By Patrick F. Cannon

I thought if would be a good time to report on my foray into Thoroughbred racehorse ownership. As loyal readers may recall, I began by purchasing a share in three horses to be trained by Chad Brown, one of America’s top trainers. Two were fillies – Night Combat and Ein Gedi; the third a colt, Three Jewels.

Although there are many companies that do these partnerships, mine is called “My Racehorse.” They buy horses at public auctions, usually as yearlings, then sell shares. As a reminder, all thoroughbreds become a year older on January 1, regardless of when they were actually born. As a general rule, most are born between February and May, but all become yearlings on the following January 1. My first three were bought as yearlings, but thoroughbreds are not permitted to race until they’re two (the first races for two-year-olds are usually held in April).

All are now three-years-old. Only Ein Gedi (the name of an Oasis in Israel) has made it to the races. She was born in Britain, where the breed was developed. Because her parents were successful racing on the turf (grass), she started twice on that surface. Although she raced “evenly”, she finished out of the money both times. Rather than dropping her down in class, it was decided to sell her as a broodmare prospect. She sold for $200.000. My share? Forty bucks.

The other filly, Night Combat, never made it to the races. She had a series of physical problems, and even when she was fit, didn’t seem particularly interested in being a race horse. Because of all her problems, she was essentially given away to a breeder in California, who thought she might make a decent mother. My share? Zero bucks.

Finally, the colt. Three Jewels, a son of Triple Crown winner, American Pharaoh, might actually get to the races early next year, when he’ll be four. Again, he had a series of niggling physical problems, exacerbated by a powerful libido that distracted him from his training, which was solved by gelding him (a nicer way of saying he was castrated). Assuming he continues to progress, he may soon begin serious workouts.

I also have a share in a two-year-old colt named Secret Crush. A son of top sire, Candy Ride, he has progressed in his training to such an extent that he will soon be sent to the barn of his trainer, Todd Pletcher, who has been many times America’s top trainer. Due to the time of the year, I assume he will start his career after the first of the year at Gulfstream Park in the Miami area.

Now, you might conclude that my luck as an owner could have been better. But to be honest, I should tell you that my total investment in the four steeds has been a bit less than $500. It’s entirely possible to spend a million or more with no result. For example, say you were in the breeding business and had a fine mare you wanted to breed to a top stallion. One of them, Into Mischief, can be had for a fee of $250,000, “stands and nurses.” That means you pay the stud fee only when the resulting baby (foal) is able to get to its feet and begin taking the mare’s milk. If it dies the next day, tough luck.

Now, most breeders sell the survivors at auction when they’re yearlings. Many of the produce of Into Mischief sell for a million dollars or even much more. If you buy such a young horse, you should be aware that only about 78 percent will actually get to start in a race, and only 56 percent will actually win. The most expensive horse ever sold at pubic auction, the two-year-old “The Green Monkey,” cost its buyers $16 million and never won a race. I think the poor thing was embarrassed by his name.

Compared to that, my $500 seems pretty paltry. And don’t forget, I still own parts of two horses who just might get to the races, and even win! And Secret Crush could conceivably run in the Kentucky Derby, just like Authentic who won in 2020, and was partly owned by My Racehorse. Hope springs eternal, don’t you know? Kind of like Chicago sports fans.

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

This is being written several days before Thanksgiving. On the great day itself, I’ll be busy preparing the turkey, which I’ve been doing every year for some 35 years. That includes my world-famous stuffing, whose recipe is a closely-guarded secret. Before my darling wife Jeanette died, she made or planned all the hors d’oeuvres and side dishes, a task now carried out with aplomb by daughter Beth and husband Boyd.

Before starting to write this, I read the Sunday Chicago Tribune and on-line New York Times. As usual, the world’s a mess. To be honest, I’d be hard pressed to remember a Thanksgiving where people in many parts of the world have much or even anything to be thankful for. Not for the first time, I find myself thankful for being born in the United States of America.

