Nicholas II: First in My Book!

In a shout-out to Kate and the glories of Russian history, I've decided to write my next post on Nicholas II. I've decided not to use the word "tsar" or "czar" in this entry, because I really don't want to have to choose. And I'd prefer not to be judged by my Russia-brilliant counterpart, who probably knows which one is a better version of the word. (I do know that this word comes from "Caesar," but that's about it.)

Anyway. My interest in Russia stems from my complete obsession with the cartoon version of "Anastasia." One of my largest pet peeves (okay, top twenty) is when people rave about how wonderful Disney is, thinking of such a film. First of all. It's not a Disney movie! It was put out by 20th Century Fox! Secondly, they actually made a live-action version of what was essentially the same film back in 1956. That one had Ingrid Bergman and Yul Brynner. The latter was born in Russia, so this actually makes sense. Unlike other films in which Brynner starred, like "The King and I."

What Russian wouldn't want to live like a Siamese king?

Anyway. Neither "Anastasia" was a Disney movie. Perhaps even more tragic than the general public's confusion on this point was the news a couple of years back that the remains of the last two Romanovs had been found, thus proving that in fact all of Nicholas II's family had been killed at Yekaterinburg. Historians have known for years that Anastasia had been among those murdered, and that her sister Marie was the one more likely to have escaped. And now we know that's not true, either.
Where was the "boy, the boy who opened a wall!" when you needed him? (By the way, Dimitri is perhaps the most endearing male character from any film, ever. I dare you to disagree.)

Now that I've spent most of my post raving about children's films, let's just talk about Nicholas II. Obviously, things didn't end up so well for him. I'd rather not get into that, because I find the idea of mass executions extremely disturbing, especially when children are involved. In any case, Nicholas worked pretty hard to be a good leader. He and his wife Alexandra wanted to do right by their people, but, frankly, how do you effectively deal with the epic wasteland of nutrient-poor soil that is Russia? The onset of World War One didn't do much to help out Russia's last royal family, either. I think it's fair to say Nicholas just wasn't cut out to rule.

But man, did he look good doing it!

And what an outfit!

Nicholas, for all his faults, was a family man. He loved buying Faberge eggs. Who wouldn't love a man that does that? And he had absolutely GORGEOUS blue eyes. Unfortunately, these are not well-conveyed in ancient sepia images.

But we're going to look anyway.

Revolution? What? I'm busy looking beautiful and bemused.

So, yeah. Nicholas II. A good-looking man who failed in his birthright, and who will subsequently be forever etched in the popular memory. (Case in point: people don't talk as much about Nicholas I. Except maybe for connoiseurs of Russia like Kate.)

As I sign off, I'd just like to add that in gathering these images, I came across the words "Anastasia" and "Disney" thrown together a few too many times for my tastes. Educate your friends, all!

Franz Liszt: So Hot He Made the Pageboy Haircut Look Good

You might be familiar with this catchy and slightly annoying tune: Lisztomania, or How Quickly Did this Band Sell Out, Eh?

It's talking about this hunk a hunk of chiseled Adonis:

Ungh. Oh my god. Look at those lips. 

Liszt was basically famous for music and being hot, although it's hard to tell which talent (?) made him more famous. He was from Hungary and seems to have gotten all the genes that exist in Hungary for hotness, which were then later reserved for the exclusive use of the Gabor sisters. Both were child prodigies, Franz in music and sex, Zsa Zsa and sisters, just, well, in sex.

    

 History will vindicate them. 

Liszt was, like way too many guys from the early 1800s, an emotional weepy pussy whose main occupation, other than playing music and staring into the distance wistfully: 

To his credit, a devastating gaze

Was falling in love with inappropriate women, which in 19th century speak, means having sex with lots of chicks he wasn't planning on marrying. He sexed Europe up so much, he has two Wikipedia articles: Franz Liszt, and The People Franz Liszt Had Sex With. Liszt got involved with princesses, countesses, dairymaids, chambermaids (all kinds of maids, really), and the barnstorming feminist author George Sand: 

Like Everest: because it's there

Now some of you may think that Danielle and I just have weird taste, but Liszt is certifiably hot. He was so hot, people literally collected his hair, spit, broken piano strings, and cigar butts, then encrusted them in jeweled settings as keep sakes. You thought I was kidding, didn't you?

Europe cannot even handle this shit

Liszt remained a sex symbol way into his old age, which I'm not going to show here and ruin your day with. He eventually gave up his wandering ways, having spent most of his youth sponging off of rich people in Europe, and instead took up the earliest form of internet trolling, writing musical reviews in which he wrote things like this:  "I find little in the works of Beethoven, Berlioz, Wagner and others when they are led by a conductor who functions like a windmill."

He also called people Hitler all the time 

All the World's a Stage, and Christopher Marlowe's Plays are on it, too!

