History
Sometimes, we look at a masterpiece and think that the artist must have spent hours creating such a piece. That is probably true, but sometimes, what we consider a masterpiece was something the artist didn’t really like, and maybe struggled with. In fact, the world’s most famous painting, Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, was never finished. That surprised me…until i really looked at the painting.
The fact is that da Vinci was almost as famous for not finishing his work, as he was for the Mona Lisa itself. Maybe it’s just one of the idiosyncrasies of artists, or maybe it’s just this artist. I rather think it might be just this artist, but then again, artists are trying to create a picture of what they see in their minds, and if it doesn’t perfectly translate to the canvas, I suppose they might try to fix it.
For da Vinci, the problem was in Mona Lisa’s eyebrows and eyelashes, causing him to leave subtle details that are open to interpretation. The Mona Lisa, however, has puzzled art historians for centuries. Da Vinci was a known perfectionist, so I suppose that might have been why some of his paintings were never finished. He just never felt like they were “perfect” and so da Vinci often left projects unfinished, working on the painting sporadically over four years and abandoning it multiple times. When experts examined his work using X-ray scans, they could see that he originally painted eyebrows and eyelashes on Mona Lisa, but later he removed 
them, perhaps to give the portrait a more ethereal, otherworldly look…hard to say. One school of thought is that Mona Lisa’s unfinished touches reflect Renaissance beauty trends, when aristocratic women plucked their eyebrows and hairlines to create higher foreheads. Da Vinci’s quest for anatomical perfection drove him to constantly revise the work, layering transparent glazes to achieve the soft, mysterious sfumato effect (a technique of allowing tones and colors to shade gradually into one another, producing softened outlines or hazy forms) that we admire today. The missing eyebrows continue to inspire theories about his intentions and artistic vision. Obviously, I’m no artist, but while the Mona Lisa is interesting and extremely valuable, it would never be my taste.
The Cold War was a strange and rather unique time in history. Nuclear weapons were a big concern, and the United States government felt a need to be prepared…just in case. The Cold War was primarily caused by ideological differences, geopolitical tensions, and the power vacuum left after World War II, leading to a prolonged rivalry between the United States and the Soviet Union. Because the United States didn’t know if the Soviets would dare to launch a nuclear weapon, they decided that it was necessary to prepare for the possibility of a long nuclear winter…which would actually last for years. Many people thought, and possibly for good reason, that the Soviet government was insane.
While the logic was great, the procedure seems more than a little strange to me. Nevertheless, I suppose it could have and probably would have worked, in the event of that nuclear attack. The government’s solution was to construct massive underground bunkers filled with processed cheese as emergency food supplies for surviving a nuclear apocalypse. When I read this, I first thought, “What???” It seemed as insane as I knew the Soviets were. These “cheese caves” were carved into limestone formations in Missouri and other states. They stored millions of pounds of government-surplus cheese wheels that could feed survivors for years after a nuclear attack. That seems absolutely incredible. Of course, I know cheese can last a long time, but years…really. I’m no expert, so I would have no idea, I guess, but the government thought it would work.
What started as a simple agricultural policy to support dairy farmers eventually morphed into part of the national defense strategy, with military planners convinced cheese was vital for survival after a nuclear disaster. At this point, if you’re like me, you are thinking, “Who’s crazy idea was this?” I mean, I know cheese is good for us, but as the whole diet…I just don’t know. Nevertheless, the government officials were convinced that the plan had merit. Officials regularly checked the underground cheese reserves, rotating stock and testing for 
radiation resistance to make sure the dairy would still be safe to eat after fallout. Kept under tight security and absolute secrecy, access to the cheese bunkers was limited to authorized personnel who treated them like classified national security assets. This odd mix of farming policy and doomsday planning turned the government into one of America’s biggest cheese hoarders, holding enough reserves to feed entire cities during a long-term collapse. While it was a viable plan, I guess…I’m sure that many people were thankful it was never needed. first the idea of living underground for years at a time, and second, the idea of eating just cheese…seriously, both are unthinkable.
Many people are superstitious or just afraid of new or unusual things, and Britain was no different when it came to technology, at least. When the early motorized vehicles came out, the British decided that there had to be a way to let pedestrians and horses know that theses “contraptions” were coming down the road. So, Britain implemented the Red Flag Act of 1865. The law required every motor vehicle to be led by a man on foot waving a red flag to alert pedestrians and horses of its approach. This odd rule capped speeds at 4 mph in the countryside and just 2 mph in towns, which made early cars slower than walking. I guess the only way it made sense would be if the vehicle had a passenger who couldn’t walk in it, but then again, they could have been transported in a wheelchair or cart. Still, I suppose that would not be acceptable within the part of the community that could afford a car.
