Archives For Hot dead guys

Submitted for your approval is a new batch of Hot Dead Goodness. Today we have three Hot Dead Guys and three Hot Dead Chicks—a little something for everyone.

Huxley

Aldous Huxley

We begin with Aldous Huxley…über-intellect, philosopher, and author. Best known for his anti-Utopian novel Brave New World. Also well known for his prodigious and copious drug use. Less well known for his 1940 screenplay for Pride and Prejudice, starring Laurence Olivier and Greer Garson. Should be known best for his brooding good looks, penetrating gaze, and general hotness.

Sir Walter Raleigh

Sir Walter Raleigh

Next up we have Sir Walter Raleigh (or Ralegh, as it was originally spelled). Well known for his dalliance with Queen Elizabeth I (“Virgin Queen” my ass). Also known for his ill-fated expedition to settle Roanoke Colony in North Carolina (what kind of dipstick sends people to set up shop on the North Carolina coast during hurricane season, anyway???). Should be best known as Hot Elizabethan Studmuffin.

Our third Hot Dead Guy was chosen with Leo in mind, because I know of his fondness for hot prisoners and ex-cons.

John O'Reilly

John Boyle O’Reilly

John Boyle O’Reilly was a Fenian who was imprisoned in 1866 for his role in an Irish plot to rebel against British troops. This didn’t exactly endear him to the British, and for his troubles he got a prison sentence and subsequent transportation to Australia as a political criminal. O’Reilly escaped from prison in 1869 and made his way to the United States, where he continued to advocate for Irish independence. Now tell me you wouldn’t have enjoyed solitary confinement with this fine felon.

And now, the ladies…

Alice2

Alice Roosevelt

First, Alice Roosevelt…she was the oldest child of Teddy Roosevelt, and man, was she a piece of work. She had a throw pillow that was embroidered with “If you can’t say something nice, then sit next to me.” I mean, look at this haughty broad. You just know she’d rip you to shreds. Her forked tongue often got her in trouble and she was embroiled in multiple scandals throughout her life, but she didn’t care. Alice lived without restrictions. And she was hot.

Next, may I present Hedy Lamarr, Hollywood legend and science geek. During World War II, she devised a method of preventing radio-guided torpedoes from being jammed by the enemy: a device that would constantly change the radio frequency so that enemy equipment couldn’t get a fix on it.

Hedy Lamarr

Hedy Lamarr

She received a patent for her “frequency hopping” system. It was never used by the United States Navy, but many modern communications devices use a system very similar to it today. Hottie Hedy had beauty AND brains.

Jennie Jerome

Jennie Jerome

Last but by no means least, we have Jennie Jerome. Who??? Well, Brooklyn-born Jennie was from a well-to-do family, and being a fine specimen of female pulchritude, she had a variety of suitors. In 1874, she met Lord Randolph Churchill—the man who would soon become her husband. They soon had a son, Winston. You may have heard of him. (By the way, smart money says that Winston was conceived BEFORE the wedding of his parents…) Jennie was notorious for her sexual appetites as well as for her impossibly tiny waist (thanks to some seriously impressive corsetry). Her second and third husbands were both 20 years her junior, and she was once described as having “more of the panther than of the woman in her look.” Who knew Winston’s mom was such a live wire?  And so hot??

But first, Happy Pearl Harbor Day!  I might have forgotten were it not for Sandylikeabeach, who observed that yesterday was Pearl Harbor Day Eve.  So thanks, Sandy!  Yes, it was 71 years ago today that the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and facilitated America’s entry into WWII.  It wasn’t a good day.  Nor were the 828 days of war before December 7th, nor were the 1,347 days after it.  War sucks.

