Curio Cabinet / Daily Curio
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FREEWorld History Daily CurioFree1 CQ
It's Flashback Friday! Enjoy this favorite from the Curio Cabinet archives.
War is over if an eclipse wants it. A total solar eclipse in 585 B.C.E. halted a five-year border war between the Lydians and the Medes, in present-day Turkey. Both sides ceased their fighting as the sun appeared to be snuffed from the sky. When daylight returned, according to the Greek historian Herodotus, the armies "ceased from their fighting and were much more eager… that peace should be made between them." The philosopher and mathematician Thales is said to have accurately predicted the eclipse years earlier. This may be the earliest recorded example of a philosopher not explaining natural phenomenon with mythology. Instead he used theories, hypotheses, and observation—a.k.a. scientific reason—over 100 years before Socrates was born. Predicting solar eclipses is extremely difficult because the moon has to be directly aligned between a specific geographical area and the sun. Even then the affected area is only a few miles wide and lasts for just 7 minutes. So Thales' eclipse prediction probably contributed to the magical effect on the war between the Lydians and the Medes, known today as the Battle of the Eclipse. Just to be safe, the daughter of the king of Lydia was married off to the son of the king of Medes, as a covenant of the new peace. Hmm, I wonder if we should consider a modern day version of that?
It's Flashback Friday! Enjoy this favorite from the Curio Cabinet archives.
War is over if an eclipse wants it. A total solar eclipse in 585 B.C.E. halted a five-year border war between the Lydians and the Medes, in present-day Turkey. Both sides ceased their fighting as the sun appeared to be snuffed from the sky. When daylight returned, according to the Greek historian Herodotus, the armies "ceased from their fighting and were much more eager… that peace should be made between them." The philosopher and mathematician Thales is said to have accurately predicted the eclipse years earlier. This may be the earliest recorded example of a philosopher not explaining natural phenomenon with mythology. Instead he used theories, hypotheses, and observation—a.k.a. scientific reason—over 100 years before Socrates was born. Predicting solar eclipses is extremely difficult because the moon has to be directly aligned between a specific geographical area and the sun. Even then the affected area is only a few miles wide and lasts for just 7 minutes. So Thales' eclipse prediction probably contributed to the magical effect on the war between the Lydians and the Medes, known today as the Battle of the Eclipse. Just to be safe, the daughter of the king of Lydia was married off to the son of the king of Medes, as a covenant of the new peace. Hmm, I wonder if we should consider a modern day version of that?
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FREESports Daily Curio #2102Free1 CQ
Lacrosse is one of the fastest growing team sports in the United States among affluent, white families. But did you know that the sport originated in indigenous spiritual traditions? In part, this is because different varieties were played across North America. For instance, in the southeast nations of Aniyvwiya, Mvskoke, Choctaw, and Seminole, the game involved two different types of sticks and three scoring areas. Meanwhile, in the Great Lakes, the Hodinöhšyönih (Haudenosaunee) played a version using netted wooden sticks measuring 3-5 feet in length and weighing several pounds. (While witnessing a match in 1636, French missionary Jean de Brebeuf described the game as joeur à la crosse a reference to the sticks' cross-like shape.) Early versions of the ball were leather-hides stuffed with animal hair. The field's boundaries could stretch for a mile. A game could last days—the teams would decide on a set amount of points, which could be scored by placing the ball between the goal, typically two trees. Hundreds to thousands of players could be in a match. The main rule was that players could not touch the ball with their hand. Each team would place wagers on the game, which would be distributed to the winning team during a ceremonial feast. For the Haudenosaunee, the sport is part of their creation myth. They believe the sport was gifted to them by their creator as a way to settle disputes, although that didn't always go according to plan. In 1794, a game between the Seneca and Mohawk tribes infamously damaged tribal relations when a Mohawk player started a violent fight with a Seneca player. Fortunately, a future lacrosse game helped the tribes reconcile. The sport also trained young men for battle. Often called tewaarathon or "little brother of war," the full contact sport required endurance and fortitude. Men would often leave the game wounded, and occasionally, some would die. The Haudenosaunee would be buried with their stick. They believed that the first thing in the afterlife they would do is play the game. For the Haudenosaunee, the sport was truly a religious experience.
Image credit & copyright: "Ball players", a hand-colored lithograph by George Catlin who attended a Choctaw game in 1834
Lacrosse is one of the fastest growing team sports in the United States among affluent, white families. But did you know that the sport originated in indigenous spiritual traditions? In part, this is because different varieties were played across North America. For instance, in the southeast nations of Aniyvwiya, Mvskoke, Choctaw, and Seminole, the game involved two different types of sticks and three scoring areas. Meanwhile, in the Great Lakes, the Hodinöhšyönih (Haudenosaunee) played a version using netted wooden sticks measuring 3-5 feet in length and weighing several pounds. (While witnessing a match in 1636, French missionary Jean de Brebeuf described the game as joeur à la crosse a reference to the sticks' cross-like shape.) Early versions of the ball were leather-hides stuffed with animal hair. The field's boundaries could stretch for a mile. A game could last days—the teams would decide on a set amount of points, which could be scored by placing the ball between the goal, typically two trees. Hundreds to thousands of players could be in a match. The main rule was that players could not touch the ball with their hand. Each team would place wagers on the game, which would be distributed to the winning team during a ceremonial feast. For the Haudenosaunee, the sport is part of their creation myth. They believe the sport was gifted to them by their creator as a way to settle disputes, although that didn't always go according to plan. In 1794, a game between the Seneca and Mohawk tribes infamously damaged tribal relations when a Mohawk player started a violent fight with a Seneca player. Fortunately, a future lacrosse game helped the tribes reconcile. The sport also trained young men for battle. Often called tewaarathon or "little brother of war," the full contact sport required endurance and fortitude. Men would often leave the game wounded, and occasionally, some would die. The Haudenosaunee would be buried with their stick. They believed that the first thing in the afterlife they would do is play the game. For the Haudenosaunee, the sport was truly a religious experience.
Image credit & copyright: "Ball players", a hand-colored lithograph by George Catlin who attended a Choctaw game in 1834
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FREEArchitecture Daily Curio #2101Free1 CQ
Over the last six months, the definition of an office has expanded to include guest bedrooms, living rooms, and even closets. If you're like me, you have a new appreciation for an intentionally planned workspace—the kind architect Louis Sullivan (1856-1924) championed. Sullivan, "the Father of Skyscrapers," was educated at MIT and L'École des Beaux-Arts (School of Fine Arts) in Paris. He also apprenticed at architectural firms in Philadelphia and Chicago. These experiences provided him with the structural and artistic foundations necessary to enrich the modern workspace through architecture. By embracing steel-frame construction, Sullivan married form and function in his design. In a 1896 article, "The Tall Office Building Artistically Considered," Sullivan argued a building's shape should relate to its intended function or purpose. "Whether it be the sweeping eagle in his flight, or the open apple-blossom, the toiling workhorse, the blithe swan, the branching oak, the winding stream at its base, the drifting clouds, over all the coursing sun, form ever follows function, and this is the law," Sullivan proclaimed. Sullivan enacted this philosophy—that a skyscraper's design should reflect the interior functions—while designing the Prudential Building (now The Guaranty Building) in Buffalo, New York. Situated on the shores of Lake Erie, near City Hall, the building's spaces are divided based on use. The mechanical and utility areas are relegated to the basement. Meanwhile, the ground floor allows people to easily circulate through the lobby and street shops. A majority of the building is office space, accessible by central elevator shafts. The building is ornamented in the style of the English Arts and Crafts movement with foliage and geometric shapes gracing the terracotta facade. Inside, the spaces include marble mosaics, a stained glass lobby skylight, and iron stairway balusters. While this layout and Art Nouveau style may describe many buildings, it was only the second of its kind in the United States. Several years prior, Sullivan designed a skyscraper prototype—the Wainwright building in St. Louis, Missouri—that he improved upon when designing the Prudential building. Of course, Sullivan's contributions extend beyond skyscrapers. The "Lieber Meister" (Beloved Master) mentored the next generation of architects, including Frank Llyod Wright (1867-1959). Perhaps you've seen one of Wright's workplace masterpieces like the SC Johnson headquarters in Racine, Wisconsin.
