Mr. America

I have always wondered who actually reads Tiger Beat magazine. I know I never did, nor did anyone I knew growing up. Yet it’s always there in supermarkets and drug stores, garishly advertising the hot new teen heart throbs.

Although I like to pretend I have superior taste, I get excited to go to the laundromat just so I can read some gossip rags.  Because I am a massive nerd, my secret dream has been to have a gossip magazine for historical figures.

Maybe it’s just the inherent silliness of judging historical figures on such superficial grounds. Maybe it’s the strange bit of cognitive dissonance that occurs when you find a dictator strangely attractive. Maybe it’s the understanding that as much as we like to think we’re able to see past the outer shells of people, looks are, and to some extent always have been, a factor in the relationships people have with others, and by extension, leaders with the people they lead. We may mock John Edwards for his $300 haircut, but Queen Elizabeth wore heavy makeup to hide her small pox scars, and Louis XIV like to show off his shapely legs. It may be frivolous, but historical gossip is also revealing in a way that reading about economic policy can never be.

What gams!

When compared to their counterparts in the European monarchies, American presidents are a boring group. As far as I know, nobody swam in fountains with dolphins or delighted in gifts of tall men in uniform. But if I had my way and was running the historical version of People, my first act would be a ranking of presidents, not by greatness or popular acclaim, but purely by sex appeal.

I have given this ranking more thought than I should have. My first few attempts were difficult, because I tried a top down approach, which is tricky when dealing with a beauty contest. So instead I tried to rule out the presidents who just couldn’t make the cut, starting with a personal favorite, James Madison, who was both too slight and too sour-faced to ever be misconstrued as handsome. Also in this category are John Adams, who was both short and stout, and Martin Van Buren, who was known as something of a dandy despite his goblin-like face. Rounding out the category is James Buchanan, who looks like a rooster about to peck out your eye in just about every picture of him.

I rest my case.

The next category I refer to as “meh.” Neither decidedly ugly nor attractive, they’re just pretty average. The vast bulk of presidents fall in this category, including James Monroe, John Tyler, James K. Polk, Zachary Taylor, Chester A. Arthur, Benjamin Harrison, Grover Cleveland, Theodore Roosevelt, William Howard Taft, Woodrow Wilson, Warren G. Harding, Herbert Hoover, Harry Truman, Dwight Eisenhower, Richard Nixon, Jimmy Carter, George H. W. Bush, and Bill Clinton.

Perhaps the most distressing category is the handsome-when-young crowd. I was walking through the American Wing of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, when I came across a Copley portrait of a young John Quincy Adams. I was surprised to note he not only did not look like a Komodo dragon, he was actually shockingly handsome. 

How did this happen?

I had a similar moment with Gerald Ford, who played football and modeled as a young man. Also in this category were William McKinley and James Garfield, who were teen heartthrobs if their old daguerreotypes were any indication. Without his beard, Rutherford B. Hayes bears a strong resemblance to Daniel Day-Lewis, disproving the Abraham Lincoln Rule of “chicks dig the beard.”

William McKinley in Civil War Uniform

James Garfield

Rutherford B. Hayes, pre-beard

Then there’s the category of weirdly appealing. In this category is Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who I don’t think of as being actually handsome, but had an aristocratic air that pushes him out of “meh”. He is joined in his category by Millard Fillmore, also known as the president most likely to win an Alec Baldwin look-alike contest.

Second prize is a set of steak knives. Third prize is you're fired.

There’s also Calvin Coolidge, whose stoic manners and lean figure both originated from his roots as a farm boy in Vermont. According to the fine people of the Calvin Coolidge State Historic Site, Coolidge was stronger than he looked if his skill at hay pitching was any indication, an activity that required superior upper body strength (aka biceps).

Swoon.

My smallest category is the intellectual types, consisting of Thomas Jefferson and Barack Obama. They both have the tall, slim, elegance that complements their cerebral styles.

Next up is the ruggedly masculine crowd, those guys who weren’t really handsome, but have appeal nonetheless. Leading off this group is Ulysses S. Grant, whose military credentials give him that aura of manliness necessary to belong to this group. George W. Bush also squeaks into this category thanks to his famously intense running sessions that made him one of our most physically fit presidents. Also in this group is the Great Emancipator himself, who even at the age of 55 could still wield an axe like nobody’s business. That kind of strength can make up for a lot. 

