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Crazy Tidbits our History Books Left Out

Writer's picture: tripping8tripping8

History, for all its posturing as the noble record of humanity's triumphs and tragedies, has always had a peculiar knack for being utterly bizarre when it thinks no one’s watching. It’s not the epic sagas that make history fun; it’s the moments that never made it into our high school textbooks, where the timeline trips over its own shoelaces and pretends it meant to do that.

I'd turn back if I were you - roadsign

 

But absurdity doesn’t always announce itself with a fanfare of foolishness. Often, it hides in plain sight, masquerading as the mundane. A pizza garnished with pineapple, a guidebook for fine dining written by tire manufacturers, a bank vault with a hidden entrance - all of them so innocuous on the surface, so unassuming in their existence, that you almost miss the sheer ridiculousness of them. It’s as though history, in its quieter moments, gets bored of all the seriousness and decides to amuse itself by playing pranks on us.

 

Today, we’ll sift through the cracks of the grand narrative to unearth some of these strange little treasures. These aren’t the kind of historical highlights you’d find inscribed on monuments, no, no, no. Not tales of kings or conquerors, but ones that make you stop mid-sentence, utter an expletive deleted or two, and wonder if someone, somewhere, isn’t just having a very long laugh at our expense. Because if history has taught us anything, it’s that it’s far less concerned with dignity than we like to believe - and thank goodness for that!

 

Today we’re looking at some crazy tidbits our history books left out.

 

The Great Whiskey Fire Of 1875

A glass of amber whiskey with ice sits against a backdrop of bright flames on a beige background. A green clover adorns the glass.

In the grand tapestry of human history, there are stories of bravery, ingenuity, and resilience. And then there’s the Great Whiskey Fire of Dublin, 1875 - a tale that could only emerge from the peculiar chemistry of Irish wit, free-flowing liquor, and human…ingenuity? On June 18th of that year, a massive fire broke out in Malone’s bonded warehouse, a facility that housed 5,000 thousand of barrels of whiskey (about 1,193,000 liters or 315,200 gallons). As the flames devoured their surroundings, the barrels burst, releasing rivers of whiskey into the streets. It was, one assumes, the sort of catastrophe that poets might have described as both tragic yet oddly promising.

 

The fire was fierce, but it was quickly contained thanks to the city's fire brigade. This, however, is where events took a peculiar twist. You see, the river of whiskey that flowed – more than 400 meters (1300 feet) long and 15 cm (6 inches) deep - didn’t just vanish. It pooled and streamed, a liquid siren song to the locals, who saw no point in letting perfectly good spirits go to waste. Armed with pots, pans, bare hands and, in some cases, even their boots, they scooped up as much as they could. Perhaps they saw it as divine providence, an act of grace delivered in the form of free booze.

 

By the end of the night, 13 people lay dead - not from burns, not from collapsing buildings, but from alcohol poisoning.

Victorian police carry a man on a stretcher as onlookers, some in distress, gather. Monochrome sketch with somber mood.

They drank themselves to death on undiluted whiskey that was much more potent than bottled whiskey offered at retail stores. The newspapers of the time, ever delicate in their phrasing, referred to the victims as "too eager to partake," a euphemism as Irish as the story itself. The tragedy prompted new discussions about safety regulations for storing alcohol, though one suspects the real lesson learned was more personal: even in the face of divine intervention, moderation remains key.

 

Damn the Torpedoes, Full Spuds Ahead!

War stories often lean heavily on heroism, strategy, and advanced weaponry - decisive moments marked by tanks, torpedoes, and a solid dose of daring. Yet, occasionally, history serves up a tale so bizarre it feels like it came from the pages of a particularly imaginative comic strip. Such is the case of the US sailors who, during World War II, managed to repel a Japanese submarine using little more than a well-aimed volley of potatoes.

 

The incident unfolded in 1943 aboard the USS O'Bannon, a Fletcher-class destroyer prowling the waters of the Pacific.

A naval ship labeled USS O'Bannon DD-450 sails on the ocean. The ship number 450 is visible. Text reads The Lucky O. Sky is overcast.