And this is a good segue to the subject of today’s post:  my Christmas list.  I would like world peace, but that seems to be a pretty tall order.  Santa’s good, but he’s not a miracle worker.  I’ll have to be more realistic.  Here’s what I’ve got so far:

  • A Tesla death ray to eradicate the idiot tourists in Manhattan.  I will not rest until New York is free of loud, intelligence-free, giant map-wielding visitors who have not mastered the art of walking in a straight line.  They’re a plague.  Like locusts, except dumber.  I’d almost rather deal with the aliens from Cloverfield than maneuver around some dipstick trying to take a photo of the tree at Rockefeller Center without any people in the way.
  • The ability to summon a perfect cup of coffee from the ether by clapping my hands.  I realize this could pose a problem when I’m at an event where applause is involved.  But I’m willing to take that risk.
  • A magic middle finger.  You have now seen a photo of me flipping the bird—it comes quite naturally to me.  I want to be able to give the finger to people and things and have them automatically behave themselves.  How cool would that be?  Next time I encounter a douchebag yattering away on his cell phone, I can just strike the pose and he’ll magically shut the fuck up.  Car alarm wailing in the middle of the night?  No problem—I’ll just stick my middle finger out the window and presto: sweet silence.  Nasty bitch giving me attitude?  I’ll flip her off and she’ll feel compelled to apologize.  As a bonus, she’ll spontaneously gain ten pounds.
  • A calorie vaporizer.  We’ve sent probes to Mars and the far reaches of the solar system.  The Hubble telescope has revealed images of galaxies billions of light years away.  We have programs that allow me to hold my phone up to the speakers to identify a song I don’t know.  If we can do cool stuff like that, then surely we can invent something that will zap the calories in a piece of chocolate cake while leaving the cake intact.  What the fuck is all this technology for, if not to better our lives??
  • This guy.  I know what you’re saying.  You’re saying, “Madame Weebles, Robert Cornelius has been dead for 119 years.”  That’s true.  However, if we can build Tesla death rays, vaporize calories, neutralize idiots with our middle fingers, and conjure coffee out of thin air, then I can’t see why bringing someone back from the dead should be a big deal.  But listen, I don’t want to be unreasonable.  Santa Claus has enough on his plate. If it’s too difficult to get Robert Cornelius, I’d be overjoyed to receive this guy as a gift instead.

Now I need to know what to get for all you guys. Kindly tell me what’s on your list and I’ll go shopping this weekend.

In honor of Bloggers for Movember, I bring you a selection of Hot Dead Mustachioed Guys for your consideration.  (Special thanks to Joe Hoover for the suggestion.)

In the Classic Hollywood Dreamboat category:

Errol Flynn, Montgomery Clift, and Clark Gable (especially for you, Sandee!)

In the Handsome Presidential Assassin category:

John Wilkes Booth

In the Ultimate Sweetness category:

Walter “Sweetness” Payton (special thanks to Mr. Weebles for suggesting this one, I forgot he had a mustache)

In the I Was a Badass Until I Got All My Men Slaughtered at Little Big Horn category:

George Armstrong Custer

In the President Most Likely to Kick Your Head In category:

Theodore Roosevelt

In the Yet Another Smokin’ Hot WWII Flyboy category:

Benjamin O. Davis, Jr.—he gets extra badass points because he was commander of the first all-black fighter squadron, the Tuskegee Airmen

In the What Doesn’t Kill Me Makes My Mustache Bushier category:

Friedrich Nietzsche

In the Cloud City Cool category:

In the I Was So Good in Bed That Queen Victoria Never Stopped Mourning My Death category:

Prince Albert

In the My Father Was One of the Most Handsome Men Ever to Walk the Earth but I Was Okay Looking Too category:

John Cornelius and his father, Robert Cornelius (inset), the Greatest of All DILFs

All of these guys would have made sure to get regular prostate exams if they existed back in their day.  Even John Wilkes Booth—he was a fanatic but he wasn’t stupid.  And you just know Sweetness got himself checked out.

So gentlemen, get yourselves screened.  I know it’s not fun but it’s no worse than anything women subject themselves to during ob/gyn exams.  Please, take care of yourselves physically—and mentally, too.  And ladies, make sure the men in your life look after their health.

