History: Wright vs. Wrong

In 1900, the possibility of man taking flight was still a wonderful dream. And it wasn't too long before that dream became a reality. And now, over 100 years later, people still know who helped bring the world of powered flight to people worldwide: Gustave Whitehead.

Were you expecting someone else? Perhaps a pair of entrepreneurial brothers whose names have been taught to children for over a century? Well, according to new legislature that was just passed in Connecticut, those Wright boys need to move over and make way for the true pioneer of aviation.

According to information provided by historian John Brown, Whitehead made the first flight in 1901, two years before the Wright Brothers' famous flight over Kitty Hawk. Brown presented numerous pieces of evidence for this claim, including a photograph and a newspaper article from Bridgeport in which Whitehead talks about the feeling of flying.

Opponents fight back that the picture is unclear, the newspaper article reads more like a fictional story than an accurate account, there's no record of Whitehead trying to duplicate the effort, and the plane itself no longer exists. Otherwise, it seems like a pretty solid case.

Despite the naysayers, lawmakers in Connecticut officially passed a bill to recognize Powered Flight Day, citing Whitehead as the true pilot of the first powered flight. This suggests that history is not created by historical records, data, and verified reports (you know... facts). Instead, it's created by official decrees, the same ones that make such significant declarations as naming the ballroom polka the official state polka of Connecticut (which, seriously, was declared in the very same bill as Powered Flight Day).

This brings up one of the ultimate problems with learning about history. Because of incomplete or questionable evidence, a lot of facts aren't known for certain. However, everything is often presented to us as definitive truth. We are still taught that Christopher Columbus discovered America, despite the fact that people were already living here and Norse sailors (aka Vikings) established colonies here hundreds of years before Columbus was even born.

Sure, cases can be made that, even though there were natives here, Columbus still discovered a land that most Europeans didn't know existed. And other cases can be made against the Norse settlements, which didn't last and were gone by the time the new colonies were formed, paving the way for the current United States. But that's just the issue: things aren't always absolute, but we're taught them as if they are.

And now, Connecticut's legislature has taken it one step further. I understand how politics can often distort or hide facts to present a skewed version of history that puts things in a different perspective. But it takes an amazing amount of arrogance to take some circumstantial evidence and argue that history's long line of aviation experts are wrong... and then just make that the law.

Of course, there's still a chance that the general public will ignore the bill and continue to listen to people who actually know something about aviation. Still, even if the whole Gustave Whitehead thing never really takes off (see what I did there?), government is still responsible for some confusion in the world of flight.

On their respective license plates, North Carolina claims to be “First in Flight” while Ohio declares itself the “Birthplace of Aviation.” So what's going on there? North Carolina's claim is based on the 12-second test flight at Kitty Hawk that went a whopping 120 feet. Ohio, on the other hand, is merely where the Wright Brothers grew up, designed and built all of their aircraft, and recorded a 24-mile flight in the Flyer III, which is recognized as the first practical airplane by the American Society of Mechanical Engineers.

Because of this, the U.S. Government officially gave Ohio its nickname, while North Carolina gets to hold on to its motto by a technicality... until Connecticut inevitably releases its new license plates reading “The Real First in Flight... Because We Said So.”

The Battle to Pay Less

For years, American consumers have been manipulated by a powerful cartel accused of restricting supply despite ever-growing demand and an ability to provide more than it's giving out. Through devious practices, this sinister cabal has been using intricate schemes to drive up prices and create bigger and bigger profits.

However, some people have finally had enough and are no longer standing by quietly. One group has thrown down the gauntlet and is ready to bring down this corrupt organization and its control over the nation's potatoes.

Yes, according to Associated Wholesale Grocers, the United Potato Growers of America (UPGA) has been running an elaborate price-fixing scheme that involves reducing the amount of land used for potatoes and destroying excess crops. The grocers are trying to paint a picture of the UPGA as the devil, which is only made easier by farmers' insistence on using pitchforks.

So how does the UPGA maintain restrictions on crop size? Interestingly, it's pretty easy for potato farmers to keep tabs on one another. After all, they do have a lot of eyes in the fields. Get it?! Potatoes? Eyes? That’s comedy gold, folks.

