Curio Cabinet / Person, Place, or Thing
-
FREEPolitical Science PP&T CurioFree1 CQ
A look at one of the U.S.A.'s most controversial presidents.
When a government official must publicly declare that they aren't a criminal, it's usually a bad sign. But Richard Milhous Nixon, the 37th President of the United States, did just that on November 17, 1973, during a now-infamous speech. The address came on the heels of a government wiretapping scandal which had cemented Nixon's place as an extremely controversial President. On August 9, 1974, Nixon became the first and only U.S. President to ever resign from office, leaving behind a strange governmental legacy.
Born January 9, 1913, Nixon started making waves early in his career. In 1946, after some time in the navy, he won a seat in the U.S. House of Representatives at the age of 33. But it was during the "Red Scare" of the late 1940s and early 1950s, in which everyone from government officials to Hollywood actors were accused of being communists, that Nixon truly made a name for himself. He became known as a fervent anti-communist when he sat on the rather dystopian-sounding (and later disgraced) "House Un-American Activities Committee" and aggressively questioned former State Department official Alger Hiss, who was accused of being a communist spy.
Nixon gained a seat in the U.S. Senate in 1950. In 1952, he won the nomination to run as Vice President to Dwight D. Eisenhower, but soon the New York Post reported that Nixon was improperly using political contributions, which he kept in a secret "slush fund." In response, Nixon gave a now-famous address—the "Checkers" speech—in which he insisted that the only political gift he had ever received was his daughter's cocker spaniel, Checkers. Nixon was allowed to run with Eisenhower, and became Vice President later that year.
Nixon first ran for President himself in 1960, but lost to Democratic opponent John F. Kennedy. He didn't launch another Presidential campaign until 1968. His biggest campaign promise was to end the Vietnam War and the draft, which were hugely unpopular. This helped propel him to a narrow victory. During his first term, Nixon focused on easing tensions with China and Russia. Ending the Vietnam War proved difficult for a number of logistical reasons, and a treaty wasn't signed until 1973, during Nixon's second term. It was around this time that the scandal for which Nixon is best remembered came to light, thanks to a secret informant.
According to the source, Nixon's administration had burglarized and wiretapped the Democratic Party National Headquarters at the Watergate complex in Washington, D.C., during his re-election campaign. Government investigations revealed that the five men connected with the burglary had been hired by the Republican Party's Committee to Re-elect the President, and that Nixon had tried to hide his involvement by paying the burglars hush money. He was even caught on tape discussing how to block the FBI's investigation.
In 1973, at the height of national outrage over the Watergate scandal, Nixon gave his now-infamous speech, saying "...people have got to know whether or not their president is a crook. Well, I am not a crook. I have earned everything I have got." The majority of the U.S. government didn't agree, however. By 1974, it became obvious that Nixon would be removed from office. He resigned from the Presidency on August 9, 1974.
When Gerald Ford assumed the Presidency in Nixon's place, he pardoned Nixon of all crimes he had committed while in office. Nixon largely remained out of the public eye for the remainder of his life. He passed away from complications from a stroke in 1994. No one can deny that the legacy "Tricky Dick" left behind isn't unique...though surely not in the way he had hoped for!
Below: footage of Nixon's "I am not a crook" speech.
Image credit & copyright: Anonymous/AP
A look at one of the U.S.A.'s most controversial presidents.
When a government official must publicly declare that they aren't a criminal, it's usually a bad sign. But Richard Milhous Nixon, the 37th President of the United States, did just that on November 17, 1973, during a now-infamous speech. The address came on the heels of a government wiretapping scandal which had cemented Nixon's place as an extremely controversial President. On August 9, 1974, Nixon became the first and only U.S. President to ever resign from office, leaving behind a strange governmental legacy.
Born January 9, 1913, Nixon started making waves early in his career. In 1946, after some time in the navy, he won a seat in the U.S. House of Representatives at the age of 33. But it was during the "Red Scare" of the late 1940s and early 1950s, in which everyone from government officials to Hollywood actors were accused of being communists, that Nixon truly made a name for himself. He became known as a fervent anti-communist when he sat on the rather dystopian-sounding (and later disgraced) "House Un-American Activities Committee" and aggressively questioned former State Department official Alger Hiss, who was accused of being a communist spy.
Nixon gained a seat in the U.S. Senate in 1950. In 1952, he won the nomination to run as Vice President to Dwight D. Eisenhower, but soon the New York Post reported that Nixon was improperly using political contributions, which he kept in a secret "slush fund." In response, Nixon gave a now-famous address—the "Checkers" speech—in which he insisted that the only political gift he had ever received was his daughter's cocker spaniel, Checkers. Nixon was allowed to run with Eisenhower, and became Vice President later that year.
Nixon first ran for President himself in 1960, but lost to Democratic opponent John F. Kennedy. He didn't launch another Presidential campaign until 1968. His biggest campaign promise was to end the Vietnam War and the draft, which were hugely unpopular. This helped propel him to a narrow victory. During his first term, Nixon focused on easing tensions with China and Russia. Ending the Vietnam War proved difficult for a number of logistical reasons, and a treaty wasn't signed until 1973, during Nixon's second term. It was around this time that the scandal for which Nixon is best remembered came to light, thanks to a secret informant.
According to the source, Nixon's administration had burglarized and wiretapped the Democratic Party National Headquarters at the Watergate complex in Washington, D.C., during his re-election campaign. Government investigations revealed that the five men connected with the burglary had been hired by the Republican Party's Committee to Re-elect the President, and that Nixon had tried to hide his involvement by paying the burglars hush money. He was even caught on tape discussing how to block the FBI's investigation.
In 1973, at the height of national outrage over the Watergate scandal, Nixon gave his now-infamous speech, saying "...people have got to know whether or not their president is a crook. Well, I am not a crook. I have earned everything I have got." The majority of the U.S. government didn't agree, however. By 1974, it became obvious that Nixon would be removed from office. He resigned from the Presidency on August 9, 1974.
When Gerald Ford assumed the Presidency in Nixon's place, he pardoned Nixon of all crimes he had committed while in office. Nixon largely remained out of the public eye for the remainder of his life. He passed away from complications from a stroke in 1994. No one can deny that the legacy "Tricky Dick" left behind isn't unique...though surely not in the way he had hoped for!
Below: footage of Nixon's "I am not a crook" speech.
Image credit & copyright: Anonymous/AP
-
FREEParenting PP&T CurioFree1 CQ
Behind every great muppet is a great producer.
G is for Ganz—more specifically TV producer Joan Ganz Cooney, the visionary behind Children's Television Workshop and what would become Sesame Street. For the show's 50th anniversary this year, we're taking a look at Ganz Cooney's life, and figuring out how a fierce advocate for equality and justice managed to make her mark in a world that consistently underestimated her on the basis of gender.
Ganz Cooney was born on November 30, 1929, in Phoenix, Arizona. She studied acting in college until her father refused to support her career, causing her to change her major to education. After graduating, she worked briefly as a clerk at the State Department in Washington, D.C., then as a journalist for The Arizona Republic, and later as a television publicist in New York City. Throughout her early career, Ganz Cooney sympathized with The Christophers, a Christian television group who advocated for moralism and idealism in televised media, and debated politics with friends who worked on the leftist magazine Partisan Review.
When Ganz Cooney got word of the newly-opened WNDT, New York's first-ever educational TV station, she applied for a job as a publicist but was told the station only needed producers. She made up her experience as a producer (she had none), though her journalistic experience gave her a knack for developing programming focused on social issues. Her first debate show was called Court of Reason, which featured Malcolm X among its guests. She went on to produce a number of small documentaries for WNDT which won Emmys, though they failed to reach wider audiences.
In 1966, Ganz Cooney threw what she called a "little dinner party" that would change her life forever. Together with her husband, her boss Lewis Freedman, and Lloyd Morrisett—her husband's supervisor at the Carnegie Corporation—she pondered if television could be used to educate young children. The next year, Ganz Cooney took time off from her job at WNDT to write "The Potential Uses of Television in Preschool Education." It was a 55-page report informed by experts in child development, education, and television. Ganz Cooney tried to take her research to WNDT to no avail and eventually quit her job to work at the Carnegie Corporation as a consultant.
Together with Lloyd Morrisett, Ganz Cooney established the Children's Television Workshop (CTW) and raised $8 million dollars total from private and federal grants, including one from the Federal Government. Meanwhile, puppeteer Jim Henson was brought in to create muppets specifically for the new project. When word got out that Ganz Cooney was being considered for the executive director position at CTW, doubts were raised about her qualifications and abilities in spite of her established leadership in the organization. Critics were quickly silenced on November 10, 1969, when Sesame Street debuted. The show was the first of its kind to use children's education research to prepare kids for school, especially those living in low-income families. In its first year, Sesame Street won three Emmys, a Peabody Award, and earned nearly universal praise, cementing Ganz Cooney's legacy as one of the greatest show creators in television history.
Ganz Cooney left the CTW in 1990, the same year she was inducted into the Academy of Television Arts & Sciences Hall of Fame. She was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by President Bill Clinton in 1995; and in 2007, she founded The Joan Ganz Cooney Center, a non-profit organization with the goal of furthering children's educational entertainment in the digital age. So let's take a final count: that's one accomplishment for Ganz Cooney… two, two accomplishments… three… more? Then make it many, many accomplishments for Ganz Cooney, ah-ah-ah!
Image credit & copyright: Andrew H. Walker / Getty Images
Behind every great muppet is a great producer.
G is for Ganz—more specifically TV producer Joan Ganz Cooney, the visionary behind Children's Television Workshop and what would become Sesame Street. For the show's 50th anniversary this year, we're taking a look at Ganz Cooney's life, and figuring out how a fierce advocate for equality and justice managed to make her mark in a world that consistently underestimated her on the basis of gender.
Ganz Cooney was born on November 30, 1929, in Phoenix, Arizona. She studied acting in college until her father refused to support her career, causing her to change her major to education. After graduating, she worked briefly as a clerk at the State Department in Washington, D.C., then as a journalist for The Arizona Republic, and later as a television publicist in New York City. Throughout her early career, Ganz Cooney sympathized with The Christophers, a Christian television group who advocated for moralism and idealism in televised media, and debated politics with friends who worked on the leftist magazine Partisan Review.
When Ganz Cooney got word of the newly-opened WNDT, New York's first-ever educational TV station, she applied for a job as a publicist but was told the station only needed producers. She made up her experience as a producer (she had none), though her journalistic experience gave her a knack for developing programming focused on social issues. Her first debate show was called Court of Reason, which featured Malcolm X among its guests. She went on to produce a number of small documentaries for WNDT which won Emmys, though they failed to reach wider audiences.
In 1966, Ganz Cooney threw what she called a "little dinner party" that would change her life forever. Together with her husband, her boss Lewis Freedman, and Lloyd Morrisett—her husband's supervisor at the Carnegie Corporation—she pondered if television could be used to educate young children. The next year, Ganz Cooney took time off from her job at WNDT to write "The Potential Uses of Television in Preschool Education." It was a 55-page report informed by experts in child development, education, and television. Ganz Cooney tried to take her research to WNDT to no avail and eventually quit her job to work at the Carnegie Corporation as a consultant.
Together with Lloyd Morrisett, Ganz Cooney established the Children's Television Workshop (CTW) and raised $8 million dollars total from private and federal grants, including one from the Federal Government. Meanwhile, puppeteer Jim Henson was brought in to create muppets specifically for the new project. When word got out that Ganz Cooney was being considered for the executive director position at CTW, doubts were raised about her qualifications and abilities in spite of her established leadership in the organization. Critics were quickly silenced on November 10, 1969, when Sesame Street debuted. The show was the first of its kind to use children's education research to prepare kids for school, especially those living in low-income families. In its first year, Sesame Street won three Emmys, a Peabody Award, and earned nearly universal praise, cementing Ganz Cooney's legacy as one of the greatest show creators in television history.
Ganz Cooney left the CTW in 1990, the same year she was inducted into the Academy of Television Arts & Sciences Hall of Fame. She was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by President Bill Clinton in 1995; and in 2007, she founded The Joan Ganz Cooney Center, a non-profit organization with the goal of furthering children's educational entertainment in the digital age. So let's take a final count: that's one accomplishment for Ganz Cooney… two, two accomplishments… three… more? Then make it many, many accomplishments for Ganz Cooney, ah-ah-ah!
Image credit & copyright: Andrew H. Walker / Getty Images
-
FREEArchitecture PP&T CurioFree1 CQ
How one of the world's tallest buildings grew to tower over tragedy.
When is a building more than just a building? When it's constructed as a symbol of national unity and perseverance in the face of tragedy. One World Trade Center, in New York City, first opened to the public on November 3, 2014. It serves as the main building of the new World Trade Center Complex, standing in place of the Twin Towers that were destroyed in the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. Everything about the massive, sleek, ultra-modern skyscraper, from its placement to its height, was designed to send a patriotic message.
In 2002, while the United States was still reeling from 9/11, plans to rebuild were already underway. The Lower Manhattan Development Corporation and developer Larry Silverstein held a contest in which submitters could propose how to best memorialize the site. But things didn't exactly go as planned. The public rejected the first round of designs for a number of reasons, one of which being that none of the proposals sought to include patriotism as a focal theme.
Eventually, Polish-American architect Daniel Libeskind's ultra-modern design, which included elements like wind turbines and a "vertical world" sky garden on the roof, was chosen as the contest's winner out of 2,000 submissions. However, many parts of Libeskind's proposal (including the turbines and gardens) were scrapped or reworked due to budget constraints or safety concerns, such as susceptibility to truck bombings. Skidmore, Owings & Merrill—the American firm that designed Dubai's Burj Khalifa, the tallest building in the world—had their architect David Childs offer up an alternative to Libeskind's mock-up. It wasn't until June 28, 2005, that Childs' final design for the new One World Trade Center, or "Freedom Tower," as it was then called, was released to the public.
Childs' vision retained some of Libeskind's aspirations. Namely, the tower's ambitious height would symbolize American ingenuity and perseverance, and also be numerically significant. The building would be 1,776 feet high—1776 being the year that the United States declared Independence. It would also share the same name as the North Tower of the previous World Trade Center, and stand in the spot where 6 World Trade Center used to be. It would also feature offices for various businesses as well as an observatory at 1,268 feet.