Virtually tour the Guaranty Building, and other Buffalo, NY sites:Image credit & copyright: Prudential Building, by Sullivan & Adler, 1896, postcard c. 1908
Over the last six months, the definition of an office has expanded to include guest bedrooms, living rooms, and even closets. If you're like me, you have a new appreciation for an intentionally planned workspace—the kind architect Louis Sullivan (1856-1924) championed. Sullivan, "the Father of Skyscrapers," was educated at MIT and L'École des Beaux-Arts (School of Fine Arts) in Paris. He also apprenticed at architectural firms in Philadelphia and Chicago. These experiences provided him with the structural and artistic foundations necessary to enrich the modern workspace through architecture. By embracing steel-frame construction, Sullivan married form and function in his design. In a 1896 article, "The Tall Office Building Artistically Considered," Sullivan argued a building's shape should relate to its intended function or purpose. "Whether it be the sweeping eagle in his flight, or the open apple-blossom, the toiling workhorse, the blithe swan, the branching oak, the winding stream at its base, the drifting clouds, over all the coursing sun, form ever follows function, and this is the law," Sullivan proclaimed. Sullivan enacted this philosophy—that a skyscraper's design should reflect the interior functions—while designing the Prudential Building (now The Guaranty Building) in Buffalo, New York. Situated on the shores of Lake Erie, near City Hall, the building's spaces are divided based on use. The mechanical and utility areas are relegated to the basement. Meanwhile, the ground floor allows people to easily circulate through the lobby and street shops. A majority of the building is office space, accessible by central elevator shafts. The building is ornamented in the style of the English Arts and Crafts movement with foliage and geometric shapes gracing the terracotta facade. Inside, the spaces include marble mosaics, a stained glass lobby skylight, and iron stairway balusters. While this layout and Art Nouveau style may describe many buildings, it was only the second of its kind in the United States. Several years prior, Sullivan designed a skyscraper prototype—the Wainwright building in St. Louis, Missouri—that he improved upon when designing the Prudential building. Of course, Sullivan's contributions extend beyond skyscrapers. The "Lieber Meister" (Beloved Master) mentored the next generation of architects, including Frank Llyod Wright (1867-1959). Perhaps you've seen one of Wright's workplace masterpieces like the SC Johnson headquarters in Racine, Wisconsin.
Virtually tour the Guaranty Building, and other Buffalo, NY sites:Image credit & copyright: Prudential Building, by Sullivan & Adler, 1896, postcard c. 1908
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FREEUS History Daily Curio #2100Free1 CQ
If you're not from Indiana, you may be wondering if there's anything there but corn. Well, one Indiana city has quite the boast: more roundabouts than any other city in the United States! Some even claim Carmel, which is just north of Indianapolis, has more roundabouts than any city in the world. It all started in 1996, with the first election campaign of Carmel Mayor Jim Brainard. Brainard had just returned from a business trip to Europe, where roundabouts were common. He pitched the idea of roundabouts to voters, and the people of Carmel clearly liked what they heard. Not only did they elect Brainard for six consecutive terms (making him one of the longest-serving Mayors in Indiana history) they also cheered the replacement of nearly every traditional intersection in their city, leading to their current number of 126 roundabouts. And after all, what's not to love about roundabouts? They're known for increasing traffic efficiency by eliminating streetlights and maintaining a steady flow of vehicles. Their biggest appeal, though, is their safe reputation. According to the City of Carmel's website, accidents have been reduced by 80 percent since it converted most of its intersections to roundabouts. Roundabouts also provide Carmel plenty of opportunities for fun. In 2016, a Carmel roundabout in the Village of West Clay neighborhood (pictured above) won the U.K. Roundabout Appreciation Society's "International Roundabout of the Year" award. In 2019, a cyclist from Noblesville Indiana, Dave Schweikert, set a world record by riding his bike around a Carmel roundabout for 24 hours straight. As a proud Carmel citizen myself, I'm certainly partial to my city's quirky roundabouts...but if I had to bike around one for 24 hours, I'm pretty sure I'd go loopy!
Image credit & copyright: City of Carmel, Indiana, 2019
If you're not from Indiana, you may be wondering if there's anything there but corn. Well, one Indiana city has quite the boast: more roundabouts than any other city in the United States! Some even claim Carmel, which is just north of Indianapolis, has more roundabouts than any city in the world. It all started in 1996, with the first election campaign of Carmel Mayor Jim Brainard. Brainard had just returned from a business trip to Europe, where roundabouts were common. He pitched the idea of roundabouts to voters, and the people of Carmel clearly liked what they heard. Not only did they elect Brainard for six consecutive terms (making him one of the longest-serving Mayors in Indiana history) they also cheered the replacement of nearly every traditional intersection in their city, leading to their current number of 126 roundabouts. And after all, what's not to love about roundabouts? They're known for increasing traffic efficiency by eliminating streetlights and maintaining a steady flow of vehicles. Their biggest appeal, though, is their safe reputation. According to the City of Carmel's website, accidents have been reduced by 80 percent since it converted most of its intersections to roundabouts. Roundabouts also provide Carmel plenty of opportunities for fun. In 2016, a Carmel roundabout in the Village of West Clay neighborhood (pictured above) won the U.K. Roundabout Appreciation Society's "International Roundabout of the Year" award. In 2019, a cyclist from Noblesville Indiana, Dave Schweikert, set a world record by riding his bike around a Carmel roundabout for 24 hours straight. As a proud Carmel citizen myself, I'm certainly partial to my city's quirky roundabouts...but if I had to bike around one for 24 hours, I'm pretty sure I'd go loopy!
Image credit & copyright: City of Carmel, Indiana, 2019
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FREEMind + Body Daily Curio #2099Free1 CQ
Sometimes it can get a bit corn-y around here. From candy corn to corn flakes and a corn epidemic we've covered it all, except well, actual corn. Corn is one of the most important crops in production today. Not only can corn be transformed into ethanol and bioplastics, but it also feeds livestock and us! Last year, the world consumed 44,690 million bushels of corn (a bushel is about 56 pounds). Commonly referred to as maize, corn was domesticated around 9,000 years ago in the Balsas River Valley in Mesoamerica. Around 3,500 years ago, Mesoamericans developed a process called Nixtamalization. Nixtamalization is derived from the Uto-Aztecan language, Nahuatl, where "Nixtli" means ashes, and "Tamalli" means dough. Nixtamalization is a thermal-chemical process. Essentially, corn is boiled with wood ashes or quicklime (calcium oxide). The corn steeps in the alkaline solution. Over time the corn grains are transformed. The hull is loosened from the inner kernel, releasing nutrients like calcium, riboflavin, and niacin. The kernels double in size and soften to a bean-like texture. At this stage, the maize is referred to as nixtamal or hominy.Traditionally, women would then grind the nixtamal using a metate, a mealing stone, and a mano a rolling pin. The result is a dough mixture known as masa, a foundational ingredient in Mexican cuisine, used to make everything from sopes and tamales to tortillas. Over time, the process became industrialized, and corporations introduced preservatives to increase shelf-life. Heirloom corn varieties were passed over in favor of genetically modified crops. Fortunately, nixtamalization is attracting new interest from chefs who are embracing heritage techniques. The results taste a-maize-ing.
Watch the process here:
Image credit & copyright: Image credit & copyright: Tortilla production, Mexico, 1836, Lithograph
Sometimes it can get a bit corn-y around here. From candy corn to corn flakes and a corn epidemic we've covered it all, except well, actual corn. Corn is one of the most important crops in production today. Not only can corn be transformed into ethanol and bioplastics, but it also feeds livestock and us! Last year, the world consumed 44,690 million bushels of corn (a bushel is about 56 pounds). Commonly referred to as maize, corn was domesticated around 9,000 years ago in the Balsas River Valley in Mesoamerica. Around 3,500 years ago, Mesoamericans developed a process called Nixtamalization. Nixtamalization is derived from the Uto-Aztecan language, Nahuatl, where "Nixtli" means ashes, and "Tamalli" means dough. Nixtamalization is a thermal-chemical process. Essentially, corn is boiled with wood ashes or quicklime (calcium oxide). The corn steeps in the alkaline solution. Over time the corn grains are transformed. The hull is loosened from the inner kernel, releasing nutrients like calcium, riboflavin, and niacin. The kernels double in size and soften to a bean-like texture. At this stage, the maize is referred to as nixtamal or hominy.Traditionally, women would then grind the nixtamal using a metate, a mealing stone, and a mano a rolling pin. The result is a dough mixture known as masa, a foundational ingredient in Mexican cuisine, used to make everything from sopes and tamales to tortillas. Over time, the process became industrialized, and corporations introduced preservatives to increase shelf-life. Heirloom corn varieties were passed over in favor of genetically modified crops. Fortunately, nixtamalization is attracting new interest from chefs who are embracing heritage techniques. The results taste a-maize-ing.