One fateful evening, on patrol off the Solomon Islands, the ship encountered a surfaced Japanese submarine where over a dozen Japanese crew were relaxing on the deck. The O'Bannon narrowly missed colliding with the sub, whose relaxing sailors suddenly sprang into action, aiming their deck guns at the US ship. The O’Bannon, however, was too close to fire its own guns. As luck, or naval ingenuity, would have it, a nearby supply of barrels of potatoes provided just the ammunition they needed.

 

The sailors began hurling the spuds with unrestrained vigor, pelting the sub’s deck with an unrelenting barrage of Idaho’s finest.

Illustrated naval battle with potatoes flying between two ships in blue sea. Soldiers on board aim cannons. Text: "The Great Potato Battle".

The Japanese crew, understandably bewildered, mistook the potatoes for grenades and started hurling them back at the Americans. In the chaotic food fight that ensued, the Japanese abandoned their anti-aircraft gun, buying the O’Bannon enough time to reposition and open fire with real weapons. The submarine was damaged and forced to dive, ultimately being sunk by depth charges. The O’Bannon sailed on, the day saved not by firepower or cunning strategy, but by the humble potato - an unlikely hero, quietly bridging the gap between kitchen and combat.

Bronze plaque honoring the USS O'Bannon crew's ingenuity using potatoes in 1943. Presented by Maine Potato Growers, dated June 14, 1945.

 

Sell Food, Buy Tires

Today, a Michelin star is the culinary equivalent of Olympic gold, a symbol of excellence so revered that chefs have been known to weep, rage, or even shutter their kitchens upon receiving (or losing) one. But this pinnacle of gastronomic glory has origins far less glamorous than the hallowed kitchens it now celebrates. In fact, the Michelin rating system was born, not out of a love for food, but from a desire to sell more tires. Yes, the star that can make or break a chef’s career began as little more than a ploy to keep French motorists on the move - and their tires wearing down.

 

It all started in 1900 when brothers André and Édouard Michelin,

The Michelin brothers with beards sit side by side in suits, gazing thoughtfully. The image is in black and white, creating a vintage atmosphere.

tire manufacturers with a keen eye for marketing, realized that more people driving meant more people buying tires. To encourage road trips, they created the Michelin Guide, a booklet full of practical tips for motorists, like where to refuel, where to fix a flat, and – critically - where to stop for a good meal. The logic was simple: if drivers had more compelling reasons to leave home, they’d spend more time behind the wheel and, eventually, need to buy more tires.

Open book and red "Guide Michelin" 1900 edition on a wooden table. Features a map and text, conveying a vintage travel theme.

By 1926, the guide introduced its first fine-dining ratings, symbolized by a single star. Over the next decade, the system expanded into the now-iconic hierarchy of one, two, and three stars, each representing a level of culinary pilgrimage. “Worth a stop,” “worth a detour,” and “worth a special journey” became the shorthand for the tire company’s ingenious mission: to turn eating into an excuse to drive hundreds of miles.

Michelin mascot holding a red "Guide MICHELIN Deutschland" book, with three stars and cutlery icon on a red background. Mood: Proud.

To maintain the system’s credibility, Michelin employed anonymous inspectors tasked with sampling the finest cuisine under the guise of ordinary diners. The result? A culinary empire built on the backs of unwitting motorists, proving once again that even something as noble as gastronomy can trace its lineage back to clever corporate scheming.

 

President Andrew Jackson held a massive cheese party at the White House

In the annals of American history, few events embody the phrase "say cheese" quite like President Andrew Jackson’s infamous 1837 White House cheese party. The story begins in 1835, when Colonel Thomas Meacham, a dairy farmer from New York, decided that nothing says “thank you for your service” like an enormous block of cheddar.

Andrew Jackson, in formal attire, stands by a large hunk of cheese in a vintage room with a chair, creating a surreal, historical mood.