The Red Flag Act had certain rules to it, including that the man walking on foot, called a flag bearer had to stay 60 yards ahead of the vehicle he was warning people about. The whole process turned car travel into an impractical and costly venture thanks to the need for a dedicated flag carrier. No worker in their right mind is going to walk around town ahead of their employer’s car without getting paid for it…right?
Basically, the law reflected Victorian fears about new technology and concern for horses, which were prone to panic when encountering the strange mechanical contraptions. Maybe the concern for the horses made sense, but they could and did get used to the automobiles eventually. Because of the Red Flag Act, the sale of 
automobiles to the British suffered. It all just made no sense. When a person can walk somewhere faster than they can drive it, they might as well walk. That made automobile manufacturers angry. Their business was suffering, so they lobbied against the Red Flag Act for over 30 years, arguing that it stifled innovation and made Britain’s automotive industry uncompetitive. It’s shocking to me that it took longer than 30 years to finally get that law repealed, but it wasn’t repealed until 1896, a fact that significantly delaying Britain’s eventual adoption of automobile technology, as compared to other European nations and the United States. When you think about it, fear and superstition can really be detrimental to progress and mental health.
William Magear “Boss” Tweed was born on April 3, 1823, at 1 Cherry Street on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. The son of a third-generation Scottish chair-maker, he grew up on Cherry Street. His grandfather had emigrated from a town near the River Tweed, close to Edinburgh. While his religious affiliation wasn’t widely known during his life, The New York Times later reported, quoting a family friend, that his parents were Quakers and members of the old Rose Street Meeting House. At 11, he left school to learn his father’s trade, later apprenticing with a saddler. He also studied bookkeeping and worked as a brushmaker for a company he invested in before joining the family business in 1852. On September 29, 1844, he married Mary Jane C Skaden and lived with her family on Madison Street for two years.
Tweed joined the Odd Fellows, the Masons, and volunteered with Engine Number 12. In 1848, invited by state assemblyman John J Reilly, he and friends formed the Americus Fire Company Number 6, or “Big Six,” adopting a snarling red Bengal tiger from a French lithograph as their emblem…a symbol tied to Tweed and Tammany Hall for years. Volunteer fire companies were fiercely 
competitive, often linked to street gangs and ethnic communities, sometimes fighting each other instead of fires. Known for wielding an ax in brawls, Tweed was elected “Big Six” foreman until chief engineer Alfred Carlson pushed him out. Fire companies also served as political recruiting grounds, bringing Tweed to the attention of Democratic leaders in the Seventh Ward, who backed him for Alderman in 1850 at age 26. He lost to Whig candidate Morgan Morgans but won the seat the following year, marking his first political role. He soon aligned with the “Forty Thieves,” a notoriously corrupt group of city aldermen and assistant aldermen. After beginning his association with “Forth Thieves,” Tweed started down the road to corruption. He rose to prominence in Tammany Hall, New York City’s powerful Democratic political machine, in the late 1850s. By the mid-1860s, he had taken over as its leader and created the “Tweed Ring,” a group that openly bought votes, promoted judicial corruption, siphoned millions from city contracts, and held a tight grip on New York City politics.
In 1871, the Tweed Ring hit its height of corruption with the remodeling of the City Court House, a shameless embezzlement of public funds exposed by The New York Times. Tweed and his cronies hoped the backlash would fade, but thanks to relentless critics like Harper’s Weekly cartoonist Thomas Nast, who waged a fierce campaign against him, nearly every Tammany Hall member was ousted in the November elections that year. All members of the Tweed Ring were eventually tried and sent to prison. Boss Tweed served time for forgery, larceny, and other charges, but in 1875 he escaped and fled to Cuba and then Spain. On November 23, 1876, Spanish police arrested him, reportedly recognizing him from a well-known Nash cartoon. After being extradited to the United States, he was sent back to prison, where he died in 1878.
