “paradise on earth.” In his new book “A Pirate Looks At Fifty,” Buffet writes “I’m not that much different than anyone else, though I did choose at an early age not to conform. I have never calculated this career in any way, shape or form. I just went out there and basically did my job, and was happy that people would actually pay money to come see me sing.”

The result of just doing his job has been a massive dose of carnival spirit in his songs, writings and especially his concerts.

As I stood in awe of this music legend, I forced my eyes to continuously scan the crowd. Grandparents could be seen grooving their hips to the music next to high school kids. The crowd seemed to set aside their stereotypes and differences to be hypnotized by the music.

Prior to the concert, thousands and thousands of fans had gathered to tailgate in the parking lot of the World’s Theater in Chicago. Parrot Heads, comparable to the Wisconsin Cheese Heads, could be seen stumbling from group to group, reuniting with friends from earlier stops on the concert tour.

One particularly obnoxious shirt- wearing man approached me with the simple question, “First time?”

After my confession, evident due to my drab clothing, the self-declared Parrot Head filled me in on the levels of a Buffet fan.

1. You start out by simply knowing he sings a couple of your favorite drinking songs, “Margaritaville,” “Cheeseburger in Paradise,” etc. You may even know the words.

2. You own the greatest hits collection and know that his last name ends in two T’s.

3. You own the box set, his book and have attended a few concerts.

4. You declare Buffett as God, attend any concert within a 10-hour driving radius and live your life following the lyrics of his songs.

5. You renounce Buffet. You label him a sell-out. You realize that he is not the beach bum he was long ago and despise the fact that he owns several homes, including one in Key West and Long Island, an apartment in New Orleans and a ranch near Orlando.

6. You accept that times have changed and simply love his music and the attitude that surrounds it.

Before entering the stadium, one person, obviously a non-believer in the Buffet power, leaned over to me and asked, “Do you think he ever gets sick of these crazy fans? He is over 50 years-old.”

Once I saw Buffet on that stage, the question of possible fatigue was not even given a second thought. His court jester-like stage presence, range of dancers, colorful stage background and head-bopping music is unparalleled to any other artist of his generation. Jimmy Buffett may sing about wasting away in Margaritaville, but in real life he never wastes a minute. Unlike most of us, his work also happens to be his play.

I’ve already started looking for a shirt with a Buffettesque flair for my next experience. It may not be heaven, but it is the closest I’ve found so far.

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Ellyn Peterson is a senior in journalism and mass communication from Algona.