Jackson, a populist with a penchant for public displays, didn’t just accept the 1,400 pounds (635 kg) block of cheese; he put it on display. He left the gargantuan block aging in the foyer of the White House for nearly two years, because nothing says "presidential decorum" like an olfactory experiment in dairy fermentation. By 1837, Jackson’s second term was drawing to a close, and he faced the same problem that plagues all politicians nearing retirement: what to do with that ton of cheese in the foyer? His solution was to offer an open invitation to the public to come help him finish it. And so, on Washington’s first “cheese day,” a crowd descended upon the White House, armed with knives, forks, and presumably a high tolerance for lactose.

People gather excitedly around a large pile of cheese in the White House foyer, with many in period clothing. A young boy sits on the floor, looking curious.

Eyewitness accounts describe the scene with a mix of awe and mild horror. According to an attendee of the event, the cheese was devoured in just two hours. The air hung thick with its pungent aroma, the floors became slick with cheese residue, and for one glorious day, Washington’s political chatter was drowned out by talk of curds and whey. The event became legendary, a testament to Jackson’s unique blend of populism, showmanship, and, apparently, his penchant for snacks. Its spirit even resurfaced in modern times, with the Obama administration reviving the idea of open-access events (sans cheese)

White House with large cheese blocks on roof. Text reads "2nd Annual Big Block of Cheese Day" against a clear blue sky.

and The West Wing immortalizing it in fiction.


A Prescription for Booze

Winston Churchill’s relationship with alcohol wasn’t just indulgent; it was practically Shakespearean. Champagne, brandy, and whiskey weren’t mere beverages to him - they were loyal confidants, as intrinsic to his existence as cigars or indomitable wit. According to his private secretary Jack Colville, Churchill “swished whiskey as a mouthwash”. Alcohol was part of his entertaining, too, and in 1936 he spent what is today $75,000 on champagne alone. So, when Churchill found himself in the United States during the Prohibition era, one of history’s grander collective delusions, it was clear that this was a man who would not be constrained by mere mortal legislation.

 

In 1931, during one of his American visits, Churchill was struck by a car while crossing New York's Fifth Avenue.

Winston Churchill in hat and coat and smoking a cigar smiles while being loaded into an ambulance with a blanket. Two people, one in uniform, are nearby. Urban background. Black and white.

The collision left him with injuries severe enough to warrant medical attention - and, more importantly, an opportunity. His physician, perhaps recognizing the restorative properties of a good scotch (or perhaps bowing to Churchill’s legendary stubbornness), issued him a prescription for alcohol. And not just a "sip as needed" kind of prescription; Churchill was permitted to consume “at least 250 cubic centimeters” of alcohol (roughly five ounces) daily for medicinal purposes.

Typed letter from January 26, 1932, certifying Winston Churchill's need for alcohol during meals, signed by Dr. Otto C. Pickhardt.

That’s nearly two generous glasses of whiskey which, conveniently, aligned with what Churchill might have prescribed himself under the same circumstances.

 

This exception allowed Churchill to navigate Prohibition as only he could: with style, legality, and an unwavering commitment to his daily rituals. While the rest of America was hiding gin in bathtubs and risking blindness with moonshine, Churchill was sipping prescribed whiskey with the full blessing of medical science. The incident was less a flouting of Prohibition than a reminder that even the most sweeping laws tend to bow, eventually, to human ingenuity and a well-tailored suit.

 

Black Crepe Everywhere  

Victor Hugo, the literary giant behind Les Misérables and The Hunchback of Notre Dame, wasn’t just a towering figure in French literature; he was also a man who thoroughly embodied the concept of joie de vivre.

Victor Hugo with a white beard in a formal suit sits against a plain brown backdrop, looking serious. His hands rest on his lap.

While his sweeping epics grappled with love, despair, and the plight of the downtrodden, Hugo himself was busy engaging in pursuits that could fill an entirely different kind of diary. Married to Adele Foucher for over 40 years, Hugo treated monogamy more as a creative suggestion than a binding contract. By the time of his death in 1885, he was rumored to have romanced over 200 women, maintaining such an impressive rotation that one wonders when he found the time to write.

