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Watch a Player Piano Rock Out

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Player pianos lend a whole new meaning to the phrase "ghost in the machine."

Automated instruments date back to the early 18th century, but we generally associate player pianos with Old West saloons. Even without a decent piano player in town, bar patrons could be serenaded by a piano that played all on its own. It worked in a sort of analog mechanical way: the piano would "read" a tin spool or a perforated paper sheet, which it translated onto the traditional hammers and keys, that lowered with each note. 

The eerie instrument was sort of an early precursor to the jukebox. The player piano came with several rolls, each of which would play a popular tune of the day. Establishments could purchase more for the piano to play, but maintaining the delicate machinery of the pianos was expensive.

After the Wall Street Crash of 1929, player pianos waned in popularity. By the time the market recovered, the instruments had been dethroned by radios as the de facto form of at-home musical entertainment.

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A player piano. (Photo: Daderot/Public Domain)

As with any arcane machinery, today there are professionals who restore player pianos to working order. Such is the case with this one, a "nickelodeon" fixed up by Roberts Restorations. In this video, the piano plays "Circus Galop", a jaunty modern song composed in the style of 1900s popular music.

It's a sort of stress test for the piano, to see if it can keep up with the speed of the song. The tune also showcases the automaton's inhuman abilities. Watching the keys, one can see that the piano is doing things no human ever could, striking up to 12 keys at a time at a rate that would snap the fingers of even the most accomplished pianist. 

If it had a face, this piano would be smirking.


Children in Spain are Going on a Homework Strike

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Good luck, kids. (Photo: Ian Burt/CC BY 2.0)

Three weeks into fall and already sick of homework? Spain may have a tactical answer. CEAPA, a kind of mega-PTA representing the parents of schoolkids across the country, has recommended that fed-up students go on a homework strike.

Under the terms of the strike, participating parents "will formally ask schools not to set homework over November weekends," explained a statement from CEAPA, a collection of parent associations from across Spain. If the schools assign homework anyway, children won't do it, and their parents will send them to school on Monday with notes explaining their disobedience.

These measures are being taken in response to a recent CEAPA survey, which revealed that 41% of parents think their children receive too much homework. Many of the kids agreed, saying they didn't get enough rest or have time for extracurriculars. "The general perception is that more and more homework is being set as time goes on," José Luis Pazos, president of the El Pais chapter of CEAPA, told the Local.

Thus far, it's unclear how many families plan to participate in the strike. It's also unclear what will happen if the children end up breaking it by deciding to do their homework anyway—perhaps their dogs will get involved.

Every day, we track down a fleeting wonder—something amazing that's only happening right now. Have a tip for us? Tell us about it! Send your temporary miracles to cara@atlasobscura.com.

The Year Hundreds of Bombs Went Off in New York City

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The aftermath of the Wall Street bombing. (Photo: Library of Congress/LC-DIG-ggbain-31303)

On Saturday, a bomb exploded in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan, injuring dozens and, for a moment, upsetting the peace of an otherwise pleasant New York City night. 

The bombing seemed familiar: yet another attempt since 9/11 to sow fear and chaos in the city, apparently perpetrated by an amateur with ties to Islamic terrorism. But in the broader scope of time the Chelsea bombing might just be a blip. 

That's because New York City has been bombed hundreds, if not thousands of times since the beginning of its existence—one 18-month stretch between 1969 and 1970 saw 370 bombings alone—and those carried out by Islamic terrorists number in the single digits. The rest came from people—most of them white—with other motivations, whether it was anarchists bombing Wall Street in an attack on J.P. Morgan, or bombs made by the Weather Underground, or George Metesky, who was known as the Mad Bomber and eluded authorities for years.

There were also Puerto Rican nationalists, who bombed the city 49 times in the 1970s; the bombing of the Communist Daily Worker in 1940, as tensions rose amid World War II; and, of course, mobsters, like some fur merchants who bombed their competitors in the 1930s. 

"These things invariably … come back to New York," then Mayor Michael Bloomberg said after the attempted car bombing of Times Square in 2010. 

Bombing New York City, in other words, is not terribly original, nor, has it been, in its long history, particularly effective.

The deadliest case, in fact, is one of the oldest: the Wall Street bombing, which killed 38—in addition to a horse—96 years ago. That attack featured a horse-drawn carriage laden with 500 pounds of small weights and an untold amount of dynamite, which exploded just after noon on September 16, 1920, in front of the offices of J.P. Morgan and Co. No one was ever arrested, though authorities suspected Italian anarchists were behind the attack, which, in any event, was quickly forgotten

That was perhaps because, by 1920, bombs were already a regular feature of life in New York City. One that blew up in Spanish Harlem in 1914 was said to be intended for John D. Rockefeller. Five years after that, someone placed a bomb in the home of a judge.

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The aftermath of an anarchist bombing in this undated photo. (Photo: Library of Congress/LC-USZ62-67516)

A year later, Wall Street exploded, continuing a drum beat of violence that, by the late 1930s, had New Yorkers receiving hundreds of bomb threats a week, in addition to the bombs themselves. Many, like the one at the Communist Daily News, were thought to be politically motivated. Others, like a bomb found at the British Pavilion at the 1940 World's Fair, were surrounded by considerably more intrigue. Was it placed there by the British themselves, perhaps as a way to push the U.S. into war? No one knows, though two members of the N.Y.P.D.'s bomb squad died trying to defuse it, saving an untold number of lives. 

Just a few months later, in November 1940, the city had its first encounter with a bomber who would haunt them for years: George Metesky, a disgruntled former ConEd employee who left a pipe bomb at a company building, along with a note: "CON EDISON CROOKS – THIS IS FOR YOU." 

A similar bomb appeared several months later, before Metesky decided to pause because of World War II. 

"I WILL MAKE NO MORE BOMB UNITS FOR THE DURATION OF THE WAR," Metesky wrote police. "MY PATRIOTIC FEELINGS HAVE MADE ME DECIDE THIS."

True to his word, Metesky didn't resume bombing until 1951, when he captivated the media with a string of bombings over several years, many at city landmarks like Grand Central Terminal, the New York Public Library, and Radio City Music Hall, some 33 in total which never killed anyone but, for a time, set the city on edge.

But it was Metesky's chatty relationship with the New York Journal-American that eventually did him in. He was arrested in 1957, declared legally insane, and then spent nearly 16 years in an upstate mental institution.

Twelve years after Metesky's arrest, Sam Melville, an antiwar radical inspired in part by Metesky, took to bombing the city, though this time for ostensibly political reasons. Eight bombings shook Manhattan in 1969 at seemingly random places, each carrying its own political message for the newspapers. Melville was later arrested after trying to place some dynamite on an Army truck. He was sentenced to prison three months after three members of the Weather Underground died after a bomb they were working on exploded in Greenwich Village

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Grand Central Terminal has been the target of many bombs. (Photo: Library of Congress/LC-DIG-fsa-8c33198)

“Bombs are back,” Police Commissioner Howard R. Leary told a Senate committee, foreshadowing Bloomberg's comments 40 years later, according to the New York Times. “Bombing has reached gigantic proportions.”

Later in the 1970s and 1980s, bombing New York City became a bit more systematic, the main actors being the Puerto Rican nationalist group FALN, the Jewish Defense League, and Croatian terrorists, with FALN's bombs by far the deadliest. They are suspected in or tied to at least 49 different bombings in New York alone, including a 1975 explosive at the historic Fraunces Tavern, which killed four; the December, 1975 bombing of LaGuardia Airport, which killed 11; and a deadly 1981 bomb at J.F.K. airport, which had followed two 1980 explosions in Penn Stations. 

The JDL, meanwhile, is suspected in or tied to a 1971 bomb outside Aeroflot's N.Y.C. offices, a fatal explosion inside the offices of local impresario, a pipe bomb outside the Polish Consulate in 1976, and five other pipe bombs near the United Nations building. That same year, a police officer died at Grand Central Station trying to defuse a bomb left by Croatian terrorists; four years later, more Croatian terrorists bombed the Statue of Liberty.

And then, around 1983, the bombings in New York slowed to a trickle. There was the 1993 World Trade Center bombing, which killed six; the 2008 Times Square bombing, which killed no one, and Saturday's attack—three in about about 20 years' time, down from an age not too long ago, when you could reasonably expect three just this week. 

Melville died in the Attica Prison riots in 1971, having been one of its chief planners, but his then-girlfriend and co-conspirator, the Swarthmore educated Jane Alpert, is still alive. These days she is spending her time on Twitter, with a bio as benign as your mom's: "Strategies & Writing for Nonprofits. MPA from NYU. Reads ancient Greek. Former 1960s radical. Lives in SoHo and Adirondacks. Swims, does Bikram yoga."

Toddler Pulled Alive From Siberian Forest After 3 Days

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Russian authorities say that a toddler in southern Siberia wandered away from his family's home and wasn't found until three days later, apparently happy and healthy.

The ordeal started last weekend, according to Reuters, after the boy chased some dogs and found himself lost in a forest. That set off a search that eventually involved over 100 people. 

The 3-year-old, named Tserin, was finally found after replying to the call of his uncle, only about a mile from his family's home. 

Authorities said he was healthy, perhaps because of good survival instincts. 

"The first thing he did after he got lost was finish some chocolate in one of his pockets," according to Reuters. "Then he laid down in a dry spot under a larch tree and fell asleep."

The one thing he wanted immediately after getting rescued, the outlet reported, was his toy car. 

A Guide to the 58 Crazy Different Terms for 'Water'

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Considering that humankind has from the very beginning subsisted on, resided near and built civilizations around water, it’s not too surprising that English and other languages are overflowing with terminology to describe the various forms aquatic geology. The precise definitions can be blurry, however. What exactly is a sound? What’s the difference between a bight and a bay? A sike and a ghyll? Why are there nearly 20 different words for a small stream?

If you grew up on the coast you may be pretty familiar with shoals and inlets, but perhaps things get fuzzy when trying to pin down the definition of the fjords found in Norway or a Scottish loch. If you've ever wondered about the wetter parts of the world, this guide is for you. Here is a rundown of the many different types of bodies of water, illustrated with examples of beautiful and unusual watery wonders in the Atlas. Dive in.