The world is full of firsts, and John Bennett Herrington is one of them. Born on September 14, 1958, a member of the Chickasaw Nation in Wetumka, Oklahoma, Herrington grew up in Colorado Springs, Colorado, Riverton, Wyoming, and Plano, Texas, where he graduated from Plano Senior High School. After high school, he moved to Colorado to pursue a bachelor’s degree in applied mathematics, from the University of Colorado at Colorado Springs. While there, Herrington developed an interest in rock climbing in the Colorado mountains.
Herrington earned his commission in the United States Navy after graduating from the Aviation Officer Candidate School at Naval Air Station Pensacola, Florida, in March 1984. A year later, he became a Naval Aviator and headed to Patrol Squadron Thirty-One (VP-31) at Moffett Field, California, for P-3C Orion training. His first operational role was with Patrol Squadron Forty-Eight (VP-48), where he completed three deployments…two to the Northern Pacific from Naval Air Facility Adak, Alaska, and one to the Western Pacific from Naval Air Station Cubi Point, Philippines. During his time with VP-48, he served as a Patrol Plane Commander, Mission Commander, and Patrol Plane Instructor Pilot.
After finishing his first operational tour, Herrington returned to VP-31 as a Fleet Replacement Squadron Instructor Pilot. While there, he was chosen to attend the United States Naval Test Pilot School at Naval Air Station Patuxent River, Maryland, in January 1990. He graduated that December and joined the Force Warfare Aircraft Test Directorate as a project test pilot for the Joint Primary Aircraft Training System. He also took on 
additional flight test assignments, flying various P-3 Orion models along with the T-34C and the de Havilland Canada Dash 7. After becoming an Aeronautical Engineering Duty Officer (AEDO), Herrington attended the United States Naval Postgraduate School, earning a Master of Science in aeronautical engineering in June 1995. He then worked as a special projects officer for the Bureau of Naval Personnel Sea Duty Component before being selected for the astronaut program.
During his military service, he was awarded the Navy Commendation Medal, Navy Meritorious Unit Commendation, Coast Guard Meritorious Unit Commendation, Coast Guard Special Operations Service Ribbon, National Defense Service Medal, Sea Service Ribbons (3), and various other service awards. Selected by NASA in April 1996, Herrington reported to the Lyndon B Johnson Space Center in August 1996. He completed two years of training and evaluation and qualified for flight assignment as a mission specialist. Herrington was assigned to the Flight Support Branch of the Astronaut Office where he served as a member of the Astronaut Support Personnel team responsible for Shuttle launch preparations and post-landing operations.
Herrington served as a mission specialist on STS-113, the sixteenth Space Shuttle trip to the International 
Space Station. To honor his Chickasaw heritage, Herrington, an enrolled citizen of the Chickasaw Nation, carried its flag on his thirteen-day trip to space. The flag had been presented to him by Chickasaw Nation Governor Bill Anoatubby. Endeavour launched from Kennedy Space Center on November 23, 2002, carrying the P1 Truss segment to support the Station’s radiators. It also brought the new Expedition 6 crew and returned to Earth on December 7, 2002, with the Expedition 5 crew after their six-month stay in space. The mission lasted 13 days, 18 hours, and 47 minutes. During the flight, Herrington completed three spacewalks totaling 19 hours and 55 minutes, an achievement honored on the reverse of the 2019 Sacagawea dollar coin.
During the Old West years, and even into World War II, a phenomenon known as the Medicine Show was commonplace. Medicine shows were touring acts that traveled by truck, horse, or wagon teams peddling “miracle cure” patent medicines and other products between various entertainment acts. They evolved from European mountebank (swindler) shows and were popular in the United States during the nineteenth century.
Medicine shows often touted “miracle elixirs,” sometimes dismissed by real doctors as “snake oil liniment.” The peddlers and their so-called cures boasted they could heal diseases, erase wrinkles, remove stains, extend life, or remedy countless common ailments. Most of these shows featured their own “patent medicine” which were usually unpatented products given the name to sound official. To attract crowds, the shows often featured a mix of entertainments like freak shows, flea circuses, musical acts, magic tricks, jokes, and storytelling. Each was hosted by a man pretending to be a doctor, who kicked things off with a monologue to reel people in. Performers such as acrobats, strongmen, magicians, dancers, ventriloquists, exotic acts, and trick shooters kept the audience hooked until it was time for the salesman to pitch his medicine.
