Yes, I dream of Margaritaville, and I'll probably have lunch there this weekend. However, I do not dream of Margaritaville in the metaphorical sense of wanting to go there because it's fun and exciting. I actually dream of Margaritaville. Literally. Every few weeks.
It's a wonderful snippet of a false reality. This is, likely, why I, generally, prefer my dreams to my reality.
I'm entering the men's room at the Margaritaville in New Orleans, pausing to read the door. People put stuff on the door, or at least they did. It's been several years since I stopped by to have lunch and an Incommunicado. Or two. Okay, it was three that last time, and that's all I'm going to say about that.
As I push against the door, it falls open before me. Jimmy Buffett steps out, and we bump. I say, "Well, hello, Jimmy!" He pauses, smiles, and asks, "Hello, and who might you be?" I respond without thinking, "My mama called me Jimmy, and you may too."
From one Jimmy to another. I suppose those Incummunicados have residual effects. Here's the recipe.