Hurray for (Dollywood, Tennessee)

Dollywood is 15 miles and a world away from Townsend, Tennessee. Guiding Fritz on the twisting mountain pass separating Townsend tranquility from down home Dollywood, I wasn't exactly stoked about my visit.

Truth be told, I've never liked Dolly Parton's voice. While her high-pitched vibrato-heavy warble is undeniably distinctive, so is a chainsaw.

Sure Ms. Parton's an excellent songwriter and a thoroughly decent human being. But eye-eeeeee-eye will never forgive Dolly for enabling Whitney Houston's interminable version of I Will Always Love You.

Hang on. I promised my ex-wing leader I'd inform this blog with examples of the good, the worthwhile, the positive.

Heading down Pigeon Forge’s six-lane superhighway of tacky tourist traps, I reached an inescapable conclusion: keeping faith with my positivity pledge required a major reset.

And Then I Got High

"It's made from decarboxlated THC-A.”

The budtender answering my question about her weed’s legality assumed I had a Caltech chemistry degree and/or a subscription to High Times. I disabused her of both notions.

"It's a good buzz," she summarized, no doubt not for the first time.

I don't think Chiquita Banana's down with a blunt named after their cash crop (Musa sapienturn or "fruit of the wise men").

Nor do I expect Kamala Harris to excoriate Apothaca for price gouging. (Six bucks for a micro-joint? Geddowdaheah!)

Two observations that elicited a blank stare, for some reason.

Working 5 to 7

After toking-up on a side road, I turned into Amusement Today's "Best Park in the World" Golden Ticket Award winner 2023.

Settling into a surrealistically empty extended golf cart, I was prepared to surrender myself to the 78-year-old country music singer's cash cow.

Savoring the shade and the gentle breeze blowing across the parking lot, I was mellow yellow. Right until I saw security.

Not a good time to be pocket-carrying a Ruger LCP.

Three hours 'til closing. Half-an-hour to stash my gat. A concealed carry conundrum to drive a chemically altered blogger crazy if he let it.

Maybe I did. Riding a wave of adrenalin, suppressing images of incarceration, I flashed my police badge.

Success! I got as far as writing FAR on the waiver – promising not to go on any rides lest my gat go flying – when the cop-in-charge learned I wasn't active duty. Back to the world's longest golf cart.

By the time I finally entered Dollywood, I was seeing things. Specifically...

Funnel cakes, cinnamon bread, ice cream, kettle corn, chocolate and a kid carrying a bucket of something pink that may have been cotton candy. Drinks rivaling Starbuck's Caramel Crunch Frappuccino for their health benefits.

The THC-A didn't trigger the munchies, thank God, and I didn't see anything tacky enough to buy in a post-modern ironic kinda way. Although I reckon Jeff Koons should immortalize a pink, Dollywood-exclusive, flower-bedazzled kids’ cowboy boot.

Dollywood's architecture was an extended riff on Disney's idealized Victorian Main Street. I kept expecting to see a Lady and a Tramp. Instead I saw whales and their sugar-crazed calves.

The faux-faced structures not contributing to America's obesity epidemic were busy liberating cash with Chinese-made chazerai and tshotchkes.

Gunless though I was, I had no desire to hop aboard a ferris wheel, roller coaster or log flume.

As far as I was concerned, I'd paid my $22 parking and $92 admission fee to commune with Dolly's musical legacy. So I high-tailed it to a bland building punning on Dolly's glittering wardrobe.

Behind the Seams, the official Dollywood museum, was an unimpressive presentation of Ms. Parton's impressive career. While the video clips, outfits and gold records were, um, there, most of the hagiography took the form of photography.

Visitors gave the black-and-white images sporting matter-of-fact captions scant notice, accustomed as Americans are to computer-generated technicolor pizzaz. There was very little excitement, no reverential remarks and zero actual genuflection (I was tempted).

The tour ended in an empty hall with images of Dolly's self-narrated life story crawling around and popping-up on all four walls. Projected via a projector. A slide show writ large. IMAX de minimis.