6 foot 4 inches of pure muscle.

Without a doubt the master of this group is Andrew Jackson. Although he had a face so long and narrow it makes John Kerry look like Jack Black, Jackson has a record of ultra-masculinity that more than compensates for his undeniably strange face.

Would you date this man?

However, Jackson is not the ultimate presidential man’s man. That distinction goes to the granddaddy of them all: George Washington. The father of our country was a man who could command a room; at 6’3” and 210 pounds, he towered above his contemporaries. He was an avid foxhunter and known for his bruising rides across his estate (read: strong thighs). These attributes cancel out his notoriously awful teeth.

The final category is where the real contenders are: the actually handsome men. While I cannot deny other presidents have appeal, the remaining men are undeniably attractive people (if such a thing really exists). Ronald Reagan kept his movie star good looks well into his 70s. Not only did his toned physique make the older ladies swoon, it most likely saved his life. As my 10^th grade history teacher creepily loved to point out, Reagan’s highly developed pectoral muscles helped slow the assassin’s bullet that very easily could have claimed his life.

Man of steel.

Another obvious choice for the best looking president is John F. Kennedy. His youth alone marks him as a prime candidate, a fact further reinforced by his womanizing reputation. However, several factors prevent him from becoming an instant winner. Firstly, as my brother is always quick to point out, his face looks like a handsome face that was squashed to 2/3 its original size. Another mitigating factor to Kennedy’s sex appeal is not widely known: Kennedy was a very sick man. He suffered from a kidney disease in addition to a bad back that required braces and an incredible cocktail of drugs.

The F stands for Foxy.

Other than Kennedy, the man who is generally regarded as the most handsome president is Franklin Pierce. With his cascade of dark curly hair and square jaw, Pierce makes quite the impression. He was also well known for his gregarious personality that made him popular in Washington, although later in life he suffered from depression and alcoholism.

Hubba-hubba.

However, the top of my personal list is the under-represented William Henry Harrison, based mostly on a portrait of him at Grouseland in Vincennes, Indiana. But if there's anything I've learned from my attempt at ranking presidential sex appeal, it's that beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.

William Henry Harrison: General. President. Heartthrob.

Except for Martin Van Buren. Nobody finds that attractive.

Hawt.

Presidents + Gingerbread = Amazing

So apparently, somebody made gingerbread versions of presidential houses, which successfully combined two of my favorite things. My personal favorite: gingerbread Sherwood Forest, home of John Tyler.

You can see the rest of them here.

Mission Accomplished

As most of you have probably guessed, I was able to complete my goal of visiting a house for every president before the end of the summer! 

Because I like to keep things exciting I visited my last presidential home, the Theodore Roosevelt Birthplace in New York City, on my way back to college for the fall semester. Now that I'm on my winter break, I finally have some time to reflect back on the entire experience.

The only word I can honestly use to describe last summer is magical. I have always wanted to travel and see more of the world, but my journey showed me that I never really even knew my own country. I went to so many wonderful places and met amazing people. But there are two people who I want to take the time and thank.

First, my dad, who created the best (and most detailed) travel itineraries. I honestly could not have physically seen everything I saw without his help, since the only way to see seven historical homes in one day is to keep to a strict schedule. He even got in on the action and saw many of the homes with me and gave insightful commentary on the places we visited. Basically, he's awesome.Thanks, Dad!

And my mom. She's a bit internet shy, but without her I wouldn't have gotten very far. I mean this both metaphorically and literally since she drove me all over the country. She also took the photos you see gracing this sight, used all her considerable charm to soften a few surly tour guides, and was the best travel companion anyone could ask for. She is wholly unaware of how remarkable she is, and thinks my mission is a perfectly normal way to spend a summer. In short, she's extraordinary. 

As you can tell, my parents are BA. In lieu of an actual photo of them, I am going to stick in a picture of the next best thing, historical BAMF couple John and Abigail Adams.

