When he was a young scalawag, he found the Life Aquatic and conjured his art from it, making Key West the capital of Margaritaville.
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As he sang in “He Went to Paris,” “Some of it’s magic, some of it’s tragic, but I had a good life all the way.” But in one sense at least, he was a model for how to live: Build your life around what you love.
His druggie past was not something to emulate, although he said he had no regrets. During the Covid years, he did “cabin fever Zooms” with health care workers from across the country who were Parrotheads. He was able to transport them to a beach with no cares. I went with him to Walter Reed medical center when he sang for wounded Iraq and Afghanistan war veterans. Usually, joie de vivre is a sign you’re not paying attention. He was blessed with an irresistible Southern, devil-may-care charm.
He thought of himself as a writer - not only of songs but also of best-selling books he was one of just a few to scale both the fiction and nonfiction lists at The Times. Maybe he liked reporters because he started as a journalist, writing for Billboard magazine. One night, Carl Hulse, our chief Washington correspondent, and I were out at dinner with him here - he loved to pump us for the latest info - and an inebriated woman interrupted him and declared, “You’re not Jimmy Buffett!” With that euphoric smile that could light up an arena, he pulled out his driver’s license for her. One of the few exceptions to this rule was Jimmy Buffett. Think of them as elusive, shimmering creatures from another planet. WASHINGTON - Whenever I take my young researchers on celebrity interviews, I give them the Warning: No matter how well you hit it off, don’t feel bad if you ever run into the stars again and they act as though they don’t know you.
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