Watch the process here:
Image credit & copyright: Image credit & copyright: Tortilla production, Mexico, 1836, Lithograph
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FREEMusic Appreciation Daily CurioFree1 CQ
It's Flashback Friday! Enjoy this favorite from the Curio Cabinet archives in honor of the 50th anniversary of Jimi Hendrix's passing on September 18, 1970.
Do, re, mi. If you play an A key on a piano and compare it to an A string on a guitar, they should sound the same—assuming the instruments have been tuned correctly. But it wasn’t always this way. Prior to the 16th century, one man’s A was another man’s C#. It wasn’t until composers like Mozart started to write music with a specific pitch in mind that the need for standard tuning became apparent. Singers complained of straining their voice for orchestras that tuned high. Snapped violin strings were another casualty of over tuning. Finally, in 1859, the French government stepped in. They decreed that the A above middle C on a piano, called A4, should be at a frequency of 435 Hz. That is, it should produce a sound wave that oscillates 435 times per second, in turn vibrating our eardrums 435 times per second. The British, not to be outdone, adopted their own A4 of 439 Hz in 1896. But it wasn’t until 1939 that the Western world adopted the “international standard pitch” of A4 = 440 Hz. Recently there has been a movement—thanks, Internet—to return standard tuning to A4 = 432 Hz. Arguments range from it being more “naturally beautiful” to “mathematically purer” to “more attuned to human chakras.” It seems to me that it’s more of a personal preference. Mozart, for example, was a 422 Hz guy. Jimi Hendrix and Stevie Ray Vaughn both frequently tuned their guitars down a half step, making them 415.3 Hz guys. Check out the video below to see which frequency you are.
Image credit & copyright: David Redfern/Redferns/Getty, February 24, 1969
It's Flashback Friday! Enjoy this favorite from the Curio Cabinet archives in honor of the 50th anniversary of Jimi Hendrix's passing on September 18, 1970.
Do, re, mi. If you play an A key on a piano and compare it to an A string on a guitar, they should sound the same—assuming the instruments have been tuned correctly. But it wasn’t always this way. Prior to the 16th century, one man’s A was another man’s C#. It wasn’t until composers like Mozart started to write music with a specific pitch in mind that the need for standard tuning became apparent. Singers complained of straining their voice for orchestras that tuned high. Snapped violin strings were another casualty of over tuning. Finally, in 1859, the French government stepped in. They decreed that the A above middle C on a piano, called A4, should be at a frequency of 435 Hz. That is, it should produce a sound wave that oscillates 435 times per second, in turn vibrating our eardrums 435 times per second. The British, not to be outdone, adopted their own A4 of 439 Hz in 1896. But it wasn’t until 1939 that the Western world adopted the “international standard pitch” of A4 = 440 Hz. Recently there has been a movement—thanks, Internet—to return standard tuning to A4 = 432 Hz. Arguments range from it being more “naturally beautiful” to “mathematically purer” to “more attuned to human chakras.” It seems to me that it’s more of a personal preference. Mozart, for example, was a 422 Hz guy. Jimi Hendrix and Stevie Ray Vaughn both frequently tuned their guitars down a half step, making them 415.3 Hz guys. Check out the video below to see which frequency you are.
Image credit & copyright: David Redfern/Redferns/Getty, February 24, 1969
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FREEParenting Daily Curio #2098Free1 CQ
If you attended high school in the U.S., odds are you had a parenting assignment where you had to care for "baby"—be it a sack of flour or a simulator doll. Did you know that just a few decades ago students were given actual babies to practice their parenting skills? After World War I, progressive ideals emerged about positive child-rearing practices, and colleges across the United States began offering home economic programs with courses in nutrition and child development to women. To give students an opportunity for hands-on learning, schools built "practice houses" on campus. These houses replicated the average middle-class home, and allowed students to learn domestic sciences such as cooking, cleaning, budgeting, and entertaining. Some programs went a step further, bringing babies to live in these homes. The "practice babies" were designed to prepare students for parenthood by teaching them the psychology and science of childrearing, often referred to as "mothercraft." The babies were often wards of the state who would otherwise be placed in an orphanage. The state would simply sign over care to the college, although they usually did not sign over legal guardianship. During their stay, the babies received carefully planned nutrition and care from students under the regular supervision of a skilled caretaker and physician. As dystopian as this might sound today, lots of colleges had similar setups. Look magazine counted 41 schools with student mother programs in the 1950s. Students overwhelmingly reported that caring for the babies was a highlight of their studies. Surprisingly, there were few critics of this system. Although several welfare agencies were apprehensive about babies being raised in such environments, they had no data to support their concerns. Psychologists did not conduct studies about the babies' development before, during, and after the program. Nonetheless, most practice babies were successfully adopted. By 1970, most practice homes were phased out as educational opportunities for women continued to expand beyond the domestic sphere. These days, the only babies students are practicing on are robots. Progress?
Image credit & copyright: Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections, Cornell University Library.
If you attended high school in the U.S., odds are you had a parenting assignment where you had to care for "baby"—be it a sack of flour or a simulator doll. Did you know that just a few decades ago students were given actual babies to practice their parenting skills? After World War I, progressive ideals emerged about positive child-rearing practices, and colleges across the United States began offering home economic programs with courses in nutrition and child development to women. To give students an opportunity for hands-on learning, schools built "practice houses" on campus. These houses replicated the average middle-class home, and allowed students to learn domestic sciences such as cooking, cleaning, budgeting, and entertaining. Some programs went a step further, bringing babies to live in these homes. The "practice babies" were designed to prepare students for parenthood by teaching them the psychology and science of childrearing, often referred to as "mothercraft." The babies were often wards of the state who would otherwise be placed in an orphanage. The state would simply sign over care to the college, although they usually did not sign over legal guardianship. During their stay, the babies received carefully planned nutrition and care from students under the regular supervision of a skilled caretaker and physician. As dystopian as this might sound today, lots of colleges had similar setups. Look magazine counted 41 schools with student mother programs in the 1950s. Students overwhelmingly reported that caring for the babies was a highlight of their studies. Surprisingly, there were few critics of this system. Although several welfare agencies were apprehensive about babies being raised in such environments, they had no data to support their concerns. Psychologists did not conduct studies about the babies' development before, during, and after the program. Nonetheless, most practice babies were successfully adopted. By 1970, most practice homes were phased out as educational opportunities for women continued to expand beyond the domestic sphere. These days, the only babies students are practicing on are robots. Progress?
Image credit & copyright: Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections, Cornell University Library.
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FREEBiology Daily Curio #2097Free1 CQ
In the summertime, when the weather is hot, you might see a squirrel spread eagle in a prone position and wonder, "is that squirrel okay?" More likely than not, the squirrel is splooting. Also called pancaking or heat dumping, splooting is something that many mammals (koalas, bears, cats, dogs, raccoons, and foxes) do to cool down. No doubt you've seen a dog splay out on tile! For tree squirrels in hot climates, any surface will do: a bench, a railing, a shaded pathway. But not all squirrels sploot. Squirrels are one of the most diverse taxonomic families. The Sciuridae family—from the ancient Greek "skioros," meaning "shade tail")—has 278 species and 51 genera. It includes flying squirrels, tree squirrels, chipmunks, marmots, and prairie dogs. They live in North and South America, Africa, Europe, and Asia. Most sciurids are active during the day; they're diurnal. Tree squirrels are most common in cities, and spend their days gnawing at nuts, leaves, seeds, and small insects. Their four front teeth never stop growing, so they rely on this constant chewing to keep them a manageable size. Unlike other members of their family, tree squirrels do not estivate (go dormant) in summer. Instead, their bodies adapt to the changing temperatures. They're homeotherms, warm-blooded animals that can maintain a stable body temperature through different metabolic processes like shaking. In the winter, tree squirrels' belly hair thickens, making a lovely insulating coat. In the summer, their undercoat thins, revealing a nearly bare belly. When squirrels sploot, they press their chest against a cold surface to transfer excess heat. So refreshing after a day spent keeping those front teeth in check. Sploot on, (tree) squirrels!