I could, of course, assault you with a litany of the problems facing our country. Not today, though. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence, but the auto workers, writers, directors and actors all managed to negotiate new contracts in time to eat their turkeys with new gusto. And, of course, to create new “content” that will be just as good or bad as the old stuff; and electric cars that will wander the highways looking for charging stations.

The unemployment rate is at 3.9 percent, almost as low as it has ever been. Inflation is now at 3.24 percent, less than half of what it was last year. And even the cost of Thanksgiving dinner has declined by about 5 percent. All of this despite a completely dysfunctional Federal government, which might suggest that accomplishing nothing might not be so bad after all.

Although the height of the Fall color season is behind us, it was a good one. What is more satisfying than walking down a street full of trees beginning to drop gold, orange and red leaves all around us? And seeing kids jumping into newly-raked piles? I do miss the smell of burning leaves, but you can’t have everything.

There will be 10 people (and a baby) around my table this year. My son Patrick is here from Tampa, and my niece Eve and her husband Tim round out my side of the family. Boyd’s sister Cathy, niece Rachel, her husband Peter and baby Nora, and nephew Riley represent his side. In addition to the turkey and dressing, we’ll have the requisite mashed potatoes and gravy; creamed spinach and carrots; cranberry sauce; and both apple and pumpkin pies (topped with ice or whipped cream). There will be the usual alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages before, during and after dinner.

While I was salivating in anticipation of the feast, I got to thinking: what did those Pilgrims eat at the first Thanksgiving in 1621? While the historical record is somewhat spotty, in addition to wild turkey, it’s likely the Pilgrims and their Native American neighbors would have had the more plentiful geese and ducks, and even the now extinct but then abundent Passenger pigeons. The menu would also have included venison. Pilgrim leader Edward Winslow wrote that King Massasoit of the Wampanoag tribe contributed five deer to the festivities.

Alas, no mashed or any other kind of potatoes. The natives grew corn and a kind of green bean; and records suggest the colonists grew turnips, carrots, onions, garlic and a variety of squashes, including pumpkins! And, because they were on the Atlantic coast, seafood, including lobsters, clams and eels (!) would certainly have been enjoyed. As to booze, if it had been available, they would have happily quaffed some suds, which would have been the beverage of choice in England, where drinking the water might have been fatal. But it does seem to have been a bit early to have opened a brewery (Sam Adams wasn’t even born yet).

History tells us that the feast lasted three days! No doubt the meals were followed by naps, another tradition that remains to this very day. Happy Thanksgiving!

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

A few years ago, I did a piece titled “Poor Little Rich Girl”, about child support payments from an uber rich man to a much younger ex-wife who had born him a daughter. The cost of raising the little darling was estimated to be about $3.5 million a year.

At the end of the article, I quoted author F. Scott Fitzgerald’s comment that “the rich are different from you and me,” and Ernest Hemingway’s rejoinder: “yes, they have more money.” That they’re willing to spend lavishly to enhance their comfort was demonstrated yet again in an article in the New York Times (of course) about the amounts they’re happy to dispense to avoid doing anything resembling domestic labor.

If you’re one of the 10 million people who subscribe to the Times digital edition, you’ll be aware that living in Manhattan is becoming out of reach for most middle-class folks. The rich, however, take it in stride, although costs are on the rise. For example, housekeepers now earn about $45 and hour, and competition for a good one means you will probably have to offer health insurance and other perks. If you have several homes, you might need an estate manager or chief of staff at upwards of $350,000 annually.

In the interests of full disclosure, I confess I have a cleaning service every two weeks. A team of two Hispanic women spend a couple of hours making my two-bedroom condo spic and span. They do not make $45 an hour, although I do tip them.