 

Hugo’s personal ledger of conquests was famously encoded, to confuse prying eyes or perhaps to maintain an air of mystery about just how thoroughly he was conducting his research on human passion. He was known not only to financially support many of his lovers but also to frequent the brothels of Paris with an enthusiasm that suggested he considered them cultural institutions in their own right. So, when Hugo died, Paris mourned in a fashion befitting its literary titan.

 

He was given a state funeral, an honor typically reserved for presidents and generals.

Large crowd at Victor Hugo's funeral procession in Paris, June 1885. Soldiers on horseback, horse-drawn carriage with wreath, trees lining the street.

More than two million people lined the streets to pay their respects, including, most strikingly, the city’s prostitutes, who demonstrated their grief with a flair only Paris could muster. Brothels across the capital shuttered their doors for the day, allowing their workers to attend the funeral of a man who had been more than just a customer. Hugo’s loyal patronage and reputation as a man of singular appetite had clearly left an impression - one that transcended mere commerce.

 

The tributes were as flamboyant as the man himself. According to one account, many women observed a mourning custom so unique they would make a Victorian blush: draping their genitalia in black crepe as a mark of respect. Whether this is true or simply the kind of detail Parisians like to invent is beside the point. The fact remains that the city came to a standstill for its most prodigious lover, poet, and patron. Hugo was, after all, a national institution, a man whose works explored the depths of human suffering while his life explored the heights of human indulgence. But it was this peculiar convergence of the literary and the licentious that cemented the occasion as quintessentially Parisian: grand, theatrical, and utterly unbothered by propriety.

Torn paper with Victor Hugo quote and illustration of a girl. Black and blue text on a gray background, melancholic tone.

 

Hawaiian Pizza’s Northern Roots

Hawaiian pizza: the culinary Rorschach test that divides humanity into passionate devotees and outraged traditionalists. Is it the tangy triumph of sweet and savory, or proof that humans should not be left alone with canned fruit and a hot oven? Regardless of where you stand, it might surprise you to learn that this particular pie, often associated with luaus and tiki torches, has about as much to do with Hawaii as maple syrup has with Mexico.

A clear bottle labeled "Tequila El Jefe" with an amber liquid, set on a marble countertop. White tiles form the background.

Its true origin lies far to the north, in the snow-dusted, pineapple-free lands of Ontario, Canada, where one man dared to defy pizza orthodoxy.

 

Sam Panopoulos was a Greek immigrant who arrived in Canada in 1954 at the age of 20, bringing with him a dream and a willingness to experiment.

Sam Panopoulos in a white shirt stands smiling behind a diner counter with glass display. Bottles on top, a "Phillip Morris" sign on the wall.

By the 1960s, Panopoulos had opened a restaurant in Chatham, Ontario, where pizza was still a novelty. Inspired, perhaps, by a combination of boredom and a touch of culinary chaos, Panopoulos surveyed his pantry one fateful day and decided that what pizza really needed was fruit. And not just any fruit - canned pineapple, the kind marketed under the “Hawaiian” brand, because…well, why not?

 

The addition of ham completed the picture, providing a salty counterpoint to the pineapple’s sweetness and, one imagines, prompting some initial confusion among customers who may have thought they’d accidentally ordered dessert. But to Panopoulos’s surprise (and likely relief), people liked it. His customers embraced the dish, and the Hawaiian pizza began its quiet march toward infamy. And yet, what is pizza, if not a canvas for edible experimentation? So, love it or loathe it, Hawaiian pizza stands as a reminder that great things (or contentious ones) often come from the unlikeliest of places - like a small-town diner in 1960s Ontario, Canada.

Smiling Sam Panopoulos, inventor of the Hawaiian Pizza, holds a pizza with pineapple and ham. Background shows a restaurant setting with blue chairs. Warm, inviting mood.

 

Strike First, Apologize Later

And speaking of Canada, for all the neighborly goodwill, shared pop culture, and mutual love of hockey fights, Canada and the United States haven’t always been the best of friends. In fact, for much of the 19th and early 20th centuries, their relationship had the unmistakable tension of two roommates eyeing each other’s food in the fridge.