Image credit & copyright: Natsuko, 2010
In the summertime, when the weather is hot, you might see a squirrel spread eagle in a prone position and wonder, "is that squirrel okay?" More likely than not, the squirrel is splooting. Also called pancaking or heat dumping, splooting is something that many mammals (koalas, bears, cats, dogs, raccoons, and foxes) do to cool down. No doubt you've seen a dog splay out on tile! For tree squirrels in hot climates, any surface will do: a bench, a railing, a shaded pathway. But not all squirrels sploot. Squirrels are one of the most diverse taxonomic families. The Sciuridae family—from the ancient Greek "skioros," meaning "shade tail")—has 278 species and 51 genera. It includes flying squirrels, tree squirrels, chipmunks, marmots, and prairie dogs. They live in North and South America, Africa, Europe, and Asia. Most sciurids are active during the day; they're diurnal. Tree squirrels are most common in cities, and spend their days gnawing at nuts, leaves, seeds, and small insects. Their four front teeth never stop growing, so they rely on this constant chewing to keep them a manageable size. Unlike other members of their family, tree squirrels do not estivate (go dormant) in summer. Instead, their bodies adapt to the changing temperatures. They're homeotherms, warm-blooded animals that can maintain a stable body temperature through different metabolic processes like shaking. In the winter, tree squirrels' belly hair thickens, making a lovely insulating coat. In the summer, their undercoat thins, revealing a nearly bare belly. When squirrels sploot, they press their chest against a cold surface to transfer excess heat. So refreshing after a day spent keeping those front teeth in check. Sploot on, (tree) squirrels!
Image credit & copyright: Natsuko, 2010
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FREEInterior Design Daily Curio #2096Free1 CQ
Wallpaper might be passé today, but in Victorian England (1837-1901) it was to die for. By 1874, over 30 million rolls of wallpaper were sold each year in the United Kingdom —a 2,600% increase from 1834. Lurking in the exquisite designs, however, was a deadly agent. Four out of every five rolls sold contained arsenic! So why did people hang deadly paper on their walls? During the Victorian era, British architecture and design was indulgent. Upper- and middle-classes lavishly decorated every surface of their homes. Think heavy curtains, lush carpets, gilded mirrors, and patterned wallpaper. The abolition of a wallpaper tax (1836) and a window tax (1851) made it much more affordable to indulge in interior design. Victorians favored bold colors, including "Scheele's green" and "Emerald green." Invented in 1775 by Carl Wilhelm Scheele, Scheele's green had a yellowish-green shade that mimicked vegetal hues—incredibly desirable for city-dwellers looking to bring the outdoors in. Emerald green, aka Schweinfurt or Paris green, was invented by chemists in Schweinfurt, Bavaria who were looking to improve upon Scheele's green. The resulting vibrant hue was popularized by Empress Eugenie (Napoleon III's wife) in the French court. Both colors were compounds of arsenic and copper, and used liberally in wallpaper patterns. Over time, these pigments could flake off, settling on furniture or lingering in the air. While healthy adults could easily metabolize the substance in moderation, children and the elderly could die from the toxin. Chemists like Leopold Gmelin tried to warn the public about the harmful effects of arsenic in wallpaper, noting the mousy odor emitted by dampened paper. Their warnings were ignored. After all, it was common knowledge that arsenic was an effective killer for rats and bed bugs. Not to mention that a third of all contemporary criminal poisoning cases involved arsenic (but that's a story for another day). Victorians continued to use arsenic compounds until the invention of artificial alternatives. Today, if you want to see poisonous paper in person, you'll have to don protective gear. Alternatively, you can just enjoy the beautiful designs from the comfort of your paper-less living room.*
Image credit & copyright: Morris & Co / Via Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Morris & Co
*Arsenic wallpaper was also popular in the United States. Chemist Robert Kedzie warned of the wallpaper's dangerous properties by collecting 86 samples for his book, Shadows from the Walls of Death, and sending 200 copies to libraries across Michigan. Flip through this digitized manuscript to see preserved examples of the toxic wallpaper.
Wallpaper might be passé today, but in Victorian England (1837-1901) it was to die for. By 1874, over 30 million rolls of wallpaper were sold each year in the United Kingdom —a 2,600% increase from 1834. Lurking in the exquisite designs, however, was a deadly agent. Four out of every five rolls sold contained arsenic! So why did people hang deadly paper on their walls? During the Victorian era, British architecture and design was indulgent. Upper- and middle-classes lavishly decorated every surface of their homes. Think heavy curtains, lush carpets, gilded mirrors, and patterned wallpaper. The abolition of a wallpaper tax (1836) and a window tax (1851) made it much more affordable to indulge in interior design. Victorians favored bold colors, including "Scheele's green" and "Emerald green." Invented in 1775 by Carl Wilhelm Scheele, Scheele's green had a yellowish-green shade that mimicked vegetal hues—incredibly desirable for city-dwellers looking to bring the outdoors in. Emerald green, aka Schweinfurt or Paris green, was invented by chemists in Schweinfurt, Bavaria who were looking to improve upon Scheele's green. The resulting vibrant hue was popularized by Empress Eugenie (Napoleon III's wife) in the French court. Both colors were compounds of arsenic and copper, and used liberally in wallpaper patterns. Over time, these pigments could flake off, settling on furniture or lingering in the air. While healthy adults could easily metabolize the substance in moderation, children and the elderly could die from the toxin. Chemists like Leopold Gmelin tried to warn the public about the harmful effects of arsenic in wallpaper, noting the mousy odor emitted by dampened paper. Their warnings were ignored. After all, it was common knowledge that arsenic was an effective killer for rats and bed bugs. Not to mention that a third of all contemporary criminal poisoning cases involved arsenic (but that's a story for another day). Victorians continued to use arsenic compounds until the invention of artificial alternatives. Today, if you want to see poisonous paper in person, you'll have to don protective gear. Alternatively, you can just enjoy the beautiful designs from the comfort of your paper-less living room.*
Image credit & copyright: Morris & Co / Via Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Morris & Co
*Arsenic wallpaper was also popular in the United States. Chemist Robert Kedzie warned of the wallpaper's dangerous properties by collecting 86 samples for his book, Shadows from the Walls of Death, and sending 200 copies to libraries across Michigan. Flip through this digitized manuscript to see preserved examples of the toxic wallpaper.
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FREEMusic Appreciation Daily Curio #2095Free1 CQ
f you're like me, you've probably heard of "Melba Toast" and "Peach Melba," but never tried either dish. What you probably don't know is that both were named for a famous Australian opera singer, Dame Nellie Melba (1861-1931). Born Helen "Nellie" Porter Mitchelle near Melbourne, Australia in 1861, Nellie grew up performing the organ at her church and singing in amateur concerts. In 1882, she married Charles Armstrong and had a son, George. In 1884, she took George and left Charles (who had been abusive) to pursue a professional singing career. She eventually found fame in the Opera Houses of Europe. While touring in Paris, she created the stage name, Nellie Melba, in honor of her hometown (Melbourne). In May 1888, she debuted in the titular role of Lucia di Lammermoor at at Covent Garden. A fixture in the London society scene, Melba often dined at the Savoy Hotel's restaurant run by renowned French chef Auguste Escoffier. A master of haute cuisine, Escoffier doted on star patrons who included King Edward VII, Kaiser Wilhelm II, César Ritz (of the Ritz-Carlton hotels), and of course, Dame Melba. Rumor has it that one day, Melba sent Escoffier tickets to see her perform in the Wagner opera, Lohengrin. The set design included a swan-shaped boat. The following evening, Escoffier served Melba a dessert of fresh peaches over vanilla ice cream. He presented the dish on top of a swan carved from ice, and called it Pêche au cygne or peach on a swan. A few years later, he topped the dish with raspberry purée and renamed it Pêche melba or Peach Melba. Melba toast, on the other hand, was "invented" around 1897 when Dame Melba was feeling unwell. Escoffier took a slice of bread, cut it into two thin pieces, and toasted both pieces. The resulting toast became a staple of Melba's diet. Melba continued to have an illustrious career. In 1918, King George V bestowed her with the honorific title, "Dame." The diva's likeness is memorialized on the Australian $100 note, and on a bust on the steps of the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden. And hey, if you're tired of feeding that sourdough starter, maybe whip up some Peach Melba with the last stone fruit of the summer. You can always listen to some opera while you cook!
Listen to Dame Nellie Melba and Enrico Caruso sing "O soave fanciulla" from Puccini's opera, La bohème.
