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In certain dialects of Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and Vietnamese, the word for ‘four’ sounds very similar to the word for ‘death’1. Consequently, the number 4 is considered by many people in East Asian nations to be unlucky. It is not unusual for buildings in that region to skip the number 4 when labeling floors, much in the same way 13th floors are omitted in some parts of the world2. In Hong Kong, at least one skyscraper avoids the proper numbering for floors 40-49. Four is the smallest positive non-prime number3. It is the only natural number where one can get the same result by multiplying its square roots (2×2), or adding them (2+2). Four happens to be the only number that has the same number of letters as its actual value4. The four color theorem tells us that four is an adequate number of colors for any two dimensional map–no two bordering regions would need to share a color. Four is the number of bonds that a carbon atom can make, which is why life can exist, a quality known as tetravalency. Fear of the number four is known as tetraphobia, and anyone suffering from it has almost certainly stopped reading by now, or at least uttered some four-letter words. It’s no secret that direct donations to Damn Interesting have been on a downward trend in recent years, so we are aiming to diversify. To that end, we’ve made something new, and it’s called Omiword. Continue reading ▶
Edmund Lawall must have felt cursed. He’d brought his family to New York in the late 1800s to carry on his father’s business as a pharmacist, but fate—or perhaps the city itself—seemed determined to drive him back out again. Lawall’s health had been in decline since their arrival, and his wife’s kidney disease had worsened, despite all of the tinctures and patent medicines available to his turn-of-the-century expertise. Not long after that, his business partner had been revealed as a crook, sending Lawall scrambling into bankruptcy court to convince the judge that his pharmacy had nothing to do with shady real estate dealings. Then, in the midst of the bankruptcy proceedings, an anonymous woman had staggered into Lawall’s drug store, collapsed on the floor, and died of unknown causes. Likely no one could have saved her, but it wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement of the pharmaceutical services available at the corner of Eighth Street and Avenue C. None of that compared, however, to the morning of 27 June 1906, when a disheveled man in a medical coat burst through the narrow glass doors of the pharmacy, begging for protection. He was immediately followed by a young man with a revolver, and an angry crowd screaming in Yiddish. Lawall didn’t speak the language, but there was no mistaking the young man’s intent as he strode purposely forward and raised his gun to the doctor’s head. It was a grim, but recognizable tableau: the young man’s stance and grip were confident, clearly marking him as a budding gangster. The behavior of the crowd, on the other hand, made no sense at all. Innocent bystanders tended to run away from gang violence, yet the pushcart vendors and housewives surrounding the apparent holdup were not frightened, or even appealing for mercy. They were shouting, quite insistently, for the doctor’s execution. And everything seemed to indicate they were going to get what they wanted. In the weeks that followed, blame would be pointed in nearly every direction—because at that moment, unbeknownst to Lawall, similar scenes were playing out all over the neighborhood, with other doctors, teachers, reporters, and even utility workers being assaulted by hordes of people howling at them in Yiddish. By the time it was over, the incident would be measured as one of the largest riots ever in New York City, and the confrontation at Lawall’s Pharmacy would be mentioned only in passing, if at all. Another name, however, would be repeated over and over again: Adeline E. Simpson, the principal of Public School No. 110. Continue reading ▶
Iceland is known to the rest of the world as the land of Vikings and volcanos, an island caught between continents at the extremities of the map. Remote and comparatively inhospitable, it was settled only as long ago as the 9th century, and has seen little additional in-migration since. Even today, more than 90 percent of Iceland’s 390,000 residents can trace their ancestry back to the earliest permanent inhabitants, a Nordic-Celtic mix. The tradition of the Norse sagas lives on in the form of careful record-keeping about ancestry—and a national passion for genealogy. In other words, it is not the place to stumble upon old family mysteries. But growing up in the capital city of Reykjavík in the 1950s, neurologist Dr. Kári Stefánsson heard stories that left him curious. Stefánsson’s father had come from Djúpivogur, an eastern coastal town where everyone still spoke of a Black man who had moved there early in the 19th century. “Hans Jónatan”, they called him—a well-liked shopkeeper who had arrived on a ship, married a spirited woman from a local farm, and became a revered member of the community. The local census did record a man by the name of Hans Jónatan, born in the Caribbean, who was working at the general store in Djúpivogur in the 19th century—but that was all. No images of the man had survived, and his time in Iceland was well before any other humans with African ancestry are known to have visited the island. If tiny, remote Djúpivogur did have a Black man arrive in the 19th century, the circumstances must have been unusual indeed. It was an intriguing puzzle—and solid grounds for a scientific investigation. Given the amount of homogeneity in the baseline Icelandic population, the genetic signature of one relative newcomer with distinct ancestry might still stand out across a large sample of his descendants. Geneticists thus joined locals and history scholars, and they pieced together a story that bridged three continents. Continue reading ▶