The distinction between the most common terms for flowing water—anything with a natural current moving from high to low—is roughly defined by size. As the old adage goes, “you can step over a brook, jump over a creek, wade across a stream and swim across a river.” A stream (#1) tends to be the generic term for flowing water; a river (#2) is the largest, while a creek (#3) is a small stream and a brook (#4) is even smaller, generally used in Old English and often babbling.

Beyond that there's a flood of even more specific or regional terms to describe a small stream. You’ve got a rivulet (#5, a very small stream or baby stream), a rill (#6, a very small brook or rivulet), a beck (#7, yet another name for small stream) a kill (#8, an old Dutch  term in colonial New York for creek or stream), a streamlet (#9, yep, a small stream,), a runnel, also called runlet, run, rundle or rindle (#10, again, a small stream or brook or rivulet), a brooklet (#11, a small brook), a bourn (#12, a small stream, particularly one that flows intermittently or seasonally), a beck (#13, a small river or synonym for stream or brook), a crick (#14, a variation in the pronunciation of creek in parts of the U.S.), a ghyll (#15, a narrow stream or rivulet, or a ravine through which through small stream flows), and a sykeor sike (#16, another Old English term for small stream, especially one that is dry in summer).

What about a large stream? In Scotland and England that’s sometimes called a burn (#17). A spring (#18) is when water flows up from under the ground to the surface. A bayou (#19) is very slow moving water, generally a tributary of a lake or river that is sluggish and marshy and filled with vegetation. A tributary (#20) for that matter is any stream that flows into a larger main stream or river, while a distributary (#21) is the opposite: a stream that branches off from the main river and flows away from it. A meander (#22) is just what it sounds like, a turn or bend in a winding river.

Horseshoe Bend Meander

PAGE, ARIZONA

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A horseshoe-shaped meander of the Colorado River swirls around a 1,000-foot-high pedestal before flowing back through the Southwest. (Photo: MassimoTava/CC BY 3.0)

A freshet (#23) is a sudden flow of freshwater from rapid heavy rain or melting snow after a spring thaw. (It can also mean the place where a river or stream empties into the ocean, combining freshwater into salt water.) In that realm, an estuary (#24) is where a river empties into the sea—the place where the mouth of the river meets out the ocean tide. And theheadwaters (#25) is the source, the very beginning of a river or stream.

The Source of the Nile 

JINJU, UGANDA

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This small spot along the shoreline in Jinja, Uganda marks the place where, 1858, John Hanning Speke "discovered" the Nile's headwaters at Lake Victoria, though the claim has long been contested and controversial.  (Photo: Stefan Krasowski/CC BY 2.0)


There is sweeping category of bodies of water that are either partially or entirely surrounded by land. The former is often found in coastal areas where the shoreline curves in, like a long broad indentation, so the sea is partially surrounded by land but with a wide mouth connected to the open ocean. A gulf (#26) is the largest of these broad inlets, and tends to have a narrow mouth opening to the sea. Smaller than a gulf is abay (#27) which is also largely landlocked but with a wider mouth. Smaller still we call a cove (#28), a small recess or indent in the shoreline that forms a sheltered nook with a narrow entrance. A cove will have just a narrowing opening to the sea, while a bight (#29) is a wide indent of the shore, like a bay but smaller and broader—these bights were historically a perfect safe harbor for pirates.

Speaking ofharbors (#30) these are defined as any area of water where ships can anchor and be sheltered from the rough waters and winds of the open ocean. That’s slightly different than a port (#31), which are specifically defined as any geographical area where ships are loaded and unloaded. In a similar vein, a sheltered body of water near the shore but slightly outside the enclosed harbor is sometimes called a roadstead or “roads" (#32). Here, ships anchor while they wait to enter the port.

We all know the term for a large body of water surrounded by land on all sides; that would be alake (#33). A pond (#34) is just a smaller version, and often formed artificially. A particularly shallow but broad sheet of standing water is sometimes referred to as a mere (#35), particularly in Old English dialects or literature. Even smaller and shallower is a puddle (#36), typically consisting of dirty rainwater. On the flip side, a deep body of still freshwater forms a pool (#37). And a tarn (#38) is a small pool or lake found in the mountains, sometimes with steep banks formed by a glacier.

Lake Hillier

AUSTRALIA

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The pink hue of Australia's Lake Hillier defies scientific explanation. (Photo: Kurioziteti123/CC BY-SA 4.0)

Things get interesting when the body of water is almost entirely surrounded by land. An oxbow lake (#39) is formed when a wide bend in a river is eventually cut off from the main stream entirely by erosion and becomes a free-standing pool of water. It’s named for its characteristic U-shaped curve, resembling an oxbow. A lake or inlet of the sea that is nearly landlocked is sometimes—primary in Scotland—called a loch (#40). 

Loch Lomond

WEST DUNBARTONSHIRE, SCOTLAND

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A freshwater Scottish loch on the Highland Boundary Fault, Loch Lomond is the largest lake in all of Great Britain as measured by surface area. (Photo: wfmillar/CC BY 2.0)


The English language has various ways of defining places where the sea projects inland—either as an indent in the shoreline like a bay or gulf, or as a more narrow water passage opening from the coastline. The common term for this is an inlet (#41), also called an arm of the sea or sea arm (#42). 

A firth (#43) a regional word used in Scotland, is similar in that it’s a narrow inlet of the sea, or a large sea bay, or long arm of the sea. A fjord (#44) is a long, narrow inlet flanked by steep cliffs on three sides and is connected to the sea. It’s formed when a glacier cuts a U-shaped valley below sea level that fills with sea when the glacier retreats. They’re common along the Norwegian coast, an elongated arm of the sea that’s longer than it is wide. 

Urnes Stave Church on the Lustrafjord

ORNES, NORWAY

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An intricately carved Viking church overlooks the glistening Lustrafjord, one of Norway's greatest bodies of water. (Photo: Micha L. Rieser/CC BY-SA 2.0)

A sound (#45) is an ocean inlet even larger than a bay and wider than a fjord—specifically a part of the ocean between two bodies of land, like a wide inlet parallel to the coastline flanked by a nearby island. A channel (#46) is also constrained on two sides by banks, but is specifically a bed of water that joins two larger bodies of water. A strait (#47) is similar to a channel only narrower. 

A lagoon (#48) is a shallow elongated body of water separated form a larger body of water by a sandbank, coral reef or other barrier, while a barachois (#49) is a coastal lagoon separation by the ocean by a sand bar that may periodically get filled with salt water when the tide is high. 

Jökulsárlón Lagoon

ICELAND

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Giants chunks of ice may not be exactly what comes to mind when you picture a lagoon, and yet the largest lagoon in Iceland is a beautiful pool of stunning multicolored icebergs formed by melting glaciers.  (Photo: Daniel Knieper/CC BY-ND 2.0)


There are some aquatic terms that are a bit more unusual. A billabong (#50) before it was a surfwear company making boardshorts, defines where a river changes course and creates an isolated stagnant pool of backwater behind where the former branch dead ends. Akettle (#51) in addition to boiling water for tea, is a sort of pothole formed from retreating glaciers or draining floods, hollowed out when buried blocks of glacier ice melts.

Glacial Potholes or "Kettle"

SHELBURNE FALLS, MASSACHUSETTS

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These Massachusetts glacial potholes, or “kettles,” were ground down by granite by a whirlpool effect of water and gyrating stones. (Photo: aliwest44/CC BY 2.0)

A narrows (#52) is a narrow water passes where a strait or river passes through a vertical bed of hard rock. A lee (#53) can refer to as a natural body of running water flowing under the earth (though more commonly means the sheltered side of a ship or other object facing away from the wind). A canal (#54) is an artificial waterway meant for travel, usually connecting two other water bodies for ships to navigate. A shoal (#55) is a place where the sea, river or another body of water is shallow but the submerged sandbank is exposed at low tide. Anoasis (#56) is a fertile spot in the desert where water comes from an underground spring. 

Huacachina Oasis

ICA, PERU

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Known as the "Oasis of America,” Huacachina in Peru is one of the only true desert oases in the Americas.  (Photo: Carlos Adampol Galindo/CC BY-SA 2.0)

Finally, though they're often used interchangeably, there's a linguistic difference between the ocean and sea. Anocean (#57) is the largest body of water there is, divided into five geographic bodies. Seas (#58) are generally parts of these oceans, located where the ocean and land meet. Used in the singular, however, “the sea” is used to mean the continuous body of salt water that covers most of the Earth’s surface—an interconnected global ocean blanketing the planet.

Are Mermaids Real? The Long Tail of a Simple Question

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Over the past few months, Atlas Obscura has been at the receiving end of many a search query about mermaids. Day after day, it is one of the most enduringly popular search terms on our site. What do these mermaid-curious visitors most want to discover? It's simple: "are mermaids real"

No question mark. Just a simple plea for answers. There are close follow-ups, which include:

real mermaids
mermaids are real
where do mermaids live
is mermaids real
are mermaids real?

These site visitors are looking for "real mermaids," but also wondering—where are mermaids located; where are mermaids found; where can you find mermaids; where to find mermaids; r mermaids real; are mermaids real or not; are there mermaids in real life; are mermaids really real; where can i find mermaids; mermaids are they real; mermaids real? (Adding the question mark does not seem to change the results.)

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Diver Mehgan Heaney-Grier, aka Mermaid Melissa. (Photo: Mehgan Heaney-Grier/CC BY 3.0)

Google searchers, it seems, are more interested in the existential state of mermaids than other fantastic creatures. In the past few years, queries for "are mermaids real" have been more popular than equivalent questions about aliens, vampires, ghosts and unicorns, according to Google Trends. Naturally we wondered, why are people so avidly searching for real mermaids?

Interest in mermaids wasn't always so high. Before 2013, in fact, Google received about the same level of interest in mermaids as in vampire, aliens, and so on. But something changed in 2013. There was a spike in queries about the existence of mermaids, followed by another, larger spike.

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Searches for "are mermaids real" going back to 2004. (Image: Google Trends)

In fact, these spikes are not particularly mysterious. In 2013, Animal Planet aired two "documentaries," The Body Found and The New Evidence, about the existence of mermaids. They had all the trappings of mediocre TV documentaries, but were fake.