Image credit & copyright: Opera singer Dame Nellie Melba, circa 1900, Hulton Archive and Getty Images
f you're like me, you've probably heard of "Melba Toast" and "Peach Melba," but never tried either dish. What you probably don't know is that both were named for a famous Australian opera singer, Dame Nellie Melba (1861-1931). Born Helen "Nellie" Porter Mitchelle near Melbourne, Australia in 1861, Nellie grew up performing the organ at her church and singing in amateur concerts. In 1882, she married Charles Armstrong and had a son, George. In 1884, she took George and left Charles (who had been abusive) to pursue a professional singing career. She eventually found fame in the Opera Houses of Europe. While touring in Paris, she created the stage name, Nellie Melba, in honor of her hometown (Melbourne). In May 1888, she debuted in the titular role of Lucia di Lammermoor at at Covent Garden. A fixture in the London society scene, Melba often dined at the Savoy Hotel's restaurant run by renowned French chef Auguste Escoffier. A master of haute cuisine, Escoffier doted on star patrons who included King Edward VII, Kaiser Wilhelm II, César Ritz (of the Ritz-Carlton hotels), and of course, Dame Melba. Rumor has it that one day, Melba sent Escoffier tickets to see her perform in the Wagner opera, Lohengrin. The set design included a swan-shaped boat. The following evening, Escoffier served Melba a dessert of fresh peaches over vanilla ice cream. He presented the dish on top of a swan carved from ice, and called it Pêche au cygne or peach on a swan. A few years later, he topped the dish with raspberry purée and renamed it Pêche melba or Peach Melba. Melba toast, on the other hand, was "invented" around 1897 when Dame Melba was feeling unwell. Escoffier took a slice of bread, cut it into two thin pieces, and toasted both pieces. The resulting toast became a staple of Melba's diet. Melba continued to have an illustrious career. In 1918, King George V bestowed her with the honorific title, "Dame." The diva's likeness is memorialized on the Australian $100 note, and on a bust on the steps of the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden. And hey, if you're tired of feeding that sourdough starter, maybe whip up some Peach Melba with the last stone fruit of the summer. You can always listen to some opera while you cook!
Listen to Dame Nellie Melba and Enrico Caruso sing "O soave fanciulla" from Puccini's opera, La bohème.
Image credit & copyright: Opera singer Dame Nellie Melba, circa 1900, Hulton Archive and Getty Images
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FREEUS History Daily CurioFree1 CQ
It's Flashback Friday! Enjoy this favorite from the Curio Cabinet archives.
It's been over a century since visitors were last allowed in the arm and torch of the Statue of Liberty. That's because in 1916, a massive explosion on Black Tom Island in New York Harbor peppered Lady Liberty with shrapnel, forever compromising the structural integrity of her limb. Over 2,000,000 tons of military ordnance were on the island. At the time, that was 75 percent of all the ammunition and explosives the U.S. had prepared for shipment to Allied countries fighting in World War I. The armaments detonated just after 2:00 a.m. and registered 5.5 on the Richter scale, shattering most of the windows in Manhattan and waking people as far away as Philadelphia and Maryland. At least seven died, countless others were wounded, and damages amounted to $500 million adjusted for inflation. The fledgling FBI, which had only just formed in 1908, raced to the scene. Its investigators discovered that two guards at Black Tom happened to be German secret agents, Kurt Jahnke and Lothar Witzke. Both had vanished. An unlikely spy ring consisting of German imperialists, Irish republicans, and Indian nationalists was later uncovered. Jahnke and Witzke had planted explosives disguised as cigars around the island, and executed synchronized explosions to thwart U.S. weapons sales to Allies. It was the single largest act of terrorism inflicted on the continental U.S. up until the events of 9/11, and contributed to Congress' later decisions to pass the Espionage Act and declare war on Germany in 1917. In the end, the explosion on Black Tom Island royally backfired, and Imperial Germany had yet another enemy to fight. Sorry, Kaiser Wilhelm. Close but no, um, cigar!
Image credit & copyright: AFP/Getty Images
It's Flashback Friday! Enjoy this favorite from the Curio Cabinet archives.
It's been over a century since visitors were last allowed in the arm and torch of the Statue of Liberty. That's because in 1916, a massive explosion on Black Tom Island in New York Harbor peppered Lady Liberty with shrapnel, forever compromising the structural integrity of her limb. Over 2,000,000 tons of military ordnance were on the island. At the time, that was 75 percent of all the ammunition and explosives the U.S. had prepared for shipment to Allied countries fighting in World War I. The armaments detonated just after 2:00 a.m. and registered 5.5 on the Richter scale, shattering most of the windows in Manhattan and waking people as far away as Philadelphia and Maryland. At least seven died, countless others were wounded, and damages amounted to $500 million adjusted for inflation. The fledgling FBI, which had only just formed in 1908, raced to the scene. Its investigators discovered that two guards at Black Tom happened to be German secret agents, Kurt Jahnke and Lothar Witzke. Both had vanished. An unlikely spy ring consisting of German imperialists, Irish republicans, and Indian nationalists was later uncovered. Jahnke and Witzke had planted explosives disguised as cigars around the island, and executed synchronized explosions to thwart U.S. weapons sales to Allies. It was the single largest act of terrorism inflicted on the continental U.S. up until the events of 9/11, and contributed to Congress' later decisions to pass the Espionage Act and declare war on Germany in 1917. In the end, the explosion on Black Tom Island royally backfired, and Imperial Germany had yet another enemy to fight. Sorry, Kaiser Wilhelm. Close but no, um, cigar!
Image credit & copyright: AFP/Getty Images
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FREEHumanities Daily Curio #2094Free1 CQ
These days, you might feel like you’re chained to your house running out of television and books. But you might be surprised to learn that past readers had the same problem—literally! Before the advent of modern library cards (c. 1700s) and catalog systems, librarians relied on the honor system when loaning out books. With no reliable tracking system, librarians often threatened patrons by placing a "book curse" in the colophon—an end page that included publication information. At the Abbey of Saints Mary and Nicholas of Arnstein, a scribe discouraged theft of an 1172 edition of The Bible by adding such a curse, "If anyone take away this book, let him die the death; let him be fried in apart; let the falling sickness and fever seize him; let him be broken on the wheel, and hanged. Amen." Why the dramatics? It’s worth noting that books in the Middle Ages were incredibly expensive. Most people would not even see a book in their lifetime—let alone handle one! A book could have been worth as much as a farm. Before the invention of moveable type (c. 1439), books were copied by hand, and any illustrations were hand-painted. Not only was this a tedious process, but it also meant that books were slowly reproduced. Most books available to a limited public would have been reference manuals, law books, or religious texts—hefty tomes that libraries are skeptical to lend even today. To deter would-be book thieves, some libraries took the extreme approach of chaining books to bookshelves, lecterns, and desks. Librarians would attach a hefty metal front piece to the book’s cover, which connected to the chain. Books were shelved with the spine facing inward so that readers could remove a book from a shelf without knotting up the chain. Still, maneuvering these books would have been no easy feat, although the permanent tethers typically had a swivel feature. Today, you can virtually visit the largest surviving chained library at the Hereford Cathedral in England. A tour might make you feel a bit unchained.
Image credit & copyright: Hereford Cathedral
These days, you might feel like you’re chained to your house running out of television and books. But you might be surprised to learn that past readers had the same problem—literally! Before the advent of modern library cards (c. 1700s) and catalog systems, librarians relied on the honor system when loaning out books. With no reliable tracking system, librarians often threatened patrons by placing a "book curse" in the colophon—an end page that included publication information. At the Abbey of Saints Mary and Nicholas of Arnstein, a scribe discouraged theft of an 1172 edition of The Bible by adding such a curse, "If anyone take away this book, let him die the death; let him be fried in apart; let the falling sickness and fever seize him; let him be broken on the wheel, and hanged. Amen." Why the dramatics? It’s worth noting that books in the Middle Ages were incredibly expensive. Most people would not even see a book in their lifetime—let alone handle one! A book could have been worth as much as a farm. Before the invention of moveable type (c. 1439), books were copied by hand, and any illustrations were hand-painted. Not only was this a tedious process, but it also meant that books were slowly reproduced. Most books available to a limited public would have been reference manuals, law books, or religious texts—hefty tomes that libraries are skeptical to lend even today. To deter would-be book thieves, some libraries took the extreme approach of chaining books to bookshelves, lecterns, and desks. Librarians would attach a hefty metal front piece to the book’s cover, which connected to the chain. Books were shelved with the spine facing inward so that readers could remove a book from a shelf without knotting up the chain. Still, maneuvering these books would have been no easy feat, although the permanent tethers typically had a swivel feature. Today, you can virtually visit the largest surviving chained library at the Hereford Cathedral in England. A tour might make you feel a bit unchained.
