On Anti-Bacterial Soap

Though popularized by the dramatic writings of Sir Peirce Noël Coward, the origins of unscented anti-bacterial soap can be traced back to 19th century Finland and the prodigious work of the noted astrobiologist and Arctic theologian, Heinz Carlsbad.

Carlsbad, whose lifelong dream of becoming the first amateur sous-chef to reach the Northern Pole of Inaccessibility was shattered by a freak dogsled accident in the summer of 1892, was experimenting with the thermal properties of common legumes when he stumbled across a startling paradox: When pressurized to 98.0665 kilopascals and combined with paraffin wax, peanut oil separates into two compounds — arginine, an amino acid that the body uses to produce nitric oxide, and hydrojuglone, a sweet-smelling bio-toxin which kills approximately 99 percent of all household germs.

Blinded by love and crippled with a rare form of social anxiety disorder, Carlsbad misjudged the cultural significance of his discovery and poured his lifesavings into the development, manufacture and distribution of the wildly unpopular, arginine-based soft drink of his own design, Virvoitusjuoma.

Carlsbad died penniless and alone at the age of 52.

On Hummingbirds

Contrary to popular belief, the hummingbird (Thecostraca Cirripedia), neither hums nor is a bird.

Incorrectly classified in 1823 by Lars Pridbjørn, last surviving member of the aptly named and ill-fated HMS Pettycoat, "hummingbird" is a trans-literal translation of the Danish "hommingbaerd" -- "bearded marsupial."

The name stuck however and became increasingly popular with sailors of the day, who kept the winged marsupials aboard their vessels for their milk.

On In-Flight Magazines

According to amateur historian Harold Wilmington, commercial aviation unofficially began in the United States in 1925 when German emigre J. Dorfman ferried Texan robber baron Madison Moore from Salem, North Carolina to Princeton, New Jersey, in his single-engine Schmidt-Ridder biplane.

During a brief refueling stop in rural Virginia, Dorfman, an early adopter of the Hermetic Reformation movement that would sweep the Midwest following the Great Depression, gave Moore a copy of his rambling manifesto, Der Armsessel, which laid out the basis for the redistribution of wealth according to strict astrological mechanics.

Though Moore would later describe the screed as "incomprehensible," he credited his 17-hour trip with Dorfman with opening his eyes to the future of air travel and, in 1946, the oil magnate purchased a struggling regional airline, Fremont Air Transport.

Slim profit margins, ironclad union contracts and a woefully short-sighted business model (based mostly on optimism) kept Moore from turning Fremont around; the airline folded six months after its acquisition. Yet, a simple marketing device saved the Fremont story from the ashcan of aviation history and ensured its place in aeronautical literary lore.

Desperate to separate Fremont from the competition, Moore sought to build a sense of community among the consistently inconsistent passengers of Fremont Air. One such innovation was the introduction of a free, bi-weekly literary supplement. "Cloud Nine," whose layout, tone and typeset were remarkably similar to Der Armsessel, was hailed by New York Times' literary critic Theodore Elms as the "third most influential publication of the age."

Soon, complimentary in-flight magazines were gracing the seat-back pockets of continental and transcontinental airlines alike.

And the man Moore hired to as the first groundbreaking editor of "Cloud Nine"? You guessed it: none other than Chilean-born Poet Laureate Lazlo Tate.