Construction began in 2006 and ended up lasting a total of eight years. The silver building was constructed from over 40,000 metric tons of structural steel and more than 150,000 cubic yards of concrete, to make it one of the sturdiest buildings in the world and safe from attacks. Even during its construction, One World Trade Center was deliberately used as a patriotic symbol. On July 4, 2011, it was lit up in red white and blue, and again that same year on September 11, to mark the 10th anniversary of the terrorist attacks.
Today, One World Trade Center is not only the tallest building in the new World Trade Center Complex, it is the tallest in the United States and the Western Hemisphere, as well as the seventh-tallest building in the world. It also tapers octagonally toward the top. This ensures that it's a unique-looking part of the New York city skyline, just as the two famous towers of the old World Trade Center used to be. As of today, it's regained much of the Twin Towers' former prestige, leasing nearly 70 percent of its 3,000,000,000 square feet of office space to businesses like Condé Nast and broadcast tenants like CBS and PBS. One World Trade Center is both an architectural marvel and a pretty impressive way to communicate a message: you can't keep us down.
Image credit & copyright: Michael Mahesh PANYNJ
How one of the world's tallest buildings grew to tower over tragedy.
When is a building more than just a building? When it's constructed as a symbol of national unity and perseverance in the face of tragedy. One World Trade Center, in New York City, first opened to the public on November 3, 2014. It serves as the main building of the new World Trade Center Complex, standing in place of the Twin Towers that were destroyed in the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. Everything about the massive, sleek, ultra-modern skyscraper, from its placement to its height, was designed to send a patriotic message.
In 2002, while the United States was still reeling from 9/11, plans to rebuild were already underway. The Lower Manhattan Development Corporation and developer Larry Silverstein held a contest in which submitters could propose how to best memorialize the site. But things didn't exactly go as planned. The public rejected the first round of designs for a number of reasons, one of which being that none of the proposals sought to include patriotism as a focal theme.
Eventually, Polish-American architect Daniel Libeskind's ultra-modern design, which included elements like wind turbines and a "vertical world" sky garden on the roof, was chosen as the contest's winner out of 2,000 submissions. However, many parts of Libeskind's proposal (including the turbines and gardens) were scrapped or reworked due to budget constraints or safety concerns, such as susceptibility to truck bombings. Skidmore, Owings & Merrill—the American firm that designed Dubai's Burj Khalifa, the tallest building in the world—had their architect David Childs offer up an alternative to Libeskind's mock-up. It wasn't until June 28, 2005, that Childs' final design for the new One World Trade Center, or "Freedom Tower," as it was then called, was released to the public.
Childs' vision retained some of Libeskind's aspirations. Namely, the tower's ambitious height would symbolize American ingenuity and perseverance, and also be numerically significant. The building would be 1,776 feet high—1776 being the year that the United States declared Independence. It would also share the same name as the North Tower of the previous World Trade Center, and stand in the spot where 6 World Trade Center used to be. It would also feature offices for various businesses as well as an observatory at 1,268 feet.
Construction began in 2006 and ended up lasting a total of eight years. The silver building was constructed from over 40,000 metric tons of structural steel and more than 150,000 cubic yards of concrete, to make it one of the sturdiest buildings in the world and safe from attacks. Even during its construction, One World Trade Center was deliberately used as a patriotic symbol. On July 4, 2011, it was lit up in red white and blue, and again that same year on September 11, to mark the 10th anniversary of the terrorist attacks.
Today, One World Trade Center is not only the tallest building in the new World Trade Center Complex, it is the tallest in the United States and the Western Hemisphere, as well as the seventh-tallest building in the world. It also tapers octagonally toward the top. This ensures that it's a unique-looking part of the New York city skyline, just as the two famous towers of the old World Trade Center used to be. As of today, it's regained much of the Twin Towers' former prestige, leasing nearly 70 percent of its 3,000,000,000 square feet of office space to businesses like Condé Nast and broadcast tenants like CBS and PBS. One World Trade Center is both an architectural marvel and a pretty impressive way to communicate a message: you can't keep us down.
Image credit & copyright: Michael Mahesh PANYNJ
-
FREEVideography PP&T CurioFree1 CQ
A special effects magician creates the first horror film.
Those of us who love a good scare or marvel in our movies owe a debt to French magician and director Georges Méliès. During his lifetime, Méliès directed some 500 films, of which many featured the first instances of special effects and camera trickery. But even though Méliès is lauded as a visionary and auteur, like many artists, his creative output was marred by a lack of business savvy.
From a young age, Méliès had his head in the clouds. His family owned a shoemaking factory in Paris by the time he was born in 1861, and their wealth allowed him to receive a classical education… when he wasn't busy doodling his friends in fantasy settings instead of taking notes in class. As a young adult clerking in London, he became fascinated with the illusionist John Nevil Maskelyne, and later returned to Paris with a desire to study art, which his father refused to support financially. Méliès instead was put to work monitoring the machines in his family's factory.
After years of saving money and honing his magic skills, in 1888, Méliès' wishes came true. His father finally retired, and Méliès' sold his shares of the family business to his brothers, and—using the revenue and his wife's dowry—purchased the Théâtre Robert-Houdin. Méliès was officially in show business and spent much of his time working on every backstage facet during magic and variety shows. In 1895, a new form of wizardry would come to change his life forever: the Lumière brothers' cinematograph, a new camera and film projector. When the brothers refused to sell their invention, Méliès' traveled back to London to acquire an animatograph, a similar filming device that would allow him to make his own movies. In 1896, he co-founded the Star Film Company and premiered his first work, Playing Cards, at the Théâtre Robert-Houdin.
In his first year as a movie director, Méliès built a studio on his property and spent his days working there, while spending nights at the Robert-Houdin. His constant film experiments eventually led him to become one of the first movie makers to feature visual effects, like substitution splices. He debuted the trick in the first-ever horror film, The Haunted Castle, where an evil wizard and imp torment two visitors in the aforementioned location. One of his greatest science-fiction films was 1902's A Trip to the Moon, which featured the infamous scene where a bullet-like ship lands in the eye of the Moon.
In spite of his cinematic innovations, Méliès never quite got a handle on the business aspects of his industry. After he signed a contract with advances from Pathé Frères, the deal soured in 1913 with the company seizing his home and film studio. During World War I, the French Army took over his former film studio for use as a hospital, and in the process melted down over 400 original Star Films to recover celluloid for use in army shoes. After the Théâtre Robert-Houdin was torn down in 1923, Méliès became so distraught, he also burned negatives of his own films, leaving many of his creations to the dust.
Gradually, Méliès' destitution turned around in the 1920s. As an appreciation for French cinema grew in his native country, Méliès once again received attention and honors from journalists, film critics, and the French government. Most importantly, in 1932, the Cinema Society arranged for Méliès and his family to have free housing for the rest of his life at a retirement community in Orly. As for Méliès' creative legacy and influence? If Martin Scorsese's Hugo and the Smashing Pumpkins' Tonight, Tonight video are any indications, Méliès' visual storytelling keeps taking off like a rocket to the moon!
Below: Méliès' shorts The Haunted Castle and A Trip to the Moon. The latter was used extensively for the music video Tonight, Tonight, a song by the rock band, The Smashing Pumpkins.
Image credit & copyright: The Vintage News
A special effects magician creates the first horror film.
Those of us who love a good scare or marvel in our movies owe a debt to French magician and director Georges Méliès. During his lifetime, Méliès directed some 500 films, of which many featured the first instances of special effects and camera trickery. But even though Méliès is lauded as a visionary and auteur, like many artists, his creative output was marred by a lack of business savvy.
From a young age, Méliès had his head in the clouds. His family owned a shoemaking factory in Paris by the time he was born in 1861, and their wealth allowed him to receive a classical education… when he wasn't busy doodling his friends in fantasy settings instead of taking notes in class. As a young adult clerking in London, he became fascinated with the illusionist John Nevil Maskelyne, and later returned to Paris with a desire to study art, which his father refused to support financially. Méliès instead was put to work monitoring the machines in his family's factory.
After years of saving money and honing his magic skills, in 1888, Méliès' wishes came true. His father finally retired, and Méliès' sold his shares of the family business to his brothers, and—using the revenue and his wife's dowry—purchased the Théâtre Robert-Houdin. Méliès was officially in show business and spent much of his time working on every backstage facet during magic and variety shows. In 1895, a new form of wizardry would come to change his life forever: the Lumière brothers' cinematograph, a new camera and film projector. When the brothers refused to sell their invention, Méliès' traveled back to London to acquire an animatograph, a similar filming device that would allow him to make his own movies. In 1896, he co-founded the Star Film Company and premiered his first work, Playing Cards, at the Théâtre Robert-Houdin.
In his first year as a movie director, Méliès built a studio on his property and spent his days working there, while spending nights at the Robert-Houdin. His constant film experiments eventually led him to become one of the first movie makers to feature visual effects, like substitution splices. He debuted the trick in the first-ever horror film, The Haunted Castle, where an evil wizard and imp torment two visitors in the aforementioned location. One of his greatest science-fiction films was 1902's A Trip to the Moon, which featured the infamous scene where a bullet-like ship lands in the eye of the Moon.
In spite of his cinematic innovations, Méliès never quite got a handle on the business aspects of his industry. After he signed a contract with advances from Pathé Frères, the deal soured in 1913 with the company seizing his home and film studio. During World War I, the French Army took over his former film studio for use as a hospital, and in the process melted down over 400 original Star Films to recover celluloid for use in army shoes. After the Théâtre Robert-Houdin was torn down in 1923, Méliès became so distraught, he also burned negatives of his own films, leaving many of his creations to the dust.
Gradually, Méliès' destitution turned around in the 1920s. As an appreciation for French cinema grew in his native country, Méliès once again received attention and honors from journalists, film critics, and the French government. Most importantly, in 1932, the Cinema Society arranged for Méliès and his family to have free housing for the rest of his life at a retirement community in Orly. As for Méliès' creative legacy and influence? If Martin Scorsese's Hugo and the Smashing Pumpkins' Tonight, Tonight video are any indications, Méliès' visual storytelling keeps taking off like a rocket to the moon!
Below: Méliès' shorts The Haunted Castle and A Trip to the Moon. The latter was used extensively for the music video Tonight, Tonight, a song by the rock band, The Smashing Pumpkins.
Image credit & copyright: The Vintage News
-
FREEArchitecture PP&T CurioFree1 CQ
An impressive history of one of the world's most photographed buildings.
From a distance, it would be easy to mistake it for a massive ship, or even a fleet of them with giant white sails aloft—that is, if it wasn't one of the most instantly recognizable buildings in the world. The Sydney Opera House, which sits in Sydney, Australia's Bennelong Point, first opened its doors on October 20, 1973. Today, it's one of the world's most iconic buildings, and it's easy to see why. With a totally unique design, the building was winning competitions before it was even constructed.
In 1955, New South Wales State Premier Joe Cahill decided it was high time that Sydney had an opera house, and that Bennelong Point would be an excellent location. The building's design, however, was to be decided by an international design competition. Out of 233 entries from 28 countries, Danish designer Jørn Utzon's entry was chosen as the winner. Utzon had never visited Bennelong Point before, but had utilized his naval expertise to study charts of the area and come up with something entirely new.
Utzon's design wasn't just aesthetically pleasing: it was functional. The nearly 200,000-square-foot building would seat over 2,600 visitors in its concert hall alone, as well as another 2,000 in two lesser theaters. The local ecology of the harbor was also taken into consideration. The final opera house would air-condition itself by circulating seawater through some 22 miles of pipelines. Since musical performances require precise temperatures, the building needed to be kept at 22.5 degrees Celsius (72.5 degrees Fahrenheit), to ensure the proper level of heat and humidity for their instruments to stay tuned.
But construction didn't exactly go as planned. Original estimates had put the building's cost at $7 million and construction time at around four years. However, it ended up taking 10,000 workers to position the 2,194 precast concrete sections and put more than one million roof tiles into place. Inclement weather and intrusive stormwater only exacerbated technical difficulties—namely, that of stabilizing the opera house's iconic shell-shaped roofing. The construction effort lasted 14 years, costing a whopping sum of $102 million.
The Opera House's first performance, in 1960, didn't have an official audience, but construction workers were still appreciative when American concert singer Paul Robeson climbed the scaffolding and graced them with a private rendition of Ol' Man River. 13 years later, the venue finally opened to the public during a ceremony headed by Queen Elizabeth II. Her majesty has since been back to visit four times, most recently in 2006.
Today, the Sydney Opera House attracts more than 8.2 million visitors per year, and was recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage site in 2007. It stands not just as a beloved and beautiful landmark but as a feat of modern architecture and engineering. Such attention to detail—from its unprecedented shape to its ingenious cooling system—makes it clear why the construction took a decade longer than expected. It also emphasizes exactly why the wait was worth it.
Below: the Sydney Opera House's Concert Hall.
Image credit & copyright: Michael Hynes/Syndey Opera House
An impressive history of one of the world's most photographed buildings.
From a distance, it would be easy to mistake it for a massive ship, or even a fleet of them with giant white sails aloft—that is, if it wasn't one of the most instantly recognizable buildings in the world. The Sydney Opera House, which sits in Sydney, Australia's Bennelong Point, first opened its doors on October 20, 1973. Today, it's one of the world's most iconic buildings, and it's easy to see why. With a totally unique design, the building was winning competitions before it was even constructed.
In 1955, New South Wales State Premier Joe Cahill decided it was high time that Sydney had an opera house, and that Bennelong Point would be an excellent location. The building's design, however, was to be decided by an international design competition. Out of 233 entries from 28 countries, Danish designer Jørn Utzon's entry was chosen as the winner. Utzon had never visited Bennelong Point before, but had utilized his naval expertise to study charts of the area and come up with something entirely new.
Utzon's design wasn't just aesthetically pleasing: it was functional. The nearly 200,000-square-foot building would seat over 2,600 visitors in its concert hall alone, as well as another 2,000 in two lesser theaters. The local ecology of the harbor was also taken into consideration. The final opera house would air-condition itself by circulating seawater through some 22 miles of pipelines. Since musical performances require precise temperatures, the building needed to be kept at 22.5 degrees Celsius (72.5 degrees Fahrenheit), to ensure the proper level of heat and humidity for their instruments to stay tuned.
But construction didn't exactly go as planned. Original estimates had put the building's cost at $7 million and construction time at around four years. However, it ended up taking 10,000 workers to position the 2,194 precast concrete sections and put more than one million roof tiles into place. Inclement weather and intrusive stormwater only exacerbated technical difficulties—namely, that of stabilizing the opera house's iconic shell-shaped roofing. The construction effort lasted 14 years, costing a whopping sum of $102 million.