Image credit & copyright: Hereford Cathedral
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FREEUS History Daily Curio #2093Free1 CQ
You would think we would have our feet straight by now. But it turns out in the United States, also known as the wild west of measurement standards and systems, there are two lengths of a foot used by surveyors. The first is the U.S. survey foot. Created in 1893, it is defined as 1200/3937 of a meter or approximately 0.3048006 meters. The second is the international foot. Adopted in 1959, it standardized the survey foot as exactly 0.3048 meters. The difference between them might seem negligible—it's only one hundredth of a foot per mile! But when measuring things like bridges, airport runways, or tunnels, it can add up. In the U.S., 40 states and territories use the U.S. survey foot because it allows surveyors to account for the Earth's curvature. Other states have adopted the international foot because it is more precise. So why do we still use two systems? In part, the answer lies in the colonization of North America. When imperial settlers arrived, they brought their native units of measurements. What remains today is a mixture of these systems, from the Fahrenheit scale to measure temperature to the metric system for medicine, alcohol, and soda. To measure length, we rely upon an adapted version of the British Imperial units for length or distance (e.g. inches, feet, yards, miles, etc.). For instance, an "acre" is a commonly used standard in the United States, but actually derived from the Middle Ages. At the time, an acre referred to the amount of land a man could plow in a day by the yoke of an oxen. Fortunately, we now agree that an acre is 4,840 square yards. And as of 2023, there will be yet another consensus. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration and the National Institute of Standards and Technology are phasing out the U.S. survey foot in favor of the international foot. I guess these days everybody is just putting one foot in front of the other.
Image credit & copyright: Amanda Montañez, NOAA’s National Geodetic Survey
You would think we would have our feet straight by now. But it turns out in the United States, also known as the wild west of measurement standards and systems, there are two lengths of a foot used by surveyors. The first is the U.S. survey foot. Created in 1893, it is defined as 1200/3937 of a meter or approximately 0.3048006 meters. The second is the international foot. Adopted in 1959, it standardized the survey foot as exactly 0.3048 meters. The difference between them might seem negligible—it's only one hundredth of a foot per mile! But when measuring things like bridges, airport runways, or tunnels, it can add up. In the U.S., 40 states and territories use the U.S. survey foot because it allows surveyors to account for the Earth's curvature. Other states have adopted the international foot because it is more precise. So why do we still use two systems? In part, the answer lies in the colonization of North America. When imperial settlers arrived, they brought their native units of measurements. What remains today is a mixture of these systems, from the Fahrenheit scale to measure temperature to the metric system for medicine, alcohol, and soda. To measure length, we rely upon an adapted version of the British Imperial units for length or distance (e.g. inches, feet, yards, miles, etc.). For instance, an "acre" is a commonly used standard in the United States, but actually derived from the Middle Ages. At the time, an acre referred to the amount of land a man could plow in a day by the yoke of an oxen. Fortunately, we now agree that an acre is 4,840 square yards. And as of 2023, there will be yet another consensus. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration and the National Institute of Standards and Technology are phasing out the U.S. survey foot in favor of the international foot. I guess these days everybody is just putting one foot in front of the other.
Image credit & copyright: Amanda Montañez, NOAA’s National Geodetic Survey
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FREEMind + Body Daily Curio #2092Free1 CQ
Sports fans may not be able to attend live games these days, but they can still protect the purity of their concessions. During an unexpectedly exciting City Council meeting in Lincoln, Nebraska, Ander Christensen proposed the city remove "the name boneless wings from our menus and from our hearts." Christensen's crusade to distinguish between "boneless chicken wings" (made of breast meat) and "chicken wings" went viral. Diehard chicken wing fans around the world are heeding Christensen’s rallying cry to defend the spicy and delicious snack of choice for armchair quarterbacks. According to the National Chicken Council (yup, that's a thing), the Anchor Bar in Buffalo, New York, invented buffalo chicken wings in 1964. Legend has it that one night, the bar's co-owner, Teressa Bellissimo whipped up a snack of leftover wings doused in peppery hot sauce for her son and his friends. They were such a hit that the Bellissimos added them to the Anchor Bar menu. Accompanied by celery sticks and blue cheese sauce, the wings were an instant success—plus they sent beer sales through the roof, since customers needed something to wash down the heat. A competing origin story suggests the wings were invented by John Young, a Black man served chicken wings with a "mambo sauce" at his restaurant, Wings 'n Things, in the 60s. Purists argue his wings belong in another category because a) they were breaded and b) the wing and drumstick weren't separated. But no origin story claims that wings can be boneless, let alone made of breast meat. Today there's even a National Buffalo Wing Festival with staged events like the Amateur Sauce Contest and Miss Buffalo Wing. I'm pretty sure you won't find any chicken breasts lurking in the, um, wings.
Image credit & copyright: Delaney Strunk, Pamela D McAdams, Getty Images
Sports fans may not be able to attend live games these days, but they can still protect the purity of their concessions. During an unexpectedly exciting City Council meeting in Lincoln, Nebraska, Ander Christensen proposed the city remove "the name boneless wings from our menus and from our hearts." Christensen's crusade to distinguish between "boneless chicken wings" (made of breast meat) and "chicken wings" went viral. Diehard chicken wing fans around the world are heeding Christensen’s rallying cry to defend the spicy and delicious snack of choice for armchair quarterbacks. According to the National Chicken Council (yup, that's a thing), the Anchor Bar in Buffalo, New York, invented buffalo chicken wings in 1964. Legend has it that one night, the bar's co-owner, Teressa Bellissimo whipped up a snack of leftover wings doused in peppery hot sauce for her son and his friends. They were such a hit that the Bellissimos added them to the Anchor Bar menu. Accompanied by celery sticks and blue cheese sauce, the wings were an instant success—plus they sent beer sales through the roof, since customers needed something to wash down the heat. A competing origin story suggests the wings were invented by John Young, a Black man served chicken wings with a "mambo sauce" at his restaurant, Wings 'n Things, in the 60s. Purists argue his wings belong in another category because a) they were breaded and b) the wing and drumstick weren't separated. But no origin story claims that wings can be boneless, let alone made of breast meat. Today there's even a National Buffalo Wing Festival with staged events like the Amateur Sauce Contest and Miss Buffalo Wing. I'm pretty sure you won't find any chicken breasts lurking in the, um, wings.
Image credit & copyright: Delaney Strunk, Pamela D McAdams, Getty Images
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FREEHumanities Daily Curio #2091Free1 CQ
If you caught our flashback episode on Friday, you learned about the Amazons, ancient female warriors. But did you know another group of Amazons inspired the holiday you're enjoying today? That's right, the Working Women's Union or the "Shouting Amazons" as they were dubbed by The Chicago Tribune, championed an eight-hour workday, the abolition of child labor, equal pay for equal work, and scaled income tax. On May 3, 1886, the women led a peaceful march through downtown Chicago as part of a larger labor rally. Several hundred women and girls, mostly seamstresses from a local cloak factory, jubilantly marched down the streets singing, "Eight Hours," a song with lyrics like, "We mean to make things over, we are tired of toil for naught / With but bare enough to live upon, and never an hour for thought." Like many in the working-class, the women toiled in hazardous conditions for 10 to 12 hours a day and paltry pay. The protestors' ebullience quickly dampened that evening when police attacked demonstrators at the nearby McCormick Reaping company. The next morning, May 4, 1886, laborers gathered in Haymarket Square to protest the police brutality. During the rally, someone threw a bomb, killing seven officers and four protestors. These events, known as the "Haymarket affair," invigorated labor reformers around the world. In 1889, the Marxist International Social Congress established International Workers' Day on May 1 in honor of the Chicago laborers. President Cleveland signed the federal holiday into law in 1894, but selected the first Monday in September to avoid the movement's socialist, communist, and anarchist roots. So today, as you're enjoying respite from a 40-hour workweek, raise a glass to the Shouting Amazons.
Image credit & copyright: Women delegates to the 1886 Convention of the Knights of Labor, Library of Congress, 1886
If you caught our flashback episode on Friday, you learned about the Amazons, ancient female warriors. But did you know another group of Amazons inspired the holiday you're enjoying today? That's right, the Working Women's Union or the "Shouting Amazons" as they were dubbed by The Chicago Tribune, championed an eight-hour workday, the abolition of child labor, equal pay for equal work, and scaled income tax. On May 3, 1886, the women led a peaceful march through downtown Chicago as part of a larger labor rally. Several hundred women and girls, mostly seamstresses from a local cloak factory, jubilantly marched down the streets singing, "Eight Hours," a song with lyrics like, "We mean to make things over, we are tired of toil for naught / With but bare enough to live upon, and never an hour for thought." Like many in the working-class, the women toiled in hazardous conditions for 10 to 12 hours a day and paltry pay. The protestors' ebullience quickly dampened that evening when police attacked demonstrators at the nearby McCormick Reaping company. The next morning, May 4, 1886, laborers gathered in Haymarket Square to protest the police brutality. During the rally, someone threw a bomb, killing seven officers and four protestors. These events, known as the "Haymarket affair," invigorated labor reformers around the world. In 1889, the Marxist International Social Congress established International Workers' Day on May 1 in honor of the Chicago laborers. President Cleveland signed the federal holiday into law in 1894, but selected the first Monday in September to avoid the movement's socialist, communist, and anarchist roots. So today, as you're enjoying respite from a 40-hour workweek, raise a glass to the Shouting Amazons.
