Curio Cabinet

Sometimes, the surest way to fame is being wrong. On July 17, 1938, a young aviator named Douglas Corrigan flew out of New York to California, but somehow "mistakenly" ended up in Ireland. If the flub seems too outrageous to be true, that's because it is. Corrigan, born in 1907 in Galveston, Texas, was a veteran flyboy. He had even worked for the Ryan Aeronautical Company as a mechanic for the Spirit of St. Louis, the plane Charles Lindbergh piloted during the first solo nonstop transatlantic flight in 1927. Lindbergh's feat left Corrigan yearning to etch his own name in the annals of aviation history. So, 11 years later, he purchased a junked 1929 Curtiss Robin aircraft, refurbished it, and upgraded it for long-distance travel. Then he flew the rickety plane all the way from California to Floyd Bennett Field in New York. But when he attempted to file a transatlantic flight with local airport authorities, his request was denied. Officials insisted that his makeshift airplane was too unsafe for the journey. However, they were gracious enough to let Corrigan fly it back to California. Corrigan took off in his plane, seemingly flying back to the West Coast. Air controllers were puzzled, though, when he suddenly veered 180 degrees, towards Europe, into thick clouds. For 28 hours, Corrigan subsisted off chocolate and cookies, piloting without a radio or the ability to see out his fogged windows. When he landed 3,000 miles east of New York in Dublin, Ireland, he stepped off the plane in faux bewilderment. "Just got in from New York. Where am I?" he asked with wide eyes. Officials quickly stripped Corrigan of his pilot license and boated him, along with his plane, back to America, where he was celebrated as "Wrong-Way" Corrigan and greeted with fanfare. His stunt worked so well, more people showed up to his homecoming parade than Lindbergh's!
 

Image credit & copyright: PBS
 

If I told you over one million people had committed to sacking Area 51 in hopes of finding aliens, would you believe me? It sounds too foolish to be true, but a recent tongue-in-cheek Facebook event called Storm Area 51 has managed to mobilize a volunteer army of alien hunters to do just that. Originally a prank started by anonymous user "Val," Storm Area 51 describes how it will use strength in numbers to overcome the military base's defenses, to "see them aliens." The charge will allegedly take place before dawn on September 20, with a horde of alien hunters "naruto running" to "move faster than [the U.S. Air Force's] bullets." For those of us over 40, "naruto" refers to a popular Japanese anime character. All fun and games, right? Well, one million Facebook users have posted that they're "Going" to Storm Area 51 while another million are "Interested." Hotels, RV lots, and campgrounds in the local Nevada desert area are being flooded with reservations and tourists set on observing (and possibly participating in) the spectacle. The sheer number of responders has alerted the U.S. Air Force, which has authorized guards to "use deadly force" should the storming take place. To be clear, the top-secret complex is arrayed with motion sensors and high tech cameras, so good luck would-be raiders. The ordeal also has the event's creator and comedic agitators worried that they may be held accountable, should any numbskulls get seriously hurt attempting the feat. All in all, Storm Area 51 is a testament to the growing power of internet personalities, in this case jokesters called "meme lords." Really, all this stupidity has me yearning for better days—when people still listened to common sense!
 

