Not for Sail (Townsend, Tennessee)

Back in the day, my friend Josh set me straight about hotel check-in procedure. “The room they give you? It’s only their first offer. Have a look then ask for something better."

The Tally Ho’s initial offer: a corner room overlooking Tennessee Highway 321. A small space adhering to the great American tradition of no-tell motels. You know the drill…

A line of identical rooms with chairs out front for guests who want advance notice of an arriving meth dealer, along with immediate automotive access, should they need to blow town.

Tally Ho! What’s the tally for a 'ho in this town? Not that I'm in any shape to host a lady of the night.

Nor is Townsend the kind of place you'd associate with lowlife. It's a family-friendly agglomeration of motels, cabins and RV parks at the foot of the Smokeys.

Townsend offers access to motorcycling nirvana (e,g., the Foothills Parkway) and Pigeon Forge's garish parade of Hillbilly "attractions" (e.g., Dollywood and the Hatfield & McCoy Dinner Feud).

Townsend’s also a good place to recover from the ravages of the flu. An affliction that’s laid me limbo low lo these last two weeks. So, door number two....

Building E, Room 254, is Swiss chalet-style accommodation situated well away from the road. The balcony provides soporific views of the surrounding Smokies.

Bonus! The tourists have tally-ho’ed home for the start of the school year. Leaving a flu-ridden writer in peace. Pieces? That too.

On the positive side, I’ve lost all the weight gained during the last three months. And while I almost regurgitated the Riverstone Restaurant's $17 eggs, bacon, biscuit and hash brown breakfast, I reckon I'm on the tail end of the bug that swore it wasn't COVID.

An illness that helped me set a new non-writing record. Broken here and now, informed by yesterday’s semi-feverish visit to the Gun Owners of America (GOA) convention, a block away from the Knoxville Hilton.

Back to the Future?

Despite founding The Truth About Guns (TTAG), I wasn’t going to go. I haven’t fired a gun in years, never mind crusade for Americans’ natural, civil and Constitutional right to keep and bear arms.

But there I was, smoking a cigar outside the hotel with a serious thunderstorm approaching. As was Frank, a seriously burly gun guy dressed in a polyester American flag button-down shirt, firing-up a death stick.

Frank introduced himself as the man behind The Range Report, a blog/podcast/YouTube channel/social media gun thing. As I prodded the New York native to reveal his viewer stats, the heavens opened up.

Driving rain, massive wind gusts, booming thunder and cracking lightning drove me closer to the door, under the Hilton's drive-up archway. Frank stood his ground.

“It’s refreshing,” he demurred with a crooked smile.

Surprising myself, I offered to help Frank level-up.

I'm sure it had something to do with Frank's bushido. His righteousness, courage, benevolence, respect, honesty and loyalty to "the cause" in the face of his work’s singular not-to-say spectacular failure to catch fire.

More than that, I missed TTAC's massive audience.

In the years since selling the site, I've often felt like Marlon Brando in On The Waterfront. The scene where the washed-up prizefighter tells his fight-fixing brother "I coulda been a contenda!"

Truth be told, I was a contender. Hell, I was a champion. Sure but – should I go back for the future? Or listen to Bruce Springsteen’s Glory Days until I come to my senses?

No matter how successful my return to the firearms freedom fold might be, reentering the fray could be an ego-driven abdication of greater creative ambition.

As I pondered withdrawing my offer or letting it lie fallow, Frank told me he was speaking at the GOA convention. Needless to say, I couldn't let the mystery be.

DGU FTW

The GOA Convention is a miniature, open-to-the-public version of the SHOT Show, the epic Vegas gathering attracting 60k gun industry and media types.

As expected, Knoxville's GOA convention was mostly peopled by Old Fat White Guys busy browsing guns and gear. Or listening to lectures from right wing speakers bemoaning the loss of conservative values at the hands of left-leaning gun grabbers.

Frank had the misfortune of presenting in a huge hall immediately after a headliner (homeschooling advocates John and Rebekah Lovell). The room more-or-less emptied. Frank's intro was a boilerplate defense of defensive gun use. And then...

If you don't have time to watch the video, here's the kicker: Frank was in Utero when his father, an off-duty New York cop, used his gun to save his mother, a waitress, from being murdered by robbers.

As my new painter friend would say, huh.

There Goes Rhymin' Simon

Townsend has a five-mile sidewalk and bike path off either the side of the highway. I've been walking both to regain my strength. Giving myself the time and mental space I need to consider my post-peregrination plans.

Dilly dallying to the Tally Ho, I spied a landlocked, overgrown sailboat (top of this post). It reminded me of the Paul Simon quote I used for my High School Year Book.

You got to drift in the breeze

Before you set your sails

Oh, an occupation where the wind prevails.

Before you set your sails.

Drift in the breeze.

I doubt my parents read the entry. "Drifting" was not their preferred modus operandi for a first generation American. For anyone, really.

I chose the text as an FU to my Prep School's career-driven drones. Looking back, I don’t think I fully understood the import of my choice.

While I was never a ski bum (i.e., a priapic Peter Pan), my life has vacillated between drifting and sailing, drifting and sailing.

No points for guessing where The Ridiculously Random Motorcycle Tour fits in that template. Bonus points for figuring out my next move. If you do, that'll make one of us.

After wrestling with this virus, my greatest hope is that I have the health and strength to make the most of my passion. Passions? Oy.

Anyway, if Frank wants my help, my help he shall have. As for the Wandering Jew existential angst thing…

I like to remind myself that while our planet is locked in a predictable, life-sustaining orbit around the sun, our entire galaxy is drifting through space.

How great is that?

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