Guilty Pleasure # 278: Historical Nookie

Having always been an English history buff, I've spent countless hours gobbling up any theatrical accounts of my family history (especially where royalty, intrugue and cool costumes are involved).

And though it reddens me to admit it, I've recently become a bit obsessed with the Tudors on Showtime. Now, I know what you must be thinking: "Johnathan Rhys Meyers shirtless for 1/3 of the scenes, and that cute guy from the Count of Monte Cristo to boot? Really, V. Sell it to someone who'll believe it."

(The CoMC, by the way, has been my favorite book/film of all time since I was like eleven/since the movie came out, respectively. And it could also be argued that I am simply following the tails of male... er I mean tales of male exploits that involve some random hotties. Like Jim What's-his-face, who played Edmond Dantes in the film version. Rawr. But that is simply not true. Besides, modern historians have no way of determining whether Dumas was hot anyway, so that point is moot.)

The point that I'm trying to make is that history is awesome. But one only has to spend about fifteen minutes watching the History channel on a given weekday (unless it's Pirate Week...giggidy!) to know that the topic is easily and most often represented in the most boring fashion imaginable. I must therefore praise whoever the person was who first thought it might be a good idea to combine actual historical events--especially the ones that were, in fact, quite steamy) with sexy young actors who don't mind exposing, I mean illuminating, the true story of Henry VIII--with a resounding "Woot Woot!". Because anyone who's studied knows that, like many famous males, the thinking machine which motivated this great leader wasn't necessarily located in his brain.

Excerpt from the Manuscript

This is a brief peek at the book I'm working on. This is why you never hear from me:

Somehow, everyone reaches that point in their lives where they realize one very profound and important truth: there’s only so much schnitzel a person can eat. Unfortunately, Elsa—God love her—refused to stop bringing me food until I could convince her that I was once again capable of feeding myself. Back home, this wouldn’t have been a problem. I could’ve just jogged on down to the Grower’s Market and picked up some fresh fruits and veggies and presto: a salad would magically happen.

But Elsa, with her German Voodoo Magic, had somehow figured out my deepest and dirtiest secret. I absolutely cannot cook worth beans. I’m serious. I literally do not even know how to heat up beans from a can. Not that I would want to, because beans are gross.

In Vail, this presented a serious problem. Because, in Vail in the middle of winter, there aren’t any Grower’s Markets, and everything within Vail’s tiny—and horrifyingly expensive—grocery store that was even remotely easy to prepare (besides cheese and bread) was of the “instant food” variety, which meant that it was packed with processed chemicals and preservatives. Which, though delicious, are prone to cause weight gain and subsequent death in lab animals. Not to mention depressed twenty-something women.

This left me with only about thirty restaurants in the area that made whole meals to go—most of which were four-star caliber restaurants where a single plate was, yikes, upwards of forty quid. The other options were bars-slash-restaurants that came complete with huge crowds of people.

Being a newly committed hermit as I was, I found myself struggling between a desire to not die of starvation and an almost stronger desire to not meet any new people, ever again.

Machine Gun Nelly and the Midterm Massacre

My life in acadamia can be compared to the sounds of a 1920’s gang massacre. At first, it starts out quiet. Civil. Pleasantries are exchanged, yet there is an almost audible tension in the air. Somehow, you know that chaos could erupt at any moment. Only the slightest provocation is necessary.

It begins with an unintentional slight to someone’s pride. It could be a shuffling of the feet, or an absence of an important member that gives the other party a feeling of unease. Someone starts to think that maybe this is a setup. Guns are quietly cocked in readiness. Maybe it’s paranoia, or perhaps an innate sense of inevitability. Whatever the case, it’s only a few moments until someone loses their calm.

A step to the right, the clunk of a chair as it hits the ground. Voices still, and then explode into harsh cacophony as everyone clamors to shout instructions. Everyone has their own idea of what’s going on, and they each think that their plan is the best. Standing in the middle, directly between the two groups, a single member stops. Confused, shocked and unsure. She doesn’t have the experience to formulate her own plan, and is suddenly uncapable of separating one voice from the horrible chaos.

Stumbling around turned chairs and dodging careless bullets, she tries to find a way out. There are so many sounds at once. They hit her like friendly fire, confusing her perception. Her exit is barred.

Suddenly, the rattle and crash of machine gun fire stops. Both sides seem to be at a standstill. Crouched next to a large table pockmarked with bullets, she is forced to decide. Should she make a run for it? If she tries, will she be torn to pieces by the battling organizations? Should she wait it out and risk becoming a hostage, stranded at the mercy of a cold and uncaring institution? After all, it’s not like the military. There is no such thing as the “never leave a man behind” clause in organized crime. There’s only affirmative action. If you meet their requirements, they’ll affirm your right to exist. If not, well then it was nice knowin ya kid.

Slowly, she understands. There’s no way out, except through the rain of bullets. Even if the ceasefire continues long enough for her to reach the exit, there will be no guarantees. Shaking all over, she gets to her feet. One step toward the door, then two. It still seems an eternity away. A single shot explodes through the room. She leaps.

Whether she’s able to dodge the bullet, we don’t know.

She lies on the floor, barely breathing. Something tells her she can’t quit trying. She might be dead in a few minutes, or she might not be. One hand reaches out. She drags herself slowly forward. The door is still ages away. As she crawls toward freedom one inch at a time, she hears the sounds of everyone else leaving. She could be dead in a few minutes, but the organization paces on, unaware of her struggle. Nobody cares if she succeeds, or dies.