Kicking ass and taking names since 1764 

For now, I'm going to continue adding to this blog as I write about my experiences at presidential houses across the country, so stay tuned!

Life in the 1%

I have infiltrated the ranks of the 1%, and so far my report is that being in the 1% is awesome.

As readers of this blog know by now, my family isn't big into flight. We drive basically everywhere. When we do fly, it's always in economy class and no checked bags. While I don't hate air travel, being violated by the TSA is not high on my list of things I like to do. 

But thanks to my soon-to-be canonized father and his stockpile of frequent flyer miles, I am about to do something I have never done before: fly First Class.

Already I can tell flying First Class is amazing. I got a free checked bag! The airline people are not horrifically rude to me! I get to go ahead in lines (when I remember I can use the preferred ones)! They didn't care that I wore my sunglasses into the creepy voyeuristic X-ray machine (that one actually concerns me a bit)! 

I expected flying First Class to be nicer, since it's so much more expensive. What I didn't expect was to feel like something of an impostor. I am not the kind of person who flies First Class. I'm the person who sits in economy, usually sandwiched between a chatty businessman and a gassy Australian (true story). It's going to be hard to go back.

I have come to an important conclusion: I need to get rich so this can become a more regular experience. 

Southern Comfort

I realized after my last couple of posts, someone could get the impression that I had a miserable time in The South. Nothing could be further from the truth. I had a great time and found many things to like and love about the places I went. So, for the sake of accuracy, I have compiled a list of things I enjoyed about The South.

1. Friendliness
Having grown up in an area of Pennsylvania where the locals can most charitably be described as reticent, I appreciated the general atmosphere of friendliness in The South. People were helpful and sweet and willing to just have a nice chat with a stranger.

Even the mules are friendly in the South.

2. Their accents
As I stated in my previous post, I have always wanted to say "y'all" naturally. I seriously envy those who can.

3. Barbeque
I love barbeque. I also have no idea what the difference between good barbeque and bad barbeque is. Trying to find restaurants, people would tell me the barbeque someplace was decent, but when I ate there, it would taste amazing. Because of this, I ate more barbeque in a five day period than I usually do in six months. 

4. Fireworks stores
Fireworks are illegal in Pennsylvania, but vendors in Pennsylvania can sell fireworks to people in New Jersey, even though fireworks are also illegal in New Jersey (ah, the beauty of a country of laws). I say this to make it clear I have seen fireworks warehouses before. I have bought fireworks in a fireworks warehouse before.

If you love fireworks (and if you don't, you really don't know what you're missing), go south. I saw more billboards and stores related to fireworks in five days in the south than the rest of my life put together. Not only was there a heavy concentration, each place was big, usually about the size of a small airplane hangar. My excitement never dwindled with each sighting, so now about 10% of our pictures from the trip are of fireworks warehouses.

Sadly, none of those pictures were actually good.

5. The insane concentration of historical markers
Anyone who has read this blog has probably figured out that I'm a massive history nerd. When I see a historical marker, I get excited. I soon learned being a history lover in the South was like being wine lover in Napa. In Charles City, Virginia I saw four markers within ten feet of each other. The sight was so overwhelming, I almost swooned, or at least let out an undignified squeal of excitement.

I was almost run over in the process of getting this picture.
It was worth it.

6. The opportunity to finally experience song geography

As a music lover and college radio DJ, I love me a theme playlist. My southern tour gave me my best opportunity yet to indulge in my propensity for geographically themed songs. Carolina in My Mind, Sweet Home Alabama, The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down (both versions!), and basically every Pretty Girl song were all played at some point. However, my proudest accomplishment was the realization that there is a geographical error in the song Wagon Wheel by Old Crow Medicine Show: Johnson City is actually to the east of the Cumberland Gap. 

I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy

Previous to this trip, I've only been as far south as Nashville (Orlando doesn't count because it's basically its own country of theme parks and ridiculously expensive water), so I've never really felt like I could say I'd been to The South.  Now that I've spent some time there, I can honestly say I am a Yankee through and through. 

