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What happens when massive wind turbine blades reach the end of their 20-year lifespan? Belgium found the most brilliant answer that's making environmentalists everywhere take notes. Instead of letting these giant fiberglass structures pile up in landfills, they're transforming them into something absolutely genius.
Lol
I think this is a joke.
He did play the character Q, I believe.
I think this is a joke.
He did play the character Q, I believe.
Yeah, I would also guess it's a joke.
Lazenby got in a bit of trouble for that sequence in your meme. He dropped to one knee to shoot the guy with the scope. All other Bond's have done it standing. They still wanted him back to do another Bond film but he turned it down. Personally, I thought he was the worst of all those who played Bond.
Lazenby got in a bit of trouble for that sequence in your meme. He dropped to one knee to shoot the guy with the scope. All other Bond's have done it standing. They still wanted him back to do another Bond film but he turned it down. Personally, I thought he was the worst of all those who played Bond.
On July 17, 1955, Las Vegas woke before dawn. The neon signs still glowed faintly as the desert sky began to pale. At the Desert Inn pool, the air smelled of chlorine and coffee. A handful of early swimmers balanced on diving boards, chatting lazily. Then, at precisely 5:30 a.m., the horizon erupted.
A white flash split the desert sky — and seconds later, a giant mushroom cloud began to climb, a ghostly pillar of fire and ash visible from sixty-five miles away. It was Operation Teapot, one of the Nevada Test Site’s many nuclear detonations.
Instead of panic, applause. Tourists sipped cocktails, children floated on pool rings, and couples leaned over balcony rails to watch the atomic dawn. The explosion had become a form of entertainment — a symbol of America’s unshakable confidence in its own power.
In that eerie stillness, Las Vegas embodied the contradictions of the Atomic Age: optimism mingled with oblivion, spectacle masking peril. The city sold postcards of mushroom clouds and “atomic breakfast” specials at the Sands Hotel. Beneath the glamour, a silent rain of fallout drifted eastward.
That morning, for a brief and blinding moment, leisure and annihilation shared the same horizon.
A white flash split the desert sky — and seconds later, a giant mushroom cloud began to climb, a ghostly pillar of fire and ash visible from sixty-five miles away. It was Operation Teapot, one of the Nevada Test Site’s many nuclear detonations.
Instead of panic, applause. Tourists sipped cocktails, children floated on pool rings, and couples leaned over balcony rails to watch the atomic dawn. The explosion had become a form of entertainment — a symbol of America’s unshakable confidence in its own power.
In that eerie stillness, Las Vegas embodied the contradictions of the Atomic Age: optimism mingled with oblivion, spectacle masking peril. The city sold postcards of mushroom clouds and “atomic breakfast” specials at the Sands Hotel. Beneath the glamour, a silent rain of fallout drifted eastward.
That morning, for a brief and blinding moment, leisure and annihilation shared the same horizon.
While attending college in 1980, I worked part time in a factory that made Bar Code Readers and light pens in the state of Washington
Her Mom Shari is who my parents named me after. Her show was my older brother’s favorite at the time I was born lol
Johnny West
Well-known member
On the night of May 14, 1998, the streets of Times Square fell into a rare hush as hundreds of New Yorkers turned their gaze upward toward the glowing Panasonic screen. The occasion was the final episode of Seinfeld, a sitcom that had become a cultural phenomenon over nine seasons. As the familiar faces of Jerry, George, Elaine, and Kramer appeared above the neon billboards, the crowd below shared a collective nostalgia for a show that had defined a decade of television and humor.
Seinfeld was more than just a comedy — it was a mirror to urban life, an exploration of the mundane that made ordinary moments extraordinary. For New Yorkers especially, it captured something real about their world: the neuroses, the eccentricity, the constant rhythm of city living. Watching its finale in the heart of Manhattan became a communal ritual, where laughter and sentiment mixed under the electric lights of the city that inspired so many of its episodes.
That night, nearly 76 million Americans tuned in, marking one of the largest audiences in television history. But it was in Times Square where the emotion was most tangible — strangers gathered together, united by their affection for a show about “nothing.”
Added fact: Seinfeld’s finale earned NBC over $1.4 million per 30-second ad slot and went on to generate billions in syndication, cementing its status as one of the most profitable and influential shows in the history of television.
Seinfeld was more than just a comedy — it was a mirror to urban life, an exploration of the mundane that made ordinary moments extraordinary. For New Yorkers especially, it captured something real about their world: the neuroses, the eccentricity, the constant rhythm of city living. Watching its finale in the heart of Manhattan became a communal ritual, where laughter and sentiment mixed under the electric lights of the city that inspired so many of its episodes.