The Body Found follows a team of scientists investigating strange underwater sounds and a body washed up on the beach. The film presents theories about how mermaids learned to fish and could have evolved from "underwater apes." (The existence of underwater apes is a real scientific theory, but one that's usually dismissed.) The film includes fake footage of "real mermaids" and also interviews with scientists, who, in reality, were just characters played by actors.

The shows did not broadcast their fiction in any immediate or obvious way; a coy disclaimer in the end credits notes that "certain events in this film are fictional." The "docudramas" seemed real enough that many people believed them. Millions of people watched those documentaries, and many still weren't sure what to believe at the end.

So they asked: are mermaids real

Vampires had gone through a similar bump in interest in the late '00s, presumably for Twilight-related reasons. Vampire curiosity waned, though, back to pre-bump levels. (Google searchers are now more curious about aliens than either vampires or ghosts; unicorns are never quite as popular.)

Interest in mermaids, by contrast, has stayed elevated:

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The relative interest in "are mermaids real" (blue) to "are vampires real" (red). (Image: Google Trends)

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Curiosity about real aliens (red) has overtaken queries about vampires (blue) and ghosts (yellow). (Image: Google Trends)

Part of what's driving the continued interest in real mermaids may be the long tail of mermaid content. Video aggregators on YouTube are still making videos of found mermaid footage and posting it.

These videos all draw from the same set of mermaid footage. There's the fuzzy blue man on the faraway rock who waves regally. There's the even fuzzier footage of something finned jumping from the water. There's the beautiful, hauntingly humanoid mermaid created for Pirates of the Caribbean, and the nasty, desiccated brown corpse of a mermaid lying face down on the beach—a taxidermied wonder created by a Florida artist.

One of the most popular bits of mermaid content to reuse is the eerie footage from the Animal Planet show, in which the silhouette of a mermaid swims past the camera. Some of these videos have millions of views; there's an incredible reaction video to the mermaid footage that's been hugely successful in its own right.

The channels who make these videos are well versed in the art of virality. Some focus on the paranormal, but others post compilations of anything that will reliably attract viewers. Whenever anyone searches "are mermaids real," the channels are there waiting; they'll also pop up in a YouTube rotation of idle exploration, so that person who had no interest in mermaids can be drawn into the same loop of alluring and confusing footage.

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One of Juan Cabana's taxidermy mermaids—a popular image in viral mermaid videos. (Photo: Juan Cabana)

But can the continued strength of the search term "are mermaids real" be attributed just to canny SEO positioning? Some of mermaid queries are more realistic than others. If—and no judgment here!—you are on the hunt for a sexy mermaid experience, searches like "real life mermaid" can lead you to websites and videos featuring women portraying mermaids. They wear tails and swim in water. They're flirty. 

But it's clear that attractive human women wearing fake tails are not what all of the mermaid curious are after. They are wondering if, one day, they could be swimming out in the ocean and encounter a dewy half-human, half-fish.

There is a magic about mermaids that makes it tempting to believe they might be out there. There's the fantasy of being seduced by a fish creature. There's the very real possibility of undiscovered ocean creatures—in the vast and mostly unexplored oceans, strange creatures turn up all the time. It seems, too, that of all fantastical creatures, mermaids are the most fun to identify with. Vampires might be sexy, but there are some real inconveniences and responsibilities that come with being undead. It's even more inconvenient and boring to be a ghost.

To be a mermaid, though—life under the sea seems like it could be pleasant, exciting, and free of care. That's been the allure of mermaids for millennia: the sirens that Odysseus heard sing tempted him to give up his earthly cares and responsibilities to be with them.

Plus, they could be hot.

The Best Sport Of The Early 1900s Involved Pushing Around An Elephant-Sized Ball

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A freshmen vs. sophomores pushball game, at Miami University in 1910. (Photo: Miami University Libraries/Public Domain)

Imagine you're touring the shed of an early 20th-century sportsman. It's mostly standard stuff—tennis raquets and lacrosse sticks hang from hooks above the doorframe, and baseball bats lean against the walls. But over there, in the corner, something towers over the other equipment. It's a hulking sphere, the size of a small elephant.

It looks like the boulder that chased Indiana Jones.

But this isn't a weapon for squashing bad referees. It's a pushball—the centerpiece of what might be the goofiest forgotten sport in American history. For decades starting in the 1890s, everyone from stockbrokers to college students had thrown themselves at a pushball, struggling mightily with his team to push it over their opponent's goal line.

Pushball was the brainchild of a suburban Massachusetts man named Moses Crane. Crane made his living as an electrical engineer, selling telegraphs and burglar alarms from his Boston storefront. But much of his spare time was spent watching his three strapping Harvard sons play football, a sport he vehemently disliked. He was not the only one who felt this way: "The observer [of football] sees only a mass of struggling bodies piled up in a heap, disentangling themselves at intervals merely to repeat the unavailing onslaught," wrote reporter C. H. Allison in a 1903 article celebrating pushball. "To the average person without a college education or a predilection for sports it is incomprehensible, dull, cruel." 

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Miami University shows off its pushball. (Photo: Miami University Libraries/Public Domain)

Crane's fix was simple: make the ball big enough that spectators could definitely, absolutely see it no matter what. After several years of offering this unsolicited advice, his hometown sporting club, the Newton Athletic Association, assured Crane that if he built such a ball, they'd find something to do with it. So in the fall of 1894, Crane constructed the first-ever pushball, out of rubber and leather and on his own dime (for $175, about $4,800 in today's money). Six feet in diameter and weighing in at about 70 pounds, it was certainly unmissable.

Some Newton lads tested the massive ball out in a scrimmage just after Thanksgiving, pushing it around a field for hours and attracting a rather large audience. Local devotees worked out the rules over the course of the next year, and the sport's official debut came in October of 1885, during the halftime of a Harvard-Brown football match.

"The object of the game is simply to push the ball," explained a somewhat bemused New York Times sports reporter. "The game appeared very much a game for strong, active men, but was very amusing to the spectators." A job well done.

Crane, who died in 1898, didn't get to spectate many pushball games, and lacking his guidance, those who tried to introduce the sport outside of Boston ran into some logistical issues. One New York park manager, stuck without a pushball before a planned exhibition game, resorted to making one himself out of hay and shoe leather, and left it out on the playing field over a rainy night. When he let the players loose on it in the morning, the soggy boulder weighed, according to one chronicler, "closer to five hundred pounds." The spectators enjoyed that game, too, but for different reasons.

Despite this and other setbacks, though, the sport eventually got rolling. In January of 1903, Spalding's Athletic Library, a popular series of sports manuals, released a pushball edition, complete with illustrations, a brief history, and an official set of rules. Teams were to be made up of five forwards, two left wings, two right wings, and two goalies. The pitch was set at 120 by 50 yards, the same as a football field, with an H-shaped goal on each side.

Players scored points by getting the ball past the opposing side's goal line—eight for hefting it over the crossbar, five for rolling it through the posts, and two for muscling it over the line at all, goal notwithstanding. And everything was done with a regulation-sized pushball, weighing between 48 and 50 pounds and produced (of course) by Spalding.

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A player messes around at Washington & Jefferson's annual pushball game in 1957. (Photo: Washington & Jefferson College/Public Domain)

Plenty of people have ideas about how to make sports better, and these days, few go so far as to implement them. But as sports historian John Thorn explains, things were different way back then. "The dawn of pushball [was] part of a 'rage for sport' that hit a prosperous America in the 1880s and spawned novelty contests galore," says Thorn. Baseball was played on roller skates or ice skates, and goofy match-ups pitted every imaginable demographic against each other:one-armed vs. one-legged men, one department store's employees vs. another's, size-based "Jumbos vs. Shadows" matches.

Pushball had the advantage of being silly on its own. "It is an utterly ridiculous sport," says Thorn. "It was jocular from the get-go." Roll the behemoth game ball onto a field or into a room, and some kind of fun was inevitable. It was a favorite on various college campuses, where entire classes would rush the ball from either side. Starting in 1906, it was a huge part of the New York Giants' preseason training regimen, replacing "the old-fashioned system of running and walking." Wall Street brokers would break out a pushball as soon as the floors closed for Christmas. According to the New York Times, they labeled the ball "Amalgamated Copper," and "pushed [it] up and down the floor much as the stock itself moves."

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Horse pushball at the 1920 Fort Meyer Horse Show. (Photo: Library of Congress/LC-DIG-npcc-02112)

Within a few decades of its invention, pushball was established enough that it, too, got the spinoff treatment. In the early 1900s, people started playing it on horses. "The ball is propelled by the horses knees, and an expert rider often makes his animal punt it the whole length of the field," explains a description of a 1904 match, adding that this game was played "to the perturbation of several cows." According to Thorn, by the 1920s, daredevils were attempting "auto pushball," in which two teams of three cars went after the ball ("in it one gets many a thrill," promised a newspaper ad). Meanwhile, says Thorn, the original sport was repurposed as a training exercise for soldiers who had been blinded in World War I, gaining it a bit of respectability.

But all good things must come to an end. By the middle of the 20th century, pushball had lost some of its momentum, replaced either by slightly more serious sports or even goofier ones. These days, you'd be hard pressed to find a pushball devotee, let alone a pushball. When asked to theorize on why the sport died out, Thorn mentions Sisyphus: "I think the existential pointlessness of the game had to dawn upon its participants," he says. "You push this thing around, and then the time for your game is finished."

You could argue, though, that it's still better than football.

Found: A Centuries-Old Network of Hidden Underground Tunnels

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Stockton-on-Tees seems like your basic British market town with a history dating back to the 12th century. You've got your lovely rowhouses, your pleasant parks, and your 18th century ship replica. It's very charming!

Naturally, there's a network of mysterious underground tunnels beneath the city, reports the Teesside Gazette.

A Georgian townhouse in the center of town was slated for renovations, and in the process, the owner discovered a series of crumbling rooms and tunnels underneath the house.

The most striking part of the rooms is the details: there are cut-outs in the wall to hold candles, doorways still framed with aging wood, and windows with intact glass panes.