Canadian Mountie in red uniform saluting with a smile. Wears a tan hat and has a large mustache. Blue background. Formal and confident mood.

The War of 1812 saw American troops attempting - and spectacularly failing - to annex Canadian territory, followed by the 1839 Aroostook War, an utterly bloodless conflict where the US state of Maine sent a militia to chase Canadian lumberjacks out of the woods. The U.S. backed this logging dispute with 50,000 troops and $10 million, proving that, when it comes to trees, America does not mess around.

 

By 1921, however, Canada decided it was time to stop playing defense. Enter Defence Scheme No. 1, a delightfully ambitious plan drawn up by Lieutenant Colonel James "Let’s Just See What Happens" Brown.

Map of the U.S. and Canada with red arrows showing troop movements. Bottom text: Defence Scheme No. 1. Flags of Canada and U.S. displayed.

The idea? If war with the U.S. ever seemed imminent, Canada would strike first. And not just with a polite letter of protest - no, they would invade. Brown’s plan involved sending spies into New England towns, targeting key infrastructure like bridges and railroads, and launching rapid strikes on major American border cities. In theory, this would buy Canada enough time for, they hoped, the British to intervene and bail them out, because if history had taught Canada anything, it was that war with the U.S. tended to go poorly when fought alone. In gathering the intelligence he needed to formulate the plan, Brown and four fellow officers donned disguises, loaded into their Model T, and began an espionage mission along the Canada-New England border while Brown took pictures and notes. Among his insights: that the men of Vermont were “fat and lazy but pleasant and congenial”; that rural American women “appear to be a heavy and not very comely lot”; and that “(Americans) have a very deliberate way of working and apparently believe in frequent rests and gossip.”

 

Defence Scheme No. 1 was quietly scrapped in 1928, probably after someone sobered up and remembered the population of Canada was roughly one-tenth that of the United States. Brown’s plan remains one of history’s more endearing what-ifs: an alternate reality where Canada briefly stormed Vermont before inevitably retreating, probably apologizing on the way out.


Knights on Spinning Horses

Few childhood joys rival the giddy delight of a carousel ride - the painted horses, the lilting music, the gentle spin that makes you feel like some kind of Victorian aristocrat on a lazy afternoon.

Lit carousel with ornate horses spins at night in a park. Bright lights and colorful paintings adorn the ride, creating a nostalgic feel.

But beneath all that pastel charm lies a history far more warlike than one might expect. The carousel, as it turns out, was originally less about carefree fun and more about preparing to stab people on horseback.

 

The word itself traces back to carosella (Italian) and garosello (Spanish), both meaning "little war," which is a delightful understatement for the brutal cavalry training exercises they described.

Riders on horseback in a historical parade, set in a grand architectural courtyard. Vibrant attire, spectators, and "Giostra di Carosello a Cavallo" text.

Originating among Arabian and Turkish horsemen in the 12th century, the game involved riders hurling clay balls at one another at full gallop - an activity that presumably trained them for battle, improved their reflexes, and occasionally resulted in some unfortunate dental work. In the 16th century, when the French got wind of this, they adapted it into something a bit more refined: mounted knights would attempt to spear a small ring hanging from a pole, honing the same precision they’d need in combat. To aid in this training, they devised a rotating contraption featuring legless wooden horses, spun by servants, real horses, or, in less glamorous cases, mules.

 

By the 19th century, someone had the revolutionary idea that perhaps this spinning horse contraption could be more than just an elaborate medieval boot camp. Carousels began popping up at fairs, where children and adults alike could experience the thrill of mounted combat - minus the combat.

Far Side cartoon of a carousel with cartoon-style animals. Several people look concerned; an attendant's legs protrude from beneath the ride. Caption reads: "It's the attendant... he's been trampled."