The Opera House's first performance, in 1960, didn't have an official audience, but construction workers were still appreciative when American concert singer Paul Robeson climbed the scaffolding and graced them with a private rendition of Ol' Man River. 13 years later, the venue finally opened to the public during a ceremony headed by Queen Elizabeth II. Her majesty has since been back to visit four times, most recently in 2006.
Today, the Sydney Opera House attracts more than 8.2 million visitors per year, and was recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage site in 2007. It stands not just as a beloved and beautiful landmark but as a feat of modern architecture and engineering. Such attention to detail—from its unprecedented shape to its ingenious cooling system—makes it clear why the construction took a decade longer than expected. It also emphasizes exactly why the wait was worth it.
Below: the Sydney Opera House's Concert Hall.
Image credit & copyright: Michael Hynes/Syndey Opera House
-
FREEUS History PP&T CurioFree1 CQ
It takes a village to raise a witch hunt.
It's all fun and superstition until someone gets hurt—then it's mass hysteria. That could have been the motto of the 1692 Salem witch trials which, however monumental or shameful, were an indicator that many things had gone terribly awry in the colonial Massachusetts village. Contentiousness, greed, fear, and judicial prejudices led to nothing but double, double, toil and trouble for the accused.
Many recountings of the Salem witch trials begin in 1692, with the first accusations of witchcraft. But Salem's sordid history dates further back. Prior to the trials, Salem encompassed several towns and villages in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, though the earliest trials were located in Salem Village, which is now part of modern-day Danvers. Disputes between the inhabitants of Salem Village and its neighbors were known far and wide, with many describing the people of the area as quarrelsome.
Land rights were a major source of contention among the inhabitants, as was a wave of xenophobia exacerbated by the influx of refugees from King William's War. In 1672, Salem Village voted on hiring a minister to sort out these and other issues. But their first two quit over low wages, while the third left after Salem's church refused to ordain him. The final choice, Samuel Parris, inflamed disputes when he delayed his acceptance in 1689 by conducting his own draconian searches for "iniquitous behavior," publicly shaming well-liked church members for their minor errors.
As it turned out, the paranoid apple didn't fall far from the tree in the Parris family. Samuel Parris' high suspicions of devilry eventually crept into the imaginations of his daughter and niece. In February of 1692, Betty Parris and Abigail Williams began experiencing hysterical fits and complained of being pinched and pricked with pins. Puritanical beliefs at the time claimed women were more susceptible to the influence of the Devil than men were, and soon other girls in the village came down with inexplicable ailments. One in particular, the 12-year-old Ann Putnam, Jr., was part of a village-wide dispute between the Putnams and Porters. Taking the wrong side in an argument concerning the families often resulted in fisticuffs with either party.
Soon, there were real consequences to Salem Village's hostilities. The first three victims of the "possessed" girls' accusations were some of the locale's most vulnerable inhabitants: Sarah Good was a homeless beggar, Sarah Osborne was an elderly and impoverished woman, and Tituba was an indigenous Kalina slave owned by the Parris family. Their forced confessions led to the establishment of a Special Court to hear and judge the appeals of other suspected witches. The first person charged by the court was Bridget Bishop, an older woman considered promiscuous by her neighbors. She was also the first person hanged at the execution site later known as Gallows Hill. Over the next year, the accusations mounted. They got so out of hand that Governor William Phipps ended up dissolving many of the Special Court's powers to accept spectral evidence and mete out punishments—but only after his own wife was accused of witchcraft. The prisoners were subsequently released, too.
In total, some 200 individuals were accused during the Salem witch trials, with 19 hanged at Gallows Hill. It took over 250 years for Massachusetts to formally apologize for the events of 1692, though the town continues to experience a mixed legacy with its witchy history. On the 300th anniversary of the trials in 1992, a memorial park was dedicated with speeches by Elie Wiesel and Arthur Miller, author of The Crucible, comparing Salem's history to McCarthyism. Each Halloween also sees the annual "Festival of the Dead" as a giant party and tourist attraction located in Salem. However Salem is remembered, there's no denying it continues to cast a spell on those who visit the place.
It takes a village to raise a witch hunt.
It's all fun and superstition until someone gets hurt—then it's mass hysteria. That could have been the motto of the 1692 Salem witch trials which, however monumental or shameful, were an indicator that many things had gone terribly awry in the colonial Massachusetts village. Contentiousness, greed, fear, and judicial prejudices led to nothing but double, double, toil and trouble for the accused.
Many recountings of the Salem witch trials begin in 1692, with the first accusations of witchcraft. But Salem's sordid history dates further back. Prior to the trials, Salem encompassed several towns and villages in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, though the earliest trials were located in Salem Village, which is now part of modern-day Danvers. Disputes between the inhabitants of Salem Village and its neighbors were known far and wide, with many describing the people of the area as quarrelsome.
Land rights were a major source of contention among the inhabitants, as was a wave of xenophobia exacerbated by the influx of refugees from King William's War. In 1672, Salem Village voted on hiring a minister to sort out these and other issues. But their first two quit over low wages, while the third left after Salem's church refused to ordain him. The final choice, Samuel Parris, inflamed disputes when he delayed his acceptance in 1689 by conducting his own draconian searches for "iniquitous behavior," publicly shaming well-liked church members for their minor errors.
As it turned out, the paranoid apple didn't fall far from the tree in the Parris family. Samuel Parris' high suspicions of devilry eventually crept into the imaginations of his daughter and niece. In February of 1692, Betty Parris and Abigail Williams began experiencing hysterical fits and complained of being pinched and pricked with pins. Puritanical beliefs at the time claimed women were more susceptible to the influence of the Devil than men were, and soon other girls in the village came down with inexplicable ailments. One in particular, the 12-year-old Ann Putnam, Jr., was part of a village-wide dispute between the Putnams and Porters. Taking the wrong side in an argument concerning the families often resulted in fisticuffs with either party.
Soon, there were real consequences to Salem Village's hostilities. The first three victims of the "possessed" girls' accusations were some of the locale's most vulnerable inhabitants: Sarah Good was a homeless beggar, Sarah Osborne was an elderly and impoverished woman, and Tituba was an indigenous Kalina slave owned by the Parris family. Their forced confessions led to the establishment of a Special Court to hear and judge the appeals of other suspected witches. The first person charged by the court was Bridget Bishop, an older woman considered promiscuous by her neighbors. She was also the first person hanged at the execution site later known as Gallows Hill. Over the next year, the accusations mounted. They got so out of hand that Governor William Phipps ended up dissolving many of the Special Court's powers to accept spectral evidence and mete out punishments—but only after his own wife was accused of witchcraft. The prisoners were subsequently released, too.
In total, some 200 individuals were accused during the Salem witch trials, with 19 hanged at Gallows Hill. It took over 250 years for Massachusetts to formally apologize for the events of 1692, though the town continues to experience a mixed legacy with its witchy history. On the 300th anniversary of the trials in 1992, a memorial park was dedicated with speeches by Elie Wiesel and Arthur Miller, author of The Crucible, comparing Salem's history to McCarthyism. Each Halloween also sees the annual "Festival of the Dead" as a giant party and tourist attraction located in Salem. However Salem is remembered, there's no denying it continues to cast a spell on those who visit the place.
-
FREEActing PP&T CurioFree1 CQ
This Hollywood icon is still known as "The First Lady of the American Screen."
She had those Bette Davis Eyes. Iconic "Old Hollywood" actress Bette Davis, who passed away today in 1989, was one of the most accomplished movie stars of all time. She was a trailblazer who redefined the big screen heroine, clashed with Hollywood execs, and led a career that spanned six decades, earning awards and titles that were usually out of reach for women.
Born Ruth Elizabeth Davis on April 5, 1908, in Lowell, Massachusetts, Davis wanted to be a dancer as a child, but later turned to acting in her late teens, a few years after her father abandoned her family to poverty. Davis' acting ambitions swelled when she attended Cushing Academy, and later John Murray Anderson's Dramatic School, where she became his star pupil. In 1929, at the age of 21, she made her Broadway debut in the play Broken Dishes.
Her first movie role was two years later, in Universal's Way Back Home. But it was her work with Warner Brothers, particularly her role as Mildred Rogers in 1934's Of Human Bondage, that made her a household name. Mildred Rogers is a complex character, both lovable and cruel. Davis's successful portrayal of the role gave her the confidence to demand more challenging and provocative roles in future films. It earned Davis a fair number of write-in votes for that year's Best Actress Oscar, too.
After receiving her first Oscar in 1936, for the drama Dangerous, Davis found herself in somewhat of a feud with Warner Brothers. The studio suspended her without pay when she turned down a role that she felt overqualified for. When she attempted to go to England to make more movies, Warner Brothers pointed out that she was not permitted to, since she was still under contract with them. To Davis' disappointment, all legal attempts to get out of her contract failed.
But going toe-to-toe with a major movie studio wasn't nearly enough to keep Davis down. After winning another Oscar in 1939, she famously received Oscar nominations the following five years in a row, a record she still shares with actress Greer Garson. She also became the highest-paid woman in the U.S. in 1942. Throughout the 1940s and 1950s, she continued to star in a variety of films, always pushing for roles outside the usual "romantic" lead. Her acting style was tense and passionate, well-suited to complicated characters. Davis' portrayal of such roles helped show the world's movie-going audience a new kind of heroine—one who was not necessarily friendly, nor reliant on men.
Davis continued breaking barriers for the remainder of her life, acting in over 100 films. In 1977, she became the first woman to receive the American Film Institute's Lifetime Achievement Award. Soon after, she became the first female President of the American Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. Even after Davis's death in 1989, she remained an icon. In 1996, Entertainment Weekly named her the 10th most iconic movie star of all time. How's that for a timeless legacy?
Image credit & copyright: CMG Worldwide/Bette Davis
This Hollywood icon is still known as "The First Lady of the American Screen."
She had those Bette Davis Eyes. Iconic "Old Hollywood" actress Bette Davis, who passed away today in 1989, was one of the most accomplished movie stars of all time. She was a trailblazer who redefined the big screen heroine, clashed with Hollywood execs, and led a career that spanned six decades, earning awards and titles that were usually out of reach for women.
Born Ruth Elizabeth Davis on April 5, 1908, in Lowell, Massachusetts, Davis wanted to be a dancer as a child, but later turned to acting in her late teens, a few years after her father abandoned her family to poverty. Davis' acting ambitions swelled when she attended Cushing Academy, and later John Murray Anderson's Dramatic School, where she became his star pupil. In 1929, at the age of 21, she made her Broadway debut in the play Broken Dishes.
Her first movie role was two years later, in Universal's Way Back Home. But it was her work with Warner Brothers, particularly her role as Mildred Rogers in 1934's Of Human Bondage, that made her a household name. Mildred Rogers is a complex character, both lovable and cruel. Davis's successful portrayal of the role gave her the confidence to demand more challenging and provocative roles in future films. It earned Davis a fair number of write-in votes for that year's Best Actress Oscar, too.
After receiving her first Oscar in 1936, for the drama Dangerous, Davis found herself in somewhat of a feud with Warner Brothers. The studio suspended her without pay when she turned down a role that she felt overqualified for. When she attempted to go to England to make more movies, Warner Brothers pointed out that she was not permitted to, since she was still under contract with them. To Davis' disappointment, all legal attempts to get out of her contract failed.
But going toe-to-toe with a major movie studio wasn't nearly enough to keep Davis down. After winning another Oscar in 1939, she famously received Oscar nominations the following five years in a row, a record she still shares with actress Greer Garson. She also became the highest-paid woman in the U.S. in 1942. Throughout the 1940s and 1950s, she continued to star in a variety of films, always pushing for roles outside the usual "romantic" lead. Her acting style was tense and passionate, well-suited to complicated characters. Davis' portrayal of such roles helped show the world's movie-going audience a new kind of heroine—one who was not necessarily friendly, nor reliant on men.
Davis continued breaking barriers for the remainder of her life, acting in over 100 films. In 1977, she became the first woman to receive the American Film Institute's Lifetime Achievement Award. Soon after, she became the first female President of the American Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. Even after Davis's death in 1989, she remained an icon. In 1996, Entertainment Weekly named her the 10th most iconic movie star of all time. How's that for a timeless legacy?
Image credit & copyright: CMG Worldwide/Bette Davis
-
FREEUS History PP&T CurioFree1 CQ
An epic celebration goes horribly wrong.
Up, up, and away! At least, that's what was expected of the 1.5 million balloons released on September 27, 1986, in Cleveland, Ohio. Balloonfest, as it was called, was supposed to rally a city suffering from the withdrawals of post-industrialization. Only, what happened next wasn't just a major clean-up of city-wide debris, but an unmitigated party-turned-disaster with deadly consequences.
Prior to Balloonfest, the once bustling city of Cleveland had been cast under the shadow of a decades-long slump. In June of 1969, the Cuyahoga River caught on fire due to the oil and debris deposited from the city's polluting factories. As industry moved out of the city in the '70s, Cleveland officials desperately sought ways of revitalizing the "once-great" location. In 1985, inspiration of sorts struck: Disneyland's 30th Anniversary celebrations in Anaheim, California, saw a record release of one million balloons at the park. Soon after, the community organization United Way of Cleveland undertook plans to outdo the "Happiest Place on Earth" with a fundraiser event that would come to be known as Balloonfest '86.
After six months of intensive planning, the fateful day arrived in September. At Terminal Tower, 2,500 volunteers gathered at a city block-sized structure canopied in netting to capture the helium-filled balloons. Local TV stars Big Chuck and Lil' John came out to interview awe-filled attendees, of whom one brought balloons to contribute which were tied to her watch (both her watch and the balloons floated away soon after). The festive mood was only hampered by the knowledge that an impending storm was building. Once the winds ramped up and rains followed, the initial goal of blowing up two million balloons was abandoned, with a still impressive 1.5 million released around 1:50 pm.
What the United Way of Cleveland and no one else predicted was that rather than float away far and wide, the balloons would be caught in the storm and thrown back to the ground. Millions of balloons littered the streets of Cleveland, causing a runway shutdown at Burke Lakefront Airport. Vehicular accidents occurred as a result of drivers trying to avoid the opaque bubbles. In possibly the worst turn of events, two men went missing on Lake Erie and Coast Guard rescue efforts had to be shut down, as no survivors could be spotted among the brightly-colored rubbish. Three days later, the dead fishermen washed ashore.