Image credit & copyright: Women delegates to the 1886 Convention of the Knights of Labor, Library of Congress, 1886
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FREEHumanities Daily CurioFree1 CQ
It's Flashback Friday! Enjoy this favorite from the Curio Cabinet archives.
For ages now, anthropologists believed Amazonian warriors were a myth concocted by the ancient Greeks. But a slew of recent discoveries has stacked up evidence that the female warriors not only existed, but were numerous. As a refresher, Amazons were given mythic status in ancient Greek stories. They were reputed to live in a lesbian matriarchy and excel in combat. Along with carrying spears, they allegedly cut off one of their breasts to better fire their bows. The Amazons were also said to have allied with Troy against the Greeks during the Trojan War. The Greek accounts place the Amazonian society in southwestern Russia. This is why a recent archaeological discovery in the western Russian village of Devitsa is so exciting. There, a 2,500-year-old tomb housing four women was excavated. The entombed women, ranging in age from 12-50, were decked out in horseback riding gear and weapons traditionally associated with the Amazons. The oldest woman was buried in a horseback stance and crowned with a basket-shaped headdress called a calathos, which is 65-70 percent gold. This is important because archaeologists confirmed these women were Scythians. Scythians were an ancient nomadic people who lived along the Eurasian Steppe. Most Scythian jewelry is only 30 percent gold. Which means the oldest woman in the tomb was highly regarded. Nearly one-third of Scythian women were buried with weapons, according to recent findings. What makes this particular discovery so special is that the tomb contained multiple generations of women in armor with weapons. This means Scythian society was truly egalitarian in regard to the sexes. Scythian girls were trained alongside boys in combat and horse riding because everyone needed to contribute to survive on the harsh steppes. All the fanciful rumors of a male-less lesbian society that self-mutilated come from the patriarchal Greeks. It's likely that female Scythian warriors both disturbed and fascinated Greek men, who were accustomed to servile Athenian women. Hmm... something tells me the Greeks were insecure about their masculinity (or smitten) when they met Scythian women on the battlefield!
Image credit & copyright: ITALY - CIRCA 2002: Attic vase with a scene of Amazons, red-figure pottery, Italy. Detail. Greek pottery, 4th Century BC. Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale (Archaeological Museum) (Photo by DeAgostini/Getty Images)
It's Flashback Friday! Enjoy this favorite from the Curio Cabinet archives.
For ages now, anthropologists believed Amazonian warriors were a myth concocted by the ancient Greeks. But a slew of recent discoveries has stacked up evidence that the female warriors not only existed, but were numerous. As a refresher, Amazons were given mythic status in ancient Greek stories. They were reputed to live in a lesbian matriarchy and excel in combat. Along with carrying spears, they allegedly cut off one of their breasts to better fire their bows. The Amazons were also said to have allied with Troy against the Greeks during the Trojan War. The Greek accounts place the Amazonian society in southwestern Russia. This is why a recent archaeological discovery in the western Russian village of Devitsa is so exciting. There, a 2,500-year-old tomb housing four women was excavated. The entombed women, ranging in age from 12-50, were decked out in horseback riding gear and weapons traditionally associated with the Amazons. The oldest woman was buried in a horseback stance and crowned with a basket-shaped headdress called a calathos, which is 65-70 percent gold. This is important because archaeologists confirmed these women were Scythians. Scythians were an ancient nomadic people who lived along the Eurasian Steppe. Most Scythian jewelry is only 30 percent gold. Which means the oldest woman in the tomb was highly regarded. Nearly one-third of Scythian women were buried with weapons, according to recent findings. What makes this particular discovery so special is that the tomb contained multiple generations of women in armor with weapons. This means Scythian society was truly egalitarian in regard to the sexes. Scythian girls were trained alongside boys in combat and horse riding because everyone needed to contribute to survive on the harsh steppes. All the fanciful rumors of a male-less lesbian society that self-mutilated come from the patriarchal Greeks. It's likely that female Scythian warriors both disturbed and fascinated Greek men, who were accustomed to servile Athenian women. Hmm... something tells me the Greeks were insecure about their masculinity (or smitten) when they met Scythian women on the battlefield!
Image credit & copyright: ITALY - CIRCA 2002: Attic vase with a scene of Amazons, red-figure pottery, Italy. Detail. Greek pottery, 4th Century BC. Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale (Archaeological Museum) (Photo by DeAgostini/Getty Images)
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FREEMusic Daily Curio #2090Free1 CQ
Well, it looks like my guitar skills are steadily becoming obsolete. I say that because designer and engineer Anthony Dickens has recently unveiled the Circle Guitar, a self-strumming electric guitar which plays at speeds of 250 beats per minute. That's over 4 strums a second, a breakneck tempo unsustainable for the average guitar player. Shown above, the guitar takes its name from the circular motor-driven sequencer that strikes the strings as it revolves. It features 128 holes that accommodate modular plectrums. It can also be rigged to digital audio workstations. Theoretically, pushed to its limits, the Circle Guitar could strum 32,000 times a minute. Compare that to prodigal Nepali guitarist Nirvana Bista, who can play composer Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov's Flight of the Bumblebee at a blistering 1,600 bpm for only a short spurt. As nifty as Circle Guitar is, it still requires knowledge of chords, progressions, etc. in the left hand. The right hand, while freed up from repeatedly strumming, ends up modulating effects, playing with outputs, and toggling features like a DJ. It's only natural that the guitar is following the piano's path into the digital world. Someday, it's likely everyone and their mother will be able to shred on the "guitar." As much as that downplays all the work I've put into the six-string, I can't deny that sounds awesome. Can you imagine a world of musicians? Sounds like bliss to me!
Below: a demo of the Circle Guitar.
Image credit & copyright: Anthony Dickens
Well, it looks like my guitar skills are steadily becoming obsolete. I say that because designer and engineer Anthony Dickens has recently unveiled the Circle Guitar, a self-strumming electric guitar which plays at speeds of 250 beats per minute. That's over 4 strums a second, a breakneck tempo unsustainable for the average guitar player. Shown above, the guitar takes its name from the circular motor-driven sequencer that strikes the strings as it revolves. It features 128 holes that accommodate modular plectrums. It can also be rigged to digital audio workstations. Theoretically, pushed to its limits, the Circle Guitar could strum 32,000 times a minute. Compare that to prodigal Nepali guitarist Nirvana Bista, who can play composer Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov's Flight of the Bumblebee at a blistering 1,600 bpm for only a short spurt. As nifty as Circle Guitar is, it still requires knowledge of chords, progressions, etc. in the left hand. The right hand, while freed up from repeatedly strumming, ends up modulating effects, playing with outputs, and toggling features like a DJ. It's only natural that the guitar is following the piano's path into the digital world. Someday, it's likely everyone and their mother will be able to shred on the "guitar." As much as that downplays all the work I've put into the six-string, I can't deny that sounds awesome. Can you imagine a world of musicians? Sounds like bliss to me!
Below: a demo of the Circle Guitar.
Image credit & copyright: Anthony Dickens
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FREESinging Daily Curio #2089Free1 CQ
So far in quarantine, we've heard a lot about how the airline, natural gas, and restaurant industries have been struggling in quarantine. Suffering among them in relative silence are musicians and singers—who can take solace in a new study that argues their shows aren't so viral as previously believed (in the medical sense). Researchers at the University of Bristol tested a recent theory that singing and even woodwind instruments could sow COVID-19 among audiences. They did this by recruiting 25 professional singers to speak, breathe, cough, hack, and sing into cheapo funnels like the one shown above. More advanced were the measuring tools that registered the amount of aerosols produced by each utterance. The Bristol team found that lower volumes of singing and instrumental playing were on par aerosol-wise with breathing. In other words, singing can be just as safe in the COVID-era as breathing. Louder singing, such as operatic singing, however, can produce 36 times more aerosols by mass. These findings open up the path towards safer, less restrictive performances on the part of musicians and audiences alike. Musicians, for instance, may see relaxed social distancing of the usual six feet as compared to nine. I say we do what we can to save musicians' livelihoods, which are usually financed by now-impossible in-person lessons. If that means smaller, quieter, but safer outdoor shows, you can count me in. Let the good times roll (with everybody spaced six feet apart)!