Actually, according to the impending lawsuit, the UPGA monitors land usage through remarkably cunning tactics involving flyovers, GPS systems and satellite imaging. These folks are just one white cat away from being a James Bond villain.

This all may seem a bit excessive for potatoes, but it has quite an extensive effect. After all, these potatoes are not just sold fresh. They're also provided to companies for making French fries and tater tots. The potential aftermath is mind-boggling. People will be hoarding knishes like they're bars of gold and using pierogies to pay off their home loans.

Perhaps that's a little far-fetched. Still, never underestimate how high circumstances can push the value of anything, let alone a potato. One type of potato called La Bonnote has been known to sell for about $45 a pound, sometimes up to $300 a pound. The high price is because it's rare, grown only on the French Isle of Noirmoutier and only harvested for one week each year. Yet people will pay that price because of the potato's distinctive flavor, which is partially derived from the algae and seaweed in the soil. Some people also have too much money.

Of course, U.S. farmers are probably not expecting such a high payload for their basic, algae-free russets. They're just trying to make sure that supply isn't so overabundant that the potato becomes worthless. Still, the idea of destroying crops and limiting production does seem a bit hard to accept knowing that it's still food. I have to imagine there are many other countries in the world that would love to have the "problem" of growing too much food.

For now, it's up to the grocers to bring down Big Potato. If they're successful, we may soon see an end to this era of overpriced potatoes. Then we'll just have to worry about paying too much for milk, bread, meat, gas, cable, cell phones...

People and Rats... On Mars!

Some exciting news has been stirring lately that is literally out of this world. For the past year and a half, the land rover Curiosity has been off-roading around Mars taking panoramic pictures of the surface. Thanks to one man with a keen eye and a trace of paranoia, one picture has captured the world's attention.

Like most pictures sent back to Earth from Mars, this one features a desolate landscape stretching as far as the eye can see. However, a blogger who specializes in UFO sightings (resolving any doubts about scientific validity) noticed something amazing hiding among all of the rocks, dirt and other rocks: a rat. Imagine the excitement! Potential proof that life can be sustained on Mars and be susceptible to the bubonic plague.

There's just one problem... okay, there are many problems. The major issue, though, is that the item in question is not actually a rat. It's a rock that looks like a rat. More specifically, it's a rock that kind of looks like a rat if you turn your head, squint your eyes, and have no idea what a rat looks like.

To be fair, the original post doesn't call it a rat. Instead, it's called a rodent, later specified as a squirrel. Others claim it looks more like a lizard. Whatever people think it looks like, it's not the first Martian landscape to get people all worked up. A 1976 photo taken by the Viking 1 orbiter was famous for what looked like a human mask lying on the surface. That, too, has since been discredited as merely a rock with an eerie resemblance.

These visual interpretations are example of what psychologists call pareidolia – a natural condition in which people assign significance to something random. This is why some people believe that a certain group of stars looks like a giant bear and other people think the burn marks in their grilled cheese look like Jesus.

However, that hasn't stopped people from insisting the rat is real. And that begs the question: does the animal originate from Mars, or did NASA send it up as a precursor to manned missions? After all, how could we set up a colony on Mars and not feel homesick without some vermin running around?

It may sound ridiculous, but there would be a good reason for testing out the living conditions. A project called Mars One expects to send humans to Mars in 2023 as a part of a huge scientific endeavor. And to make it more exciting, the humans aren't going to be some elite group of scientists chosen for their expertise and accomplishments. Instead, it will be a ragtag group of civilians chosen from applications sent in as part of a reality show... seriously.

The mission was announced in 2011 and has since garnered thousands of applications from everyday folks looking to take a trip to the red planet. Of course, due to scientific limitations and the expectation that these people will be developing a new colony there, it will only be a one-way trip. [To customize this article for yourself, just add your own joke here about which politician, celebrity, or idiot who cut you off in traffic you'd send.]

You can already peruse the applicants on the official website and rate the people you think should take the trip. As the big trip approaches, the voting will be opened up as part of a huge global media experience. The winners will get an all-expense-paid trip to Mars, where they'll build their own homes, create their own water from the soil, read the same five books a hundred times, and try to avoid asphyxiation from dust storms. It's like winning the lottery, only less fun and deadlier. But hey – if they do finally make it to Mars, they can always drive around looking for rats.