Some of the earliest fairground versions were powered by someone cranking or pulling a rope to keep the ride in motion. Others employed live animals to do the work, proving that even in the age of industrial progress, there was always room for some good old-fashioned horse-powered labor. Over time, steam engines took over the grunt work of these “flying-horses carousels,” which allowed riders to glide in endless, mechanized circles of nostalgic bliss. And so, what began as a way to train warriors for battle became one of the most enduring symbols of childhood innocence - because history, like the carousel, always comes full circle.

 

A Sewer of Gold

Established in 1694, the gold vault of the Bank of England is one of the most secure and mysterious places in the world.

Exterior of the Bank of England with columns and a flag, cloudy sky. A soldier statue stands on a nearby pillar with lion sculpture. Classic lamps in view.

In 1836, the directors of the Bank received what must have been one of the more unsettling letters in their institution’s history. A man claimed to have access to their gold vault - not through fraud, forgery, or a daring heist, but through what can only be described as creative plumbing. The letter’s author was a sewer worker who had, entirely by accident, stumbled upon an underground passage leading straight into the heart of Britain’s financial stronghold. Rather than making off with a fortune, he politely requested a meeting, offering to demonstrate his rather unorthodox entry method.

 

Understandably skeptical, the bank’s directors agreed, likely expecting some sort of hoax. At the appointed hour, they gathered inside the vault, waiting in awkward silence. Then, in what must have been a moment of pure existential horror, the floor opened up and out popped the very man who had written them. There he stood - not a criminal mastermind or a phantom of the sewers, but a humble sewer worker who had, quite accidentally, uncovered what should have been an impenetrable security flaw.

Art Carney as Ed Norton from "The Honeymooners" in a hat and vest sits in a manhole, holding a wooden ladder. Background shows a wheel, creating a vintage city street vibe.

After everyone presumably took a moment to recover from the shock, the bank rewarded the man £800 for his honesty. Literally a king’s ransom in 1836, equal to close to £80,000 today (nearly usd$100,000).

Stack of shiny gold bars arranged in a pyramid on a smooth, light-colored surface. Bright and reflective, creating a rich, opulent mood.

The passage was promptly sealed, and the bank’s security was no doubt reviewed with an urgency that suggested a newfound appreciation for drainage maintenance. And so, thanks to one conscientious sewer worker, the Bank of England narrowly avoided going down in history as the world’s first financial institution to be undone by a well-placed manhole cover.

 

Acoustic Cats

The Cold War was an era of paranoia, espionage, and increasingly bizarre attempts to outwit the enemy. Enter Operation Acoustic Kitty, a CIA-backed plan that, at some point in a smoke-filled Washington office, must have sounded like an absolutely brilliant idea. The concept? Equip a domestic cat with listening devices, train it to eavesdrop on Soviet conversations, then send it slinking unnoticed into the enemy’s midst. After all, who would suspect a cat of espionage?

Gray and white cat with green eyes looks directly at the camera. Soft-focus background; the cat appears calm and curious.

The project began in the 1960s with the kind of unchecked enthusiasm that only government funding can provide. The CIA spent five years and a staggering $20 million surgically implanting a microphone in the cat’s ear canal, a small radio transmitter around its neck, and an antenna woven down its back. The idea was that the feline operative would be deployed outside high-level meetings, quietly gathering intelligence while pretending to be just another disinterested stray. There was, however, one glaring flaw in the plan: they had fundamentally misunderstood cats.

A serious cat holds a sign saying "I knew too much" against a striped background. Next to it, a diagram shows a cat wired with surveillance gear.

For all the money and effort spent, the cat remained, at heart, a cat - independent, indifferent, and far more interested in finding a sunny spot to nap than in toppling the Soviet Union. Nevertheless, the CIA pressed on, and the first field test was scheduled. The highly trained feline agent was released near a Soviet compound, expected to slink across the street toward its target, and quietly send back information. Instead, mere moments into its mission, it was promptly run over by a taxi. The operation was swiftly abandoned, and with it, any hope that feline espionage would be the key to winning the Cold War. Ultimately, Operation Acoustic Kitty proved what cat owners have always known: you can give a cat all the training, resources, and high-tech gadgetry in the world, but in the end, it will still do exactly as it pleases.