Showmen selling miraculous cures have existed since ancient times, and really still exist today. It seems like there is always some new “miracle cure” being peddled on television or Facebook these days. Of course, now the salesperson doesn’t have a circus act or other crazy show to catch the eye, but then they only have a 
minute or so on television, so they have to get right to it. As for the Old West, the performances became more elaborate to attract a mostly rural audience, and they had a lot more time to “grab” their audience.
In the nineteenth century, traveling mountebanks evolved into more polished medicine shows, fueled by the booming patent medicine industry. By 1858, there were at least 1,500 “patent medicines” on record, giving wandering salesmen a specific product to pitch. These so-called “medicines” rarely treated the actual causes of illness, instead relying on stimulants or drugs to create a pleasant effect. Common ingredients like alcohol, opium, and cocaine not only made them addictive but also kept customers coming back, while their supposed health benefits provided a convenient excuse. By 1900, the patent medicine business was worth $80 million. The rise of the medicine show was also boosted by the growing advertising industry, which provided cheap posters, flyers, handbills, and other promotional materials. Other marketing tactics included catchy jingles, dramatic testimonials, and scare-based messaging.
Medicine shows mixed lively entertainment with sales pitches from self-proclaimed “doctors” peddling miracle cure-alls. These events could take place outdoors from a wagon, platform, or tent, or indoors in a theater or opera house, often with free or very cheap admission. Pitchmen made bold claims about their products, sometimes even planting people in the crowd to give fake testimonials. The idea was to stir up a need or fear, then present their unique remedy as the only solution. By alternating engaging acts with persuasive sales talk, they wore down the audience’s resistance until people were eager to buy. The shows would stay in town as long as possible…anywhere from one night to six weeks…before packing up and heading to the next stop. Imagine taking that “cure” for six weeks, becoming addicted, and then the dealer is gone. Medicine shows often brought entertainment to rural communities that might not have any other sort of performances for years at a time. Whatever the quality of the medical advice, some spectators enjoyed the free entertainment.
As mass-produced pharmaceuticals became widely available in the early 20th century, home remedies lost their popularity, and medicine shows leaned more on their entertainment to draw crowds. With America becoming 
less rural and more urban, new entertainment like movies, vaudeville, and later radio pushed the traveling medicine show toward extinction. By the 1930s, only a handful of these troupes still toured, and even fewer survived the Great Depression and World War II. The few that made it into the 1950s faced competition from television and were seen as relics of a bygone era. In the end, their novelty, more than the remedies they sold, kept the last of them alive.
As the West opened up in the early 1800s, the reality was that often, in those early days, more men went West than women…especially during the Gold Rush years. Once there, and especially as life became mundane from lack of success in the mining process, the men there became very lonely. That opened up a couple of possibilities…prostitutes and mail-order brides. Not many decent men wanted to spend a lot of time with a prostitute, so the mail-order bride option became popular. In fact, in the Old West, mail-order brides were a notable social trend, sparked by a gender imbalance and the settlers’ desire for companionship. I suppose it would be similar to today’s online dating, except for the fact that the mail-order bride already had the proposal before she came west.
In the 19th century, during America’s westward expansion, men far outnumbered women, creating a huge gender gap. In some places, there was just one woman for every 200 men. This imbalance led to social issues like isolation and made it hard to form families and build stable communities. To cope with the shortage of women, many men turned to mail-order advertisements to find brides. Loneliness is a powerful motivator. They placed ads in Eastern newspapers, sharing details about themselves and the kind of wife they wanted. Women who were interested would reply, and the couple often exchanged letters until they decided to marry. This approach let men find partners without having to leave their homesteads at risk of being claimed by others.
Many women who responded to these ads were looking for fresh opportunities or a way out of challenging situations at home. Motivations for becoming a mail-order bride ranged from seeking adventure and financial security to various personal reasons. As the demand for brides increased, matchmaking agencies sprang up to connect men and women. They promoted their services in newspapers, charging fees and promising to link eligible bachelors with women in search of stability and companionship.
The mail-order bride trend not only changed individual lives but also left its mark on the social fabric of frontier society. Divorce was not so easy to get then, so marriage over the mail service, or dating by mail was a big 
step and not one to be taken lightly. Still, it offered a unique answer to the gender imbalance, giving many women the chance to find husbands and start fresh in the Old West. Their stories often mix hope, necessity, and the pursuit of happiness in a fast-changing world. The use of a mail-order bride service shows us how loneliness changed the lives of those who braved the unknown in search of love and stability in tough conditions.