For more information on Movember, please click here, here, or here.

I’ve held off on posting about this because until recently, the search terms that bring people to my blog haven’t been all that funny.  But now I have a pretty decent crop to share with you.  None of them are dirty or really demented, though.  That disappoints me.  Obviously I’ll have to increase the naughty content here to get some good keywords for next time.

I’ve cut & pasted these directly from the stats page, no editing.  Thanks, crazy Internet people!

what is the psychic word for weebles
I think it’s “Veebles.”

whats is the metaphiscal word for weebles
Wow.  I would like to peer inside this person’s head to see what prompted this question.

what does it mean when everytime u see a weeble in yur house u think of a person
This puzzles me on many levels.  What’s with the Weebles in their house?  The way the question is phrased, it almost sounds like this person sees them unexpectedly.  Do they just show up?  Because I think that would disturb me more than anything else.  Also, what person do they think of when they see the Weeble?  Is it always the same person?  Or is it just someone at random?  And do they always see the same Weeble?  I have so many questions.

how long can you be nice to someone you hate
My personal best is about five minutes.

men with massive legs
Really?  Massive legs?  Hey, whatever floats your boat.

trust no man, fear no chicks
This feels like it should be the slogan for a modern-day He-Man Woman Haters Club (you get bonus points if you know what this is without Googling it).

he is my kryptonite and like superman, i am powerless in his wake
I’m going to need to see a photo of this guy.

i think a dead guy is hot
Join the club, honey.

does alex trebek know urdu
My guess is no.  But if he does, then I’m going to need to learn how to say “patronizing fucktard” in Urdu.

why are reiki practitioners so flakey
Because we’re made with many delicious layers of butter and puff pastry.  Also, fuck you.

Unlike many of you, I am a mere mortal.  I have many weaknesses.  You know how Superman was powerless against kryptonite?  There are many things that are kryptonite to me.  Some in a good way, some in a bad way.

For instance, certain accents are kryptonite to me.  Yesterday we were treated to The Reclining Gentleman’s English accent.  The English accent weakens my knees pretty quickly.  But the accent I’m most powerless against is the Irish brogue.  I can’t resist it.  Can’t.  Won’t.  It doesn’t even matter if the speaker is male or female.  I’d pay good money just to listen to an Irish person read aloud from the dictionary or the phone book.

There are several other things that are guaranteed to evoke a visceral reaction in me, such that I am unable to resist swooning, making an ass of myself, and/or indulging in to an unspeakable degree:

  • Cute animals—anyone who doesn’t turn into a mess of goo with cute animals is probably Hitler reincarnated.
  • French fries—this should require no further explanation.  They’re delicious, greasy, salty proof of God’s existence and benevolence.
  • Carvel ice cream—for those of you not fortunate enough to live in an area with purveyors of Carvel, Carvel is like Dairy Queen or Mr. Softee, except much, much, much better.  See “proof of God’s existence and benevolence” above.
  • This guy—at this point he should need no introduction.
  • Flea markets—where you can find all kinds of crap you never knew you absolutely must have.
  • Bookstores—at least, until Amazon destroys them all, anyway.
  • Las Vegas—over-the-top decadence and debauchery at its best.

Then there’s the bad sort of kryptonite. Things that are so heinous and awful that I can’t stand looking at them, hearing about them, or being in the same room with them:

  • Disgusting holeswe’ve discussed these.
  • Roaches—Satan’s emissaries on earth.
  • Any of those interminable ASPCA and Humane Society commercials—why don’t you just waterboard me, it would be less traumatic.
  • Cottage cheese—to some, a healthy snack.  To me, a vile poison.
  • Honey—to some, a delicious topping for toast and other things.  To me, a vile poison.
  • Kevin Costner’s voice—want to send me into a homicidal frenzy?  Force me to listen to the audio from Dances With Wolves.
  • Tom Cruise—my hatred of him is even more intense than my hatred of Alex Trebek.