Image credit & copyright: Laura Rauch /AP
 

Most presidents keep a White House pet. Some just happen to be stranger than others. Shown above is Pauline Wayne, a 1,500-pound Holstein-Friesian cow of high pedigree that President William Howard Taft kept on White House grounds. Pauline's job was to produce 25 pounds of butter and nine gallons of milk a week for the first family. It was a tough quota, but Taft, who allegedly got stuck in the White House bathtub, was the largest president on record at six feet tall and 340 pounds. Sure, keeping a cow at the White House might seem odd, but it was once commonplace before the dawn of milkmen or refrigerators. What really makes Pauline unique is the stir she made with the media. After a trespasser slunk out onto the White House lawn and was caught trying to milk her, newspapers rushed to interview the cow. The Washington Post went so far as to quote her, fabricating bizarre responses. According to the paper, Pauline labeled herself "progressive" but controversially claimed she was against the women's suffrage movement. The bovine's fame only grew when she began campaigning in Taft's stead at livestock shows around the U.S. There were even parades planned just for her. Then on one fateful day in 1911, she disappeared without a trace en route to the Milwaukee Dairy Show. A frantic search ensued. Fortunately, Pauline was located in a Chicago stockyard and saved "from the bludgeon of the slaughter" in the knick of time. The poor heifer endured way more stress than a cow ever should during Taft's presidency, and benefited from him leaving office in 1913. She retired to Wisconsin, her birthplace, and lived in serenity on a farm the rest of her life. To date, Pauline was the last presidential cow to bunk at the White House. One can only guess if the American public will ever be as deeply mooved again.
 

The fortress-turned-prison has its (demolition) day.

How does a building earn a bad reputation? In the case of the Bastille Saint-Antoine of France, once a defensive fortress against foreign invaders, it only took a turn as a symbol of tyrannical power and gross injustice. The Bastille was destroyed on this day 230 years ago, leaving behind a legendary history.

 

The Bastille's construction began during the Hundred Years War between France and England. At the time, French Monarchs had traditionally used the Louvre—yes, the art museum—as the main castle to defend Paris. The city swelled in population over time, however, and new defenses were needed to protect its new, vulnerable outskirts.
 

The Bastille rose from the ground piecemeal, initially as rudimentary battlements. First, two stone towers were built to protect the Porte Saint-Antoine, a gateway to Paris. Along with them, a 78-foot-wide ditch called a "bastide" or "fortification" was dug. A decade later, Charles V tasked his provost Hugh Aubriot with building six more towers and consolidating the military complex into a superstructure. Aubriot designed a fortress with 78-feet-tall walls and towers, crenelated walkways, and underground dungeons. Ironically, he later became one of the citadel's first prisoners in 1380, when trumped-up charges were brought against him for defending the city's Jewish population.
 

Over the next 200 years, the Bastille withstood waves of anti-French forces and traded rulership between countries several times. By Louis XIV's 43-year reign, the Bastille was a bonafide prison and held approximately 2,300 captives: enemies of the throne. The underground dungeons were saved for recaptured escapees while the mid-level tower rooms had basic furnishings and a stove or fireplace. The most elite of prisoners were allowed lavish accouterments in their quarters. One of the most famous inmates, the Marquis de Sade—a notorious writer and the namesake of sadism—was said to have arrived with a wardrobe, paintings, tapestries, perfumes, and 133 books (he was later taken away to an insane asylum 10 days before the storming of Bastille).
 

The French Enlightenment philosopher Voltaire, another famous Bastille prisoner, deemed the location a "palace of revenge"; other prisoners told of rotting away beside corpses in the underground pits. Voltaire himself lent credence to another famous prisoner of the time: the Man in the Iron Mask. The legend goes that the masked prisoner spent 34 years of his life in jail, dying in squalor at the Bastille for no other crime than being the illegitimate brother of Louis XIV. The Man in the Iron Mask became somewhat of a folk hero and martyr for prison abolishment, being the subject of a Three Musketeers story by Alexander Dumas and an epic poem by Alfred de Vigny.
 

As terrifying or macabre as some stories of the Bastille seem, it's likely that most were exaggerated. Immediately after its destruction in 1789, when revolutionaries looted it for gunpowder and weapons, bits of armor and a printing press were paraded and decried as instruments of torture. Just seven prisoners were being held at the time. A year later, all manner of French royalty and common folk came together to celebrate its destruction. The Siege of the Bastille was declared a holiday on July 6, 1880, and a fountain known as the Place de la Bastille was built in the fortress' place. It's like they say: if it's a broke historical place of oppression, don't fix it!
 

Image credit & copyright: PBS, Library of Congress