Amusement Tax Bemusement
If getting Knoxville a new convention center is truly Mayor Victor Ashe's
top priority, then he should be looking for every way he can to make the
city a more attractive destination for convention-goers.
Fostering the city's nightlife certainly ought to be high on the list. Yet
in a disconnected sort of way, city officials persist in singling out small
clubs that offer jazz, blues, rock and other genres of live entertainment
for a 5 percent tax on their admission and cover charges.
Except for booze, the only other line of business that's subject to such
a local tax is hotels and motels. But proceeds from the hotel/motel tax are
dedicated to promoting tourism (and presumably overnight stays) whereas amusement
tax revenues go into the city's coffers for unrestricted use. Moreover, while
most cities around these parts have comparable hotel/motel taxes, Knoxville
is the only one that imposes an amusement tax.
All of the larger halls in town have managed to get exempted from the amusement
tax. So when stellar attractions are booked at Thompson-Boling, the Civic,
the Tennessee, the Bijou or the World's Fair Park, the city doesn't get any
of the take. But these exemptions, granted in the name of putting Knoxville
on an equal footing with surrounding cities, only sharpen the competitive
disadvantage of smaller music venues like Lucille's, Manhattan's, Sassy Ann's,
the Mercury Theater and Barley & Hopps.
City officials claim they don't get complaints about the tax and doubt whether
a 5 percent surcharge is consequential to nightclub patrons or proprietors.
If the revenues at stake were consequential to the city, such defenses of
the levy might be warranted. But the vast majority of the tax's million-dollar
annual take comes from movie theaters and UT athletic events.
Nightclubs should be exempted from this patently discriminatory deterrent
to the development of the city's entertainment scene.
—Joe Sullivan
Seeing the Forest
Tennessee's state parks are in trouble, on two counts. First, as was detailed
in an excellent series of articles by Associated Press writer Marta Aldrich
last week, the state park system is suffering from years of underfunding--trails
are falling apart, lodges desperately need repairs, and lakes are filling
with run-off sediment.
Second, Gov. Don Sundquist and some legislators--in a classic case of counting
the trees but missing the forest--think the answer to the parks' problems
is more development. Sundquist, who should maybe get out in the fresh air
more, sees nothing wrong with turning some of Tennessee's most breathtaking
and pristine reserves into manicured greenways and centers of commerce.
Fortunately, there are also some good ideas on the table. The question is
whether there's enough political will, and enough public support, to push
them through.
Tennessee's system includes 51 parks that cover 133,000 acres of woodlands,
wetlands, and water. Anyone who's spent an afternoon at Fall Creek Falls,
Big Ridge, or any of the other state grounds within driving distance of Knoxville
can testify that they offer beautiful, accessible locales for hiking, fishing,
swimming, and picnicking. They're also free, which is both a blessing and
a bane. While the ideal of public lands open at no charge to everyone is
laudable, it may not be realistic. Of the eight states surrounding Tennessee,
six charge some form of entrance fee, ranging from 50 cents to four dollars.
Although Tennessee parks do charge fees for cabin rentals, campsites, and
other activities, those generate only about $23 million a year, about half
of the parks' $44 million annual budget.
The rest comes from the notoriously fickle and doggedly political Legislature,
which also has to worry about funding things like roads, schools, and prisons.
With state revenues being as tight as they have the past few years, it's
no wonder parks have ended up pretty far down most legislators' priority
lists. Parks don't create jobs, reduce crime, or teach kids to read--at least
not in any way that makes a good campaign slogan.
The best way to solve the problem is probably to take the parks out of the
political realm. That's what Knoxville's own state Sen. Bud Gilbert has proposed
in a bill pending before the Senate's Environment and Conservation Committee
(which Gilbert happens to chair). The bill came out of a conference on state
parks last year, where participants agreed the parks needed two things: an
independent funding source and an independent governing board. Gilbert's
bill would actually create the board first, a bipartisan commission modeled
on the Tennessee Wildlife Resources Agency. The board would then draw up
a master plan that would include proposals for funding, most likely in the
form of parking or entrance fees.
The bill makes sense--it's hard to imagine most visitors would mind chipping
in a buck or two at the gate if they knew it was going directly to park
maintenance. But it has one problem: "The governor's not for it," Gilbert
says, "which makes it very difficult."