It’s been a busy summer, and the large shortfall in donations last month has been demoralizing, so we’re taking a week off to rest and recuperate. The curated links section will be (mostly) silent, and behind the scenes we’ll be taking a brief break from our usual researching, writing, editing, illustrating, narrating, sound designing, coding, et cetera. We plan to return to normalcy on the 11th of September. (The word “normalcy” was not considered an acceptable alternative to “normality” until 14 May 1920, when then-presidential-candidate Warren G. Harding misused the mathematical term in a campaign speech, stating that America needed, “not nostrums, but normalcy.” He then integrated this error into his campaign slogan, “Return to Normalcy.” Also, the G in Warren G. Harding stood for “Gamaliel.”) While we are away, on 06 September 2023, Damn Interesting will be turning 18 years old. To celebrate, here are the first emojis to ever appear in the body of a Damn Interesting post: 🎂🎉🎁 If you become bored while we are away, you might try a little mobile game we’ve been working on called Wordwhile. It can be played alone, or with a friend. If you enjoy games like Scrabble and Wordle, you may find this one ENJOYABLE (75 points). Launch Wordwhile → And, as always, there are lots of ways to explore our back-catalog. View this post ▶
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There’s a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, and the one you need is at the bottom. Directly pulling it out means disrupting the balance. They’ll fall and potentially break. Instead you need to rinse each one starting from the top and load the dishwasher. Or at the very least, put them in a […] The post Indirect change appeared first on Herbert Lui.
Walking the England Coast Path Birchington → Reculver (5 miles) 2014 I'd got no further east than Reculver and in 2019 no further west than Birchington so in 2026 I've connected them together. I actually walked all the way from Birchington to Herne Bay because the intervening miles are marshy nomansland with no stations, but today I'll just blog about the gap. Thankfully all the fog had cleared by the time my train reached Gravesend so it was a glorious coastal stroll. [10 photos] Beresford Gap, a cut in the chalk where housing makes way for cliff-edge greensward. They're hardly the highest of cliffs but sufficient for a panorama encompassing Margate tower blocks, distant ships and (because it was low tide) a vast wave-cut platform scattered with rockpools and seaweed. Several tile-topped shelters have been provided, each recently painted in that special shade of light blue only coastal local authorities use. Motor caravans must not be parked on Cliff Road between the hours of 6pm and 6am. Where the chalk stops the streets dip back towards sea level, one astutely called Canute Road. This is Minnis Bay, a gently shelving rocky beach that morphs into an extensive sandy sweep, plus a semi-circular tide-lapped pool by the promenade for paddlers feeling brave. This is also dog-walking central, at least now September's passed and mutts are allowed on the beach again, also the regular recipient of an Environment Agency 'Excellent' award for bathing quality. Two dozen characterless beach huts provide minor shelter and two beachfront bars offer refreshment for the silver-haired and members of the local sailing club. The grassy embankment that leads to the town's beacon is lined by numerous benches, their backs all seemingly carved by the same carpenter, one of which commemorates a death just four months ago and another which remembers Audrey & Archie Love You Lots Like Jelly Tots. Northern Sea Wall, a three mile concrete sea defence built in the 1950s to protect the farmland behind from unwanted inundation. It wasn't quite finished when the great flood of 1953 hit, hence the tidal surge covered 5000 acres and spread inland beyond the railway line. The sea has every right to be here because this used to be the Wantsum Channel, a (very) broad band of water that once separated the Isle of Thanet from the rest of Kent. The Romans used it as a shipping route and the Normans established what would now be inland ports up navigable creeks. But between the 12th and 15th centuries the channel gradually silted up, partly from slower flow and partly from an ecclesiastical landgrab, so by the reign of Elizabeth I Thanet was an island no more. A broad swathe of almost-uninhabited farmland now stretches from coast to coast, several miles wide, and the remainder of the walk is thus a straight hike across the mouth of the former marine channel. The