So how about you?  What’s your kryptonite?

You’re all still here!  Joy!

Today’s story is a little less straightforward than the last one, but definitely not less strange. It happened about a year ago.

As many of you know, I’ve been doing research for a biographical piece on my favorite Hot Dead Guy, Robert Cornelius.

Although he’s dreamy and delightful, he hasn’t made things easy for me because he didn’t leave any papers behind.  So I’ve had to cast a pretty wide net to find correspondence from him or pertaining to him.

After a while I hit a wall.  I had exhausted all of the possibilities I could think of.  One afternoon I was particularly frustrated and I sat at my desk, stewing.

All of a sudden I got an idea about where to look next.  And then another idea.  That happens sometimes.  If you give your mind time to work on a problem, it can come up with solutions more easily.  So that’s what I assumed it was.

But I became aware of an odd sensation around me.  It felt like static, but not really.  I heard a faint buzzing noise, but the room was completely quiet.  I got the impression of a hazy, bluish veil around me, but nothing was visible.  And I couldn’t help feeling that someone was in the room with me.

After another idea popped into my head from seemingly nowhere, I wondered, “What if these ideas aren’t coming from me?  What if they’ve been given to me by whoever or whatever is here?”  But that would be nuts.  That doesn’t happen except in movies and stuff.  My brain was obviously just playing tricks on me.

So I decided to debunk my own theory.  I said, “Okay, if there’s someone here, tell me something that I don’t know, but that I can easily verify.”  So there.  My brain, though crafty and wily, wouldn’t be able to fake that.  I sat quietly for a few minutes, waiting.  Nothing.  See?  I knew it.  I let my imagination get the best of me, that’s all.

But then I heard a male voice, very clearly, in my head:  There’s a church on the corner of 17th and Spruce.

This is in reference to Philadelphia, by the way.  Robert Cornelius lived there his whole life, so I’ve traveled to Philly many times to do research.  I had never been on Spruce Street. 17th Street, on the other hand, was well-known to me; it’s dotted with hotels and I’ve stayed there many times.

Aha!  I call bullshit on you, brain. 17th Street was the first street that occurred to you since I’ve been there so often.  And Spruce Street is just the first “tree” street you happened to think of (a lot of cross streets in Center City are named after trees).  But that was stupid, because I have no idea what’s on Spruce, therefore neither do you.  This will be an easy one to disprove.  You’re busted, brain, busted!  Hahahahahahahahahahaha!!!

So I pulled up Philadelphia on Google Maps and looked to see what was at that intersection.

Yeah.  This is the Tenth Presbyterian Church, on the southwest corner of 17th and Spruce.  It’s been there since 1855.

My stomach lurched as I stared at the street view photo on Google Maps.  It could have been a wild guess that happened to be correct against all odds.  But somehow I didn’t think so.

My friends, I can absolutely guarantee that I did not have this information before this incident.  I had never been at or near this intersection.  I didn’t know about this church.  Robert Cornelius was a Presbyterian but he wasn’t a member of the Tenth Presbyterian; his church was much further uptown.

Meanwhile  I still had the sensation of not being alone—the static, the buzzing, and the gauzy veil were all still there—but the energy had shifted somewhat.  Now it felt like whoever was in the room was gloating.  It had a “See? Told ya so” kind of vibe.

The energy gradually dissipated and I felt like I was by myself again.  And that was it.

I’ve had a few other visits from this same mystery guest since then, but those have felt more like someone dropping in to say, “Hey, how’s it going?” and then leaving.  Believe me when I tell you that this has all been Deeply Weird.

So who’s my mystery guest?  Is it Robert Cornelius saying hello to his #1 fan?  Possibly.  Or maybe it’s someone else who decided to lend a helping hand.  I don’t think I’ll ever know for sure.  All I know is that he’s friendly, helpful, and kind of a smartass.