The tunnels, though, are more mysterious: tight and filled with rubble, it's not clear where they lead.

It looks like there once would have been street access to this underground network, and Jeff Highfield, the building's owner, has a few ideas about what the rooms and tunnels might have been used for. There's a larder, and perhaps servants lived in these basement rooms.

Another possibility: these rooms were used to store cows. The cattle market was right across the street, and it would have been a convenient place to store animals. The tunnels could have been "cow tunnels," used as passageways for cows so that they wouldn't create traffic above.

These tunnels are just one part of a wider network, locals says. "We all know or have heard stories about the underground tunnel system beneath the High Street," one commented on Facebook. One is supposed to pass through a local park and once might have connected to the river. The stories about those tunnels propose much more exciting users than cows, though—smugglers, Vikings, and Romans. When your town has been around for almost a millennium, you never know who was digging secret tunnels underneath it.


An Australian State Has Banned Mooning

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A stone moon. (Photo: Quinn Dombrowski/CC BY-SA 2.0)

No more butts in Victoria. Thanks to strict new legislation in the Australian state, mooning and streaking have been officially and specifically outlawed, according to NT News.

The anti-butt laws were included in a more wide-ranging clause that was added to the  Summary Offences Act 1966, which amended around 50 sexual conduct laws. The more specific language was added to single out acts of sexual exposure such as mooning and streaking that might occur in a wide public forum (like, say, a cricket match), from a more serious targeted offense such as exposing oneself to a minor. Technically, pulling out one’s butt (or other genitals) in public has always been against the law, only now the language is simply more specific.

The clause also improves language to better deal with modern modes of sending butts such as Skype and Snapchat, but it’s not just the language of the laws that have been changed, the punishment has also been clarified, calling for fines and eventual jail time for repeat offenders.

Interestingly, the clause also goes out of it’s way to outlaw “an obscene song or ballad.” Although, how this could ever be applied given the sexually explicit nature of a great deal of modern music is unclear. One thing is clear however: Victoria has had it with all of these butts.

The Hidden Meaning of Political Bumper Stickers

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Bumper stickers on sale at an anti-war protest. (Photo: Patricia Marroquin/shutterstock.com)

Whether it’s “Yes She Can” or “Hillary for Prison,” it’s hard to take a drive anywhere in the United States without coming up on at least a few different political bumper stickers. Some are official campaign gear, others are custom designed, some are picked up at rallies and protests, but they all serve the same purpose: to let whoever chances upon your bumper to know where you stand politically.

The bumper sticker’s invention is largely credited to Forest P. Gill, a silkscreen printer from Kansas. Gill invented a sticker designed specifically to stay attached to a car’s bumper in the late 1940s, and it didn’t take long for the bumper sticker to become wildly popular. By the 1950s, all types of bumper stickers could be seen affixed to cars across the United States.

The first political bumper stickers were printed en masse in 1956, when Dwight Eisenhower battled Adlai Stevenson for presidential reelection (“I like Ike” was an immensely popular slogan on bumper stickers and campaign buttons for both Eisenhower elections). These days, political bumper stickers run the full gamut of slogans, from a simple “Hope,” indicating support for President Obama, to a feisty “You are NOT entitled to what I have earned", to mark a voter's opposition to taxpayer-funded welfare disbursements.

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A bumper sticker showing support for Clinton and Kaine. (Photo: Gage Skidmore/CC BY-SA 2.0)

Indeed, bumper stickers can express the full range of Americans' political sentiments in a very limited amount of space. They are also more popular here than in any other country.

Political bumper stickers are a surface-level and necessarily simplistic form of communication (they leave only a few square inches to work with), and while they may seem like aesthetic clutter on the back of a car, there’s a lot more going on, both psychologically and ideologically, with political bumper stickers than mere campaign slogans.

Jack Bowen, author of If You Can Read This: The Philosophy of Bumper Stickers, says that bumper stickers are a simple way for people to literally take their voices to the streets without actually speaking. Bowen spoke with Atlas Obscura to reveal the role political bumper stickers play in political culture, and why we love them.

What sort of person is inclined to use political bumper stickers?

People who are impassioned tend to share that passion on their bumpers. People who are really committed to their political cause want to get that cause out there and heard. Bumper stickers are a good way to do that.

Additionally, political party affiliation and approval—or, in many cases, disapproval—of candidates puts one in a group, and gives a sense of belonging. So there’s this sense of being “in” with bumper stickers. Good campaigns, just like good advertising, sell an image. People loved Obama’s “Change” campaign and wanted to jump on board: it was fun to be “in.”

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A humorous political sticker. (Photo: Mike Renlund/CC BY 2.0

What’s the appeal of using cars as vehicles of political expression?

We all know the guidelines about avoiding any discussion of ethics, politics, or religion at dinner parties. But the car is a perfect place to have this “discussion” and to voice your position. You can say, “We Need Change,” or, “Keep Your Change” and not have to engage in what often turns out to be a fruitless and hotly contested argument.

This all taps into the way we think through our moral and political intuitions. Recent psychology and neuroscience have shown we go through this process in a way we’re not wholly conscious of. We first intuit a conclusion—i.e. immigration is bad, or a certain method of taxation is unfair—and only then, in some post hoc manner, fill in reasons for that emotionally-based conclusion. Bumper sticker slogans do a good job of being emotional conduits.

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A more general political bumper sticker. (Photo: Robert F. W. Whitlock/CC BY 2.0)

How do political bumper stickers contribute to our political discourse?

The ability to make a rich statement in a few words, is, at the very least, a starting point. Such as with “Deport Trump.” With this sticker, in two words you’ve said “I’m not voting for Trump,” and “I have a concern with how Trump is talking about immigrants.” You’ve actually said paragraphs and paragraphs, and now we can come back and have a conversation.

The bad news is, for very few people is this a starting point from which they’re then going to delve into the crux of the matter and look at logic and data. A lot of times, the sticker is the end of the conversation.

Political bumper stickers make bold statements, but from within the shelter of a car. What do you make of the loud but anonymous communication achieved through bumper stickers?

When people are in their cars, they behave in a way that they never would if a pane of glass and piece of metal weren’t there keeping them a foot away from the person sitting next to them. I kind of like that. It’s a chance for someone who is more introverted who isn’t engaging in public discourse to say what they think and why they think it.

The problem is, again, that it doesn’t allow for real discourse. It’s like shouting at someone, then putting headphones on and walking away. It’s not a conversation. 

article-imageKennedy's bumper sticker from his campaign. (Photo: John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum/Public Domain

It's been argued recently that political bumper stickers are going out of style. Are bumper stickers waning in popularity or do you think they'll remain with us as long as we have elections and cars?

People now have so many other venues to voice similar ideas. With social media, the tweet has taken over for people’s itch once scratched by the bumper sticker. Now you can just “yell” something out at those following you in 140 characters and you don’t really need to defend it. Given that users tend to be connected with like-minded people, their emotional tanks get filled rather neatly by likes and shares. Aside from the occasional honk-plus-the-finger or thumbs-up, you don’t get that kind of feedback with bumper stickers.

Additionally, cars just aren't being made with bumpers any more as the car frame just extends down more than it used to, so there's no bumpers for stickers on cars now.

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A bumper sticker from Gerald R. Ford's 1976 campaign. (Photo: Gerald R. Ford Presidential Museum/Public Domain)

There are people who plaster tens of political stickers on their bumpers. What do you think is going on there?

All 150 claims they’re making on their car, they’re not expecting for you to digest what they think about abortion and taxation and euthanasia. They’re framing an ideology from an emotional position. I don’t have bumper stickers on my car, but I get how someone can get to the point that they’re so impassioned, that these messages are sort of what they’re screaming out to the world, even though they know that nobody is reading every sticker.

It’s hard for me to imagine they’re hoping to enact some kind of change or discourse; it’s like a person who wears a vibrant tie-dye shirt instead of a crisp white button-down shirt. 

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Mitt Romey campaign stickers from 2012. (Photo: Daniel Oines/CC BY 2.0)

What do you make of drivers who leave political bumper stickers on their car well after they’re relevant? I still see “Kerry for President” stickers out there…

There’s a kind of nostalgia that goes with these stickers. Like, “Those were the days!” when Reagan or Jimmy Carter was running for president. When you put a Jimmy Carter sticker on your car and leave it there for 20 years, you’re saying something about who you were, but also about who you are now. You still stand for whatever values you and society associates with Jimmy Carter.

What makes a great political bumper sticker?

Good stickers require a little background knowledge and also some connection to previous memes, but also get the point across in very few words. Some of stickers that do this the best for this election season are: Hillary For Prison 2016; Liar, Liar! Pantsuit On Fire; Deport Trump; Trump: Making America Hate Again; Yes She Can; and Obama, You’re Fired!  

Why Linguists are Fascinated by the American Jewish Accent

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Between 1880 and World War I, a wave of Eastern European Jewish immigrants crashed on America’s shores. They spoke Yiddish, and then English, with a special tone, a kind of sing-songy incantation. About a decade after they landed, linguists began paying attention. “People start noticing, huh, they speak English kinda funny,” says Rachel Steindel Burdin, a linguist at the University of New Hampshire who studies Jewish English.

The study of melody, pitch, pause and intonation is called "prosody" and it's now a hot, if still esoteric, topic among the language set. But the Jewish prosody stylings would be familiar for anyone who's heard some of the 20th century's most famous comedians—Jerry Seinfeld, Woody Allen, Don Rickles and others have exploited its rich texture. Perhaps the greatest example is Mel Books, here as Yogurt in his 1987 movie Spaceballs, at 0:58:

There’s so much going on in just that tiny sentence, “You heard of me?” There’s a distinct New York City accent, if an outdated one, turning “heard” into “hoid.” (This feature, known as the coil-curl merger, is really only heard in New Yorkers born before World War II.) Beyond that, he doesn’t intone this query as a question in any typical American English; the pitch and emphasis of the question doesn’t resemble how a non-Jew would ask it. Brooks’s pitch shoots upward at the word “heard,” back down in “of,” and then slightly up again at “me.”

But is really a religious or ethnic thing? Can we call it a "Jewish accent" rather than, say, a "New York accent"?

