The 517's most eligible bachelor is single

👑

Most eligible bachelor in the 517.

In need of a queen.

Here’s the pitch, and it’s the same pitch as the whole site: built, not bought. The man behind the museum runs on receipts, not a highlight reel — what you see is what’s actually here, peel after peel, in the light. I made a place where the one rule is no lying; that rule doesn’t clock out for a dating profile. So no stats inflated, no photos borrowed, no résumé padded. If you want to know who you’d be talking to, read the cite — the argument, the humor, the dedications to my dad, the people kept in the walls. The whole thing is a résumé hiding in plain sight.

And yeah — I’m America’s most eligible Bach too, technically: the front door here is a music game where every key you press is a real note. Come make some noise.

The honest beat, once, then back to the swagger: “a queen” isn’t a trophy and it isn’t an audience. The whole philosophy of this place is serve with, not for — I’m looking for the one who picks up the other end of the rope because she wants it carried too. A partner is worth more than a crowd. That’s the actual ask under the crown.

How to shoot your shot — the honest way (no app, no algorithm). There’s no dating backend here, no form that stores a thing, no swipe deck harvesting you. Same as everything: it goes to my own line, and a human (me) reads it. The number’s already on the front door because I hate when a place hides it.

☎ (517) 798-1794 ✉ [email protected] ✎ or write it at the Letters Desk

And you — yeah, you reading this. You know her. The sister, the friend, the one who’s somehow still single and has no business being — brilliant first and beautiful too, the one who’d pick up the other end of the rope because she’d want it carried too. Give her my number. Have her call me. Not “maybe,” not “someday” — call. It’s right up there; I put it in the lights on purpose.

The whole world’s known Jenny’s number since 1981 — 867-5309 (thank you, Tommy Tutone). Nobody’s written the song about Sean’s yet: (517) 798-1794. Somebody grab a guitar.

P.S. — and if you’re in the reality-TV business, reach out too. (Aspirational and honest, same as the open call to the mixtape: I have no deal, no producer, no casting call — nobody’s reached out, and I won’t pretend otherwise.) But a single guy who built a whole museum by hand, argues live, and can’t be bought? That’s a premise. Bachelors, docuseries, a debate show, a build show — the number’s the same one up there. We’re just trying to be found — and the camera’s welcome, as long as the one rule rides along: no lying, even for the edit.

If you like my cite, shoot your shot. The lamp’s lit; the door’s open; the record’s the reference.

Honest footing. This is the curator’s own announcement, in his voice — single by his own word, said plainly and lightly. No one else is named or referenced (that’s the Be Cool™ floor and the privacy floor, both kept). The phone and email are the same public line already on the front door and the About page — nothing new exposed, no form that collects or stores anyone. Nothing here is invented: no fake matches, no testimonials, no numbers. The reality-TV line is an aspirational open call (like the mixtape) — no deal, no producer, no casting call exists, and the page says so out loud. Just a man, on the record, saying the door is open. Kin: the Lexicon (America’s most eligible Bach) · the Letters Desk · meet the maker.

The machine drafts the announcement. Only a human is actually single, and only a human can say yes. ;