So that’s my story for Part II.  I’m saving the eeriest story for Part III………

Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to introduce you to

Adolph “Sailor” Malan
   

That’s right, another flyboy.  And another fighter ace just like our friend Pierce McKennon.  Sailor Malan was a South African pilot with the Royal Air Force during World War II.

Malan began his military career as a teenager at the South African Merchant Navy Academy, which is where he got the nickname “Sailor.”  But in his 20s he learned how to fly a plane, and shortly afterwards he enlisted in the RAF.

Throughout the war Malan and his Spitfire kicked some serious Luftwaffe ass.  As part of 74 Squadron he provided air support during the evacuation at Dunkirk and earned the Distinguished Flying Cross for his bravery.  During the Battle of Britain, Malan led 74 Squadron to an unprecedented 38 downed enemy aircraft in just one day.

A fearless and unorthodox pilot, Malan compiled a list that he called “My Ten Rules for Air Fighting”—which may as well have been called “My Ten Rules for Pilot Badassery.”

  1. Wait until you see the whites of his eyes. Fire short bursts of one to two seconds only when your sights are definitely “ON.”
  2. Whilst shooting think of nothing else, brace the whole of your body: have both hands on the stick: concentrate on your ring sight.
  3. Always keep a sharp lookout. “Keep your finger out.”
  4. Height gives you the initiative.
  5. Always turn and face the attack.
  6. Make your decisions promptly. It is better to act quickly even though your tactics are not the best.
  7. Never fly straight and level for more than 30 seconds in the combat area.
  8. When diving to attack always leave a proportion of your formation above to act as a top guard.
  9. INITIATIVE, AGGRESSION, AIR DISCIPLINE, and TEAM WORK are words that MEAN something in Air Fighting.
  10. Go in quickly – Punch hard – Get out!

I believe I’m getting a touch of The Vapors just reading this.  Is it hot in here or is it just him??

Malan retired from the RAF as a top fighter ace with 32 confirmed kills.  He went home to South Africa and founded an anti-Apartheid group called the Torch Commandos, in order to “oppose the police state, abuse of state power, censorship, racism, the removal of the Coloured vote and other oppressive manifestations of the creeping fascism of the National Party regime.”  The Torch Commandos were in existence for only a short time.  But Malan remained an outspoken opponent of Apartheid government until his death in 1963.

If he had been any hotter he would have burst into flames.

It’s 4:30am and I can’t sleep. I woke up about an hour ago and have been up ever since. I didn’t get home from work until 10pm last night so I’d really prefer being asleep right now. But I’m taking advantage of the opportunity to have some quality time with the Weeblettes, one of whom is trying to climb on my lap even though my laptop is already on my lap.

So here’s a blog entry from a few months ago. Because you never know when this travel advice will come in handy.

Packing for a trip through time

Also, there is nothing good on television at 4:30-5:00am. I guess the networks feel that if you’re awake at this time, you deserve crappy programming. Unless this is their way of trying to be helpful, airing stuff that would be more likely to put you to sleep. Either way, sucks.

A quick shoutout

Madame Weebles —  June 4, 2012 — 17 Comments

I need to do another post with more shoutouts to all the people whose blogs I love (so it will be a very long post), but for now I wanted to give thanks and props to Nigel Blackwell, for writing a beautiful bio of our reigning King of the Hot Dead Guys, Pierce McKennon.

For those of you who already read Nigel’s blog, you know how good it is. For those of you who don’t, you should drop everything you’re doing right now and click on over there. Stop feeding the kid, pull your car over, walk out of that meeting, hang up the phone, whatever. Just go over there now. He has a collection of stories of badass guys and gals, vehicles that go really fast, and other assorted intrigues.

You’re still here? Why are you still reading this? Go over there now.

Many bloggers have shared their experiences with the Writing Process. The writer’s block. The procrastination. The dilemma about where to go with a plot or a character. The battle with characters who start going in directions you weren’t expecting. The back-and-forth between “My God, this paragraph is magnificent. I am a fantastic writer!” and “All of my writing sucks ass.”