Scholars say, yes, there is an American Jewish accent, but it's complicated. “Intonation has kind of been the red-headed stepchild of linguistics, where for a lot of time there was debate about whether or not it's really part of the linguistic system, or whether it was something else overriding it, essentially,” says Burdin. It’s only been about 15 years since linguists—just a few of them, really—have begun systematically attempting to study the rhythm, timbre, intonations, stresses, and pauses of speech, and the study is still in its infancy. It is particularly murky territory in English, where melody is not as important as it is in other languages. But there are some groups whose speech, long having been described as sing-songy, is suddenly of interest to researchers breaking new ground in the study of prosody. Appalachian English is one of those. And Jewish English is another.


The first problem in talking about Jewish English is its definition. Jews, having been scattered around the globe for a few thousand years, constructed various cultures and languages, and so a random assortment of Jews in America does not guarantee that they’ll sound anything alike when speaking English. A Sephardic Jew from the Mediterranean, an Ashkenazic Jew whose ancestors emigrated from Poland in the early 20th century, and an Israeli will have few speech patterns in common. They may not even have their base language in common; one may have been born speaking Ladino (a sort of Spanish-Hebrew mashup), one speaking Yiddish, and one speaking Hebrew.

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Celebrating Rosh Hashanah, Jewish New Year, on the Lower East Side, c. 1905. (Photo: Library of Congress/LC-USZ62-104973)

But one particular group of Jews has become, in the popular imagination, the representatives of all American Jewdom. When the largest waves of Jews came to the U.S. between roughly 1880 and 1920, the vast majority were Ashkenazic Jews (read: Eastern European) fleeing the pogroms in what is now Russia, Poland, Lithuania, and Ukraine. These disproportionately settled in New York City; even today, there’s an estimated 2.1 million Jews in the New York City metro area, three and a half times more than the next largest American population (Los Angeles). New York City in fact is home to more Jews than any city in the world besides Tel Aviv. 

The primary language spoken by these New York City Ashkenazic Jews was Yiddish, a Germanic-ish language with heavy influence from Hebrew, Aramaic, and various Slavic languages. Concurrently as these Jews learned to speak English, they also began making huge cultural inroads in the United States. Starting in the 1930s, Jewish comedians like Henry Youngman (“Take my wife...please”), Zero Mostel, Jerry Lewis, Mel Blanc, and Sid Caesar became huge stars, grouped in as “Borscht Belt” comedians working the resort circuit in upstate New York.

These Jews, as well as those that followed—Mel Brooks, Woody Allen, Rodney Dangerfield, George Burns, Don Rickles—had a major role in defining for the country and the world how American Jews spoke. These are, it’s important to note, almost all American-born men, whose first language was English. But the pull of Yiddish, which their parents and communities spoke, and New York City, where they grew up, colored their speech patterns in very distinctive ways. 

“I think New York plays an outsized role in the way that Jews around North America speak,” says Sarah Bunin Benor, a linguist at Hebrew Union College in Los Angeles who studies American Jewish speech. Many of the accent quirks associated with Jewish English are simply a collection of features from the grab-bag of New York City’s English. For example, an “o” before an “r”, as in “horrible” or “Florida” (two words Jews use quite often), is made with the tongue more raised in the mouth than most Americans will make it. So you get “hahrrible” and “Flahrida.”

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A photograph by Berenice Abbott of a snuff shop in the Lower East Side, with lettering in Hebrew. (Photo: New York Public Library/Public Domain)

This behavior transcends regional accents. Benor conducted a study that found that even among those Jews who are not from New York and whose parents are not from New York, Jews are more than twice as likely as non-Jews to use the “Flahrida” pronunciation. It doesn’t stop there: These non-New York Jews will also say “on line” instead of “in line,” and will distinguish between the pronunciation of “Mary” and “merry,” more often than non-Jewish non-New Yorkers. Jews, no matter where they're from, often sound a little bit New York. It’s not a given—but it’s still a weird, striking thing.

Of course, this could just be another way of saying that Jewish speech patterns heavily influenced the New York accent. But there’s more to how Jews talk than these pronunciations. 

Jews are, predictably, much more likely to use Yiddish or Hebrew words in their everyday speech than non-Jews, though there are plenty of those words which have simply made their way out of the community and into standard English. Klutz, schpiel, maven, and especially food words (bagel, pastrami, challah) are fairly likely to find their way into the speech of a non-Jew, though not at the same frequency or in the same variety as they might in the speech of a Jew. Some are even weirder than a simple loanword from Yiddish or Hebrew: think of adding “sch” to the beginnings of words, as in “money schmoney.” Another strange one: “enough already,” which is such a common American English phrase I don’t think I’d ever realized how bizarrely it's constructed. Turns out it’s a direct translation from a common Yiddish phrase, genug shoyn.


The other major American Jewish English accent comes from the more observant communities of Jews, the Orthodox and the Hasidim. This is sometimes known as “Yeshivish,” coming from the word “yeshiva,” generally referring to the schools for the organized study of Jewish holy texts. Yeshivish, like the more secular Jewish English of Mel Brooks and Woody Allen, has some ties to New York City, but is much more heavily influenced by Yiddish. Many of its most distinctive elements are actually exceedingly, almost unimaginatively direct translations of Yiddish phrases and intonations.

The easiest of these to explain are the direct, word for word translations of Yiddish phrases or constructions. In most varieties of American English, a preposition can’t be placed in front of the subject; think of a simple phrase like “I want pizza.” But in Yiddish, that order is swapped: “Pizza I want.” Yeshivish retains this sort of Yoda-like speech patterns fairly often.

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Larry David. (Photo: s_bukley/shutterstock.com)

Another easy one would be the phrase “I want that you should.” The last part of that, “that you should,” is not part of typical American English, but is a direct translation of the way you’d express a particular thought in Yiddish. Instead of saying “I want you to bring the blanket,” or even a more common and probably more polite “Can you bring the blanket,” speakers with a Yeshivish accent would say “I want that you should bring the blanket.” (For what it’s worth, the Yiddish for “that you should” is az du zolst.)

Yeshivish speakers also use what Burdin calls a "hesitation click," a non-word “tsk" type sound to indicate in the middle of the sentence that you're revising what came before. It comes from Israeli Hebrew, which includes other non-word clicks as well—very unlike English. 

But where Yeshivish really starts to get distinctive is in our old friend, the hard-to-explain intonation. Burdin’s research showed that Jews use a broader range of pitches in their English speech than non-Jews, on the whole: think of that Mel Brooks “You heard of me,” with its low-high-low-high pitches. This is kind of hard to explain in text, so let’s go to the video (1:10 into this one):

Hear the way he raises and lowers his pitch so frequently? That’s the kind of thing Burdin is trying to measure. Yeshivish English is insanely variable in its sing-songiness; up-down-up-down-up-down, much more so than in other forms of English. But for Yeshivish, the sing-song nature of speech can actually approach chanting. Benor thinks this comes from the study of Talmud, in which there is no written punctuation. “Instead people studying it will use their pitch to indicate commas and periods, essentially. And that gets transferred to everyday speech, which becomes just slightly chanty,” she says.

We indicate clauses in English with pitch as well; think about a phrase like “If you go to the mall, then you can’t come to the movies.” The word “mall” would be raised slightly, followed by a pause, and then the word “then” would be significantly lower in pitch. But in Yeshivish it’s much more elaborate; even the word “If” might come with a chanty sort of element, going high-low just within that word. And the specific melody of the break in the two clauses will be more complex; “mall” might go high-low instead of just high.


There are elements, though much more muted, of that same high-low sing-song sort of intonation in secular Jewish English, the English of Mel Brooks. One of those is the phrasing of a question as almost an interrogation. “You heard of me?” isn’t a normal question; the raising of “heard” and the lowered “me” makes it sound very Jewish, but it also changes the meaning. The real meaning of that question isn’t, “Oh, do you already know who I am?” but instead, “I expect that you have already heard of me, and I’m maybe a little annoyed that you’re even asking, and also of course this is me.” Another example is this clip from Curb Your Enthusiasm of Larry David trying to sound more Jewish than he is:

“Skiing, you said skiing?!” he exclaims. This isn’t asking for clarification, it’s voicing astonishment. The particular intonation of the way he transforms a sentence into a melodic outburst—that’s very Jewish.

But of course the mere fact that Larry David is putting on this accent rather than simply using it naturally begs the question: is the Jewish accent even still around? Both Benor and Burdin note that the most common times you’ll hear a secular Jewish accent, a Mel Brooks accent, is in exactly this kind of situation, when someone, hopefully and usually a Jew, puts it on as a sort of self-referential costume. You can even hear it on Broadway, the most performative of all performances, in shows like the new Oh, Hello. That sing-songiness, the frequent use of Yiddish, and certainly the Yiddish sentence constructions, those have largely been phased out of any Jew born after 1950.

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Don Rickles. (Photo: s_bukley/shutterstock.com)

But that’s not to say that Jews don’t sound Jewish anymore. There’s the peculiar persistence of New Yorkiness, for one thing, but also, Benor found that usage of some Hebrew words, like shul (meaning synagogue), are actually higher among Jews now than they were 20 years ago. (It’s possible that this can be traced to the successful Birthright program, in which young Jews are given free guided trips to Israel.) And the Yeshivish accent is actually becoming stronger than before, as those communities remain close-knit. “Even if the accent is dying out,” says Burdin, “I think the performance of the accent is still alive and well.” 

Another element that isn't dying is the particular conversational style of Jews. When linguist Deborah Tannen taped dinner conversations between Jews and non-Jews in 2000, she found that arguing and interrupting (or “cooperative overlapping”) occurred at higher rates among Jews. Pauses were also different: Jews tended to use both shorter pauses and fewer pauses between clauses and sentences. Like intonation, this isn't really "accent," in a strict linguistic sense, but as a broad answer to “how do Jews speak differently from non-Jews," it’s a significant element.

The Jewish accent isn’t like other accents, the same way that Jewish Americans aren't like other ethnic minorities. It's messy and confusing and pulls elements from all over the world. But it’s pretty great for telling jokes.