Not a single visitor lingered more than a minute.

Returning to the unreal world, I discovered I'd arrived too late for the live gospel theater concert. So I hustled my ass to the theater offering One Night in Memphis.

And here's where I must pause to tell you a story...

A Bridget Too Far

After picking electronic cotton for Massa Ted Turner for four long years (deal with it), I left CNN and SuperStation WTBS to run Atlanta's Creative Loafing. I was the weekly “alternative” newspaper’s Managing Editor.

Bridget was my Deputy Editor.

Only a welder can imagine the sparks flying between us – unless you've seen early episodes of Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd in Moonlighting.

One night, Bridget and I were alone in the office setting type (ask your grandfather). The dam finally broke. It wasn't as hot as the gold particles fired-up by the Large Hadron Collider, but the metaphor isn't entirely inaccurate.

Ever the gentleman, I stopped short of consummation. I suggested we celebrate our union in a more romantic setting. Jump in the car, go to the airport, fly to Boston, book a luxury hotel and buy fresh clothes there – if we needed them.

When we arrived at Hartsfield-Jackson, a plane was boarding for Boston that minute. We bought tickets and literally ran down the jetway to the airplane. Honest-to-God, the door was just closing.

I rapped on the metal. The stewardess opened the door and...

"I can't," Bridget demurred.

And that was that.

Takin' Care of Business

Flash forward to Dollywood. The door was closing on the last One Night in Memphis performance of the day the second I got there. I literally jumped through the doorway as the show began.

I was rewarded by the best rockabilly band imaginable.

Six talented performers riffing on the legendary December 4, 1956 Sun Studios jam session. A singular event that became known as The Million Dollar Quartet (back when a million dollars was a lot of money).

It wasn't an exact recreation of that meandering musical get-together. It was a greatest hits replay of the songs immortalized by Carl Perkins, Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis and Elvis Presley. Played immaculately. Enthusiastically.

The Elvis imitator absolutely nailed the salacious moves Elvis performed at the start of his career, captured on rare videos and film decades before fat Elvis' overblown, drug-addled Vegas performances.

Watching the cod Memphis Flash bump and grind and smile and glower and croon and howl was living history. You could see how and why Elvis Presley changed the course of American culture.

Tryin' to Make it Real Compared to What

How One Night in Memphis ties-in with Dolly Parton's career is anyone's guess. The hideous song above is the closest the Locust Ridge native ever came to singing an Elvis song.

An interstellar distance IMHO. Still, props to Ms. Parton for giving Dollywood visitors 50 minutes of something real.

Think of it this way: no matter how good an amusement park, at the end of the proverbial day, it's amusing.

Music touches something deeper, embedding sensory memories that just won't quit. Especially when it's performed live.

Dollywood RIP?

Ms. Parton's park lacks Disney and Universal's technological pizzaz and IP-tie-ins.

At the same time, Dollywood's sky-high-prices are taking their toll; I'm reliably informed visitor numbers have decreased dramatically.

One can't help but wonder if Dollywood is, like its inspiration, like all of us, heading for the big sleep. The question is, will Ms. Parton's appeal survive her passing?

Elvis' Graceland remains a major draw long after the King's death on the throne. But his mansion is a minor enterprise compared to Dollywood

Equally, The King's music and life story retains its trans-generational power. Will Ms. Parton's catalogue have that same post-mortem staying power?

As you might have guessed from my intro, I'm not the best person to make that call. But the fact that generic happy music greets guests at the entrance to Dollywood is not a good sign.

One Door Closes

My Bridget-related near-miss taught me the truth of the old adage "When one door closes, another opens."

My flame's decision not to board that plane opened the door to... the rest of my fascinating not-to-say-turbulent life. Right?

If and and when Dollywood is no more, something else, somewhere, will replace it.

For me, nothing will replace the memory of seeing an Elvis imitator bring the Memphis Flash to life, eliciting screams from women in the audience.

Or that one clear moment with one of the funniest, sexiest women I ever met. Just sayin'...