Because I feel badly for my cop-out of a choice yesterday, I have selected for today's post a truly historical man of scalding good looks. When I think of "hotness," I cannot help but long for more than just a pretty face. Being "handsome" may be a merely physical quality; being "hot," as far as I'm concerned (and I think Kate would agree with me here) requires a certain degree of confidence. Not only confidence, but a voracious passion for whatever it is that you do. (As we know, for Keith Moon, this gusto was aimed towards drugs. And probably sex and rock and roll. But to a lesser degree than drugs.)

Yeah, that's right. I'm slowly killing myself! But I don't care, 'cause I'm hot.

Fortunately, Christopher Marlowe, our case study for today, was both brilliant and beautiful. And not, as far as I know, on drugs.

I shall don this pimped-out 16th-century frock smugly.

So listen up, ladies (and confused/generous gentlemen also reading along): who was good old Chris M.? Why, he was a lovely man born somewhere around 1564 (thanks to the Elizabethans for keeping only church records, and vague ones at that), who was stabbed to death in 1593! Wikipedia claims that Marlowe was known for his mysterious death. I'm gonna argue that there's not much that's "mysterious" about being stabbed to death. But why quibble? Wikipedia is, after all, "the free encyclopedia that anyone can edit" (according to their subline on Google search).

Indeed.

In any case, Marlowe is probably most famous for his dramatic works, rather than for his death. Unfortunately for Marlowe, he was sharing the title of well-received Elizabethan tragedian with none other than William Shakespeare. Obviously, Shakespeare was slightly more prolific and commercially-successful than his good-looking counterpart. Imagine if things had gone differently! High school might look like this instead:

I think we missed out, kids.

Interestingly enough, Marlowe is often credited with having written some of Shakespeare's works. As to whether or not this is true, we'll probably never be certain. The idea will, however, give scholars of British literature something to consider for the next century. It's not like the UK is really giving them much else to think about.

Jk, JK. I'm sure they'll be all over your next book, "Harry and Ginny go to Whitecastle."

So, yeah. Christopher Marlowe. Wrote "The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus," which turned the German legend of Faust into a dramatic work. One scene involves personified versions of the seven deadly sins romping around with Faustus. Both hilarious and heart-breaking (I don't think gluttony and adultery really get along; harder to find extramarital affairs when you've got a turkey leg shoved in your mouth), this scene proves Marlowe's creative genius. Even if he was a government spy, magician, or homosexual (all three very unacceptable for Elizabethan gentlemen), as Wikipedia suggests, I think he deserves hotness points for his writing. And that smug little smile you saw in his portrait back there. Adorable.

And that's History's Hotties for today. Next...Eleanor Roosevelt!

Only not really.

Jack Johnson: UNFORGIVABLE HOTNESS

Ok, so we can pretty much agree being black in America prior to, well, any time at all really, sucks a lot. We white folk have been lucky though, because even though our culture basically treats black people like crap, they've given us a ton of awesome stuff. Including this chunk of manliness:
   

 Um, yes please? 

Jack Johnson, aka John Arthur "I'm almost too awesome to function" Johnson, was born in Galveston, Texas, in 1878, the son of former slaves. From a poverty stricken youth in the Texas stockyards, he would eventually go on to capture the world heavy weight championship in 1908, and would face a series of 'Great White Hopes' who hilariously failed to so much as scratch the 'Galveston Giant' they considered subhuman. Johnson had 40 KOs throughout his career.

I almost feel bad for the little white guy, but you know, lynchings.

But what made Johnson so incredibly sexay was not beating the crap out of tinier human beings, but his deliberate flaunting of social mores. He founded his own night club. He smoked tons of cigars. He dressed like a pimp before it was a stereotype. He owned lots of cool hats. He verbally as well as physically emasculated his opponents, and he did a lot of drugs. And white women.

Sometimes at the same time, apparently.

Johnson had a string of affairs (and three marriages) with white women, who he then seemed to enjoy beating the shit out of, which is not so sexy, but hey. I guess they still qualify as tiny white people? Still not very admirable, but if you spent your whole life being told you were a waste of space by society, you might be a little crazy too. 

I might let a guy punch me a little if he bought me that hat. Maybe. 

Johnson's rages and abusive behavior didn't keep the ladies away, and they lined up around the block to get a chance with him. Asked about his luck with the chicks, Johnson replied: "Eat jellied eels and think faraway thoughts." 

 Oh Jack... the way to my heart! 

His libido eventually lead to his arrest and imprisonment when he took a lady friend (read expensive prostitute) across state lines. He escaped to Europe for awhile, but Europe is for pussies, so he came back to the U.S. to tell the man to stfu. That didn't go so well. While in prison, he patented a wrench.

Also good for hitting women.

Johnson also collected racing cars. Typical to his 'fuck the world' mentality, he sped frequently and illegally, once being pulled over for a 50 dollar ticket. He gave the ticketing officer a 100 dollar bill, and told him to keep the change, as he was planning on going home at the same speed. This vice, above all the cocaine, angry white people, and boxing, was what finally did him in at 68, when he died in a crash speeding away from a diner that had refused to serve him because of his color. His last wife had this to say when asked why she had loved a man so prone to basically being an asshole: "I loved him because of his courage. He faced the world unafraid. There wasn't anybody or anything he feared."