For all the intended goodwill, Balloonfest '86 is remembered less for its Guinness World Record than for its environmental disaster. United Way of Cleveland was sued by the widows of the fishermen and others, adding to the already estimated $500,000 to put on the day's events. Weeks later, some of the balloons landed north in Ontario, Canada, where lakeside beaches were littered with thousands of deflated balloons. The bags were said to have been biodegradable, but unfortunately not forgettable. Balloonfest '86 seems like one of those instances where too much of a good thing proved to be worse than anyone could have predicted!
Below: more images of the Cleveland skyline polluted with balloons, and a short documentary by Nathan Truesdell entitled Balloonfest.
Image credit & copyright: The Atlantic, Thom Sheridan
An epic celebration goes horribly wrong.
Up, up, and away! At least, that's what was expected of the 1.5 million balloons released on September 27, 1986, in Cleveland, Ohio. Balloonfest, as it was called, was supposed to rally a city suffering from the withdrawals of post-industrialization. Only, what happened next wasn't just a major clean-up of city-wide debris, but an unmitigated party-turned-disaster with deadly consequences.
Prior to Balloonfest, the once bustling city of Cleveland had been cast under the shadow of a decades-long slump. In June of 1969, the Cuyahoga River caught on fire due to the oil and debris deposited from the city's polluting factories. As industry moved out of the city in the '70s, Cleveland officials desperately sought ways of revitalizing the "once-great" location. In 1985, inspiration of sorts struck: Disneyland's 30th Anniversary celebrations in Anaheim, California, saw a record release of one million balloons at the park. Soon after, the community organization United Way of Cleveland undertook plans to outdo the "Happiest Place on Earth" with a fundraiser event that would come to be known as Balloonfest '86.
After six months of intensive planning, the fateful day arrived in September. At Terminal Tower, 2,500 volunteers gathered at a city block-sized structure canopied in netting to capture the helium-filled balloons. Local TV stars Big Chuck and Lil' John came out to interview awe-filled attendees, of whom one brought balloons to contribute which were tied to her watch (both her watch and the balloons floated away soon after). The festive mood was only hampered by the knowledge that an impending storm was building. Once the winds ramped up and rains followed, the initial goal of blowing up two million balloons was abandoned, with a still impressive 1.5 million released around 1:50 pm.
What the United Way of Cleveland and no one else predicted was that rather than float away far and wide, the balloons would be caught in the storm and thrown back to the ground. Millions of balloons littered the streets of Cleveland, causing a runway shutdown at Burke Lakefront Airport. Vehicular accidents occurred as a result of drivers trying to avoid the opaque bubbles. In possibly the worst turn of events, two men went missing on Lake Erie and Coast Guard rescue efforts had to be shut down, as no survivors could be spotted among the brightly-colored rubbish. Three days later, the dead fishermen washed ashore.
For all the intended goodwill, Balloonfest '86 is remembered less for its Guinness World Record than for its environmental disaster. United Way of Cleveland was sued by the widows of the fishermen and others, adding to the already estimated $500,000 to put on the day's events. Weeks later, some of the balloons landed north in Ontario, Canada, where lakeside beaches were littered with thousands of deflated balloons. The bags were said to have been biodegradable, but unfortunately not forgettable. Balloonfest '86 seems like one of those instances where too much of a good thing proved to be worse than anyone could have predicted!
Below: more images of the Cleveland skyline polluted with balloons, and a short documentary by Nathan Truesdell entitled Balloonfest.
Image credit & copyright: The Atlantic, Thom Sheridan
-
FREELiterature PP&T CurioFree1 CQ
The progenitor of the comic book.
Look! Up in the sky! It's a bird, it's a plane—it's a history of the man behind the first comic books! Before the caped crusaders and domino masks, the comic book was the invention of one not-so-mild-mannered publisher: Maxwell Gaines. But before we don our flamboyant gloves and utility boots, it's worth noting Gaines wasn't as into superheroes and villains as we would think.
Born Max Ginzberg on September 22, 1894, Gaines was known for his short temper and leg injury he sustained as a child. He worked as a teacher and haberdasher before landing his fated job as a salesperson at Eastern Color Printing in Waterbury, Connecticut. In 1933, during the Great Depression, Gaines came up with an idea to reprint the company's Sunday comic strips in half-tabloid format. These small pamphlets, designed by Gaines and sold at newsstands for just ten cents apiece, featured the four-color model and saddle-stitched spines that would become forever indicative of comic books.
Gaines' reprint publication, titled Funnies on Parade, consisted of newspaper comic strips featuring the get-rich-quick schemes of Bud Fisher's Mutt and Jeff and the adventures of Percy Crosby's fifth-grader Skippy. For the first time, audiences could clip coupons and mail those in with five cents to receive their own copy of Funnies, rather than pick it up at newsstands. The effort was so well received, Gaines went on to create the monthly publication Famous Funnies, which ran from 1934 to 1955 and is considered the first modern American comic book.
Bolstered by the sale of Funnies, Gaines began to look for an outlet to publish original material which he could own the rights to. In 1938, he received funding from National Allied Publications and Detective Comics CEO Harry Donenfeld, with one major stipulation: Jack Liebowitz, co-owner of National, would help establish the new All-American Publications to keep an eye on Gaines. The first monthly issue of All-American Comics was an anthology feature with multiple stories, including the debut of Sheldon Mayer's Scribbly Jibbet, the cartoonist. Gaines' publications went on to see the birth of a number of heroes during the Golden Age of Comics, like Superman and the Guardian of the Universe, Green Lantern, who appeared in All-American Comics issue #16. The high-speed superhero The Flash appeared in his very own series in 1940, and Themyscira-born heroine Wonder Woman made a splash in the bi-monthly All Star Comics issue #8 in 1941, later becoming a founding member of the Justice Society (later the Justice League) of America.
By 1944, years of spats between Gaines and Donenfeld caused the former to sell all of his shares of All-American to the latter. Donenfeld then folded All-American and National Allied publications into one company, Detective Comics, which later became known by its ubiquitous title, DC Comics. In that same year, Gaines founded Educational Comics as an alternative to superhero comics, which he thought would go out of style. EC published biblical stories and more light-hearted talking animal stories.
Just three short years later, in 1947, Maxwell Gaines passed away after a motorboat accident at Lake Placid, New York. His son, William Gaines—who by all accounts, Maxwell was incredibly cruel to—inherited EC Comics and become a legend in his own right by establishing the satirical Mad Magazine in 1952. Though Maxwell Gaines may not have a reputation as flashy as Stan Lee's, Robert Kirkman's, or Todd McFarlane's these days, his influence is felt everywhere: from the yellow, blue, red, and black dots of pre-computerized comic printing, to the biggest, most explosive action sequences in the latest comic-turned-Hollywood blockbuster.
Below: two of All American Comics' original publications, including two of the brand's original characters, the Green Lantern and Wonder Woman.
Image credit & copyright: Medium, Period Comics, DC Database
The progenitor of the comic book.
Look! Up in the sky! It's a bird, it's a plane—it's a history of the man behind the first comic books! Before the caped crusaders and domino masks, the comic book was the invention of one not-so-mild-mannered publisher: Maxwell Gaines. But before we don our flamboyant gloves and utility boots, it's worth noting Gaines wasn't as into superheroes and villains as we would think.
Born Max Ginzberg on September 22, 1894, Gaines was known for his short temper and leg injury he sustained as a child. He worked as a teacher and haberdasher before landing his fated job as a salesperson at Eastern Color Printing in Waterbury, Connecticut. In 1933, during the Great Depression, Gaines came up with an idea to reprint the company's Sunday comic strips in half-tabloid format. These small pamphlets, designed by Gaines and sold at newsstands for just ten cents apiece, featured the four-color model and saddle-stitched spines that would become forever indicative of comic books.
Gaines' reprint publication, titled Funnies on Parade, consisted of newspaper comic strips featuring the get-rich-quick schemes of Bud Fisher's Mutt and Jeff and the adventures of Percy Crosby's fifth-grader Skippy. For the first time, audiences could clip coupons and mail those in with five cents to receive their own copy of Funnies, rather than pick it up at newsstands. The effort was so well received, Gaines went on to create the monthly publication Famous Funnies, which ran from 1934 to 1955 and is considered the first modern American comic book.
Bolstered by the sale of Funnies, Gaines began to look for an outlet to publish original material which he could own the rights to. In 1938, he received funding from National Allied Publications and Detective Comics CEO Harry Donenfeld, with one major stipulation: Jack Liebowitz, co-owner of National, would help establish the new All-American Publications to keep an eye on Gaines. The first monthly issue of All-American Comics was an anthology feature with multiple stories, including the debut of Sheldon Mayer's Scribbly Jibbet, the cartoonist. Gaines' publications went on to see the birth of a number of heroes during the Golden Age of Comics, like Superman and the Guardian of the Universe, Green Lantern, who appeared in All-American Comics issue #16. The high-speed superhero The Flash appeared in his very own series in 1940, and Themyscira-born heroine Wonder Woman made a splash in the bi-monthly All Star Comics issue #8 in 1941, later becoming a founding member of the Justice Society (later the Justice League) of America.
By 1944, years of spats between Gaines and Donenfeld caused the former to sell all of his shares of All-American to the latter. Donenfeld then folded All-American and National Allied publications into one company, Detective Comics, which later became known by its ubiquitous title, DC Comics. In that same year, Gaines founded Educational Comics as an alternative to superhero comics, which he thought would go out of style. EC published biblical stories and more light-hearted talking animal stories.
Just three short years later, in 1947, Maxwell Gaines passed away after a motorboat accident at Lake Placid, New York. His son, William Gaines—who by all accounts, Maxwell was incredibly cruel to—inherited EC Comics and become a legend in his own right by establishing the satirical Mad Magazine in 1952. Though Maxwell Gaines may not have a reputation as flashy as Stan Lee's, Robert Kirkman's, or Todd McFarlane's these days, his influence is felt everywhere: from the yellow, blue, red, and black dots of pre-computerized comic printing, to the biggest, most explosive action sequences in the latest comic-turned-Hollywood blockbuster.
Below: two of All American Comics' original publications, including two of the brand's original characters, the Green Lantern and Wonder Woman.
Image credit & copyright: Medium, Period Comics, DC Database
-
FREEBiology PP&T CurioFree1 CQ
The naturalist who discovered man-made climate change.
Discovering an important global phenomenon would be successful enough for most people, but not for polymath and show-off Alexander Von Humboldt. This German naturalist, explorer, and geographer—born September 14, 1769—not only discovered man-made climate change, he also coined a popular astronomy term and had a species named after him—all of which earned him the nickname "the last man who knew everything."
The son of a Prussian nobleman, Humboldt studied at the University of Göttingen before dedicating himself to geology and mineralogy at the School of Mines in Freiberg. As a student, Humbolt met a man whose influence would change his life forever: Georg Forster, an explorer who had accompanied the famous Captain Cook on his second voyage to the antarctic. Humboldt realized then that he also wanted to explore the world and discover its mysteries.
In 1797, Humboldt finally got his chance to travel. Leaving behind his studies of mine-related geology in Europe, he went off to explore the Spanish colonies in Central and South America. There, Humbolt teamed up with French botanist Aimé Bonpland and trekked across the continent for five years straight, traveling through Venezuela, down the Orinoco River, and through the Andes Mountains to Bogotá.
While studying the plant life and geology of the Americas, Humbolt began to form theories about the ways in which plant life was affected by geography, and vice versa. These ideas laid the groundwork for a field of study that would later become known as biogeography. Later, on a journey in Lima, Peru, Humboldt set a world climbing record when he nearly reached the summit of Mt. Chimborazo, which at the time was the world's tallest known volcano. There, Humboldt solidified his view that certain types of plants, such as lichens or ferns, could only grow under certain conditions, like mountain climates—noting how similar the South American mountain plants were to those in the Swiss Alps, in Europe.
Later, in Venezuela, Humboldt observed the effects of mass deforestation, and predicted that, as technology grew, humans would begin to affect not only their physical environment, but the climate itself. Humboldt eventually published several books containing his extensive research and tales of his travels, including Cosmos, in 1845. It was the publication of this book which popularized the term "cosmos"—an ancient Greek word for the "order of the universe"—in scientific communities.
After spending his entire inherited fortune on his travels, Humboldt returned to Prussia, where he served as an advisor to the King. He spent the rest of his life giving science lectures across Europe, mostly in Germany. Humboldt's influence on scientific studies didn't stop with his own, direct contributions, however. It was only upon reading his work that Charles Darwin became enamored with the idea of exploring South America. In fact, Charles Darwin's copy of Humboldt's Personal Narrative of Travels to the Equinoctial Regions of America, During the Years 1799-1804 is kept at Cambridge University Library, and is filled with scribbles and underlines from Darwin, who took the book with him on his own voyage. Great minds surely do think and travel alike!
Image credit & copyright: Joseph Karl Stieler
The naturalist who discovered man-made climate change.
Discovering an important global phenomenon would be successful enough for most people, but not for polymath and show-off Alexander Von Humboldt. This German naturalist, explorer, and geographer—born September 14, 1769—not only discovered man-made climate change, he also coined a popular astronomy term and had a species named after him—all of which earned him the nickname "the last man who knew everything."
The son of a Prussian nobleman, Humboldt studied at the University of Göttingen before dedicating himself to geology and mineralogy at the School of Mines in Freiberg. As a student, Humbolt met a man whose influence would change his life forever: Georg Forster, an explorer who had accompanied the famous Captain Cook on his second voyage to the antarctic. Humboldt realized then that he also wanted to explore the world and discover its mysteries.
In 1797, Humboldt finally got his chance to travel. Leaving behind his studies of mine-related geology in Europe, he went off to explore the Spanish colonies in Central and South America. There, Humbolt teamed up with French botanist Aimé Bonpland and trekked across the continent for five years straight, traveling through Venezuela, down the Orinoco River, and through the Andes Mountains to Bogotá.
While studying the plant life and geology of the Americas, Humbolt began to form theories about the ways in which plant life was affected by geography, and vice versa. These ideas laid the groundwork for a field of study that would later become known as biogeography. Later, on a journey in Lima, Peru, Humboldt set a world climbing record when he nearly reached the summit of Mt. Chimborazo, which at the time was the world's tallest known volcano. There, Humboldt solidified his view that certain types of plants, such as lichens or ferns, could only grow under certain conditions, like mountain climates—noting how similar the South American mountain plants were to those in the Swiss Alps, in Europe.