How Beige Took Over American Homes

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When I was in middle school, my parents renovated our family home. The house, an unpretentious 1,844 square-foot one-story traditional—a rather minimal house with a front facing garage, one cross-gable, and a miniature porch—was originally built in 1996, and the fads of the ‘90s were not aging well.

The 2006 renovation was technically the second one. Old photographs show a home that was entirely white, with the exception of the wallpaper in the kitchen and hall bathroom. In the first few years my family lived in the house, it shed its sterile white skin in favor of salmon pink—the color that genuinely reflected on the places my Texas-loving parents had lived before—their personal history, if you will. The walls were festooned with pictures of chili peppers, the sofa awash in geometric shapes in navy and red. Overall, you could call the style “southwestern”.

Although these details are tacky by today’s standards, there was a vibrancy in every room, which made the house seem alive. People lived there—people with their own lives, pasts, and tastes, each reflected in some way on and between the walls of their home.

In 2006, everything was painted beige.

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Beige, or beige? (Photo: severija/shutterstock.com)

The living room furniture was sent off to be reupholstered—beige with red flowers, beige with red plaid. My parents sold the great leather armchair and the coffee table. The wallpaper in the kitchen disappeared, swallowed up by the beige. The countertops became granite; the linoleum floor became stone tile; the screen porch became my dad’s beige office, and the wallpaper borders became crown molding. The white carpet transformed into light-colored wood. The painting of the cowboys over the fireplace became the flat-screened TV.

But why beige? Why was interior design in the 2000s so mind-numbingly mundane? Who or what is responsible for this nationwide obsession with dull neutrality? With its coordinating furniture sets, “Tuscan” flair, and an overall preoccupation with cheap icons of luxury on a beige background, interior design in the 2000s is an interesting period to study simply because there was absolutely nothing interesting about it at all.


The culprits are different, but related: the economics of the mortgage crisis and the rise of home-improvement network TV and how they changed the American perception and concept of home over the last 36 years.

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Charting the history of home improvement TV. (Photo: Courtesy Kate Riley)

A combination of deregulatory economics, a heavily commercialized and materialistic culture, and the public thirst for excess post-‘70s energy crisis made the ‘80s a perfect time for conspicuous consumption. During this decade, a heavy emphasis was placed on luxury and the display of personal wealth, which, of course, was reflected in our houses. Mixing this shiny new materialistic culture with the economic reforms of the 1990s created a perfect storm for a housing bubble to form in the early 2000s.

In the 1990s, the Clinton Administration pushed for huge mortgage reforms in order to stimulate growth in the home-building sector and provide more housing for lower-income Americans. Combine these with tax relief acts, the repeal of Glass-Steagall (the barrier between investment and commercial banks), and the relaxation of oversight on exotic financial commodities, and you get a bunch of people pushing loans on a bunch of other people to buy houses.

We all know this story. But how does it relate to beige?

The point is a bunch of people were buying and selling houses. In order to keep up with the Joneses,  grew dramatically during the period between 1973 and 2009. Conveniently, at this time, new media swooped in and put everyday American houses on TV.


When HGTV debuted in 1994, it was mostly devoted to home improvement and simple crafts. But then came the overnight sensation of House Hunters in 1999. Although HGTV was not the first home improvement or interior design network, it was the first to make realty into a reality show. The national home-buying and home-selling fervor had finally hit the big screen. Capitalizing on the drama of making a huge financial decision, HGTV focused most of its attention on the theme of buying or selling a house, with shows such as Designed to Sell, House Hunters, Love It or List It, Flip or Flop, Property Virgins, and Buy Me becoming huge hits.

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From hgtv.com, "Old World Style". (Photo: Courtesy Kate Riley)

These shows were focused on renovating or redecorating houses in order to make them more appealing to potential buyers. Most of these programs (and other interior design programs on the network) featured sidebars where performing certain home improvement acts such as adding crown molding, a double sink, wood floors, and yes, neutral paint colors would add hundreds and thousands of dollars to a home’s equity. (How these calculations came to exist is beyond me.) Building an addition, updating appliances or HVAC systems, and performing repairs on a home’s roof, insulation, or other structural properties does in fact add a great deal of value to a home’s equity. Replacing the linoleum floor with slate, painting the house beige, and adding crown molding is arguably negligible in what determines a house’s true value when it comes time to refinance—but these became standard “improvements.”

Yet, constantly, HGTV threw around dollar signs at every corner on their interior design shows, and the American public ate this up. Interior design on HGTV had a dollar number attached to it, and people believed it even if they had no intention whatsoever to sell their home. The message was clear: decorating your home this way will make it more valuable. This accounted for why neutrality and HGTV dominated design at the consumer level from 1999-2009, and, in some form, even today.

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From HGTV's 2005 "Dream Home". (Photo: Courtesy HGTV.com)

People, even those not selling their houses, painted their houses beige by the boatload, invested in icons of home luxury (granite countertops, stone and wood floors, sybaritic bathrooms, and European-themed furniture and décor), and made their houses virtually identical. Why? Because the TV said we were making money on our houses by doing these things.


So the beige-faux-European-complex prevailed supreme above other forms of interior design of the time, such as those practiced by publications like Architectural Digest or House Beautiful. Never were the names of architects or famous designers mentioned on HGTV. Our houses lost their personal worth and touches; they were worth to us only as much as they were worth to others. Our houses were painted beige because beige enabled the prospective buyers we (even unintentionally) were designing for to picture their own lives in our houses. Beige is a blank slate – a canvas upon which anyone’s personality can be painted over. The irony is that beige became the painting itself, because of the media-driven trend towards overwhelming interior neutrality, spurred by the idea that it added concrete value to our asset-houses.

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Lists of available mortgages in February 2005. (Photo: Kate Riley)

Beigeification was part of a larger shift that happened during the early 2000s. After centuries of the home being primarily a place or a space, during the 2000s it was seen as primarily an object or, more specifically, an asset. At a time where mortgage speculation made our houses disposable and impermanent, beige slipped happily onto the walls of millions of Americans, who wanted easy ways to make their house “worth more” at the behest of HGTV and other media, who treated the home as a thing to be changed, or disposed of on a whim. Beige was not a harbinger of the clinical, minimal design that is so popular now; it was the harbinger of a bubble. When houses stopped selling, our design aesthetics immediately changed, streamlined by a tight wallet.

The age of IKEA was upon us.

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From HGTV's 2006 "Dream Home". (Photo: Courtesy HGTV.com)

If the economic crash had any silver lining, it might be that beige became to lose its appeal after 2008. It’s cheaper post-recession to buy one piece of furniture than a set, and as the 2000s purchases began to fall apart, people began to realize that it was smarter in the long run to invest in fine quality merchandise. The mixture of architect-designed furniture with other novelty pieces, the revival of the accent wall and the belief that the home is truly a reflection of one’s personality were the views of a generation that had suffered through a lot of beige.

And what life lesson did beigeification teach us, if anything?

As my parents found out during their 2010 refinancing: Don’t believe everything you see on TV.

A Rare, Lonely, Amorous Musk Ox Is Stinking Up a Small Swedish Town

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A bull musk ox, possibly out looking for love. (Photo: Tim Bowman, US Fish and Wildlife Service/Public Domain)

Male musk oxen are easy to spot—they're huge and shaggy, with curved horns and lumbering gaits. Often, they're also easy to smell: During the summer mating season, they emit a very distinctive, very pungent scent (thus the "musk" part of "musk ox"). If all goes according to plan, this brings the females flying, and they have a grand old smelly time.

If all doesn't go according to plan, the hapless ox ends up walking aimlessly around and stinking up the joint. According to the Local, that's how things are shaking out with one particular guy, who has somehow ended up in Lillhärdal, Sweden—a small town that boasts about 335 humans and approximately zero female musk oxen.

"He is looking for ladies and there are none of those in Lillhärdal, so he's expected to move on," communications officer Claes Ahlström told a local radio station. Thus far, though, he really hasn't, instead wandering around, approaching interested residents, and cultivating a certain amount of local celebrity.

According to the Local, there are only about nine wild musk oxen in Sweden overall. Best of luck to this one, whose burgeoning fame and distinct odor have to count for something.

Every day, we track down a fleeting wonder—something amazing that's only happening right now. Have a tip for us? Tell us about it! Send your temporary miracles to cara@atlasobscura.com.

Hitler Probably Spent WWII High on Cocaine and Oxycodone

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(Photo: Bundesarchiv, Bild 183-H1216-0500-002/CC-BY-SA 3.0)

In 1940, as the German army prepared to invade France through the Ardennes, a region of hills, forests and other rough terrain, army commanders were facing a problem: fatigue. Soldiers simply couldn't fight the Allies and push through the mountains in one day, leaving them vulnerable there at night, when they had to rest. 

So Army commanders started distributing a solution: Pervitin, a Nazi-made pill version of crystal meth that soldiers were instructed to take once a day, twice at night, and more as needed. The Nazis' strategy worked, writes Norman Ohler in his new book, Blitzed, which details how integral illegal drugs were to the Nazi regime.  

"No drugs, no invasion," Ohler told the Guardian. "That enabled them to stay awake for three days and three nights. Rommel [who then led one of the panzer divisions] and all those tank commanders were high—and without the tanks, they certainly wouldn’t have won.”

Soldiers weren't the only ones getting high, according to Ohler. Adolf Hitler, himself, relied on daily injections of oxycodone (then called Eukodal) and cocaine as the war raged on, until, later, the Allies bombed the pharmaceutical plants that manufactured the drugs, cutting off Hitler's supply. 

Which led to an epic case of withdrawal.

“Everyone describes the bad health of Hitler in those final days [in the Führerbunker in Berlin] ... But there’s no clear explanation for it. It has been suggested that he was suffering from Parkinson’s disease. To me, though, it’s pretty clear that it was partly withdrawal.” Ohler told the Guardian. “Yeah, it must have been pretty awful. He’s losing a world war, and he’s coming off drugs.”

Which was about the least of what he deserved

How Did These Ancient Roman Coins End Up in Japan?

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An artist's depiction of ancient Roman coins. (Photo: Public domain)

Officials in Japan said Monday that they had found something unusual: a bunch of ancient Roman coins, from the time of the Caesars. 