Photography arrived in the United States in 1839, and looking at portraits from that era, you’ll notice the subjects rarely smiled. I always thought of that as being sad, but the truth is that there were reasons for that. Most monochrome prints from the 18th century feature people in regal poses with serious expressions, and the absence of color adds to the somber feel. One reason for the lack of smiles was the long exposure time in early photography, which could take around 20 minutes. It was much easier to hold a relaxed face than to maintain a steady smile, and subjects had to remain perfectly still to avoid any blur in the final image.
By the early 1840s, the exposure time for photographs had dropped to about 20 seconds, yet people still kept serious expressions in their portraits. There could have been a number of reasons…habit, etiquette, and even poor dental care. For whatever reason, people in those days were actually not told to say “cheese” but rather “prunes.” The point was to keep a more neutral look on their faces. I wondered about that, and so I tried saying prunes instead of cheese, but it doesn’t seem like that would produce a neutral face exactly. To me it almost produced a pucker or an “o” face. I could be wrong I suppose, but in choosing “cheese” the persons face almost has to form a smile to get the word “cheese” out. The word “prunes” just doesn’t seem 
to produce the opposite effect for me.
Smiling for photos didn’t really catch on until the 20th century, which is also when saying “cheese” became popular. Unlike “cheese,” which makes you grin. Saying “prunes” tightens the lips for a more modest, refined look that fit the beauty standards of the time. This trend was started by Britain’s first portrait photographer, Richard Beard, who used it to help his subjects create a sharp, composed image. For me, it seems rather sad that all those old photographs had a serious look to them, like life was mean and harsh, instead of being happy. Actually, the opposite was usually true. People were usually happy, but history will never record that fact, because the people were told to say “prunes.” Personally, I prefer the smiles…don’t you?
A good con man can fool even the savviest of people in the right circumstances. Cousins, Philip Arnold and John Slack were “prospectors” who were pretty good at conning people. The Diamond Hoax of 1872, also known as The Great Diamond Hoax, was a scam where the two prospectors duped prominent businessmen in San Francisco and New York City into buying a fake American diamond deposit. This scheme sparked a short-lived diamond rush across the western United States, including Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, Wyoming, and Colorado.
In 1871, Arnold and Slack traveled through Navajo territory with James Cooper on their way to San Francisco, collecting chrome diopsides, pyrope garnets, and ilmenites. They mixed these with some flawed industrial-grade diamonds that Cooper already had and showed them to a local jeweler and bankers, securing funding for an expedition. The men were joined by Asbury Harpending, and they bought flawed South African stones from Leopold Keller jewelers in London. Back in San Francisco, they displayed their “findings,” and Harpending took some to Charles Lewis Tiffany for appraisal. Valued at $150,000, this appraisal led to the creation of the Golconda Mining Company. As the ruse continued, they hired mining consultant Henry Janin to inspect the mine, and Arnold later acquired more rough diamonds, low-grade rubies, emeralds, and other gems in London and Paris, mixing them with more Navajo spinels, sapphires, and pyrope garnets. These were planted near Diamond Peak, Colorado, on a sandstone outcrop containing itacolumite. In June 1872, they led Janin to the site, where he declared the “mine” to be “wonderfully rich.” Janin’s endorsement of the mine attracted investors like George B McClellan, Nathan 
Rothschild, Tiffany, and twenty others, and they bribed Spoons Butler to pass legislation granting access to federal land under the General Mining Act of 1872.
Later, the investors persuaded the cousins to sell their stake for $660,000 (about $17.3 million today) and went on to form the San Francisco and New York Mining and Commercial Company. New York attorney Samuel Latham Mitchill Barlow was brought in as their legal representative, who then suggested adding United States Congressman Benjamin F Butler to the legal team. Barlow established a New York corporation called the Golconda Mining Company with a capital stock of $10,000,000. Butler received one thousand shares for amending the General Mining Act of 1872 to include the phrase “valuable mineral deposits,” which enabled legal mining claims in the diamond fields. On August 31, 1872, United States Attorney General George H Williams clarified that “valuable mineral deposits” covered diamonds, and the company was ready to begin mining activity.