Later, in Venezuela, Humboldt observed the effects of mass deforestation, and predicted that, as technology grew, humans would begin to affect not only their physical environment, but the climate itself. Humboldt eventually published several books containing his extensive research and tales of his travels, including Cosmos, in 1845. It was the publication of this book which popularized the term "cosmos"—an ancient Greek word for the "order of the universe"—in scientific communities.
After spending his entire inherited fortune on his travels, Humboldt returned to Prussia, where he served as an advisor to the King. He spent the rest of his life giving science lectures across Europe, mostly in Germany. Humboldt's influence on scientific studies didn't stop with his own, direct contributions, however. It was only upon reading his work that Charles Darwin became enamored with the idea of exploring South America. In fact, Charles Darwin's copy of Humboldt's Personal Narrative of Travels to the Equinoctial Regions of America, During the Years 1799-1804 is kept at Cambridge University Library, and is filled with scribbles and underlines from Darwin, who took the book with him on his own voyage. Great minds surely do think and travel alike!
Image credit & copyright: Joseph Karl Stieler
-
FREEMusic Appreciation PP&T CurioFree1 CQ
Digital music goes global.
The MP3 file format: without it, we wouldn't have had Winamp, Napster, Rhapsody, and countless other digital music services in the late '90s. For some, the mention of these things brings back nostalgic memories of early digital music on the internet. For others, the format was a nightmare, causing draconian piracy lawsuits and costing the recording industry millions of dollars in record sales. Love 'em or hate 'em, MP3s changed the way we listen to music forever—even if they had been around for about a decade before they became popular.
The origins of the MP3 date back to 1988. A call from the Audio branch of the ISO MPEG group (International Organization for Standardization and Moving Picture Experts Group, respectively) asked technology companies to come up with an audio coding standard for digital sound files. At the same time, German electrical engineer Karlheinz Brandenburg was a student at the German University of Erlangen-Nuremberg, where a professor asked him to address the issue of transmitting digital music over phone line networks. As he graduated and went to work for the Fraunhofer Institute, Brandenburg continued his research into making a compressed audio file so small it would only occupy a few megabytes of space, yet retain enough of a recording's quality to relay a pleasant listening experience. To complete this task, it's said that he listened to an a capella version of Tom's Diner by American electronic-folk singer Suzanne Vega some 1,000 times—an anecdote that has given Vega the nickname "the Mother of the MP3."
The first Fraunhofer Institute-licensed MP3 encoder software was called I3enc, and it had a public release in 1995. It didn't make much of a splash until some computer hackers got hold of it. One of the Australian members of the Warez Scene software piracy community bought the software with a stolen credit card and cracked the licensing in order to distribute it online as "freeware." Soon, other hacker groups were competing to outdo each other, with one called Rabid Neurosis getting albums by the likes of Eminem and TLC before the records were even released in stores. In 1997, free software like Winamp made it easy for the public to turn their own CDs into MP3 files; combine that with the rise of the peer-to-peer file-sharing software Napster in 1999, and the multi-million dollar music business had a digital disaster on its hands.
The good ol' outlaw days of downloading music for free—and not paying $18.99 for a CD with one hit single—hit a wall 16 years ago today on September 8, 2003, when the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) began their lawsuits against 261 file-sharers who were said to have distributed over 1,000 songs each. Under U.S. copyright laws, the defendants could have faced up to $150,000 fines for each tune, though some were said to have made settlements in the ballpark of $3,000. With the burial of Napster under RIAA lawsuits just a few years before in 2001, the threats against sharing MP3s sounded clearly. However, the MP3 still signaled that the internet required some restructuring of how music would be heard, shared, and purchased in the 21st century.
The rise in paid music services also came with a demand for better-sounding digital audio files than the MP3 provided. The first big legitimate online music store iTunes primarily uses Advanced Audio Coding (AAC), while streaming service Spotify uses Ogg Vorbis, and audiophile companies like Acoustic Sounds use Free Lossless Audio Codec files (FLAC) for their downloads. The Fraunhofer Institute officially declared the MP3 "dead" in 2017, when its program for licensing MP3 patents and software was terminated. Maybe it's time to fire up the old Zune or iPod Mini in tribute to the late revolutionary file format.
Image credit & copyright: Jeff Chiu / Associated Press
Digital music goes global.
The MP3 file format: without it, we wouldn't have had Winamp, Napster, Rhapsody, and countless other digital music services in the late '90s. For some, the mention of these things brings back nostalgic memories of early digital music on the internet. For others, the format was a nightmare, causing draconian piracy lawsuits and costing the recording industry millions of dollars in record sales. Love 'em or hate 'em, MP3s changed the way we listen to music forever—even if they had been around for about a decade before they became popular.
The origins of the MP3 date back to 1988. A call from the Audio branch of the ISO MPEG group (International Organization for Standardization and Moving Picture Experts Group, respectively) asked technology companies to come up with an audio coding standard for digital sound files. At the same time, German electrical engineer Karlheinz Brandenburg was a student at the German University of Erlangen-Nuremberg, where a professor asked him to address the issue of transmitting digital music over phone line networks. As he graduated and went to work for the Fraunhofer Institute, Brandenburg continued his research into making a compressed audio file so small it would only occupy a few megabytes of space, yet retain enough of a recording's quality to relay a pleasant listening experience. To complete this task, it's said that he listened to an a capella version of Tom's Diner by American electronic-folk singer Suzanne Vega some 1,000 times—an anecdote that has given Vega the nickname "the Mother of the MP3."
The first Fraunhofer Institute-licensed MP3 encoder software was called I3enc, and it had a public release in 1995. It didn't make much of a splash until some computer hackers got hold of it. One of the Australian members of the Warez Scene software piracy community bought the software with a stolen credit card and cracked the licensing in order to distribute it online as "freeware." Soon, other hacker groups were competing to outdo each other, with one called Rabid Neurosis getting albums by the likes of Eminem and TLC before the records were even released in stores. In 1997, free software like Winamp made it easy for the public to turn their own CDs into MP3 files; combine that with the rise of the peer-to-peer file-sharing software Napster in 1999, and the multi-million dollar music business had a digital disaster on its hands.
The good ol' outlaw days of downloading music for free—and not paying $18.99 for a CD with one hit single—hit a wall 16 years ago today on September 8, 2003, when the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) began their lawsuits against 261 file-sharers who were said to have distributed over 1,000 songs each. Under U.S. copyright laws, the defendants could have faced up to $150,000 fines for each tune, though some were said to have made settlements in the ballpark of $3,000. With the burial of Napster under RIAA lawsuits just a few years before in 2001, the threats against sharing MP3s sounded clearly. However, the MP3 still signaled that the internet required some restructuring of how music would be heard, shared, and purchased in the 21st century.
The rise in paid music services also came with a demand for better-sounding digital audio files than the MP3 provided. The first big legitimate online music store iTunes primarily uses Advanced Audio Coding (AAC), while streaming service Spotify uses Ogg Vorbis, and audiophile companies like Acoustic Sounds use Free Lossless Audio Codec files (FLAC) for their downloads. The Fraunhofer Institute officially declared the MP3 "dead" in 2017, when its program for licensing MP3 patents and software was terminated. Maybe it's time to fire up the old Zune or iPod Mini in tribute to the late revolutionary file format.
Image credit & copyright: Jeff Chiu / Associated Press
-
FREEUS History PP&T CurioFree3 CQ
A suffragette forces President Wilson's hand on the 19th Amendment.
If "well-behaved women rarely make history," then the irreverent Alice Paul surely made a lot of history. The activist was one of the suffrage movement's most prominent figures, staging protests that were memorable, newsworthy, sometimes dangerous, and catalysts for changing public sentiments on women's votes. For the 99th anniversary of the 19th Amendment passing, we're taking a look at this brave and controversial figure.
Paul was born on January 11, 1885, in Mount Laurel, New Jersey, to Quaker parents. Her mother Tacie was a suffragette who brought little Alice to National American Women's Suffrage Association (NAWSA) meetings and raised her children to believe in gender equality. After Paul received her masters in social work at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia, she traveled abroad to study at the Woodbrooke Quaker Study Center in Birmingham, England, in 1907. It was there that Paul met the notorious Pankhurst family, and joined the ranks of the militant suffragette faction, the Women's Social and Political Union (WSPU).
The WSPU's motto was "deeds, not words," which Paul took to heart while learning how to engage in public displays of civil disobedience. In one instance on November 9, 1909, Paul and cohort Amelia Brown disguised themselves as cleaning women to enter London's Guildhall for the Lord Mayor's Day banquet. When the Prime Minister rose to speak during the meal, Brown threw her shoe through a window and both yelled "Votes for women!" before being arrested and sentenced to one month in prison.
After reportedly breaking some 40 windows in her various English protests—and completing her studies abroad—Paul returned home to the U.S. in 1910, joining the ranks of NAWSA. Paul managed to recruit over 8,000 attendees for the Women's Suffrage Procession which later paraded across Pennsylvania Avenue in an attempt to overshadow the event of the next day, President Wilson's inauguration on March 4, 1913. The bureaucracy of arranging the event was a nightmare in every respect: Washington D.C. officials refused NAWSA's permit requests, suggesting they take an alternate route. Even though the event was cleared to go at the last minute, the nearly half-a-million parade onlookers became a huge problem, with too few police officers to keep the marchers safe, and those attending doing nothing when riots broke out. After the parade, Paul would break away from NAWSA due to its short-sighted state referendum approach, and form the National Woman's Party to support constitutional amendments for women's votes and other rights.
Paul's next order of business was to arrange the "Silent Sentinels" in 1917, who dressed in white, held banners, and picketed the White House six days a week. As World War I broke out, the sentinels began to appear unpatriotic, leading to their trumped-up arrests for "obstructing traffic" in June of that same year. Alice Paul was among those incarcerated at the Occoquan Workhouse in Lorton, Virginia. When news got out that decent women (including elderly ones) were being force-fed, beaten, and thrust into the cold, the public turned on the war-time President Wilson. In response, Wilson did an about-face on the suffrage amendment, noting it was a noble "war measure."
After the passage of the 19th Amendment on August 26, 1920, Paul announced she would work towards the equal rights "Lucretia Mott Amendment," which would later take the nickname of the "Alice Paul Amendment." A tireless women's rights advocate, Paul went on to earn three more law degrees and establish the World Woman's Party in Switzerland in 1938. When she passed away in 1977, she left a legacy of tireless work for gender equality—and many window-repair bills for those foolish enough to challenge her work!
Image credit & copyright: Alice Paul Institute
A suffragette forces President Wilson's hand on the 19th Amendment.
If "well-behaved women rarely make history," then the irreverent Alice Paul surely made a lot of history. The activist was one of the suffrage movement's most prominent figures, staging protests that were memorable, newsworthy, sometimes dangerous, and catalysts for changing public sentiments on women's votes. For the 99th anniversary of the 19th Amendment passing, we're taking a look at this brave and controversial figure.
Paul was born on January 11, 1885, in Mount Laurel, New Jersey, to Quaker parents. Her mother Tacie was a suffragette who brought little Alice to National American Women's Suffrage Association (NAWSA) meetings and raised her children to believe in gender equality. After Paul received her masters in social work at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia, she traveled abroad to study at the Woodbrooke Quaker Study Center in Birmingham, England, in 1907. It was there that Paul met the notorious Pankhurst family, and joined the ranks of the militant suffragette faction, the Women's Social and Political Union (WSPU).
The WSPU's motto was "deeds, not words," which Paul took to heart while learning how to engage in public displays of civil disobedience. In one instance on November 9, 1909, Paul and cohort Amelia Brown disguised themselves as cleaning women to enter London's Guildhall for the Lord Mayor's Day banquet. When the Prime Minister rose to speak during the meal, Brown threw her shoe through a window and both yelled "Votes for women!" before being arrested and sentenced to one month in prison.
After reportedly breaking some 40 windows in her various English protests—and completing her studies abroad—Paul returned home to the U.S. in 1910, joining the ranks of NAWSA. Paul managed to recruit over 8,000 attendees for the Women's Suffrage Procession which later paraded across Pennsylvania Avenue in an attempt to overshadow the event of the next day, President Wilson's inauguration on March 4, 1913. The bureaucracy of arranging the event was a nightmare in every respect: Washington D.C. officials refused NAWSA's permit requests, suggesting they take an alternate route. Even though the event was cleared to go at the last minute, the nearly half-a-million parade onlookers became a huge problem, with too few police officers to keep the marchers safe, and those attending doing nothing when riots broke out. After the parade, Paul would break away from NAWSA due to its short-sighted state referendum approach, and form the National Woman's Party to support constitutional amendments for women's votes and other rights.
Paul's next order of business was to arrange the "Silent Sentinels" in 1917, who dressed in white, held banners, and picketed the White House six days a week. As World War I broke out, the sentinels began to appear unpatriotic, leading to their trumped-up arrests for "obstructing traffic" in June of that same year. Alice Paul was among those incarcerated at the Occoquan Workhouse in Lorton, Virginia. When news got out that decent women (including elderly ones) were being force-fed, beaten, and thrust into the cold, the public turned on the war-time President Wilson. In response, Wilson did an about-face on the suffrage amendment, noting it was a noble "war measure."
After the passage of the 19th Amendment on August 26, 1920, Paul announced she would work towards the equal rights "Lucretia Mott Amendment," which would later take the nickname of the "Alice Paul Amendment." A tireless women's rights advocate, Paul went on to earn three more law degrees and establish the World Woman's Party in Switzerland in 1938. When she passed away in 1977, she left a legacy of tireless work for gender equality—and many window-repair bills for those foolish enough to challenge her work!
Image credit & copyright: Alice Paul Institute
-
FREEWorld History PP&T CurioFree1 CQ
Mankind becomes "noodlekind."
In 2000, Japanese citizens rated instant noodles as the country's greatest invention of the 20th century. Why all the love for the humble ramen package instead of the walkman, Akira Kurosawa films, or karaoke? Before the instant food became a 100 billion-servings-per-year industry, a staple of college dormitories, and the subject of the Cupnoodle Museum in Yokohama, it had a much more practical and vital purpose: feeding the starving masses in post-World War II Japan.
The origin of instant noodles begins with one person: Momofuku Ando. On a visit to Osaka in 1957, the failed textile businessman noticed hungry people all around, some dying from malnutrition and others waiting in long queues for bowls of ramen soup, a comfort food originally brought over by Chinese chefs in the 1880s. The post-war toll of food shortages was at its peak, and Japan's Ministry of Health was struggling to convince citizens to eat bread made from wheat flour provided by the U.S.