He's the guy version of the crazy hot chick, the one who burned all your clothes!

***On a more serious note, please check out Unforgivable Blackness, Ken Burn's amazing documentary on this titan of boxing history. Despite some less than admirable personal qualities, Jack Johnson was an astounding man and boxer.

Eye Candy for Valentine's Day - The Keith Moon Story

Kudos to Kate for taking the lead on this fabulous blog, as well as for her first post. She's right; I do like my men a little more rugged, but Leopold I was okay. I actually do like Byron...any man who has the pluck to wear a bizarre turban despite social trends, or to fight the Ottoman Empire just for the hell of it, earns a certain hotness quotient regardless of looks.

Check out this display of manliness.

Anyway. I realize that the subjects of this blog will be, in general, men from past epochs whose lives ended so long ago it no longer seems creepy to be chatting about their sexy jaw lines or provocative hat-tipping. However. Today is Valentine's Day, and I have no chocolate. Thus, I must subsist on the sweetness of perhaps the most undeniably attractive man who ever lived. I don't care if he only died in 1978. For today only, I will give in to my need for aesthetic pleasure and care not if I impress the readers of this blog with my historical acumen.

Who is worthy of such an honor, you ask? This sweet, sweet piece of "mandy," if you will, is none other than Keith Moon.

So much better than expensive chocolate.

So, yeah. Keith Moon was the drummer for The Who from 1964 until 1978, at which time his alcoholism led to an ill-prescribed bottle of sedatives, which led to his death. The only happy part of this story is that this chain of events led to Keith's right to be included in the blog. So I guess that's good.

Now, some might argue that there are more attractive musicians out there. What about Jim Morrison, you ask? Well, to hell with Jim Morrison! His music's great, but the only reason most women know about The Doors is because of that insanely popular poster of good old Jimbo that has made its way into college dorm rooms the world over. Don't get me wrong; he was a very attractive man. And his voice could seduce Hillary Clinton. But it's just not enough.

Keith Moon is better. His skill as a drummer is still the stuff of legend, and The Who would be nothing without him. And England would be nothing without The Who; their band logo can be found on every conceivable souvenir in London. It's even more popular than the boxers that mock the London Underground with a well-placed "Mind the gap->" graphic.

So, yeah. Keith Moon! Here's another picture (double your pleasure, double your fun!):

Look at that. Just...look! Revel.

Anyway, that's all I've got on Keith Moon. I'd talk more about him, but it'd just get depressing, because he was a pretty messed-up dude. So let's fixate on his insane drumming and good looks instead. If only I were in London...I bet you I could buy a box of souvenir chocolates with Keith's picture...now THAT would be an awesome way to celebrate Valentine's Day.

Lulz! It begins!

Hey have you ever looked at an old portrait or photo and been like damn, that person is hot?

Probably not, because people were mostly hideous before God invented decent standards for 'good looking' in the 1920s.

Well that's ok because, being freaks, Danielle and I have compiled a list of people from history who are hot. We don't always agree. Danielle likes 'em rugged, I kind of a have a thing for effete poets like Byron, but hey, we're not here to argue. We're here to post BABES.

My first contribution is this smokin' hottie:

Leopold I, hottest King of Belgium ever, possibly. Also, in before the killing people in the Congo thing. 

Leopold is hot for a couple of reasons. One, look at that fucking jaw line. He has a face like a square pizza pan. Manly as all hell. Two, look at his sexily tousled hair. You just know the artist had to hold himself back when painting that shit. Three, look at his eyes. They clearly say "sensitive but willing to fuck people up if they get in my way" without that whole "empty shell of a man who wants to  kill all brown people forever" thing his son had going on :

Motherfuckin' hates brown people

Leopold is hot not only because he was good looking and not a complete psychopath, but because he also was happily married to the rather hideous Princess Charlotte of England, who was like 18 different kinds of Hanoverian ugly (not too bad, there at least 30 kinds in totality), presumably because her personality was bitching:

 

"Just look away and tell me a witty anecdote or something." 

When she bit the dust, he did not react with glee as might be expected of the rare hot dude in the 19th century who was now free to pursue anybody from the Gallery of Beauties, but had this to say:

"Two generations gone. Gone in a moment! I have felt for myself, but I have also felt for the Prince Regent. My Charlotte is gone from the country—it has lost her. She was a good, she was an admirable woman. None could know my Charlotte as I did know her! It was my study, my duty, to know her character, but it was my delight!" 

That's a big compliment for a chick whose presumably flattering official portrait was this:

The topknot is not doing you any favors, Charlotte.

Alas, Leopold never got over Charlotte dying, and was emotionally distant with his second family, causing both this epic beard:

Perhaps a habitat for endangered woodland creatures? 

and the horrific destruction of the peoples of the Congo:

 

Yeah that's pretty much horrifying

Lesson: Don't marry ugly chicks who will break your heart by up and dying, hot men from history. Lesson learned indeed!