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Before 1984 the Bell System controlled American communications from end to end. AT&T ran long distance, owned the local operating companies, built nearly all the equipment through Western Electric, and funded the research at Bell Labs. In 1974 the Department of Justice sued, mainly to pry loose Western Electric. Convinced it would lose, AT&T offered a different bargain: keep the factories and the labs, and give up the local phone companies instead.
This episode follows that gamble and its consequences. The 1982 consent decree took effect on January 1, 1984, creating seven independent Baby Bells and cutting AT&T's book value by about 70 percent. In exchange the company won freedom from a 1956 decree that had barred it from selling computers. The computer push failed, local bills rose while long distance rates fell, broadcasters fled to satellites, and after the Telecommunications Act of 1996 the pieces began merging again.
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In 1942 Harry Coover Jr. led a team trying to make clear plastic for military gun sights. One compound, cyanoacrylate, stuck to every mold and instrument it touched, so they shelved it as a failure. B.F. Goodrich filed the first patent in 1947, but the real turn came in 1951, when Coover, by then at Eastman Kodak, looked again and saw an adhesive instead of a ruined plastic. Kodak brought it to market in 1958 as Eastman 910.
This episode explains both the business fight and the chemistry behind super glue. Loctite went from repackaging Kodak's product to overtaking it with its own Super Bonder line in the 1970s. The glue itself cures because hydroxide ions in trace moisture trigger chain growth polymerization, which is why a mild acid keeps it liquid in the bottle. That same hunger for water led to battlefield wound sprays, fingerprint fuming, coral grafting, and some real hazards.
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In 1997 Deidre LaCarte was an art student at Malaspina University College in Nanaimo, British Columbia, teaching martial arts on the side, when she bet her sister and her best friend over who could draw the most traffic to a personal web page. Her entry, a GeoCities tribute to her pet hamster Hampton, offered rows of four low resolution dancing rodent GIFs and a sped up nine second loop of Roger Miller's Whistle Stop from Disney's 1973 Robin Hood.
This episode follows what happened when that page finally caught fire. For 19 months it logged about 800 visits. Then email chains and weblogs found it, and in March 1999 it drew 60,000 views in four days. LaCarte watched squatters grab the dot com address and a British group take the tune up the UK charts, then fought back by turning her joke into a legally clean pop single, a cast of characters, and a merchandise line before selling the rights in late 2001.
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Apple's Macintosh commercial aired nationally exactly once, during the third quarter of Super Bowl XVIII on January 22, 1984, and it is still called the greatest television ad ever made. Directed by Ridley Scott a year and a half after Blade Runner, the 60 second film shows a runner in red shorts hurling a sledgehammer through a giant screen where a Big Brother figure lectures rows of gray, shaven drones. It never shows the computer or names a single feature.
This episode tells how close the ad came to never airing. Apple's board despised it in December 1983, and CEO John Sculley ordered agency Chiat/Day to sell off the Super Bowl time. The agency sold 30 seconds, then claimed it could find no buyer for the remaining 60 without really trying. The story continues through the Orwell estate's cease and desist letter, decades of parody, and the charge that Apple became the very power it promised to smash.
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In 2000, subscribers to Forbes and Wired opened their mailboxes to find a plastic barcode scanner shaped like a cat that they had never ordered. The CueCat, made by Digital Convergence Corporation, promised to spare people the labor of typing web addresses: swipe a printed code in a magazine and your desktop browser would load the page. Investors including Belo Corporation, RadioShack, Young and Rubicam, and Coca-Cola poured in $185 million to make it happen.
This episode follows the device from boardroom fantasy to 30 cent surplus. Print executives wanted proof that readers acted on ads, and they ignored what the product asked of people: a keyboard wedge spliced into the PS/2 port, an hour of registration, an invasive survey, and a unique serial number tying every scan to a real identity. Hackers fought back, the company threatened them, a data leak followed, and the whole venture collapsed within a year.
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On June 4, 1996, the European Space Agency's new Ariane 5 lifted off from Kourou carrying the four Cluster satellites, each about 1,200 kilograms, bound to study Earth's magnetosphere. For thirty seconds the flight was flawless. At 37 seconds the rocket swiveled its nozzles hard to one side, tore itself apart under aerodynamic stress, and self-destructed. Nothing physical had broken. The cause was a few lines of software inherited from the Ariane 4.