Ando realized that the Japanese people desired food that was more familiar, and set about experimenting in his home shed. His goal was to create a type of food that met five criteria: it had to be tasty, nonperishable, quick and easy to prepare, inexpensive, and safe to eat. After months of experiments, Ando happened upon his wife cooking with tempura oil, and noticed he could fry his noodles to extract the moisture from them, thereby dehydrating the noodles to give them a longer shelf life. The ramen also developed tiny cavities, which made it easy to pour hot water onto them in a quick rehydration process. On August 25, 1958, Ando had his new company Nissin Foods launch its first product: a bag of instant noodles called Chicken Ramen.
The quick and easy Chicken Ramen became a staple of mid-20th-century diets, but Anda was just getting started. On a trip to the U.S. in 1966, he found inspiration for his next great invention. In a business meeting, a group of managers divided up a block of Chicken Ramen into cups before adding hot water and dispersing the samples. Ando returned to Nissin with the intent to develop a one-handed cup of instant ramen. A lightweight, insulated polystyrene foam was chosen as the final material.
The first Cup Noodles went on sale in September of 1971, though the ¥100 price tag to ¥25 bags proved unattractive to consumers. To ramp up promotions, vending machines were built, though those did not compare to the free advertisement received throughout the 1972 Asama-Sansō hostage crisis. During the 10-hour televised stand-off with terrorists, Japanese National Police riot squads were seen eating the easily-transportable Cup Noodles, a heroic choice that sent the new noodles flying off of the grocery store shelves.
After half a century of feeding the world and reigning as a cultural icon, it was time for Ando to feed people who were out of this world: in July 2005, when Ando was 95-years-old, he saw the launch of his Space Ram noodles inside the shuttle Discovery. Astronaut Soichi Noguchi was the first to taste the treat, which had been modified with smaller noodles for quicker cooking and consumption, as well as a thicker broth to prevent it from escaping in zero gravity. It was quite the lifetime achievement for Ando, who was known for his persistence, inventiveness, and quirky ability to inspire "noodlekind" (his terminology) to greater heights.
Below: a silver statue of Momofuku Ando from the Yokohama Cup Noodle museum, a packet of the original 1958 Chicken Ramen, and a view of Space Ram with Soichi Noguchi enjoying the meal.
Image credit & copyright: Zula, Ogiyoshisan, Kanada-Ya, Nippon.com
Mankind becomes "noodlekind."
In 2000, Japanese citizens rated instant noodles as the country's greatest invention of the 20th century. Why all the love for the humble ramen package instead of the walkman, Akira Kurosawa films, or karaoke? Before the instant food became a 100 billion-servings-per-year industry, a staple of college dormitories, and the subject of the Cupnoodle Museum in Yokohama, it had a much more practical and vital purpose: feeding the starving masses in post-World War II Japan.
The origin of instant noodles begins with one person: Momofuku Ando. On a visit to Osaka in 1957, the failed textile businessman noticed hungry people all around, some dying from malnutrition and others waiting in long queues for bowls of ramen soup, a comfort food originally brought over by Chinese chefs in the 1880s. The post-war toll of food shortages was at its peak, and Japan's Ministry of Health was struggling to convince citizens to eat bread made from wheat flour provided by the U.S.
Ando realized that the Japanese people desired food that was more familiar, and set about experimenting in his home shed. His goal was to create a type of food that met five criteria: it had to be tasty, nonperishable, quick and easy to prepare, inexpensive, and safe to eat. After months of experiments, Ando happened upon his wife cooking with tempura oil, and noticed he could fry his noodles to extract the moisture from them, thereby dehydrating the noodles to give them a longer shelf life. The ramen also developed tiny cavities, which made it easy to pour hot water onto them in a quick rehydration process. On August 25, 1958, Ando had his new company Nissin Foods launch its first product: a bag of instant noodles called Chicken Ramen.
The quick and easy Chicken Ramen became a staple of mid-20th-century diets, but Anda was just getting started. On a trip to the U.S. in 1966, he found inspiration for his next great invention. In a business meeting, a group of managers divided up a block of Chicken Ramen into cups before adding hot water and dispersing the samples. Ando returned to Nissin with the intent to develop a one-handed cup of instant ramen. A lightweight, insulated polystyrene foam was chosen as the final material.
The first Cup Noodles went on sale in September of 1971, though the ¥100 price tag to ¥25 bags proved unattractive to consumers. To ramp up promotions, vending machines were built, though those did not compare to the free advertisement received throughout the 1972 Asama-Sansō hostage crisis. During the 10-hour televised stand-off with terrorists, Japanese National Police riot squads were seen eating the easily-transportable Cup Noodles, a heroic choice that sent the new noodles flying off of the grocery store shelves.
After half a century of feeding the world and reigning as a cultural icon, it was time for Ando to feed people who were out of this world: in July 2005, when Ando was 95-years-old, he saw the launch of his Space Ram noodles inside the shuttle Discovery. Astronaut Soichi Noguchi was the first to taste the treat, which had been modified with smaller noodles for quicker cooking and consumption, as well as a thicker broth to prevent it from escaping in zero gravity. It was quite the lifetime achievement for Ando, who was known for his persistence, inventiveness, and quirky ability to inspire "noodlekind" (his terminology) to greater heights.
Below: a silver statue of Momofuku Ando from the Yokohama Cup Noodle museum, a packet of the original 1958 Chicken Ramen, and a view of Space Ram with Soichi Noguchi enjoying the meal.
Image credit & copyright: Zula, Ogiyoshisan, Kanada-Ya, Nippon.com
-
FREEPsychology PP&T CurioFree1 CQ
Behavioral psychology is for the birds.
Having a "bird-brain" wasn't such a bad thing in the mind of psychologist B. F. Skinner. A pioneer in behaviorism—the study of human and animal behaviors established by patterned conditioning—Skinner was one of the 20th century's most brilliant minds in psychology. Details of his training experiments with pigeons also prove he had one of science's most quirky minds.
Burrhus Frederick Skinner can thank a failed literary career for his legacy. After graduating from Harvard in 1926 and concluding he lacked the life skills necessary to become a great writer, Skinner discovered the works of John B. Watson, the editor of the Psychological Review and founder of the psychological school of behaviorism. Skinner felt like a social outsider for his atheist beliefs at the time, but found solace in Watson's idea that a person's actions had no internal cognitive or moral foundation—that all choices could be explained through external stimuli.
Skinner was on to something, and as a graduate student at Harvard, he developed the Skinner Box: a chamber used to conduct behavioral experiments on animals using operant conditioning, or learning through rewards and punishment. In one instance, Skinner tested a schedule of reinforcement, where pigeons were taught to peck at a red disc on the wall to cause a box beneath to dispense food. Not every peck would earn a reward (called "reinforcement" in behaviorism terms), but enough came at random that the pigeons perpetually engaged in the task. Skinner remarked that these schedules of reinforcement showed how people could become pathologically addicted to gambling and, he conjectured, how the concept of free will did not apply to such situations.
Skinner also taught his pigeons other tasks through painstaking reinforcement systems; eventually, they could determine the difference between a sign that said "turn" and one that said "peck," applying the correct movements for food rewards. In another instance, Skinner taught two pigeons to play ping-pong, where hitting the ball until the other pigeon lost triggered a food reward to drop in a box beneath the table. Word of his experiments got around to the U.S. military, and in 1943, Skinner proposed "Project Pigeon" to the National Research Defense Committee. Improved missile guidance was a high priority during World War II, and Skinner believed birds could address the issue as "'devices' with excellent vision and extraordinary maneuverability." The committee was skeptical of Skinner's success but granted him $25,000 in funding to begin the project.
What followed sounds like the plot of an anthropomorphic Pixar film: Skinner built a nose cone fitted with three pigeon cockpits and three electronic screens. Projections were fed through the screens with Skinner rewarding the pigeons when they pecked at the target. He believed he could train all three Project Pigeon pilots to peck at the same time, causing cable harnesses attached to their heads to mechanically guide the missile to its final mark. In spite of a successful demonstration, the military shelved Skinner's project. Which is just as well, seeing as how Skinner's rocket was designed to detonate with the birds in tow.
After the war, Skinner spent less time with his pigeons and more time applying his schedules of reinforcement to machines, providing some of the basis for contemporary machine learning. As for his pigeon-guided missile head, it ended up at the Smithsonian: as Skinner completed his own autobiography, he often donated his devices to the national museum foreseeing their importance as historical artifacts before his death on August 18, 1990. Even if his personal philosophy was dismissive of consciousness and the subconscious in influencing behaviors, his work in advancing behavioral psychology was unparalleled. And at least he didn't have to go out of this world guiding the head of a missile!
Below: a video of Skinner's pigeons playing ping-pong, and two views of B. F. Skinner's nose cone for the pigeon-guided missile.
Image credit & copyright: National Museum of American History
Behavioral psychology is for the birds.
Having a "bird-brain" wasn't such a bad thing in the mind of psychologist B. F. Skinner. A pioneer in behaviorism—the study of human and animal behaviors established by patterned conditioning—Skinner was one of the 20th century's most brilliant minds in psychology. Details of his training experiments with pigeons also prove he had one of science's most quirky minds.
Burrhus Frederick Skinner can thank a failed literary career for his legacy. After graduating from Harvard in 1926 and concluding he lacked the life skills necessary to become a great writer, Skinner discovered the works of John B. Watson, the editor of the Psychological Review and founder of the psychological school of behaviorism. Skinner felt like a social outsider for his atheist beliefs at the time, but found solace in Watson's idea that a person's actions had no internal cognitive or moral foundation—that all choices could be explained through external stimuli.
Skinner was on to something, and as a graduate student at Harvard, he developed the Skinner Box: a chamber used to conduct behavioral experiments on animals using operant conditioning, or learning through rewards and punishment. In one instance, Skinner tested a schedule of reinforcement, where pigeons were taught to peck at a red disc on the wall to cause a box beneath to dispense food. Not every peck would earn a reward (called "reinforcement" in behaviorism terms), but enough came at random that the pigeons perpetually engaged in the task. Skinner remarked that these schedules of reinforcement showed how people could become pathologically addicted to gambling and, he conjectured, how the concept of free will did not apply to such situations.
Skinner also taught his pigeons other tasks through painstaking reinforcement systems; eventually, they could determine the difference between a sign that said "turn" and one that said "peck," applying the correct movements for food rewards. In another instance, Skinner taught two pigeons to play ping-pong, where hitting the ball until the other pigeon lost triggered a food reward to drop in a box beneath the table. Word of his experiments got around to the U.S. military, and in 1943, Skinner proposed "Project Pigeon" to the National Research Defense Committee. Improved missile guidance was a high priority during World War II, and Skinner believed birds could address the issue as "'devices' with excellent vision and extraordinary maneuverability." The committee was skeptical of Skinner's success but granted him $25,000 in funding to begin the project.
What followed sounds like the plot of an anthropomorphic Pixar film: Skinner built a nose cone fitted with three pigeon cockpits and three electronic screens. Projections were fed through the screens with Skinner rewarding the pigeons when they pecked at the target. He believed he could train all three Project Pigeon pilots to peck at the same time, causing cable harnesses attached to their heads to mechanically guide the missile to its final mark. In spite of a successful demonstration, the military shelved Skinner's project. Which is just as well, seeing as how Skinner's rocket was designed to detonate with the birds in tow.
After the war, Skinner spent less time with his pigeons and more time applying his schedules of reinforcement to machines, providing some of the basis for contemporary machine learning. As for his pigeon-guided missile head, it ended up at the Smithsonian: as Skinner completed his own autobiography, he often donated his devices to the national museum foreseeing their importance as historical artifacts before his death on August 18, 1990. Even if his personal philosophy was dismissive of consciousness and the subconscious in influencing behaviors, his work in advancing behavioral psychology was unparalleled. And at least he didn't have to go out of this world guiding the head of a missile!
Below: a video of Skinner's pigeons playing ping-pong, and two views of B. F. Skinner's nose cone for the pigeon-guided missile.
Image credit & copyright: National Museum of American History
-
FREEBiology PP&T CurioFree1 CQ
These volcanic islands changed the study of life on earth.
The Galápagos Islands might not be a paradise for humans, but they certainly are for rare animals! Located 600 miles off the coast of Ecuador, this chain of 13 volcanic islands, smaller islets, and rocks in the South Pacific boasts pristine beaches, desert-like mountains, and a menagerie of wildlife found nowhere else on earth. Today, the scientific community is indebted to the Galápagos for these reasons.
August happens to the coolest month of the year in the Galápagos, and the breeding season for many animals, including the giant tortoise and a population of around 7,000 hilariously named blue-footed boobies. Beside them, marine iguanas dive into the ocean to munch on algae, growing on rocks on the ocean floor. Various lizards scurry into cracks between massive lava rocks produced by 13 active volcanoes. Galápagos sea lions even boldly approach human visitors, without fear.
While the locale is rich in reptilian and avian life, there are no large mammals, and very few predators in general. Wildlife on the Galápagos is varied and unique, as it is on most islands, due to the pressures of natural selection in such a confined environment. Animals have evolved all sorts of interesting adaptations—for example, the islands' lack of predators makes it safe for several rare bird species, such as the waved albatross, to build their nests right on the ground.
The islands are so isolated, they weren't discovered until 1535, when Spanish noble and bishop of Peru Tomás de Berlanga was sailing to Panama and blown wildly off course. His impression of them was tepid. "Dross, worthless," he called them, citing the islands' inability to grow "a little grass, but only some thistles." Over the next 300 years, sailors, whalers, and buccaneers regarded them the same. Thankfully, this helped preserve their stunning wildlife until someone finally came along who rightfully appreciated their rich diversity: English naturalist Charles Darwin.
In 1835, Darwin spent five weeks studying the local marine iguanas, penguins, sea lions, and finches that are all endemic to the islands. He immediately noticed that certain species of finches, many now named after him, differed slightly, depending on where exactly they were located. For example, finches' beaks changed shape based on what kinds of foods were most available in their specific breeding grounds. Finches living in areas where seeds were plentiful had strong beaks for breaking seeds open. Where nectar was more readily available, finches had narrow beaks for reaching into flowers.
