New Zealand woodworker Henk Verhoeff makes whimsically broken furniture.
“It’s hard to say how long each piece takes me,” he says. “It’s unset times during the week, and it could easily be 80 to 100 hours.”
“I started creating them for the pure love of it, without the intention of selling them. But when I run out of space, there will be an eBay auction or two. Everything is for sale … except for my wife.”
His daughter posts photos on Facebook.
In 1928, Belgian financier Alfred Loewenstein fell to his death from a private plane over the English Channel. How it happened has never been explained. In this week’s episode of the Futility Closet podcast, we’ll describe the bizarre incident, which has been called “one of the strangest fatalities in the history of commercial aviation.”
We’ll also consider whether people can be eaten by pythons and puzzle over an enigmatic horseman.
BANGOR, England, August 14. — Evidence that he may have cut his throat while asleep was given at an inquest at Bangor on the body of Thornton Jones, a lawyer. ‘Suicide while temporarily insane,’ was the verdict.
He lived 80 minutes after the infliction of the wound, during which time, it was stated, he cried out to his wife and son, ‘Forgive me! Forgive me!’
Then motioning for a paper and pencil, he wrote: ‘I dreamt that I had done it. I awoke to find it true.’
— Washington D.C. Evening Star, August 14, 1924
Around January 31 and November 11 each year, the setting sun illuminates the “Infinite Corridor,” the 251-meter hallway that runs through five main buildings at MIT.
The hallway isn’t optimally aligned, so the phenomenon lasts only about 2 minutes. MIT maintains a page with predictions, etiquette, background, and more photos.
In November 1970, a man and his daughters came upon the charred remains of a woman in the foothills near Bergen, Norway. Some personal items were nearby, and two suitcases were later found at the railway station, but all identifying marks had been removed from all of these.
An autopsy showed the woman had been incapacitated by phenobarbital and poisoned by carbon monoxide, and she’d consumed 50 to 70 sleeping pills. A notepad found in one of the suitcases suggested that she’d traveled throughout Europe using at least eight false identities. She’d last been seen alive when she’d checked out of her room at the Hotel Hordaheimen two days earlier; she’d paid in cash and requested a taxi. During her stay she’d appeared guarded and kept to her room.
The woman has never been identified. Her death was attributed to the sleeping pills, and she was interred in a Bergen graveyard. A 2017 analysis of her teeth suggested that she’d been born in Germany around 1930 and had perhaps moved to France as a child. In 2005 a resident of Bergen said he’d seen a woman hiking on a hillside outside town five days before the discovery of the body, dressed lightly and followed by two men. She’d seemed about to speak to him but had not. He’d reported the encounter to the police, but no investigation was made.
In October, Mason Zeinali bicycled 101 km through downtown Toronto to draw the shape of a moose on Google Earth.
The waterfront segment runs along Lake Shore Boulevard, and the moose’s entire back is one street, Davenport Road.
More details at Cycling Magazine.
For Chrysler’s 1957 auto show, designer Virgil Exner prepared a one-of-a-kind prototype: the Norseman, a sleek four-seat fastback coupe with a sloping hood, cantilevered roof, and aerodynamic underbody.
After 15 months’ work, the fully drivable $150,000 concept car missed its shipment date and was put aboard the next available transport.
That was the SS Andrea Doria. The unique prototype was lost in the sinking, and the car was never produced.
A striking tale from the 18th century: It’s said that around 1687 a group of English mariners on the Italian coast were surprised to see “two men run by us with amazing swiftness”:
Captain Barnaby says, ‘Lord bless me, the foremost man looks like next door neighbour, old Booty;’ but said he did not know the other behind. Booty was dressed in grey clothes, and the one behind him in black; we saw them run into the burning mountain in the midst of the flames! on which we heard a terrible noise, too horrible to be described.
When they returned to Gravesend, Captain Barnaby’s wife said, “My dear, I have got some news to tell you; old Booty is dead.” Barnaby swore an oath and said, “We all saw him run into Hell!”
As the story goes, when word of this allegation reached Booty’s widow, she sued Barnaby for a thousand pounds. The punchline is that Booty’s appearance on the volcano was shown to have occurred within two minutes of his death, and when his coat was exhibited in the courtroom, 12 sailors swore that its buttons matched those of the fleeing man.
The Judge then said, ‘Lord grant I may never see the sight that you have seen; one, two, or three may be mistaken, but twenty or thirty cannot.’ So the widow lost her cause.
According to folklorist Jeremy Harte, this story appeared in print at least 19 times between the 1770s and the 1830s. It seems to have started among the dockyards of the lower Thames, where in one early version Booty was an unscrupulous contractor who had supplied the navy with adulterated beer — and his damnation was “a matter of just retribution for the sin he had committed.”
(Jeremy Harte, “Into the Burning Mountain: Legend, Literature, and Law in Booty v. Barnaby,” Folklore 125:3 [December 2014], 322-338.)
Suppose … for a moment, all existing space to be bounded, and that a man runs forward to the uttermost borders, and stands upon the last verge of things, and then hurls forward a winged javelin,– suppose you that the dart, when hurled by the vivid force, shall take its way to the point the darter aimed at, or that something will take its stand in the path of its flight, and arrest it? For one or other of these things must happen. There is a dilemma here that you never can escape from.
— Lucretius, De rerum natura
English philanthropist Lady Jane Stanley financed footpaths through her native Knutsford with an odd proviso:
For some unknown reason Lady Jane disliked to see men and women linked together, i.e. walking arm in arm; and in her donations for the pavement of the town, provided that a single flag in breadth should be the limit of her generosity,– but she did not specify how broad the single flag was to be, and I fear her wishes are evaded, and the disapproved linking together often indulged in: the chief security for her order being observed is the disagreeable fact that in many places the streets and consequently the raised pavements are too narrow to allow of more than a very slender foot-path, so that if the lasses occupy the flags, the swains must either walk behind, or pick their way in the channel.
Never married, she composed her own epitaph:
A maid I lived,– a maid I died,–
I never was asked,– and never denied.
(From Henry Green, Knutsford, Its Traditions and History, 1859.)