Sundquist apparently thinks the parks can be made to pay for themselves in
other ways, most notably with the additions of golf courses and convention
centers. Four of each are already under development at eight state parks.
The idea is all wrong for a couple of reasons. First, it might not even work.
Tennessee already has about 280 golf courses, and several big convention
centers; how many more of either will the market support? Second, even if
it did succeed in turning state parks into "golf destinations" for tourists
or hobnob spots for conventioneers, is that really what they're supposed
to be? Thirty million people already visit the parks each year, presumably
for reasons other than putting or networking.
But Gilbert says the public fuss stirred up by the AP articles has made an
impact on the governor's staff. He's confident some long-term assistance
for the parks can be worked out, even if it doesn't take the form he has
proposed, which he acknowledges is politically dicey.
"I don't know that a bill imposing a user fee could ever pass down here,"
he says. "So if they can come up with a [funding] source that's independent
of a user fee, more power to them."
—Jesse Fox Mayshark
Laurels for Laurel HS
It would be hard to get much farther from corporate America than Knoxville's
Laurel High School, a funky brick house in Fort Sanders where a copy of UT's
1997 football schedule on the office bulletin board is covered up by fliers
for kundalini yoga classes and drum circles.
But the small private school--the only local survivor of the "alternative"
education wave of the 1970s--got a nod of approval last week from the decidedly
corporate and aggressively nonalternative offices of Wal-Mart. The national
discount store chain named Laurel teacher Margaret Scanlan one of its 1,500
"Teachers of the Year" and gave the school a $500 check for educational
activities.
"We're going to use it for cultural field trips and also on some texts,"
says Claudia White, the school's principal and only full-time employee.
The recognition is a boost for a school that has been going about its business
for 26 years with only intermittent acknowledgment from the outside world.
Scanlan, a local artist with a master's degree in education who has taught
art, poetry, and other courses at Laurel High for 17 years, says she came
to the school after two years in the public school system.
"I saw the one place where you could actually work towards the [educational]
ideal," she says. "I've seen so many people get excited about learning.
"It's people like Graham," she adds, waving to a young man with a short mohawk
and a polite grin who's just entered the school's office. "He appeals to
me. This is not an ordinary guy. He's got much more personality than an ordinary
student."
At a school with 25 free-thinking students and up to 16 part-time faculty,
rapport between teachers and pupils is easy and friendly. Scanlan pauses
several times during the conversation to greet students, admiring one girl's
10-inch-high blond hair spikes and giving an encouraging hug to another.
While Scanlan insists her award is really a tribute to the whole school,
students say she deserves the honor.
"She's really sweet, and she doesn't really criticize you or anything," says
16-year-old Anna Potter. "I took one of her poetry classes, and it didn't
really matter if your poem was good. She made you feel good just for doing
it."
"She helped me to understand Shakespeare more," adds Kirk Muensterman, an
18-year-old who commutes from Gatlinburg each day. "I never could do that
before."
As for the unlikelihood of the small school attracting the attention of the
Wal-Mart empire, White just grins.
"We're trying to use all sorts of local resources to help us encourage our
teachers," she says.
—Jesse Fox Mayshark
Time * Date * Place
An occasional series oftrue life Knoxville vignettes
A few minutes after 4 p.m., Thursday afternoon, 100 block of Gay Street:
At first, the man looks like he's talking to himself, waving his arms in
front of the window of Harold's Kosher Deli. He has a long, straw-colored
ponytail with a matching mustache, and he's wearing a white muscle shirt
and blue jeans. But a closer inspection reveals Harold himself on the other
side of the glass, pointing to a hanging sign that says "Closed." "Are you
closed?" the ponytail man asks as Harold opens the door a crack. "Yes," Harold
says, pointing at the sign again. "I can't read," the man says, shrugging.
"I never went to school." Harold pauses a moment, smiles, and lets him in.
A few doors down, two teenage girls are on their way into the club-kid Mecca
of Planet XChange. Inside, a big fan and soothing shadows siphon off the
afternoon heat, and the racks of dangling oversize shirts and faded overalls
exude their own kind of cool. The girls grab some shirts and a big camouflage
jacket and head for the dressing stalls at the back. Depeche Mode moans over
the store stereo. Outside a few minutes later, the ponytail man is back on
the street, one hand holding unwrapped aluminum foil while the other lifts
a dripping hoagie to his mouth. He's smiling.
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