After years of tooling his Galápagos observations, Darwin was able to riddle out the mysteries of natural selection. It could be argued that these islands are the reason that Darwin's face was once featured on British currency. In fact, the naturalist was so smitten with the islands that he took a piece of them back to England with him, in the form of three giant tortoises—a move that would be extremely illegal today. One of the tortoises, named Harriet, lived to be a whopping 179 years old. Her final owner? None other than famous conservationist Steve Irwin!
Since 1959, 97% of the Galápagos Islands, or around 3,000 square miles, has been designated as Galápagos National Park. The Galápagos Marine Reserve also protects 50,000 square miles of local ocean waters. The measures couldn't have come soon enough: since Darwin discovered the islands, some species, such as the giant tortoise, have been pushed beyond or to the point of extinction by poachers. And today, some 25,000 people now reside on the habitable islands of San Cristobal, Isabela, Floreana, and Santa Cruz. Here's hoping conservationists keep up their efforts. That way, these islands can continue to thrive and produce even stranger wildlife for years to come!
Image credit & copyright: DC_Columbia/Getty Images
These volcanic islands changed the study of life on earth.
The Galápagos Islands might not be a paradise for humans, but they certainly are for rare animals! Located 600 miles off the coast of Ecuador, this chain of 13 volcanic islands, smaller islets, and rocks in the South Pacific boasts pristine beaches, desert-like mountains, and a menagerie of wildlife found nowhere else on earth. Today, the scientific community is indebted to the Galápagos for these reasons.
August happens to the coolest month of the year in the Galápagos, and the breeding season for many animals, including the giant tortoise and a population of around 7,000 hilariously named blue-footed boobies. Beside them, marine iguanas dive into the ocean to munch on algae, growing on rocks on the ocean floor. Various lizards scurry into cracks between massive lava rocks produced by 13 active volcanoes. Galápagos sea lions even boldly approach human visitors, without fear.
While the locale is rich in reptilian and avian life, there are no large mammals, and very few predators in general. Wildlife on the Galápagos is varied and unique, as it is on most islands, due to the pressures of natural selection in such a confined environment. Animals have evolved all sorts of interesting adaptations—for example, the islands' lack of predators makes it safe for several rare bird species, such as the waved albatross, to build their nests right on the ground.
The islands are so isolated, they weren't discovered until 1535, when Spanish noble and bishop of Peru Tomás de Berlanga was sailing to Panama and blown wildly off course. His impression of them was tepid. "Dross, worthless," he called them, citing the islands' inability to grow "a little grass, but only some thistles." Over the next 300 years, sailors, whalers, and buccaneers regarded them the same. Thankfully, this helped preserve their stunning wildlife until someone finally came along who rightfully appreciated their rich diversity: English naturalist Charles Darwin.
In 1835, Darwin spent five weeks studying the local marine iguanas, penguins, sea lions, and finches that are all endemic to the islands. He immediately noticed that certain species of finches, many now named after him, differed slightly, depending on where exactly they were located. For example, finches' beaks changed shape based on what kinds of foods were most available in their specific breeding grounds. Finches living in areas where seeds were plentiful had strong beaks for breaking seeds open. Where nectar was more readily available, finches had narrow beaks for reaching into flowers.
After years of tooling his Galápagos observations, Darwin was able to riddle out the mysteries of natural selection. It could be argued that these islands are the reason that Darwin's face was once featured on British currency. In fact, the naturalist was so smitten with the islands that he took a piece of them back to England with him, in the form of three giant tortoises—a move that would be extremely illegal today. One of the tortoises, named Harriet, lived to be a whopping 179 years old. Her final owner? None other than famous conservationist Steve Irwin!
Since 1959, 97% of the Galápagos Islands, or around 3,000 square miles, has been designated as Galápagos National Park. The Galápagos Marine Reserve also protects 50,000 square miles of local ocean waters. The measures couldn't have come soon enough: since Darwin discovered the islands, some species, such as the giant tortoise, have been pushed beyond or to the point of extinction by poachers. And today, some 25,000 people now reside on the habitable islands of San Cristobal, Isabela, Floreana, and Santa Cruz. Here's hoping conservationists keep up their efforts. That way, these islands can continue to thrive and produce even stranger wildlife for years to come!
Image credit & copyright: DC_Columbia/Getty Images
-
FREEHumanities PP&T CurioFree1 CQ
A World War II hero saves thousands of lives.
Some war heroes have their mettle tested on the battlefield. Others, like architect and diplomat Raoul Wallenberg, prove themselves through humanitarian actions. The Swedish special envoy in Hungary saved countless Jewish lives in 1944—only to disappear without a trace the following year.
Wallenberg was born on this day in 1912 near Stockholm, Sweden. Raised by his mother and grandmother when his father died, Wallenberg eventually traveled to the U.S. to study architecture at the University of Michigan. He worked odd jobs and picked up a habit of hitchhiking while on vacation to explore the country, once writing, "when you travel like a hobo, everything's different.... you're in close contact with new people every day. Hitchhiking gives you training in diplomacy and tact."
After college, he found his American degree did not qualify him to work as an architect in Sweden, leading him to once again make big travel plans. He worked in Cape Town, South Africa, and later Haifa, Israel, before returning to Sweden in 1936 to take a job at the European Trading Company. The company's Jewish owner Kálmán Lauer found himself impeded by the Kingdom of Hungary's Nuremberg Race Laws in 1938, so he sent Wallenberg to Budapest to conduct business in the increasingly anti-semitic country.
As Wallenberg moved up the ranks in the trading company, the alliance between Hungary and Germany fractioned after the Battle of Stalingrad in 1943. Adolf Hitler ordered an occupation of Hungary in the following year with the intent to swiftly deport Hungarian Jews to concentration camps in Poland. Overseas, President Franklin D. Roosevelt established the War Refugee Board (WRB) to assist civilian victims of the Axis powers. U.S. Treasury Department official Iver C. Olsen was sent to Stockholm to find ways of addressing the humanitarian crisis in Hungary. One of the people Olsen met on a relief committee was Kálmán Lauer, who recommended the services of Raoul Wallenberg.
On July 9, 1944, Wallenberg reached the Swedish embassy in Hungary and began distributing "Schutz-Passes" or protective passports to Jewish citizens. The paperwork identified the bearers as Swedish subjects awaiting repatriation, meaning they could not be deported. The plan worked; some 10,000 people were housed in 32 extraterritorial buildings and protected by diplomatic immunity—a space referred to as the "Budapest ghetto." In one instance, Wallenberg intercepted a train bound for Auschwitz camps, ignoring German orders as he calmly handed out passports to hands reaching out for them. He ordered those with papers to accompany him in his Swedish flag-marked vehicles, coolly leaving the scene without any intrusion from the German guards.
By the end of 1944, Soviet forces had captured Budapest from the Germans, setting their sights on Wallenberg as a potential spy for the Western Allies. On January 17, 1945, Wallenberg was ordered to General Rodion Malinovsky's offices to answer for his potential crime, of which he remarked, "I'm going to Malinovsky's ... whether as a guest or prisoner I do not know yet." Records released by the Soviet government in 1957 date a report back to July 1947, which alleges that Wallenberg died of a heart attack while imprisoned at the Lubyanka headquarters of the K.G.B. in Moscow.
Though his death remained a painful mystery for his family for decades, Wallenberg's legacy is anything but grievous. In total, Wallenberg and his associates saved the lives of some 100,000 Jews during World War II, with congressional Representative Tom Lantos, who was saved by Wallenberg, advocating for Honorary Citizenship in the U.S. in 1981—only the second recipient after Winston Churchill. Monuments in Wallenberg's memory have been erected around the globe, and a street renamed after him runs near the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. These and more are all remembrances that while Wallenberg may be gone, his great work is certainly not forgotten.
Image credit & copyright: Raoul Wallenberg Center
A World War II hero saves thousands of lives.
Some war heroes have their mettle tested on the battlefield. Others, like architect and diplomat Raoul Wallenberg, prove themselves through humanitarian actions. The Swedish special envoy in Hungary saved countless Jewish lives in 1944—only to disappear without a trace the following year.
Wallenberg was born on this day in 1912 near Stockholm, Sweden. Raised by his mother and grandmother when his father died, Wallenberg eventually traveled to the U.S. to study architecture at the University of Michigan. He worked odd jobs and picked up a habit of hitchhiking while on vacation to explore the country, once writing, "when you travel like a hobo, everything's different.... you're in close contact with new people every day. Hitchhiking gives you training in diplomacy and tact."
After college, he found his American degree did not qualify him to work as an architect in Sweden, leading him to once again make big travel plans. He worked in Cape Town, South Africa, and later Haifa, Israel, before returning to Sweden in 1936 to take a job at the European Trading Company. The company's Jewish owner Kálmán Lauer found himself impeded by the Kingdom of Hungary's Nuremberg Race Laws in 1938, so he sent Wallenberg to Budapest to conduct business in the increasingly anti-semitic country.
As Wallenberg moved up the ranks in the trading company, the alliance between Hungary and Germany fractioned after the Battle of Stalingrad in 1943. Adolf Hitler ordered an occupation of Hungary in the following year with the intent to swiftly deport Hungarian Jews to concentration camps in Poland. Overseas, President Franklin D. Roosevelt established the War Refugee Board (WRB) to assist civilian victims of the Axis powers. U.S. Treasury Department official Iver C. Olsen was sent to Stockholm to find ways of addressing the humanitarian crisis in Hungary. One of the people Olsen met on a relief committee was Kálmán Lauer, who recommended the services of Raoul Wallenberg.
On July 9, 1944, Wallenberg reached the Swedish embassy in Hungary and began distributing "Schutz-Passes" or protective passports to Jewish citizens. The paperwork identified the bearers as Swedish subjects awaiting repatriation, meaning they could not be deported. The plan worked; some 10,000 people were housed in 32 extraterritorial buildings and protected by diplomatic immunity—a space referred to as the "Budapest ghetto." In one instance, Wallenberg intercepted a train bound for Auschwitz camps, ignoring German orders as he calmly handed out passports to hands reaching out for them. He ordered those with papers to accompany him in his Swedish flag-marked vehicles, coolly leaving the scene without any intrusion from the German guards.
By the end of 1944, Soviet forces had captured Budapest from the Germans, setting their sights on Wallenberg as a potential spy for the Western Allies. On January 17, 1945, Wallenberg was ordered to General Rodion Malinovsky's offices to answer for his potential crime, of which he remarked, "I'm going to Malinovsky's ... whether as a guest or prisoner I do not know yet." Records released by the Soviet government in 1957 date a report back to July 1947, which alleges that Wallenberg died of a heart attack while imprisoned at the Lubyanka headquarters of the K.G.B. in Moscow.
Though his death remained a painful mystery for his family for decades, Wallenberg's legacy is anything but grievous. In total, Wallenberg and his associates saved the lives of some 100,000 Jews during World War II, with congressional Representative Tom Lantos, who was saved by Wallenberg, advocating for Honorary Citizenship in the U.S. in 1981—only the second recipient after Winston Churchill. Monuments in Wallenberg's memory have been erected around the globe, and a street renamed after him runs near the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. These and more are all remembrances that while Wallenberg may be gone, his great work is certainly not forgotten.
Image credit & copyright: Raoul Wallenberg Center
-
FREEUS History PP&T CurioFree1 CQ
The "impossible" bill finds support in Washington.
If we think contemporary discussions about healthcare in the U.S. are complicated, the decades-long battle for Medicare would make our heads spin. President after president failed to pass bills for government-funded medical support for the elderly until a series of fortunate events in 1965 laid the groundwork for one of the biggest overhauls of Social Security benefits and healthcare this nation has ever seen.
Franklin D. Roosevelt was the first president to earnestly consider federal health insurance programs for the elderly. He intended to include healthcare reform in the Social Security Act of 1935, but dropped insurance component rather than jeopardize the bill. At the time, popular sentiment esteemed the doctor-patient relationship as the ultimate authority when it came to healthcare decisions. The idea of government intervention in that relationship was seen as an unnecessary problem—so much so that Time magazine ran a cover with the words "Nationalized Doctors?" in 1937.
As other first-world nations established universal health care systems in the ensuing years, the U.S. struggled to shake the ghost of nationalized medicine. President Truman's two proposals to improve upon Roosevelt's New Deal social safety nets were met with vehement and successful opposition from the American Medical Association (AMA). Ironically, the '50s saw the government promote the private healthcare system by subsidizing companies through corporate tax breaks for worker's insurance enrollment, even as support for federal insurance waned. Meanwhile, evidence from the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare showed that elderly Americans required twice as much hospital care as those under 65.
When John F. Kennedy ran for President in 1960, he revived the moral debate for nationalized health care for the elderly. The AMA once again rolled out its defenses against "socialized medicine." This time the organization found an ally in congressional Democrat Wilbur Mills of Arkansas, the chairman of the Ways and Means Committee. Mills was known as a budget hawk who refused to let Medicare bills come up for a vote in his committee, blocking the chance of a final vote in the House. Despite the reputation, he compromised in 1960, helping pass the Kerr-Mills Act which created the Medical Assistance for the Aged program and allowed states to decide who could receive financial assistance for health care. The program proved incredibly cumbersome with only 28 states adopting it and only one percent of seniors covered under its benefits.
After JFK's death, President Lyndon B. Johnson won his 1964 election bid in a landslide, and the 295 new Congressional Democrats and 68 seats won in the Senate gave the liberal-progressive wing of the party a supermajority. Mills and other chairpeople, facing pressure from their own party, were no longer allowed to hold upvotes in their committees. The congressman conceded his loss and became determined to etch out a win for himself by meddling with the Medicare Act of 1965, adding legislation to contain costs and a combination of premiums and taxes to pay doctor bills.
On July 30, 1965, in Independence, Missouri, President Johnson signed the Medicare Act into law. With him that day was former President Truman, who then signed an application and became the first recipient of a Medicare card along with his wife Bess. It was a meeting of the minds, with Truman living to see the seeds of his legislation finally come to fruition—and LBJ radically changing the way the elderly and sick are cared for in our country. Despite countless attempts at privatization and restructuring the system, some 20 million people currently have these great legislators to thank for their access to potentially life-saving medical care.
Below: LBJ signing the Medicare Act of 1965 into law, flanked by First Lady Lady Bird on the left, and former President Truman and his wife on the right.
Image credit & copyright: Lyndon B. Johnson Presidential Library, U.S. National Archives
The "impossible" bill finds support in Washington.