To Keep or Not to Keep

The other day, I broke out a bag of tortilla chips so that I could enjoy some leftover guacamole. Unfortunately, when I glanced in the bag, I was greeted with a most unwelcome sight: the full-size, dippable chips were gone, leaving behind a bleak layer of crumbs and chip fragments. Pieces that size are not big enough for dipping. You have to grab about ten at a time to get the essence of eating an actual chip, and there's no way of gracefully dipping them unless you submerge your fingers in the dip – an offense that's surely on par with double-dipping.

I'm always torn in situations like this, and I find myself having to make a tough decision. Part of me insists on finishing the bag. After all, it's still food, and I grew up with a mother who constantly decried wasting food by reminding me of all the starving kids in Africa. However, the other part of me knows that even those kids in Africa would look at the near-empty bag and say, "eh – not worth it."

It's especially frustrating when I know there's an unopened bag sitting in the pantry, filled with fresh, whole chips that lure me like a siren, ready to be dipped and enjoyed with reckless abandon. Why do I have to suffer the indignity of shoving handfuls of broken chips in my mouth or, to be even classier, pouring them down my throat directly from the bag?

This keep-or-toss dilemma is certainly not limited to just tortilla chips. It also applies to jarred condiments such as peanut butter or jelly. You always get to a point at which the jar is practically empty, but there's still just enough left clinging to the sides. You wind up scraping and digging, accumulating bit by bit, as if it were a precious commodity worth millions. Meanwhile, there's a back-up jar in the pantry that you can just dip your spoon in and scoop out heaps from with no effort.

Worse are the condiments that come in squeeze containers, such as ketchup (or catsup for people who insist on spelling it in a way that makes no sense whatsoever). For a while, you can squeeze stuff out in long streams. But as you reach the end of the container, it always comes out in short bursts, spraying blotches all over your food so that it resembles a crime scene. Why risk the explosion, which inevitably splatters ketchup on your clothes, confirming you as suspect number one?

Non-food items are also up for debate at times. Soap dispensers are particularly bothersome. The tube inside is never long enough to get all the soap out. Instead, you wind up with a small pool at the bottom. You keep pushing the pump over and over, willing the soap to jump up into the tube so you can get just one small drop, which is barely enough to create lather. Of course, you could always take the pump off and pour the remaining soap out, but that kind of defeats the purpose of having a pump in the first place.

Toothpaste is probably the worst offender. Trying to get the last drops of toothpaste involves a complex system of rolling, pushing, squeezing, twisting, turning, and – occasionally – crying. The easy solution is to just throw the near-empty tube away and break open a new tube that will give you all the toothpaste you need with barely a squeeze. But think of all those starving kids in Africa.

As for the tortilla chips, I wound up rooting through the bag to find the biggest chips that were left and getting as much guacamole as I could on each one – which was pretty much nothing. Then, so as not to waste food, I wound up eating approximately five pounds of chip shards. My mother would be so proud. My doctor... probably not as much.

Excelsior

The United States is like a big family of fifty children, all different shapes and sizes, each one having its own unique voice and personality. And as in any family with fifty children (an anxiety-inducing thought for most parents), the states often have to vie for attention and create their own identity to stand out. One way they do this is by devising a set of representative objects and symbols.

For instance, each state has its own official song. Some have opted for self-congratulatory odes such as California's not-so-subtle “I Love You, California.” (Sample lyric: “I love you California, you're the greatest state of all.” How modest.) On the other end of the spectrum is Idaho, whose state song is titled “Here We Have Idaho,” which is pretty much how you'd expect Idaho to be introduced as you pass by it on a bus tour.

Each state also has its own motto – a kind of catchphrase that sums up its spirit and motivation. Some are merely random words collected from a game of patriotic buzzword Bingo, such as Delaware's “Liberty and Independence” and Vermont's “Freedom and Unity.” Others are colorful phrases that make for great license plates, like New Hampshire's incomparable “Live Free or Die.” Then there's New Mexico's enigmatic “Crescit Eundo,” which is Latin for “It Grows as it Goes.” I'm just going to leave that one alone.

