Covers Gone Lindsey, Part 3

Sarah: Well, there’s no font to ridicule. It’s really a pity that this image leaves us so little to work with in terms of mockage. I mean, he’s a world-champion boxer with the belt to prove it, and a really faygala man-vest that looks to be made of some stretch velour fabric.

And she appears to be polishing the belt with her breath, or maybe trying to take it off with her teeth, while wearing scarves and a wide belt for clothing. Perhaps there was some sort of an emergency and she had to flee the scarf and chiffon section of Macy’s with just two purple cloths and a belt, and make her way in the world.

Really. So little to work with.

Candy: Yowza. I think Fabio is a bit confused there. You need to remove your pants before shoving a woman’s face to your crotch in an effort to force her to give you a hum job. Or maybe he just has a fetish for belt-buckle patterns imprinted on his girlfriends’ faces. Either way, I just wish it didn’t seem like he was slamming her into his twiddly bits with such force. I mean, look at how their hair is being blown about in an apparently enclosed space. Unless they have their air conditioning cranked WAY the hell up, it just makes it seem like he’s pulling her towards him at 60 mph, or they’re whipping their heads around for no good reason.

I never thought I’d say this, but… their outfits make me actively yearn for the old-fashioned Spandex far-future uniforms of yore. And you KNOW an outfit’s bad when it makes the people on Star Trek look like cutting-edge fashionistas in comparison.

Sarah: Is it me, or does the “E” in “Love” kind of look like Homestar Runner? Maybe it’s me.

Let me express how glad I am that this style of cover has gone the way of the wind – heck, that clich covers in general are on their way out. This is particularly bizarre, though, sort of a late-70’s colored attempt at art deco stylings. Very convenient imagery, though. He’s already naked. She’s got a very long neck and a very long nose, and… her boobs are on their way south as well, so soon they will be very long, too.

If I were an art namer, which would be a cool job, I would have to name this, “Battle of the Chins.” One of them is going to poke an eye out with those mega sharp chins. Hers is sharper than her nose. Ouch!

Candy: I love how each era inflicts its bad hair and make-up practices on its cover art, regardless of what time period the cover is supposed to represent. I mean, can the woman actually open her eyes? Her mascara is so thick that her eyelashes must weight about a pound apiece.

At least this particular couple has the good sense to be naked and amorous in an indoor setting instead of in the middle of the desert, caught in some kind of crazy electrical storm. Whatever will the duenna think, though, when she walks into the parlor and finds Lord Montieth buck-ass nekkid and playing dueling banjos (if you know what I mean) with the virgin with the bad make-up on the chaise longue? (And people: it’s chaise longue, which literally means “long chair” in French, and not chaise lounge, which literally means “Please pay closer attention to how words are spelled.”)

Sarah: This is one of my favorite covers of all time. It’s just so damn horrible. She’s attempting to pull him to the ground by his handle-bar-esque pectoral muscles. He’s already got her shirt half off, and… is he wearing a pair of UGGS? Fabio, you fashionable devil you. Britney and you, both Ugg-sporting fashionistas.

I think it’s the woman that’s so egregious. She looks like a hooker—and really, don’t you want some level of restraint on the cover? I mean, it’s a romance, not a woman walking up to Ugg-Fabio (a good name for him) and saying, ‘NOW, Mr Thunder! NOW!’

And now, a word about the title. My husband has savage thunder. He likes to release his under the covers so that I can asphyxiate come morning on 8-hour-old savage thunder carcass. In short, thunder of the savage variety is not romantic.

Candy: Yeah, what’s with Lindsey and the thundering titles? She and Mary Jo Putney should get together and swap chili recipes or something. Damn.

This time, our intrepid red-haired harlot is reversing some roles: instead of getting pulled with great velocity into Fabio’s crotch as in Keeper of the Heart, she’s the one doing the pulling now, and succeeding with some speed judging by the way Fabio’s hair is flying about. But frankly, she doesn’t look aroused, she looks distressed, and he looks mildly peeved. “PLEASE, you have to help the orphans!” she seems to be saying; he seems to be trying to pry her off and telling her “Lady, let go of my vest, I have to join the parade before the Dykes on Bikes pass Broadway and Yamhill Street.”

Or maybe he’s tossing her aside in favor of catching the horsie in the background that looks like it’s FREAKING THE FUCK OUT. Because you know what they say about the, ahem, strong relationships forged between a man and his horse on those long, lonely trips on the plains.