If we think contemporary discussions about healthcare in the U.S. are complicated, the decades-long battle for Medicare would make our heads spin. President after president failed to pass bills for government-funded medical support for the elderly until a series of fortunate events in 1965 laid the groundwork for one of the biggest overhauls of Social Security benefits and healthcare this nation has ever seen.
Franklin D. Roosevelt was the first president to earnestly consider federal health insurance programs for the elderly. He intended to include healthcare reform in the Social Security Act of 1935, but dropped insurance component rather than jeopardize the bill. At the time, popular sentiment esteemed the doctor-patient relationship as the ultimate authority when it came to healthcare decisions. The idea of government intervention in that relationship was seen as an unnecessary problem—so much so that Time magazine ran a cover with the words "Nationalized Doctors?" in 1937.
As other first-world nations established universal health care systems in the ensuing years, the U.S. struggled to shake the ghost of nationalized medicine. President Truman's two proposals to improve upon Roosevelt's New Deal social safety nets were met with vehement and successful opposition from the American Medical Association (AMA). Ironically, the '50s saw the government promote the private healthcare system by subsidizing companies through corporate tax breaks for worker's insurance enrollment, even as support for federal insurance waned. Meanwhile, evidence from the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare showed that elderly Americans required twice as much hospital care as those under 65.
When John F. Kennedy ran for President in 1960, he revived the moral debate for nationalized health care for the elderly. The AMA once again rolled out its defenses against "socialized medicine." This time the organization found an ally in congressional Democrat Wilbur Mills of Arkansas, the chairman of the Ways and Means Committee. Mills was known as a budget hawk who refused to let Medicare bills come up for a vote in his committee, blocking the chance of a final vote in the House. Despite the reputation, he compromised in 1960, helping pass the Kerr-Mills Act which created the Medical Assistance for the Aged program and allowed states to decide who could receive financial assistance for health care. The program proved incredibly cumbersome with only 28 states adopting it and only one percent of seniors covered under its benefits.
After JFK's death, President Lyndon B. Johnson won his 1964 election bid in a landslide, and the 295 new Congressional Democrats and 68 seats won in the Senate gave the liberal-progressive wing of the party a supermajority. Mills and other chairpeople, facing pressure from their own party, were no longer allowed to hold upvotes in their committees. The congressman conceded his loss and became determined to etch out a win for himself by meddling with the Medicare Act of 1965, adding legislation to contain costs and a combination of premiums and taxes to pay doctor bills.
On July 30, 1965, in Independence, Missouri, President Johnson signed the Medicare Act into law. With him that day was former President Truman, who then signed an application and became the first recipient of a Medicare card along with his wife Bess. It was a meeting of the minds, with Truman living to see the seeds of his legislation finally come to fruition—and LBJ radically changing the way the elderly and sick are cared for in our country. Despite countless attempts at privatization and restructuring the system, some 20 million people currently have these great legislators to thank for their access to potentially life-saving medical care.
Below: LBJ signing the Medicare Act of 1965 into law, flanked by First Lady Lady Bird on the left, and former President Truman and his wife on the right.
Image credit & copyright: Lyndon B. Johnson Presidential Library, U.S. National Archives
-
FREEPlay PP&T CurioFree1 CQ
The educational origins of one of the longest-running toy lines in history.
Charming, fun, pretty, bright—these words might come to mind when describing Hasbro's My Little Pony toy line. But what about educational? If Bonnie Zacherle, the toy's creator, had had her way, the ponies' first and foremost concern would be versing children in caretaking. To honor Zacherle and the 2019 My Little Pony Fair, a gathering of dedicated My Little Pony collectors taking place on July 27, we're delving into the forgotten past of everyone's favorite little equines.
The story of My Little Pony begins in the early '80s, when Zacherle landed a job as an illustrator and toy designer for Hasbro. She was pressured to create stereotypically feminine dolls, but couldn't resist channeling her love of horses into her work. As it turns out, her original pony mockups weren't meant to be pastel at all. Instead, Zacherle wanted the ponies to come in realistic colors, with accessories that could help teach girls to love and take care of horses, just as she had when she was a child.
However, when she pitched the idea of an educational, horse-themed toy line to Hasbro, she was met with resistance. In fact, in her book about the origins of My Little Pony, My Lil Pony Tale (2016), Zacherle states that one male executive told her that girls would never respond to a horse-centered toy line because "most girls aren't like you, Bonnie. They like to cook and clean and iron."
But Zacherle refused to give up and talked about My Little Pony to anyone at Hasbro who would listen. Eventually, her idea found favor with her boss's boss, who suggested a slight redesign. In 1981, My Pretty Pony was released. This original iteration of the toy was four times larger than its modern-day counterparts. It was also brown rather than pastel, and came with a mix of practical accessories, like a blanket, and fashion accessories, like a hat.
The toy sold well, so Hasbro finally agreed to launch a line of smaller My Little Pony toys based on Zacherle's original idea. There was just one caveat—Hasbro wanted these ponies to come in bright fantasy colors, such as hot pink and sky blue. At first, Zacherle resisted—after all, she wanted these toys to be somewhat realistic. But she eventually decided that the designs didn't look so bad, and My Little Pony was finally born!
Since its original release in 1982, My Little Pony has become one of the most popular, longest-running toy lines of all time. It has even spawned various cartoons and a dedicated fanbase who gather at conventions such as the My Little Pony Fair each year. And it's all thanks to the determination of one woman who bucked the obstacles and shared her love of horses with the world.
Image credit & copyright: Fauquier Times/Randy Litzinger
The educational origins of one of the longest-running toy lines in history.
Charming, fun, pretty, bright—these words might come to mind when describing Hasbro's My Little Pony toy line. But what about educational? If Bonnie Zacherle, the toy's creator, had had her way, the ponies' first and foremost concern would be versing children in caretaking. To honor Zacherle and the 2019 My Little Pony Fair, a gathering of dedicated My Little Pony collectors taking place on July 27, we're delving into the forgotten past of everyone's favorite little equines.
The story of My Little Pony begins in the early '80s, when Zacherle landed a job as an illustrator and toy designer for Hasbro. She was pressured to create stereotypically feminine dolls, but couldn't resist channeling her love of horses into her work. As it turns out, her original pony mockups weren't meant to be pastel at all. Instead, Zacherle wanted the ponies to come in realistic colors, with accessories that could help teach girls to love and take care of horses, just as she had when she was a child.
However, when she pitched the idea of an educational, horse-themed toy line to Hasbro, she was met with resistance. In fact, in her book about the origins of My Little Pony, My Lil Pony Tale (2016), Zacherle states that one male executive told her that girls would never respond to a horse-centered toy line because "most girls aren't like you, Bonnie. They like to cook and clean and iron."
But Zacherle refused to give up and talked about My Little Pony to anyone at Hasbro who would listen. Eventually, her idea found favor with her boss's boss, who suggested a slight redesign. In 1981, My Pretty Pony was released. This original iteration of the toy was four times larger than its modern-day counterparts. It was also brown rather than pastel, and came with a mix of practical accessories, like a blanket, and fashion accessories, like a hat.
The toy sold well, so Hasbro finally agreed to launch a line of smaller My Little Pony toys based on Zacherle's original idea. There was just one caveat—Hasbro wanted these ponies to come in bright fantasy colors, such as hot pink and sky blue. At first, Zacherle resisted—after all, she wanted these toys to be somewhat realistic. But she eventually decided that the designs didn't look so bad, and My Little Pony was finally born!
Since its original release in 1982, My Little Pony has become one of the most popular, longest-running toy lines of all time. It has even spawned various cartoons and a dedicated fanbase who gather at conventions such as the My Little Pony Fair each year. And it's all thanks to the determination of one woman who bucked the obstacles and shared her love of horses with the world.
Image credit & copyright: Fauquier Times/Randy Litzinger
-
FREEWorld History PP&T CurioFree1 CQ
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
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
-
FREEWorld History PP&T CurioFree1 CQ
A 19th-century menswear influencer.
Love him or hate him, George "Beau" Brummell made an indelible impression on Western menswear. The 19th-century Londoner is credited with ridding gentlemen's wardrobes of frills and gold trims and leading them to conservative silhouettes in blue and black. Yet for all of the pretentious nonchalance he projected, Brummell's personal life was fraught with neurotic upkeep and the desire to pass as blue blood.
Brummell, born on this day in 1778, was groomed for greatness from an early age. His grandfather was a shopkeeper and hosted the aristocracy in his lodgings, while his father was a high sheriff in Berkshire. Brummell's father wanted more than middle-class wealth for his son so he sent the boy to Eton College in 1790, and later Oxford in Oxfordshire. Brummell showed little interest in education, though, and dropped out of Oxford after a year of studies. What he was really good at was dressing impressively and making witty remarks, often at the expense of others' feelings and reputations.
In 1794, Brummell joined the Tenth Royal Hussars as an officer to the Prince of Wales. A year later, Brummell's father passed away, leaving him a hefty inheritance of £20,000 (about $3.7 million in today's dollars). As a member of the prince's personal regiment, which consisted of aristocrats, the sum was a pittance and hardly enough to cover the excesses in dress and banquets that Brummell was expected to pay out of his own pocket. Regardless, Brummell rose in the ranks and found favor with the prince. He left the service as a high-ranking captain in 1798—in spite of evidence that he regularly disregarded his duties.
As a civilian in London society, Brummell's taste for fineries continued to grow. His wardrobe became notable for its conservative tailoring when compared with the courtly fashions adopted from baroque France. Gone were the powdered wigs and knee breeches in favor of a contrasting blue coat, cravat, trousers, and riding boots. Brummell claimed to spend five hours dressing each morning and shining his shoes with champagne. His excruciatingly meticulous "nonchalance" was summed up in his own style ethos: "To be truly elegant one should not be noticed," he once said. Even today, historians and fashion enthusiasts point to Brummell as the foremost celebrity influencer for menswear in the 19th-century, and his rules haven't been challenged much in conservative approaches to color and styling. He is also known for being an early dandy, or an inordinately fashionable character.
However, Brummell's snobbery eventually caught up with him. He was said to have lost the favor of the Prince of Wales, whom he once called "fat" after the royal failed to greet him in a party reception line. His gambling debts also mounted, causing him to flee to Calais, France, in 1816 to avoid creditors. His friend Lord Alvaney eventually found Brummell an appointment as a consulate at Caen, though the job fizzled out when the Foreign Office took his advice and got rid of the consulate (Brummell was hoping for a better position elsewhere, which never materialized). In 1835, he was sent to debtor's prison in Calais and later released with the aid of his English friends. By then, Brummell was a ghost of his former self: disheveled, dirty, and insane from syphilis he'd contracted years earlier. He was admitted to the Bon Sauveur asylum in Caen, where he spent the last few years before his death in 1840.
Very few people in the world can claim to have influenced anything for over 200 years, much less the way men wear clothing. If Brummell was alive today, we'd like to think he'd find the Mad Men and Pitti Uomo menswear convention trends to be charming imitations of his personal sense of style—even if he'd have a sharp witticism or two for those who end up on his worst dressed list.
Below: a portrait drawing of Beau Brummell in his signature outfit with a blue coat, tan trousers, and high boots.
Image credit & copyright: Granger / REX / Shutterstock
A 19th-century menswear influencer.
Love him or hate him, George "Beau" Brummell made an indelible impression on Western menswear. The 19th-century Londoner is credited with ridding gentlemen's wardrobes of frills and gold trims and leading them to conservative silhouettes in blue and black. Yet for all of the pretentious nonchalance he projected, Brummell's personal life was fraught with neurotic upkeep and the desire to pass as blue blood.
Brummell, born on this day in 1778, was groomed for greatness from an early age. His grandfather was a shopkeeper and hosted the aristocracy in his lodgings, while his father was a high sheriff in Berkshire. Brummell's father wanted more than middle-class wealth for his son so he sent the boy to Eton College in 1790, and later Oxford in Oxfordshire. Brummell showed little interest in education, though, and dropped out of Oxford after a year of studies. What he was really good at was dressing impressively and making witty remarks, often at the expense of others' feelings and reputations.
In 1794, Brummell joined the Tenth Royal Hussars as an officer to the Prince of Wales. A year later, Brummell's father passed away, leaving him a hefty inheritance of £20,000 (about $3.7 million in today's dollars). As a member of the prince's personal regiment, which consisted of aristocrats, the sum was a pittance and hardly enough to cover the excesses in dress and banquets that Brummell was expected to pay out of his own pocket. Regardless, Brummell rose in the ranks and found favor with the prince. He left the service as a high-ranking captain in 1798—in spite of evidence that he regularly disregarded his duties.
As a civilian in London society, Brummell's taste for fineries continued to grow. His wardrobe became notable for its conservative tailoring when compared with the courtly fashions adopted from baroque France. Gone were the powdered wigs and knee breeches in favor of a contrasting blue coat, cravat, trousers, and riding boots. Brummell claimed to spend five hours dressing each morning and shining his shoes with champagne. His excruciatingly meticulous "nonchalance" was summed up in his own style ethos: "To be truly elegant one should not be noticed," he once said. Even today, historians and fashion enthusiasts point to Brummell as the foremost celebrity influencer for menswear in the 19th-century, and his rules haven't been challenged much in conservative approaches to color and styling. He is also known for being an early dandy, or an inordinately fashionable character.
However, Brummell's snobbery eventually caught up with him. He was said to have lost the favor of the Prince of Wales, whom he once called "fat" after the royal failed to greet him in a party reception line. His gambling debts also mounted, causing him to flee to Calais, France, in 1816 to avoid creditors. His friend Lord Alvaney eventually found Brummell an appointment as a consulate at Caen, though the job fizzled out when the Foreign Office took his advice and got rid of the consulate (Brummell was hoping for a better position elsewhere, which never materialized). In 1835, he was sent to debtor's prison in Calais and later released with the aid of his English friends. By then, Brummell was a ghost of his former self: disheveled, dirty, and insane from syphilis he'd contracted years earlier. He was admitted to the Bon Sauveur asylum in Caen, where he spent the last few years before his death in 1840.
Very few people in the world can claim to have influenced anything for over 200 years, much less the way men wear clothing. If Brummell was alive today, we'd like to think he'd find the Mad Men and Pitti Uomo menswear convention trends to be charming imitations of his personal sense of style—even if he'd have a sharp witticism or two for those who end up on his worst dressed list.
Below: a portrait drawing of Beau Brummell in his signature outfit with a blue coat, tan trousers, and high boots.
Image credit & copyright: Granger / REX / Shutterstock