States have other common symbols of identity, such as a state nickname and a state flag. However, some states have taken the concept to great heights of absurdity. Consider Florida, which, like many other states, has designated an official state animal: the Florida panther (the cat, not the football player). However, one animal clearly couldn't shoulder the responsibility of representing a state all by itself. So Florida also designated an official state marine mammal, saltwater mammal, freshwater fish, saltwater fish, reptile, saltwater reptile, bird, butterfly, and tortoise. You know you've gone too far when you have to create a whole “state tortoise” category because you already have an official “saltwater reptile.”

While Florida is busy giving every animal in the state its own official status (I believe the round-tailed muskrat is campaigning for official state rodent), other states are representing themselves symbolically through food. Idaho has the potato as its state vegetable and Wisconsin has milk as its state beverage. Both choices seem reasonable, if not a tad obvious. It would be so much more original if they came up with something wacky like an official state muffin.

Then again, it wouldn't be so original, since three states – Massachusetts, Minnesota, and New York – have already declared state muffins. Keep in mind, like all other state symbols, these muffins were not merely appointed by some random muffin spokesperson. They are officially recognized through legislation that has passed through the state's governing bodies. To be fair, each of these states had particularly persuasive muffin lobbyists in the form of schoolchildren. Their convincing arguments won over politicians swiftly, which makes you wonder if we could get more bills passed through Congress by having them drafted and endorsed by third-graders.

However, Oklahoma didn't need schoolchildren to put all other states to shame in the official food department. Its legislators drafted an entire official state meal consisting of cornbread, biscuits, grits, fried okra, squash, corn, black-eyed peas, barbecue pork, sausage and gravy, chicken fried steak, pecan pie, and strawberries. I had to take an antacid just typing that sentence. I'm pretty sure each order comes with a free trip to one of Oklahoma’s official state cardiac centers.

So what's the point of it all? Do we really get a better idea of what Texas is like knowing its official state molecule is the Buckyball? Does having an official state silverware pattern really give Kentuckians a little extra pride in their state? Do Kentuckians even know they have an official state silverware pattern? Perhaps legislators can designate that as the official state question.

I Did It My Way... The Wrong Way

Life is often filled with little regrets. Some are generally harmless. For example, I am not proud of the outfit I wore in high school that involved purple pants. Other regrets are a little more significant. For example, that outfit also involved suspenders.

Little regrets can linger in your mind, partnered with the popular refrain: “if only I could go back and do it over...” These regrets are not earth-shattering, but they do serve as a welcome reminder that you are, in fact, capable of making some pretty stupid decisions. For me, one such incident occurred during my stint as a deejay at my college radio station.

I stumbled onto the airwaves through a deft combination of pure luck and dumb luck. My voice was somehow approved for radio broadcast, despite the fact that, to this day, people over the phone call me “ma'am” (I think I passed puberty on a technicality.)

I started out small, running the Classical Hour, a weekly bloc when the station managers threw caution to the wind and allowed classical music to be aired. I got the gig by being both a student in the music department and the only person on campus willing to take the position.

After showing off my chops by rocking the airwaves with Beethoven and Vivaldi, I finally broke through and got to host other shows, usually working with some of my friends. It was a lot of fun, but there was one show that should have turned out a lot better than it did. It was Super Bowl Sunday, and my co-host and I decided to put together a big show to lure an audience – something larger than the roughly zero people who listened to us in the first place.

Of course, nobody was going to listen to us during the game, so we set up a big halftime show. My friend managed to snag some free stuff to give away, and we put posters all around campus. The stage was set. All we had to do was put on an exciting show, give away prizes, and take advantage of the ratings bonanza to let students know our awesome show was on every Sunday night. It couldn't fail.

So here's how it failed. The second quarter ended. My co-host and I came right on the air, filled with excitement and ready for our first big giveaway; it was probably just a crappy t-shirt, but never underestimate the appeal of free stuff to a college student. We asked a simple trivia question and told people to call in to win. Sure enough, the lines lit up. People were listening! Success!

I picked up the first line, heard the correct answer, and awarded the first prize. That should have been it. All I had to say was “Congratulations and thanks for listening,” and the show would go on! Instead, I went with: “Can we play something for you?”

