The
Swan Ball issue of
Nfocus has hit the stands, which reminds me I need to follow up on my June adventure to Nashville with a proper Swan Ball post.
This year was the 50th Swan Ball, and accordingly there was much pomp and plenty of circumstance. I was invited to the ball both as guest and writer, and for a time was going to try to pull double duty as a columnist for Nfocus and an escort for my recently widowed mother. This was the first Ball without Dad, and Mom really considered not going, despite how much she loves the Ball. But as the 50th anniversary, she was being honored not only in her role as past Co-Chair, but also four decades of tireless service to the Committee. I'm glad she went, and we did get to spend some fun time together even though I was not her escort for the evening.
I always look for an able to write about when commenting on the Ball, but there have been fewer and fewer ribald incidents the farther removed I am from the "young people" making them. That, and now that the stories I do hear wind up in print, I rend to hear fewer stories.
This year, as the golden anniversary, I really enjoyed chatting up past Chairmen, most of whom are close friends of me or my mother, and getting their favorite memories of San Balls past. It was amusing to note that sometimes their most
remarkable memory may not be their
favorite memory. Many thanks to Betty, Nicky, Em and of course Fran for their recollections. My write up of these anecdotes,
The Swan Ball at 50: We Should All Hope to Look This Good, is on Nashville stands now and online. (The new
Nfocus Web site is completely jacked but at least you can link directly to this article if you click. The print edition, unfortunately, features a typo in the first sentence and it is still grating on me. The web version appears clean.)
So other than
brief mentions before, here's the story not in the magazine:
So... Aretha Franklin was the dinner entertainment for this year's ball. Sure she's a diva...correction... she's THE diva, but I thought for sure as such she must have a sense of humor about her iconic status. When I heard that Aretha was performing, and that my brother Mac, one of the two live auctioneers for the night, was going to be introducing her, I could only think of one thing:
Yeah. Aretha. Hat.
Mac needed some schtick for the introduction, and to announce after her performance that the next round of auction items were up for bid in the loge, and he turned to me to brainstorm. Again, all I could think of was this:
C'mon.
The inauguration hat became a freaking
meme for heaven's sakes.
Consider:
So, crafty little snark bucket that I am, I whipped up this for Mac Friday afternoon. Not bad if I say so myself:
Let's compare side by side.
Apologies for the self-indulgence, but it
still cracks me up.
James told me tonight that he showed the pic to his friends, and they thought it was great. They also thought it was the size of a broach—something small he could wear pinned to his tailcoat. Oh
hell no. I totally
Beach Blanket Babylon'ed this shit.
As it turns out, part of Aretha's rider is that you cannot introduce her or say her name. Seriously. Her own people do that. So neither Mac nor Jeffrey really introduced her. And good thing he did not wear her hat as apparently she did not find any of the evening amusing and was terribly difficult to work with. But hey, she is THE diva and she has well earned it, so no love lost from me.
But all in all, after reports of those who coordinated with her, I am glad she never saw my hat. I'd be a bit afraid of what her people might have done to me.
But for the rest of us, it was hilarious. We ere concerned that a room full of wealthy white Republicans may not have gotten up nearly to watch the black Democrat be inaugurated as President of the United States and thus would not get the joke. We also dedided that if only a dozen people got the joke, those would be the people we were playing to anyway. This joke was for them. Our people. PLU. Right. On.
And yeah, the PLU loved it.
You can tell by the crowds of people around Mari-kate that it was well past Everyone Else Has Already Left O'Clock. We rocked the hat a bit late in the night.
Grey Goose was one of the sponsors, but the bartenders were told not to pour from the hundreds of bottles of the L'Orange as those were just for show. Ultimately, my peeps came through for me and the spice did flow.
Normally I leave the lime if asked. Once they started adding the twists, it was a helpful way to keep count of how many I had.
Four drinks, four limes... but there comes a time when there are so many limes there is no more room for vodka and you have to start over. One, two again... Just sayin'.
Other special highlights of my Swan Ball night:
Spending time with one of my all time favorite people whom I rarely get to hang with: Whitney Daane. And her awesome shoes.
Visiting with Drake and Christina Jarman, who was wearing the gown custom designed for her husband's grandmother for the very first Swan Ball.
Partying with the fun kids, like the always adorable Emily Bond (I love to tell people that her father's honest-to-God name is James Bond. Which is in fact honest-to-God true.) Only she would bring such an awesome beaded clutch to the bluest of blue blood formals.
Recognizing the surreal inherent in such an event. Like this auction item that went for many thousands of dollars: A Special Swan Ball Edition Browning Citori 12 Gauge Shotgun. Seriously? Someone is going to feel all manly and superior to his buddies showing off the Swan Ball shotgun in the duck blind? I suppose it's a collectors piece, but honestly. This was one of the best
WTF!? moments for me that night.
Dancing with my amazing mother:
(And coming home past four in the morning to find her in a dressing gown in the kitchen eating White Castle. Come
ON that's awesome.)
I do have to say the highlight by far came far into the night/early morning, in meeting and dancing with a pleasant surprise.
Entirely unexpected at the Swan Ball. Right On indeed.