The reasons I was never so aware of what a Northerner I am until I went to the South are as follows:

1.) My level of patience
I like to think of myself as a patient person, but much of my time south of the Mason-Dixon line was spent racing through historic sites with a level of urgency that first bemused, and then annoyed the people who worked there. What's the hurry? Stay a while! was the unspoken remark in their patient smiles. Meanwhile, I was taking notes with the speed of a crazed stenographer at a horse auction. 

2.) My hatred of sweet tea
While in Tennessee getting a sandwich for lunch, I ordered a large iced tea, hoping it would cool me off after spending the morning in the already sweltering heat. I took one sip and almost spit it out since it was probably three-quarters sugar. From that moment on I was careful to make sure I was getting "unsweet tea" (which is a way more charming term than unsweetened iced tea). To be fair, all the unsweet tea I had was delicious, but the fear of accidentally drinking sweet tea was always there.

Union Uniform at Berkeley Plantation

3.) My lack of knowledge of obscure Confederate figures
My Civil War history focused mainly on what factors contributed to eventual Union victory, with a massive emphasis on Gettysburg since I grew up in Pennsylvania. But daring Confederate blockade runners? Not so much.

Barbeque joint in Warm Springs, Georgia

  4.) My undiscerning barbeque palate
It all tasted awesome. I don't know how anyone can rank barbeque since literally all of it tasted amazing to me.

5.) My accent
Although my accent immediately marked me as a Yankee, I was mostly just happy it survived. I have an unfortunate habit of picking up accents wherever I go. To make matters worse, I can't actually do accents all that well so I sound like I'm mocking people when in fact I'm suppressing the urge to forget the way I've spoken for the past twenty years of my life because I'd really love to say "y'all" in a way that sounds natural.

6.) My inability to cope with the heat
As a descendant of exclusively pale people, I've never fared very well in the sun. I don't tan so much as go through a burn, peel, fade cycle. Naturally, I knew the South would be hot. I knew it would be humid. What I didn't know was that walking outside would feel like entering the Amazon River basin and would cause every pore in my body to sweat like there was no tomorrow. 

The Night I Drove Down to Old Dixie (Part Two)

You can read Part One here.


After a pleasant sojourn through Tennessee, we were on our way to Georgia. Our route was supposed to take us across the Tennessee-Georgia border, coming within two miles of the Alabama border without actually crossing into Alabama. This was unacceptable to my father and me, but for totally different reasons. He wanted to check another state off the states he has visited; I wanted to confirm Alabama in fact existed.


Several years ago, I got it into my head that Alabama had ceased to exist sometime in the mid-1990s. I had just finished reading To Kill a Mockingbird for the second time and realized I didn't know anyone from Alabama and I hadn't heard of anyone or anything coming out of Alabama in the past 15 years (this was before I knew anything about college football). Somehow, my lack of exposure to the people and culture of Alabama convinced me that it had, in fact, been swept out to sea sometime around 1995, and the people of Mississippi couldn't bring themselves to tell the rest of the country.

Definitive proof of the existence of Alabama

As we approached the border, my level of excitement mounted to ridiculous levels. In a moment of frenzied glee, I started playing "Sweet Home Alabama" as we finally entered Alabama, and didn't turn it off until we left five minutes later. 


In Georgia, we stopped by a few historic sites near the town of Dalton. My great-great grandfather who fought in the Civil War was wounded there, and it was really cool to see the house where he recovered as well as the site of the battle where he was shot. 

House that used to double as the Union hospital
Dalton, GA

On our way back home, we stopped by the Jamestown National Historic Site. We had arrived just in time for the 105 degree heat (120 degree heat index!). This was made even worse by the fact that Jamestown was built on a swamp, so the added humidity made it almost unbearable.

The staff at Historic Jamestown warn us about the heat

Luckily, the site was interesting enough to make up for the weather. The area where the fort once stood is surrounded by a replica of the original fence. Archaeologists are still working on the site to uncover new artifacts to analyze, which are housed in a museum located just beyond the fort itself. There were more monuments than I ever would have imagined, including statues of John Smith and Pocahontas, looking a little different from their Disney counterparts.

Jamestown was the perfect end to an amazing trip because it brought everything right back to the beginning. With the benefit of history, Jamestown is a historic place full of meaning and purpose, but at the time, the colonists could not have known how important their struggle to survive would be.