That night, nearly 76 million Americans tuned in, marking one of the largest audiences in television history. But it was in Times Square where the emotion was most tangible — strangers gathered together, united by their affection for a show about “nothing.”
Added fact: Seinfeld’s finale earned NBC over $1.4 million per 30-second ad slot and went on to generate billions in syndication, cementing its status as one of the most profitable and influential shows in the history of television.
He built the most famous tower in the world—then hid a secret apartment at the top that no amount of money could buy. When Gustave Eiffel designed his revolutionary iron tower for the 1889 World's Fair in Paris, he included something most people didn't know about: a private apartment at the very top, nearly 1,000 feet above the streets of Paris. It wasn't just an office. It wasn't storage. It was a fully furnished, beautifully decorated personal retreat—and it was exclusively his. The apartment sat on the third level of the tower, accessible only by a private elevator. At 276 meters (906 feet) above ground, it offered breathtaking views of Paris that no one else in the world could enjoy. And Gustave Eiffel intended to keep it that way. When word got out that Eiffel had a secret apartment in the clouds, wealthy Parisians went wild. They offered him enormous sums—small fortunes—just to rent the space for a single night. Imagine: a private apartment in the most talked-about structure in the world, higher than any building in Paris, with panoramic views of the entire city. Eiffel refused every offer. The apartment wasn't for sale. It wasn't for rent. It was his. But here's what makes the story even better: while Eiffel kept out the wealthy social climbers trying to buy their way in, he did invite a select few guests—the most brilliant minds of his time. In September 1889, just months after the tower's completion, Thomas Edison visited Paris. Gustave Eiffel personally invited him to the apartment at the top of the tower. The two men—one who had revolutionized architecture, the other who had revolutionized electricity and sound—sat together in that small space high above Paris, discussing science, innovation, and the future. Edison was so impressed that he gave Eiffel a gift: one of his phonographs, a cutting-edge invention that could record and play back sound—pure magic in 1889. That phonograph remained in Eiffel's apartment, a symbol of two great inventors meeting at the pinnacle of human achievement, literally and figuratively. The apartment itself was nothing like the tower that housed it. While the Eiffel Tower is all cold iron, hard lines, and industrial boldness, the apartment was warm, cozy, and surprisingly romantic. Eiffel decorated it with:
Paisley wallpaper
Wooden furniture
Oil paintings
A grand piano
Persian rugs
Velvet chairs
It was a gentleman's study in the sky—a place where Eiffel could escape the noise of the city, think, experiment, and entertain. He also used the space as a laboratory, conducting meteorological and astronomical experiments, and even built a small observatory there. But mostly, it was his sanctuary. A place of solitude and reflection, perched impossibly high above the world. For decades, the apartment remained inaccessible to the public. When visitors toured the Eiffel Tower, they could reach the observation decks, but Eiffel's private apartment was off-limits—a tantalizing secret hidden in plain sight. Then, in 2015, after extensive restoration, the apartment was finally opened to public viewing. You still can't physically enter—it's protected behind glass—but you can peer inside and see the space exactly as Eiffel left it. The furnishings are original. The wallpaper. The piano. The phonograph Edison gave him. And to bring the scene to life, wax figures have been installed showing Gustave Eiffel, Thomas Edison, and Eiffel's daughter Claire in conversation, frozen in time at the moment when two of history's greatest inventors met at the top of the world. Standing there, looking through the glass at that small, intimate space, you realize something profound: Gustave Eiffel could have had anything. When the tower opened, he was one of the most famous men in the world. He could have turned that apartment into a restaurant for the wealthy. He could have rented it out and made a fortune. He could have used it for publicity, for socializing, for climbing higher in Parisian society. Instead, he kept it for himself. For quiet moments. For important conversations with brilliant people. For science. For thought. He built a monument to human achievement—and then built himself a refuge inside it where he could think about what came next. Today, the Eiffel Tower welcomes about 7 million visitors per year. They ride elevators to the top, take photos, marvel at the views. But only a small fraction pause at the glass windows to look at the apartment—the tiny, cozy room where one of the 19th century's greatest engineers retreated from the world he'd helped create. And maybe that's fitting. Eiffel didn't build that apartment for the crowds. He built it for himself, and for the few people whose minds were as restless and curious as his own. The world wanted to buy access to his tower. He gave them that. But the apartment at the top? That was never for sale. Even now, more than a century after his death, standing behind that glass and looking at his piano, his furniture, his view—you can't help but feel you're intruding on something private. A genius's sanctuary. A place where innovation was born and celebrated, high above the noise. Gustave Eiffel understood something crucial: just because you build something for the world doesn't mean you have to give them every piece of yourself. He gave Paris—and the world—his tower. But he kept one small corner for himself. And no amount of money could ever buy that.
Kathy and Lee, there's our Dave.