I feel your pain.

I don’t know much about the specific agonies involved in writing fiction or poetry because I haven’t done either of them since college. But I know it can be slow and agonizing work. You have to keep track of a lot of things I don’t have to worry about: characters, settings, plot development, etc. I take my hat off to all of you.

My writing is historical non-fiction, which brings its own kind of hell. Not worse than that of the fiction writers or poets, just different. Some of my challenges are probably similar to those experienced by historical fiction writers or anyone else who has to drape their content over a factual framework.

For too long, historical writing had an unfortunate reputation as being mind-numbingly dry, dusty collections of names, dates, and places. Fortunately, over the past 20 years or so, many writers have admirably demonstrated that history is full of all kinds of juicy, exciting tales, complete with adventure, mystery, intrigue, and naughty bits. There are heroes, villains, dirtbags, sluts, idiots, geniuses, and hot guys and gals. And the truth is often stranger than fiction.

My particular interest is in writing about people and events that nobody’s ever heard about. Even the people I’ve written about in this blog—most of their stories aren’t often told. I like the idea of “resurrecting” people who have been lost to history. I care about them because of who they were, what they accomplished, how they lived their lives, what they left behind. I want to do them justice.

Which brings me to my challenge at the moment. See, I’m writing a biographic piece on this guy. Perhaps you remember him.

Robert Cornelius wasn’t just a dreamily handsome face rivaling that of Pierce McKennon or Rupert Brooke; he was a brilliant and innovative guy. And except for a lame entry in Wikipedia and some other random blurbs about him, there is absolutely nothing out there about him. When I discovered that he was all but forgotten, I knew I had to write about him.

As you might have suspected, I’m hugely biased when it comes to Mr. Robert Cornelius. I feel like I’m back in high school, getting all tongue-tied and freaked out at the idea of talking to a cute guy. So when I sit down to write, I get all nervous and can’t think of anything. Or I babble for a few pages before realizing that I really haven’t said much of anything worthwhile. And then I panic. Here’s a sample of the dialogue that takes place between me and my brain:

Judgmental Brain of Madame Weebles: Dude, WTF? You’re going to rewrite that, aren’t you??

Madame Weebles: Why, is it really bad?

Judgmental Brain of Madame Weebles: He’s going to think you’re an idiot. And it’s not interesting. You make him sound boring. He’ll be insulted. And you need to rewrite this whole section too.

Madame Weebles: What’s wrong with it?

Judgmental Brain of Madame Weebles: It’s terrible. It reads as if you originally wrote it in English, then translated it into Chinese, then translated it back into English. I can practically hear him rolling his eyes at you.

Madame Weebles: Okay, fine, I’ll tinker with it some more.

Judgmental Brain of Madame Weebles: Also, what the hell are you wearing? This is what you wear when you write about him? Seriously? Put on something decent, for crying out loud. Fix your hair. And maybe put on some lipstick. Wait, what is that, is that food in your teeth??

Madame Weebles: Oops. It’s a poppy seed. What does it matter? He can’t see me.

Judgmental Brain of Madame Weebles: How do you know? He could be hovering over us right this minute, thinking, “Boy, I wish a better, more attractive writer were working on my biography. Just my luck I get one who doesn’t even check her teeth before writing about me.” Do you want him to think that?

Madame Weebles: No, of course not!

Judgmental Brain of Madame Weebles: Hmmm, what’s that on your chin? Shit, woman, you’re getting a pimple. That’s it, shut it down. We can’t write like this. There is no way I’m letting you write about him when you have a zit on your face.

Madame Weebles: Um, okay. I guess.

So there it is. The anxieties of talking to a crush combined with writer’s block all in one. My palms are getting sweaty just thinking about it.

All I know is, after I finally finish writing this biography, I’m looking for someone less attractive to write about.