Soon everything began to unravel. Geologist Clarence King who had led a survey team that recently completed a Geological Exploration of the Fortieth Parallel had a chance meeting with Janin on a train. King and his team were alarmed at the reports of such a prominent diamond field which their survey had not noted. I’m sure they wondered what they had miss, or maybe they suspected foul play. King sent geologist Samuel Franklin Emmons and cartographer A D Wilson ahead to investigate, with King joining them soon after. Upon locating the site, they quickly concluded that it had been “salted.” As a geologist, King knew that the various stones found in the mine were formed under different conditions and would never be found together in a single deposit. He immediately notified the duped investors.
Meanwhile, the cousins knew it was time to “get out of Dodge” before they were found out. Arnold fled to 
Kentucky, taking his proceeds from the scheme and bought a two-story brick house in his native Elizabethtown, as well as some five hundred acres of nearby farmland…all of which he had deeded in the name of his wife Mary. In 1873, Arnold ventured into the banking business by purchasing a defunct financial institution in Elizabethtown. In 1878, a feud with another local banker led to a shootout, leaving him with a serious shotgun wound to the shoulder. He died six months later from pneumonia at the age of 49. Slack chose a quieter life, and in 1896, he died in White Oaks, New Mexico, where he had become a coffin maker. Neither of the men ever faced charges for the scam. Law enforcement was different back then.
Many people love the movie, Heidi, but even Heidi fans have their limit…at least those who are in the middle of a football game. On November 17, 1968, the Oakland Raiders scored two touchdowns in just nine seconds to defeat the New York Jets. Now that would have been a great game, but no one saw it because they were watching the movie Heidi instead. In one of the biggest blunders in history within the television network community, up to that date anyway, with only 65 seconds left in the game, NBC cut away to its scheduled program, a made-for-TV adaptation of the children’s story about a young girl and her grandfather in the Alps. Outraged viewers flooded the network with complaints, teaching executives a lesson they’d never forget…”Whatever you do, never cut away from an NFL game,” one viewer said.
The Jets and Raiders game was turning into an instant classic, showcasing two of the league’s top teams and boasting 10 future Hall of Famers. By the final minute, the lead had changed hands eight times. The high intensity led to a flurry of penalties and timeouts, stretching the game longer than usual, which was the whole reason that the network cut away became a problem. With just over a minute to go, the Jets nailed a 26-yard field goal to pull ahead 32-29. After the kickoff, the Raiders started from their own 23-yard line. What followed became legendary…quarterback Daryle Lamonica hit halfback Charlie Smith with a 20-yard pass, and a 
facemask penalty put the ball on the Jets’ 43-yard-line. On the very next play, Lamonica connected with Smith again, who took it all the way for a touchdown, putting Oakland up 36-32. Then, on the ensuing kickoff, the Jets fumbled, and Preston Ridlehuber scooped it up and ran it in from two yards out. In just nine seconds, the Raiders scored twice and sealed a 43-32 victory.
Unfortunately, nobody outside the Oakland Coliseum saw any of that spectacular ending, because NBC cut to a commercial right after the Jet’ kickoff and never returned. Instead, they stuck to their long-standing plan…at 7 PM, they aired a new version of Heidi, because they were confident it would score big ratings during November sweeps. Before kickoff, network executives had already discussed the possibility of the game running late and decided they’d air the movie no matter what. So, that’s what NBC programmer Dick Cline did. “I waited and waited,” he said later, “and I heard nothing. We came up to that magic hour and I thought, ‘Well, I haven’t been given any counter order, so I’ve got to do what we agreed to do.'”
The reality was that NBC executives had a last-minute change of heart and tried to reach Cline to tell him to keep the game on until it ended. But the phone lines were jammed with thousands of people calling to push for Heidi to air on time, while thousands more demanded the football game stay on. Fans got even angrier when NBC flashed the game’s final score at the bottom of the screen 20 minutes after it was over. The flood of furious calls overwhelmed NBC’s switchboard, prompting people to start phoning the telephone company, the New York 
Times, and even the NYPD, whose emergency lines were tied up for hours. I guess I can understand the telephone company calls…to see if phone lines are down, but the New York Times and the NYPD!!! What are they going to do about it? The New York Times and the NYPD have no say in the matter.
Not long after the infamous Heidi incident, the NFL added a clause to its TV contracts ensuring that all games would be shown in full in their home markets. They didn’t ever want to deal with another fiasco like the one they called the “Heidi Game” again!! So, NBC set up a special phone, dubbed the “Heidi Phone” in the control room with its own exchange and switchboard. The network promised viewers that such a fiasco would never happen again. I wonder how long it took for their ratings to come back!!
