There are no angel wings.
Instead, Dolly Parton scoots into a drab backstage garage on her own two legs like a unicorn dream: knee-length canary yellow dress, rhinestones, more rhinestones, and a glow that can apparently turn even an industrial underground into heaven on earth.
But something’s off. Something is missing. Angel wings, I think.
Which, of course, you expect from a beaming Dolly Parton, even as she literally just stands in front of you. Her presence alone radiates her own healing power as she greets a mishmash of fans one by one, all of them basking in her shine.
Moms, dads, kids. An elderly woman in a wheelchair. Me, a gay man.