The coins were discovered at the site of a castle in Okinawa, hundreds of miles southwest of the Japanese mainland (and about 6,000 miles from Rome), according to the Japan Times.

The coins appear to depict Constantine I, who ruled Rome from 324 to 337. Officials think the four coins likely made their way to Japan some time in the Middle Ages, when trade between the country and the West was reaching a high point.  

They were dug up at the site of Katsuren Castle, which thrived between the 12th and 15th centuries and is now a UNESCO World Heritage site. 

The coins, if you care to see them, will be soon be on display at Uruma City Yonagusuku Historical Museum in Okinawa. Transportation there, these days, is a little quicker than it used to be. 


Watch What Designers in the 1930s Thought We Would Wear in the 21st Century

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As the new millennium approached, people in the 19th and 20th centuries tried to predict what life would be like in the future. Amidst questions of how we would get around and what war would be like, there was one thing people wanted to know: How would their descendants dress? In the video above, produced by British Pathé (whose entire archive is worth perusing), designers in the 1930s tried to give them all the answers.

Apparently, the year 2000 would be the year when boring hair accessories like clips and bands would be replaced by much more interesting ones, like headlights. Say what you will, but no hair clip has ever illuminated your path. We would also take our obsession with fairy tales to the next level, with wedding dresses made out of glass. Cinderella may have only gotten the slipper, but we would get the entire ensemble.

Surprisingly, some of the predictions aren’t completely off. Zippered clothes that can easily be transformed have, unfortunately, made it into the mainstream. Likewise, the dramatic puff sleeves that the wedding dress shows off became popular in the 1980s. And while few of us have actually dared to walk with cantilever heels, the style has become a favorite in fashion shows and in Lady Gaga’s closet.

The video's most accurate prediction, though, is actually pretty prescient: many of us, now, are, indeed, a little too attached to our phones. 

Every day we track down a Video Wonder: an audiovisual offering that delights, inspires, and entertains. Have you encountered a video we should feature? Email ella@atlasobscura.com.

The First Encyclopedia by a Woman Contains The First Image of a Pretzel

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Can you find the very first pretzel? (Photo: Christian Maurice Engelhardt/Public Domain)

Newspaper obituaries around the globe are filled with firsts: first woman in space (Sally Ride), first person to circumnavigate the globe (Ferdinand Magellan), first printed bible (The Gutenberg Bible).

And then there's the painting believed to the world's first depiction of a pretzel. 

The Hortus Deliciarum is like a handbook of questionable firsts, standing as the first encyclopedia to be authored by a woman, as well as holding what may be the earliest depiction of a pretzel the world has ever seen. "They are in scenes that are meant to portray elaborate and luxurious banquets," says Danielle Joyner, author of the book, Painting the Hortus deliciarum: Medieval Women, Wisdom, and Time.

An illuminated encyclopedia that dates back to the 12th century, the tome, the title of which is Latin for “Garden of Delights,” covered a wide range of topics, from a retelling of the Biblical history of the world to the scientific interests of the day. Meant to serve as a primer for young nuns and abbesses entering the service of the Hohenburg Abbey, a convent perched atop an Alsatian peak, much of the knowledge and writing contained in the text was reprinted from preexisting religious and philosophical manuscripts.

However, the author/compiler of the Hortus Deliciarum, an abbess named Herrad of Landsberg, added much more to the text. Herrad joined the convent in her youth, coming from a wealthy royal family. Hohenburg Abbey was a well-funded and respected convent that had the blessing (both spiritual and financial) of the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick Barbarossa I, allowing the education of its nuns to flourish. Herrad likely received the best possible education a woman of her time could have received, learning about music, sciences, theology, and the arts.

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A vision of Hell from the Hortus Deliciarum. (Photo: GDK/Public Domain)

Herrad seems to have brought the full breadth of her education to bear when creating the Hortus Deliciarum. She began work on the volume after she became the abbess of the convent, and in addition to the writings from various classical and Arab sources that she included in the primer (presented in Latin or German, depending on the passage), she also added her own original poetry and songs. Some of the songs even included musical notation that showed evidence of polyphony (two or more melodies working in harmony) to have originated from a nunnery. Her songs and poems were usually of a religious nature, as she saw singing praises to god as her holy work.

The Hortus Deliciarum is probably best remembered by its vivid illustrations. The 300-plus images cover subjects ranging from historical vignettes to religious scenes including one particularly striking vision of a fiery hellscape. (Sorry, sinners.) While Herrad is thought to have directed the creation of the illustrations in the text, which were rich in telling detail, “The artists of the Hortus Deliciarum, likely the canonesses living at Hohenbourg in the late 12th century,” says Joyner, “gave a great deal of attention to details like luxurious clothing, the plow and a mill, and apparently the pretzel!”

It's that last bit which makes the Hortus Deliciarum even more remarkable. Not only was this the first encyclopedia compiled by a woman, a small detail amongst some banquet scenes may be history’s very first, or oldest existing, pictures of a pretzel! One of the most referenced instances shows up in a scene depicting the Feast of Esther from the Hebrew Bible. It was during this royal banquet that Queen Esther is said to have saved the Jewish people from King Ahasuerus’ shady advisor, Haman, an event that is still remembered today by the Jewish holiday, Purim. Joyner also says that pretzels may also show up in depictions of the banquet attended by Lazarus and the Rich Man, and a scene featuring King Solomon.

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A culinary first! (Photo: Dencey/Public Domain)

But why there would be pretzels in these scenes is anyone’s guess. “The other details of the banquet goodies and tools, such as the fish, the knives and spoons but lack of forks, are all representative of 12th century practices, so the pretzel may be as well,” says Joyner. She also notes that if the pastry was a new creation, it may have been seen as a treat for the wealthy, and may have acted as a quick symbol to show how rich the banquet was.

Then of course there is the possibility that it’s not that old at all. For centuries after its creation, the Hortus Deliciarum was preserved at Hohenburg Abbey, where Harrad had originally created it, but around the early 19th century, the manuscript was moved to the Library of Strasbourg. Unfortunately, during an 1870 siege, that was part of the Franco-Prussian War, the library was burned, and the original manuscript was destroyed, leaving us with only recreations of the original illuminations. The pretzel imagery could have been added during the reproduction process, but the text was extensively recorded, leaving behind a fairly complete picture of what was contained within. “It's generally thought that these reproductions stayed as true to the original as possible," says Joyner, "but it's one of those disclaimers that should be attached to any discussion of the images." History is twisted like that.

A Guide to the Real-Life Homes of the Heroes of Children's Literature

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On this map, you will find the real world locations where the heroes of books you might have read early in life lived out their adventures. On the Upper East Side of Manhattan, just a few blocks from Gracie Mansion, Harriet the Spy is forever taking notes about her neighbors and eating tomato sandwiches. In Portland, Ramona Quimby is tormenting her older sister. In Tulsa, Ponyboy Curtis is coming out of the theater, about to be attacked by a rival gang.

For a kid, made-up worlds can seem as real as actual places, and real-life cities can seem as fantastic as any fictional town. For Betsy and Tacy, in Maud Hart Lovelace's classic Betsy-Tacy series, Milwaukee was "no ordinary city. Milwaukee was their secret"—one day, in Betsy's dark buggy shed, the two tiny heroines pretend to ride out of town until they see Milwaukee's towers in the distance, as exotic as can be:

"That's right," said Tacy. "I see palm trees."
"The people will wear red and blue night gowns, like they do on the Sunday School cards, most likely," Betsy said.
"Maybe there will be camels," said Tacy.

But just like there is a real version of Milwaukee, there is a real version of that shed, Betsy's "small yellow cottage," and Tacy's "rambling white house," down the street—they are in Lovelace's hometown of Mankato, Minnesota. You can go there and see for yourself.

So many of the worlds that seem adventurous and magical when you read about them as a kid are based on real-world and very specific places. Even when the author is clear about where the story is set, many young readers don't have anything to hang that knowledge on—your sense of how to reach Narnia (through the closet, clearly) might be more obvious than how to reach Boston.

So perhaps it comes as a surprise that the Nolan family, in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn lived on Lorimer Street in Williamsburg. That the Island of the Blue Dolphins, from the eponymous 1960 novel, is actually one of the Channel Islands off the California coast. That Caddie Woodlawn, in her "big house on the prairie" and Laura, in her "Little House in the Big Woods," were practically neighbors in Wisconsin.

For this map, we have restricted ourselves to literary heroes who happened to live in North America—Maniac Magee, Anne of Green Gables, Holden Caulfield—but even though the original idea was to feature children's books, we included some more likely to be filed under "young adult." How could we resist revealing the location of V.C. Andrews' Flowers in the Attic or Bella Swan's hometown of Forks, Washington? We also focused on books that could be linked to a specific town, street, or even house.

But there are so many more stories that are set in specific but more loosely defined locations, or beyond the necessary boundaries of this project. The Yearling is in central Florida; the Murray's farmhouse in A Wrinkle in Time is somewhere in Connecticut. There could be a rich and thickly dotted map representing the British Isles: The Dark Is Rising, the Golden Compass, Winnie the Pooh, Ballet Shoes, Paddington Bear, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Harry Potter—all of those have settings inspired by real-world locations. A world map would show Heidi in the Alps, Pippi Longstocking in Sweden, the Swiss Family Robinson in the East Indies. 

Finding these connections, between the spaces of childhood fantasy and the cities and streets of adulthood, can make otherwise ordinary places seem special again. In one of the books that follows Betsy-Tacy, Betsy eventually makes it to Milwaukee, and though there are no palm trees or biblically dressed people, it still has a hold on her—it's never an ordinary city. The places on this map might have once seemed mythical; one of the great pleasures of growing up is being able to explore in real-life the world that you could only imagine as a kid.

Thanks to Lauren Young and Jack Goodman for the data mapping. 

Why Making a Better Umbrella Is Way Harder Than It Seems

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The inside of an umbrella. (Photo: Ralph Hockens/CC BY 2.0)

A version of this post originally appeared on Tedium, a twice-weekly newsletter that hunts for the end of the long tail.

Umbrellas are a good way to protect your head in case of inclement weather.

Problem is, they’re not a perfect way. And that is made obvious by the fact that you’re sometimes hit by at least a little of the wet stuff even after you use such a device. If it gets windy (or even if it doesn't), their structural integrity breaks down easily, exposing users to rain.

