Public Service Announcement
As a faithful and voyeuristic reader, let me thank you for the often entertaining and always stimulating glimpses into your life.
But you have stumped me this week. Either I don't get out enough (life on the farm is kinda laid back, as the late John Denver informed us) or I'm just hopelessly out of touch (they're really about the same, aren't they?) , but I have no idea what a "spinner" is.
And believe me, I want to know. [Reality Truck, Feb 7.]
Since one of your editorial responsibilities is informing the readership, could you please tell me, in as explicit terms as you feel comfortable, what is a spinner?
Just give it to me straight, and eliminate any possibility that my private embarrassment at being so uncool could become public if I am ever confronted with such a person and not know it. It hurts to have to ask, but you know they say the only stupid questions are the ones you fail to ask. "They" are, as usual, wrong, but it sounds cool, doesn't it?
So, Ms. Editor, having created this confusion, it is your duty to clear it up. As Johnny Cochran might say, if the need is real, you must reveal. Thanking you in advance
Editor's Note: Since this is the 17th query we've received on the subject, we feel compelled to answer, as delicately as possible.
So here goes, "Dear Penthouse Forum, Longtime reader, first-time writer."
Some say it's a height issue. Someone else wrote in that it goes back to an episode of 'Ally McBeal' (which made me kinda queasy).
But if you are one, you know it.
This time last year, I wrote, "I have the best job ever," as hordes of tall, good-lookin' bachelors traipsed in and out of our offices - cheerfully submitting to endless photos shoots, interviews, and rigorous background checks.
(And, of course, inseam measurements. HEY. We had to fit them for tuxes!)
Although I'm normally sequestered in a small, dimly lit cave in a remote corner of the building, I suddenly found endless excuses to lounge around the conference room, the coffee pot, and the water cooler - as did all the staff.
It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it..
The end result was the first annual Bluegrass Bachelor issue, followed by our first annual Bluegrass Bachelor Auction - ably organized (last year and this) by Ace project director (and associate editor), Eloise Campbell Longenecker.
It would never happen without her.
She was obviously either a drill sergeant or a sorority president in a former life.
(Her husband also deserves a shout-out for being such a good sport - not to mention his willingness to carry kegs.)
Our goal was to raise both money and - most importantly, awareness - for Woodstock Animal Foundation, in support of low-cost spay/neuter programs, adoption, and animal rescue. They will be the benefiting charity again this year.
Nearly everyone in the building had adopted a rescued animal; I have two; and this is a cause that's very near and dear to our hearts.
Last year's event was a big success (a sold-out crowd). Everyone made some new friends and had a good time.
(Helpful hint: stuff your pockets and purses with your business cards; you'll probably run out.)
The only complaint was that the venue was too small, so this year we have relocated to ArtsPlace (the Auction will take place in the auditorium that formerly housed Actors' Guild).
We are also piggybacking our event to begin at 8 pm, after Gallery Hop - as part of our ongoing commitment (as corporate citizens of downtown) to get people to come downtown, and stay for an entire evening of entertainment.
For the women, there's the obvious lure of 10 certifiably single men in one room (and 20 if you count the bachelor alumni from last year, who have graciously agreed to bartend for us). Not to mention all the buddies they'll all be bringing along for moral support (heck, some of them had to bring in emotional reinforcements just to get through their photo shoots).
And the draw for the men?
Well, it's obvious: a building full of women (and only ten men available for Auction). Do the math.
To quote one of last year's bachelors "it takes a nation of millions to hold us back," and it takes about that to put together an event like this one. (You'll see the list of just a few of the many, many, many fine folks who helped us out on the ads - and that's to say nothing of the countless volunteer, staff, and intern hours that go into putting this together. Yes, that was the Executive Director of Woodstock - on her hands and knees with Murphy's oil soap - scrubbing the floors after last year's auction, while the rest of us collapsed in the kitchen.)
But most of all, thanks to the Bachelors.
This year, as last, they restore my faith in men.
To a man, they are smart, funny, successful, and attractive - and yet, completely devoid of the slightest hint of ego or conceit.
And if you think they look good here, wait'll you see 'em in their tuxes. I kept volunteering to assist with the fittings, "so, dress right, or left?" I'd ask helpfully, brandishing my measuring tape. But then Eloise would boot me back upstairs.
That's why I'm bringing my checkbook on Friday night. Because I've been assured by Eloise that there is NO such thing as an "employee discount" - and it is for SUCH an irresistibly good cause
All we ask is: go easy on 'em.
They're nervous enough.
There was enough anxiety backstage at last year's event to put the Miss America pageant to shame (minus the cattiness, but including the repeated requests for reassurance, like "does my butt look big in this?")
But they look great, and they are great (at least as far as we could tell from the background checks).
It's Valentine's Day this week, so this is the time of year we hear a lot of complaints about how all of the good ones are taken.
Well, we've got ten specimens that say you're wrong.
You've just got to look in the right places.