Image credit & copyright: The University of Bristol
So far in quarantine, we've heard a lot about how the airline, natural gas, and restaurant industries have been struggling in quarantine. Suffering among them in relative silence are musicians and singers—who can take solace in a new study that argues their shows aren't so viral as previously believed (in the medical sense). Researchers at the University of Bristol tested a recent theory that singing and even woodwind instruments could sow COVID-19 among audiences. They did this by recruiting 25 professional singers to speak, breathe, cough, hack, and sing into cheapo funnels like the one shown above. More advanced were the measuring tools that registered the amount of aerosols produced by each utterance. The Bristol team found that lower volumes of singing and instrumental playing were on par aerosol-wise with breathing. In other words, singing can be just as safe in the COVID-era as breathing. Louder singing, such as operatic singing, however, can produce 36 times more aerosols by mass. These findings open up the path towards safer, less restrictive performances on the part of musicians and audiences alike. Musicians, for instance, may see relaxed social distancing of the usual six feet as compared to nine. I say we do what we can to save musicians' livelihoods, which are usually financed by now-impossible in-person lessons. If that means smaller, quieter, but safer outdoor shows, you can count me in. Let the good times roll (with everybody spaced six feet apart)!
Image credit & copyright: The University of Bristol
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FREESTEM Daily Curio #2088Free1 CQ
There's a new maverick in the fighter jet hanger: an algorithm. DARPA's AlphaDogfight Trials, an algorithmic piloting competition, came to a close last month with the winning algorithm routing a human F-16 fighter pilot in five out of five virtual reality dogfights. The winning organization, Heron Systems, first had to beat challenging fighter pilot algorithms created by the likes of military contractor Lockheed Martin. This came with a litany of challenges. First, there was the matter of outclassing the A.I. competition in combat. Then there were the collision detectors needed to stop the A.I. from crashing into landmarks. Which would be far easier if Heron's AI pilot weren't so aggressive. "Banger," a crack pilot and human, was the challenger in the final bout. Instantly, he was overwhelmed by the Heron A.I.'s relentless assault, "superman" aiming, tolerance of G force, and generally unorthodox stratagem. Banger was routed in the first four rounds, but managed to develop a feasible strategy in the fifth, which he nevertheless lost. If that gets your hopes up for humanity, think again: all AI in the competition were barred from being upgraded after each round. So if Heron's AI had been allowed to learn and develop as it battled, it's likely Banger would've never had a chance. The victory by artificial intelligence marks a watershed moment we've been expecting for some time now. It's safe to say that nearly all aircraft, along with our cars, could end up unmanned within a generation or two. All serious fears of AI aside, I just hope these AI pilots take it easy with the Gs when I'm on airliners. At least we won't have to worry about the A.I. pilots having one too many at the airport bar!
Image credit & copyright: Asia Times
There's a new maverick in the fighter jet hanger: an algorithm. DARPA's AlphaDogfight Trials, an algorithmic piloting competition, came to a close last month with the winning algorithm routing a human F-16 fighter pilot in five out of five virtual reality dogfights. The winning organization, Heron Systems, first had to beat challenging fighter pilot algorithms created by the likes of military contractor Lockheed Martin. This came with a litany of challenges. First, there was the matter of outclassing the A.I. competition in combat. Then there were the collision detectors needed to stop the A.I. from crashing into landmarks. Which would be far easier if Heron's AI pilot weren't so aggressive. "Banger," a crack pilot and human, was the challenger in the final bout. Instantly, he was overwhelmed by the Heron A.I.'s relentless assault, "superman" aiming, tolerance of G force, and generally unorthodox stratagem. Banger was routed in the first four rounds, but managed to develop a feasible strategy in the fifth, which he nevertheless lost. If that gets your hopes up for humanity, think again: all AI in the competition were barred from being upgraded after each round. So if Heron's AI had been allowed to learn and develop as it battled, it's likely Banger would've never had a chance. The victory by artificial intelligence marks a watershed moment we've been expecting for some time now. It's safe to say that nearly all aircraft, along with our cars, could end up unmanned within a generation or two. All serious fears of AI aside, I just hope these AI pilots take it easy with the Gs when I'm on airliners. At least we won't have to worry about the A.I. pilots having one too many at the airport bar!
Image credit & copyright: Asia Times
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FREEWorld History Daily Curio #2087Free1 CQ
Roman Emperor Caligula was born on today's date in 12 C.E. If you've ever studied ancient Roman history, you might know how Caligula's reign started off promising—before quickly devolving into madness. He was born Gaius Caesar Germanicus in modern-day Anzio, Italy, with Julius Caesar as his great-great-grandfather. Gaius was given the name "Caligula," Latin for "little boots," in reference to how he followed his general father around in a toddler-sized military uniform. He grew into an awkward adolescent characterized by paleness, gloominess, gangliness, and a "deformed" bald head. Even more unfortunate for young Caligula, his life was wrecked by a series of classic Roman power grabs. His family was nearly exterminated, and he ended up adopted and imprisoned by his father's killer, Emperor Tiberius. Questionable rumors about incest with sisters and violence began to follow Caligula at this time, but Caligula at least managed an outward presentation of a healthy, upstanding man.
When Caligula was 24, Tiberius died. Rumors abounded that Caligula had smothered him. At any rate, Caligula was crowned the new emperor and was immensely popular in his reign's first seven months—so popular that 160,000 animals were sacrificed in his honor. Caligula, now Rome's cherished "baby," granted bonuses to troops, repealed many of Tiberius' draconian laws, and instituted tax relief, among other things. Then that same year Caligula was afflicted with a mysterious sickness that fouled his personality. He declared himself a living god and launched war against the Roman sea god, Neptune. He appointed a horse as his highest-ranking consul. Other antics include merciless executions, "floating palace" harem ships, and Caligula's outlawing of goat jokes. Why? The Roman populace, fed up with Caligula, was making fun of Caligula's scrawny, goat-like appearance. Eventually, in 41 C.E., Caligula's personal guard turned on him and he was assassinated at age 28. To this day, the reversal in Caligula's personality and morality remains a mystery. Many historians believe his switch followed an initial, debilitating fit of epilepsy, hyperthyroidism, Wilson's disease, or chronic "Saturnism," another term for ongoing lead poisoning. The ailment results in mercurial behavior, psychosis, and other negative changes. Which makes me thankful my kids grew up after the lead-paint toy era. They're entitled enough as is. The last thing they need is to develop "living god"-sized egos!
Image credit & copyright: plrang/Fotolia
Roman Emperor Caligula was born on today's date in 12 C.E. If you've ever studied ancient Roman history, you might know how Caligula's reign started off promising—before quickly devolving into madness. He was born Gaius Caesar Germanicus in modern-day Anzio, Italy, with Julius Caesar as his great-great-grandfather. Gaius was given the name "Caligula," Latin for "little boots," in reference to how he followed his general father around in a toddler-sized military uniform. He grew into an awkward adolescent characterized by paleness, gloominess, gangliness, and a "deformed" bald head. Even more unfortunate for young Caligula, his life was wrecked by a series of classic Roman power grabs. His family was nearly exterminated, and he ended up adopted and imprisoned by his father's killer, Emperor Tiberius. Questionable rumors about incest with sisters and violence began to follow Caligula at this time, but Caligula at least managed an outward presentation of a healthy, upstanding man.
When Caligula was 24, Tiberius died. Rumors abounded that Caligula had smothered him. At any rate, Caligula was crowned the new emperor and was immensely popular in his reign's first seven months—so popular that 160,000 animals were sacrificed in his honor. Caligula, now Rome's cherished "baby," granted bonuses to troops, repealed many of Tiberius' draconian laws, and instituted tax relief, among other things. Then that same year Caligula was afflicted with a mysterious sickness that fouled his personality. He declared himself a living god and launched war against the Roman sea god, Neptune. He appointed a horse as his highest-ranking consul. Other antics include merciless executions, "floating palace" harem ships, and Caligula's outlawing of goat jokes. Why? The Roman populace, fed up with Caligula, was making fun of Caligula's scrawny, goat-like appearance. Eventually, in 41 C.E., Caligula's personal guard turned on him and he was assassinated at age 28. To this day, the reversal in Caligula's personality and morality remains a mystery. Many historians believe his switch followed an initial, debilitating fit of epilepsy, hyperthyroidism, Wilson's disease, or chronic "Saturnism," another term for ongoing lead poisoning. The ailment results in mercurial behavior, psychosis, and other negative changes. Which makes me thankful my kids grew up after the lead-paint toy era. They're entitled enough as is. The last thing they need is to develop "living god"-sized egos!
Image credit & copyright: plrang/Fotolia