They can also be bulky, even unreasonably so. And they’re incredibly easy to forget and lose. For these reasons and others, this scenario is likely a common one: A person, frustrated by the device supposedly covering their head, thinks to themselves, “there has to be a better way,” runs to their garage, and starts working on a rethink of the device. Eventually, they form their idea, call up the big umbrella manufacturers, and go to the patent office, thinking their idea is unique. Turns out, they are far from alone.

Since 1790, the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office has had a mandate to help register the ownership of products to specific people and companies.

For nearly as long, people have been registering patents for umbrellas and all sorts of other things of varying complexity.

And it has its own designation from USPTO. According to the government office, an umbrella is generally considered "subject matter comprising an easily-portable canopy type having a cover, a stick, and a framework comprising stick-supported ribs and stretchers for supporting or shaping the cover."

That fairly broad canvas of a design (along with the "subcombinations and appurtenances peculiar to umbrellas" covered by patent law) has been used and abused in thousands of ways over the years, especially in the name of pet owners.

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Umbrellas are, unfortunately, very easy to forget. (Photo: Library of Congress/LC-USZ62-11573)

(And the popularity of umbrellas isn't just limited to the patents: The Travelers Companies has filed more than 30 trademark challenges against other companies attempting to create a logo with an umbrella baked in. “We have one of the best and most recognizable brands in the world and take seriously our responsibility to protect its value,” a spokesperson told the Wall Street Journal about its decision-making process, which has led the company to take on even tiny firms that would never hope to compete with the $33 billion company.)

In 2008, New Yorker scribe Susan Orlean highlighted the fact that the patent office received enough umbrella patent filings at the time that four people were on the umbrella patent beat in the federal government. A search of Google patents shows that, since Orlean's article was published in February 2008, 1,617 new umbrella-related filings have gone up in the USPTO database in the "Walking Sticks; Umbrellas; Ladies' or Like Fans" section, which is where umbrellas, fans, or other items on sticks appear.

And all those patent filings don't seem to actually impress the manufacturers of those umbrellas. Orlean explained why:

Totes Isotoner, which is the largest umbrella company in the country, stopped accepting unsolicited proposals several years ago. One of the problems, according to Ann Headley, the director of rain-product development for Totes, is that umbrellas are so ordinary that everyone thinks about them, and, because they’re relatively simple, you don’t need an advanced degree to imagine a way to redesign them, but it’s difficult to come up with an umbrella idea that hasn’t already been done. The three-section folding umbrella, for instance, which seemed so novel when it was first manufactured, in the nineteen eighties, was actually patented almost a hundred years ago.

But those long odds and cynical comments still haven't stopped folks from trying. In 2012, for example, a pair of Taiwanese designers took on the rain using a bold concept design it called the Rain Shield, which takes on sideways rain and avoids getting blown out of the way by wind.

(Despite the buzz it received, however, it has yet to hit the market in a meaningful way. Bummer.)

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A patent for a pillow with a retractable umbrella. (Photo: Google Patents US 6711769 B1)

That's a good idea. A lot of other ideas are terrible, of course. A few samples from some of the most unusual umbrella-related patent filings out there:

  • "An umbrella sheath is usable with the lightning rod to provide shelter from rain and to demarcate an area of lightning protection. An alternative lower electrode is disclosed for physical and electrical contact with water." — A filing for a portable lightning rod that, for some reason, comes with a built-in umbrella. The filing, when approved in 1983, was approved on utility grounds, despite a court stating, "we do not hesitate to say we would not consider using the claimed device for its intended purpose."
  • "It will be appreciated therefore that there is a need for an umbrella to protect a pet from inclement weather conditions and which umbrella is under control of the individual walking the pet as well as enabling the pet to be under control of the individual via the umbrella and a leash in both umbrella opened and closed positions." — A filing for a combined pet-leash and umbrella, a device that raises the obvious question: What about the owner? Multitasking two umbrellas and a dog leash sounds like a great exercise in coordination.
  • "This frame is set and riveted on the brim of the hat, and supports the whole mechanism. It may also be fixed below the hat-brim." — A filing for an umbrella hat that dates back to 1882. The innards of this thing had a number of pins that look a heckuva lot more complicated than actually picking up an umbrella.
  • "The present invention relates to sunning accessories, and more particularly, to pillows with retractable umbrellas."— A 2004 patent filing for a pillow with a retractable umbrella, just in case you were expecting something else.
  • "Briefly, to achieve the desired objects of the instant invention in accordance with the preferred embodiment thereof, a helium-filled sun shade is provided for protecting individuals engaged in outdoor activities." — A 1991 patent filing for something called a helium-filled sun shade. Sound confusing? Well, another way to put it is that it's essentially an always-on umbrella for the sun.

You have to wonder why, in an era when we can shove a computer into a watch, we've struggled to improve on this basic design in a way that's truly gone mainstream.

Sure, the basic design of the umbrella is pretty simple, and it's somewhat built to last. And the Totes exec quoted in the Orlean piece has a point about it simply being too common for a new design to break through.

On the other hand, while everything else on our person tends to get an upgrade, whether it's our phone, our shoes, or our personal style, umbrellas persist despite having a design that struggles at the one job it's been tasked to do. Why is that?

If I had to pin it on a single item, it'd be the fact that people don't want to actually pay for umbrellas. According to a 2010 report done by Accessories Magazine in accordance with NPD Group, the average price of an umbrella was just $6, a price point that suggests "disposable commodity" rather than "thing I actually care about." (That said, the report notes that 80 percent of the industry's profits come from umbrellas sold above a $5 price point. So maybe people who really like their umbrellas are willing to spend more?)

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A patent for a combined pet leash and umbrella, filed in 2003. (Photo: Google Patents US 6871616 B2)

That issue is not limited to the present day, either. Umbrellas and Their History, an 1855 book by William Sangster, noted that a lot of innovation was happening in umbrellas at the time, but consumer interest was nonexistent in most of these innovations, as Sangster explains:

Simple as the construction of an Umbrella may appear, the number of patents that have been granted within the last thirty years might have been enormous, and a small book might be written on them, so it is of no use to attempt, in our small space, to more than mention a very few of the various improvements in their manufacture. With very few exceptions the inventors have not been repaid the cost of their patents. This has arisen, partly from the delicacy of their mechanical construction, unfitted for the rough usage to which Umbrellas are exposed; but chiefly in consequence of the increased cost of manufacture not being compensated by the improvements effected.

There are probably a variety of reasons for this incredibly frugal state of affairs—for one thing, wetness is a temporary condition—but I would say a big one is that umbrellas are really easy to lose. In fact, thousands of umbrellas get lost each year in London's public transportation system—10,907 in 2014 alone, according to the BBC.

Sure, people should be better about keeping their stuff, but in a world where we use many of the things in our bags for multiple reasons, a bulky single-use device is going to be the first to lose out.

Charles Lim, the author of the site Crooked Pixels, suggests that it's this disposability that makes it unnecessary to redesign umbrellas at all. In fact, he suggests (while responding to yet another umbrella redesign) that a better strategy would be to buy the cheapest, tiniest umbrellas you could find—say, from a dollar store—and carry one on you at all times.

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An umbrella and stroller rain cover, c. 1913. (Photo: Library of Congress/LC-USZ62-56156)

"So what do you do with an imperfect dollar store umbrella? You throw it out," he wrote on his blog. "It’s disposable, like a condom. Most umbrellas sell for 10-20 dollars. A small Dollarama umbrella is two dollars. At that price, you can buy more than one because hey, you never know."

When people reinvent the umbrella, often the designs are along the lines of the KAZbrella, a hit Kickstarter last year.

The company, which raised $344,000 from pledges, clearly was onto something (evidenced by the fact that some copycats quickly appeared). The umbrellas pull off a neat trick: Inventor Jenan Kazim figured out a way to produce an umbrella that traps the moisture inside—rather than leaving it outside to drip everywhere—while still looking exactly the same as an umbrella you'd see on the street during regular usage.

The problem with the idea, ultimately, is the price. When the umbrella goes on regular sale, it won't be cheap: It'll sell for a not-insignificant $58 a pop.

It's a good solution, but what if it's going after the wrong problem?

Maybe umbrellas need to be made of the cheapest, smallest, most recyclable materials one can find. And maybe we should just admit to ourselves that we're going to ditch them after a short period of use.

In other words, maybe our inventors haven't caught up with where the market actually is.

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Umbrellas: imperfectly structured for wind and rain. (Photo: Peter/ CC BY-SA 2.0)

The other day, as I was leaving home, I forgot my umbrella. It wasn't the first time I've done that, nor will it be the last. In fact, I'll probably do it more often than not.

It was raining during the day, sure, but it was doing so in such a way where there were pockets of dryness. I ended up sticking around where I was at, waiting around for one of those pockets of dryness to show up, at which point, I skidaddled as a fast as I could to avoid another storm.

If there's something I could redesign about the umbrella, I would make it possible to only be there when I need it, and go away when I don't. If we figure out how to teleport stuff one of these days, the first thing we need to teleport is umbrellas into the hands of people walking out into rainstorms.

It's a single-use device in a many-use world. But without it, we're soaked. 

A version of this post originally appeared on Tedium, a twice-weekly newsletter that hunts for the end of the long tail.

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A 'Black Moon' is Coming

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The moon is going to disappear... again. (Photo: trasroid/CC BY 2.0)

Can you spot the black moon? This Friday, in the Western Hemisphere, a rare “black moon” will rise in the night sky, according to Science Alert. But don’t feel too bad if you miss it.

The exact definition of a black moon is something that astronomers are still debating. Some define the term as the new moon that skips February every 19 years, while others use it to refer to any new moon that skips a month. But the most widely accepted definition of the phenomenon, and what is going to occur this Friday, is almost the exact opposite, referring to the second new moon in the same month.

The opposite of a full moon, the new moon is the phase when it virtually disappears from the night sky. Now, it’s happening again, making a second moonless night in the same month, and for a rather dark September.

Those in the Eastern Hemisphere will have to wait until October to get theirs. It's currently scheduled for Halloween. 

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