We were already limited in time, and we needed to make every minute count. Yet something inside of me decided: let's take requests! The caller paused for a moment, and said, “Sure – how about Stairway to Heaven?” Eager to please and clearly incapable of thinking, I said, “okay!” I cued the song up without my co-host having any idea what was going on. So, when the song we were playing ended, I fired up an eight-minute song that does a slow burn for the first seven.

As the opening strain began, the reality of the situation struck my co-host and she turned her head in my direction. I don't recall if she actually said, “what the heck are you doing?” or if that was merely how I interpreted the stare of death shooting out from her face. Either way, eight agonizing minutes later, halftime was over, the game was back on, and any chance we had of winning a repeat audience faded into oblivion.

Admittedly, this hardly qualifies as my biggest regret in life – it probably isn't even in the top fifty. Still, it feels good to get it off my chest. To my co-host, I offer a belated apology. If only I could go back and do it over...

What Not to Eat

When I was in high school, I ate many lunches from the school cafeteria. These meals ranged from fairly edible to merely recognized as food by law. Needless to say, the cafeteria food itself was never the highlight of lunch time. That honor belonged to the snack I'd purchase to supplement my meal.

Back then, I had a particular weakness for apple pie. Not the all-American standard with a crisp lattice crust covering a filling of fresh, succulent apples. My obsession was the Drake's version, which was a sugared pastry shell surrounding apple tidbits covered in a thick plasma-like substance that was fried to perfection – just like grandma used to make 'em.

 

Looking back, the only thing more disturbing than my daily intake of this fiendish treat was the fact that I regularly ate two of them. Not just two individual pies – because that's what each wax-paper-wrapped packaged contained – but two entire packages. Every day. I imagine my daily intake of fat back then was equivalent to my monthly intake these days.

 

But hey, there were apple bits in there, right? It wasn't entirely unhealthy. I mean, it's not like I was just gulping down bagsful of sugar straight up. That was only done on special occasions in the form of Fun Dip, the ultimate coup from the sugar industry. It's just a bag filled with flavored sugar. But you don't just dump it all down your throat; that would be absurd. Instead, you retrieve it with a small stick made entirely of sugar... until you've eaten the stick and are left with half a bag of sugar. Then you dump it down your throat.
 

It's hard to believe that Fun Dip is still being made. You'd think there would be at least a dozen health-conscious groups out there saying, "Umm... you know that Fun Dip is just sugar right? That's it. It's sugar dipped in sugar. I don't think that's entirely nutritious. In fact, what's the opposite of nutritious?" And yet there it is. I'm amazed they haven't made some kind of spin-off product, like Fun Dice – flavored sugar cubes that you roll from a cup made entirely of sugar. Yahtzee!

 

"Snacks" such as these (and I use quotation marks to distinguish these products from snacks that at least bear some resemblance to actual food) were part of my childhood and teenage diets. And yet, while I could certainly stand to do a few more sit-ups in the morning (there are numbers greater than zero, right?), I wouldn't consider myself an unhealthy adult.

 

Somehow I made it through. And yet I now feel a tinge of hypocrisy as I lord over the snack selections of my kids. It's not as though I force them to eat only organic snacks that are like twigs and leaves, but without the flavor. However, I will veto countless foods that found their way into my system at one time, such as Pop Tarts – another food I look at now and wonder: what was I thinking?

 

Does this mean my children will grow up healthier than I did? Possibly. After all, I did grow up in a household where we made fruit punch almost every night for dinner from a powdered sugar mix -- a drink so artificial that it didn't even pretend to have nutritional value, unlike certain other drinks with their superior "natural flavors" (whatever those are supposed to be). My family affectionately called this drink – and I'm not kidding about this – red slop. So not only did we choose to consume such a product, but we went out of our way to emphasize the less-than-natural quality of it.

 

Still, I don't think this makes my kids better off overall. If food was the only factor that determined one's health, I'd probably need the jaws of life to get through a door frame. However, if I can get my kids to realize now that there are lots of great foods that are relatively good for them, then I feel a little bit better about their health down the road. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a jar of peanut butter that's not going to eat itself.