This episode traces the chain reaction step by step. The inertial reference system tried to convert a 64-bit floating-point value called horizontal bias into a 16-bit signed integer that tops out at 32,767. The faster Ariane 5 blew past that ceiling, the processor halted as its rules required, and the backup unit, running identical code, had already shut down milliseconds earlier. The inquiry led by Jacques-Louis Lions then exposed the assumptions and skipped tests that made the failure inevitable.
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In 1938 a chemist named Roy J. Plunkett opened the valve on a cylinder of tetrafluoroethylene gas in a New Jersey laboratory and nothing came out. The cylinder still weighed as much as a full one, so he and his assistant sawed it in half. Inside was a waxy, slippery white powder. The gas had polymerized into polytetrafluoroethylene, or PTFE, a chain of carbon atoms sheathed in fluorine. Almost nothing reacts with it or sticks to it. It was patented in 1941 and trademarked as Teflon in 1945.
This episode follows that white wax from a failed refrigerant experiment to the Manhattan Project, the kitchen, the operating room, and the courtroom. PTFE sealed the pipes that carried corrosive uranium hexafluoride, and today about half of it insulates wire for aerospace and computing. The finished material is stable in normal use. The trouble lies in the chemicals used to make it, which do not break down and now circulate in the blood of nearly every American.
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The recording industry once demanded 72 trillion dollars in damages from a file sharing program, more than three times the gross domestic product of the planet at the time. The target was LimeWire, created in New York in 2000 by Mark Gorton. Written in Java, it ran on Windows, Mac, and Linux alike and connected users directly to one another over the Gnutella network. It also carried a heavy price. Around 30 percent of files on the network contained malware, and the free version once bundled a program called LimeShop that tracked shopping to collect affiliate commissions.
This episode is a biography of the software: its birth, its chaotic prime, its court-ordered death, and its strange afterlife. The 2005 Supreme Court ruling in MGM v. Grokster removed the defense that file sharing companies had relied on. Five years later a federal judge shut LimeWire down. What followed was an open source revolt, and then, two decades on, a revival that has little to do with music piracy.
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In the spring of 2011 a handful of anonymous hackers knocked the CIA's public website offline, pulled user data out of Sony Pictures, and planted a story on the PBS site claiming Tupac and Biggie Smalls were alive in New Zealand. They called themselves LulzSec, short for Lulz Security, and said they did it for laughs. The group formed in May 2011 from an older crew known as Internet Feds. Its leader, Sabu, was Hector Monsegur, a 29 year old unemployed IT consultant in New York. Its voice on Twitter was a British teenager called Topiary.
This episode profiles the crew, its methods, and its collapse. Most of the damage came from old, basic techniques such as SQL injection and reused passwords, which was exactly the embarrassment LulzSec wanted to inflict on careless companies. As the stunts grew, so did the ambitions and the enemies. Fifty days after it began, the group announced a cheerful retirement. The real story was a betrayal already under way.
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In 1983, in the Castro Valley Village shopping center in California, Joseph Marver ran a failing women's clothing shop called Spirit Women's Discount Apparel. Watching crowds pour into a costume store across the street, he cleared out the dresses, stocked costumes, makeup, and props, and took in 100,000 dollars in a 30 day trial. The following year he opened a temporary seasonal storefront in a mall. By 1999 he had about 60 locations and sold to Spencer Gifts. Under Steven Silverstein, chief executive since 2003, the chain has grown past 1,600 stores.
This episode explains the real estate trick behind that growth, a practice described as calendar arbitrage. Spirit signs cheap short leases on vacant big box stores early in the year and lets landlords cancel if a permanent tenant appears by June. It then builds a full store in weeks with 52,000 temporary workers and tears it down by mid-November. The same machine quietly funds something unexpected: child life programs in pediatric hospitals.
From the publisher's feed
pplpod is a podcast about people, places and lots of other stuff. Each episode takes a deep dive into the lives, choices, and legacies of fascinating figures from history, culture,…
Thoughtful, engaging, and story-driven, pplpod explores what makes these lives extraordinary—and what we can learn from them today.