Catwoman, from the original Batman TV series, lies on a table with a black cat. Background shows feathers and text "PAX AETERNA". Books visible.

 

Van Gogh the Astronomer

Vincent van Gogh was many things: an artist, a dreamer, a man who could never quite make the rent. But he was also, it turns out, an accidental astronomer. His 1888 masterpiece, Café Terrace at Night, is not just a vision of a charming, lantern-lit French cafe - it is also, quite literally, a snapshot of the night sky as it appeared at a precise moment in time.

Van Gogh's Cafe Terrace at Night. Night cafe scene with a cobblestone street, vibrant yellow and blue tones. People seated at outdoor tables under a starry sky.

Though the painting bears no signature, van Gogh himself left a trail of celestial breadcrumbs, both in his letters and on the canvas itself, allowing historians to pinpoint exactly when it was created.

 

In a letter to his brother Theo, van Gogh wrote about working on Café Terrace at Night during his time in Arles, France, in September 1888. But it was art historian Albert Boime who, more than a century later, noticed that van Gogh had not simply painted a generic swirl of stars - he had rendered the sky with scientific accuracy. The positioning of the stars matched the constellation Aquarius as it appeared in early September of that year, at around 11 p.m. Using astronomical software and historical records, Boime confirmed that van Gogh had, quite unknowingly, painted a perfect celestial timestamp.

Sun and moon with faces in an abstract celestial design. Stars, clouds, and planets surround in soft gold on a cream background, creating a serene mood.

This wasn’t an isolated moment of cosmic precision. Van Gogh had an obsessive fascination with the night sky, a theme that would culminate in The Starry Night the following year.

Vincent van Gogh's "The Starry Night". Swirling starry sky over a quiet village. Dominant blue and yellow tones create a dynamic and emotive scene with rolling hills.

But Café Terrace at Night remains unique in that it serves as a quiet, unintentional act of timekeeping - a kind of 19th-century time capsule, less reliant on the formalities of a calendar and more on the immutable patterns of the universe. It is, in essence, a love letter to the stars, written in oil paint and hidden in plain sight above the heads of unsuspecting café-goers.

 

And so, we’ve come to the end of today’s look at some of history’s more ridiculous yet oddly enchanting episodes. We’ll be revisiting this topic again later in the year because, well, there’s simply a veritable plethora of craziness to share.

 

History, in its quieter moments, is not the solemn, dignified procession we pretend it is. It’s a stumbling, sometimes intoxicated, often deeply confused beast that occasionally produces something resembling progress in between bouts of sheer lunacy. The same species that put a man on the moon once trained a housecat to commit espionage. The same civilization that gave us democracy also gave us a cheese-fueled riot at the White House. And for every Shakespeare, there’s a Van Gogh accidentally timestamping his own painting with the stars, blissfully unaware that one day, people with far too much time on their hands would fact-check his night sky.

 

We think there’s something reassuring about all this. That beneath all the pomp and circumstance, humanity has always been a little ridiculous. That for every grand conquest, there’s a submarine felled by a sack of potatoes. That for every state funeral, there’s a brothel shutting down in respectful mourning (and the rest of us looking on in envy). It’s a reminder that history is not just written by the victors, but also by the fools, the lucky, and the ones who stumbled into something memorable simply because they were there when the world decided to be absurd.

 

So, the next time you hear someone lamenting the decline of civilization, take comfort in the fact that civilization has always been a mess. The past is not a pristine, dignified museum exhibit - it’s a cluttered attic full of strange artifacts and half-forgotten stories, reeking faintly of whiskey, melted cheese, and pineapples. And frankly, we wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

 

 

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joe.carrillo
6 days ago

I love obscure information! Great for a cocktail party, but definite favorite was USS O’Bannon and their creative sailors!!! Absolutely never heard about the effort! The Michelin story was cool because, I always assumed the tire company and the rating system were two different members of the Michelin family; such ingenious people! But my absolute favorite is Canada’s plan to attack the U.S. Ironically it might come in handy, given the political rhetoric!


History has so many fun and weird stories! So much fun!!!

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