In honor of the old men who once ruled this nation, the New York Times offers a headline piece on the marriage of two of our baser cultures (perhaps relevant because they're made up of voters who put the current president in office): NASCAR and Harlequin Romance books.
The female stock of this country apparently aren't being satisfied by the heaving bosoms of yesteryears: you know, those heaving on pirate ships, plantations, and various sundry locations in 18th century England. The stuff that once had me glued to the toilet seat as a small pubescent girl and may be responsible for my initial milkmaid-esque sexual encounters (hands up over the head, a face that says "Take me on the haystacks!")is no longer good enough, perhaps too antiquated, for the modern woman. Charming English accents, well, Harlequin's transcribed version of charming English accents, have given way to a Southern trailer drawl. High adventures at sea, ladies being coerced into marriage, have become ladies showing their tits for a Bud light.
Besides for the obvious unsexy-ness of the protagonists (call me elitist, whateva), the new litter of NASCAR themed romance novels don't seem to even be romantic. Take, for instance, this example of one of the modern Harlequin plots:
"Last year, with Nascar’s approval, Harlequin successfully published three Nascar-theme books, including one in which the heroine, an ex-kindergarten teacher, falls in love with a Nascar driver after first being hit by his car and then driving his enormous motor coach from race to race."
Please bring sexy back.
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