sea wall is only slightly raised and also had to be vehicle-width so is quite broad. A parallel footpath runs immediately behind for anyone who prefers to walk three miles without ever seeing the sea (or perhaps to escape the worst of the weather should it be stormy). The farmland here is flat ploughed fields interspersed with drainage channels, plus the occasional interconnecting track for farmers only. After a mile comes a channel a tad wider than the others which it turns out is what remains of the Wantsum, now draining south to meet the River Stour before flowing east towards Sandwich. A public footpath here is the only escape from the seafront for a good three miles, and equally remote as it heads inland across the floodplain so best not follow it in the hope of heading somewhere less lonely. And so the wall ploughs on, shingle banks to the right and two tiny towers in the distance growing inexorably closer. I did pass three people out walking, also a tiny handful of joggers, but the majority of those passing were on bikes because this flat coastline is absolutely perfect for it. Often they were in pairs so I heard a brief snatch of conversation as they passed, one gabbling about nuclear power stations and another about a mystery man ("was that the wedding at Quex? ...the one whose wife was hanging from a lamppost? ...isn't he dead now?"). Otherwise my sole company was a robin on a bush, a cormorant on a groyne and scores of gulls at the water's edge as the tide quietly splashed back in. Civilisation gradually re-encroaches, this because there's a car park at Reculver so visitors are slightly more willing to walk a short distance along the wall. Eventually the two Norman towers take centre stage, perched loftily on a sandstone outcrop at the most strategic point for miles. You can't climb up direct, you have to deviate via a sloping lawn where once a large square Roman fort overlooked the mouth of the Wantsum. Only a few foundations of that survive, the two enormous towers instead being all that remains of a Anglo-Saxon monastery's 12th century extension. The remainder of St Mary's church was destroyed by gunpowder in 1809, having been deemed unsafe, but Trinity House insisted on keeping the twin towers and hanging beacons from them as an aid to navigation. Feel free to wander down the nave, head out through what used to be the porch and onwards to the outline of a Roman bathhouse, reflecting on an amazing history far more varied than most. It gets much Kentier on the far side - a pub, a visitor centre and an adventure playground. This is Reculver Country Park, the non-English Heritage zone, reached by driving up a long dead end lane and paying for parking beneath the towers. Perhaps grab a pint from The King Ethelbert Inn, alternatively a coffee from local baristas HatsHats, and if you do partake rest assured there are also public toilets, the sole conveniences for miles. Yesterday the team from Bird Wise had turned up in their van to celebrate all thing seabird, but mainly to educate visitors on how not to disturb them. And best not wait for the bus, it only comes twice a day, so if you've come on foot I'm afraid it's a hike of over an hour to the nearest station. Cabin FM played out on the stumpy pier, a charity singer prepared to entertain diners in the bandstand and ageing bikers sunned themselves by the clocktower while passers-by admired their gaudy steeds. This second half of my walk is part of the Oyster Bay Trail, an eight mile seafront connection linking Whitstable to Reculver, thus previously blogged. Just know that from whichever direction you choose to approach Reculver it's both impressive and impressively remote, and I'm very pleased to have finally plugged the gap. Now walked... (27 miles) (gap - 11 miles) (19 miles)
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Apple finally announced a thing: HomeView. Immediately I was surprised at the pricing, given that Apple is now charging the same for a streaming box. I have an old iPad in the kitchen, as well as a HomePod, so slamming them into each other makes sense. More space-efficient and better looking. But then I thought about it. For us, the two primary uses for the old iPad in the kitchen are cooking and FaceTime. Cooking primarily means a third-party app (Paprika in our case). HomeView certainly will not support Paprika anytime soon. Two of our kids no longer live at home full time. When that FaceTime call comes, it’s awfully convenient to take the old iPad in the kitchen next to the stove over to the kitchen table. HomeView is tethered to its spot. Who is going to stand next to their stove for a thirty-minute FaceTime call? On the surface HomeView feels like a perfect match. For now, though, it really doesn’t beat an old iPad in the kitchen. Oh, and I’ve been delaying years to replace our Apple TVs. We’re still on the first-generation 4K. Yes, the one from 2017 with that remote. I just missed replacing them with 2022 third-generation versions under the old pricing. Now with a new, ‘spensive version out, you’d think I’d plug my nose and order one. But, no, since I could never imagine asking my Apple TV to “play that TV show Stephanie texted me,” and it’s quite unlikely that I’ll be gaming on an Apple TV, I instead plugged my nose and ordered the 2022 version. Reply by email