I live alone, so have to do my own cooking, although I rarely miss an opportunity to eat out, or eat already-prepared meals. Many Manhattanites employ a full-time chef at the going rate of $150,000 a year. They prepare only lunch and dinner, with breakfast the responsibility of the housekeeper. That’s because mornings are spent shopping for only the finest ingredients, like a live Norwegian red king crab at a mere $720 per. And why trust your wardrobe to the local cleaners when you can employ your own laundress to make sure that shirt is flawless at $50 an hour.

The rich also believe that raising children is best left to the professionals. A new trend is to have at least two nannies, each working several days, then taking a few days to recover, and so on. A typical salary would be about $120,00 a year (for each). Of course, cost is no object when it comes to raising one’s children.

Pets must also be pampered. Although the housekeeper is often tasked with walking Fido, many owners also enrich their lives by sending them upstate to be set free in natural surroundings for the day, at $250 per. Grooming, a monthly necessity for many breeds, can add another $150, plus cab fare. Initial training, surely a necessity, can cost $3,000. Wouldn’t want your darling Coton de Tulear peeing on the antique oriental, would you?

Oh, by the way, that in-house chef needs a day off occasionally, so dining out must be faced. Reservations at New York City’s hottest eateries can be hard to get even for the rich, but not to worry – there are web sites where you can bid on available tables. The Times reported that a two-top (in Chicago, that’s a table for two) at Carbone could be had for $450, not of course including the food. Since it’s New York, a meal of Veal Marsala, with an appetizer and house salad will only set you back about $160, plus tip. Add another $18 for a glass of house wine, if you would dare to be seen ordering such a thing. This is only about twice what you’d pay in Chicago, but, hey, you’re in New York!

I must look up what a full-time chauffeur costs. Driving oneself can be pure torture, even in a Bentley.

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

At lunch the other day with some friends, the subject of mom’s cooking came up. Most of us are a bit older than average, so classic family dishes like tuna-noodle casserole were mentioned. One of the group mentioned her mom topped this classic with crumbled potato chips (I must try that, as I’m a potato chip aficionado). Nowadays, of course, culinary triumphs are photographed on one’s cell phone and shared with the world.

When my dear mother was cooking, the cell phone had not yet been invented, and I’m not too sure about the camera either. In fact, I don’t believe my parents ever owned a camera, so any surviving photos of their children were taken by someone else. Imagine not having your every move documented as you grow up? And not being able to “share” the images with all and sundry whether they want to see them or not?

Anyway, my mother’s culinary triumphs were never photographed for posterity. As her son, I feel some obligation to give a wider public some idea of her more imaginative recipes, so that others might try and enjoy them. Perhaps they could be defined as “Legacy” recipes?

We ate a lot of meat and potatoes, and there was nothing particularly adventurous in these everyday menus. She would take a big hunk of meat, salt and pepper it according to her mood, then pop it into the oven for at least 30 minutes longer than necessary. This would insure that all the savory juices were cooked out of the roast. But there was method here. To whatever was left of the juices and other stuck-on stuff at the bottom of the pan was added a mixture of flour and water, creating gravy that could perhaps add some life back to the gray and dry slices of meat and mashed potatoes. Adding some canned peas to the plate would create quite a picture!

But this was everyday stuff. When my mother’s imagination soared, she could create wonders. For example, she would buy a ham steak, of a thickness (or thinness rather) that would guarantee the fried meat would have the consistency of a roof shingle. Then, when it was fried just so, into the pan would be poured a bottle of Maraschino cherries to create a dish I like to call “Jambon al la Maraschino.” This would be accompanied by mashed potatoes (natch) and canned corn.

Another favorite was a preparation called “Casserole de Heinz.” Simplicity itself. To cooked egg noodles, add Heinz Ketchup (no substitutes please), mix thoroughly and top with Oscar Meyer (or your favorite) breakfast sausages. Pop into the oven for a half hour or so, and then serve with canned green beans. Wash it all down with a big glass of milk. Note the balance of protein, carbohydrates and vitamins.

Finally, there was my all time favorite – kidney stew. Take two or three lamb kidneys and cut into bite sized pieces. Put into a large pot full of water. Bring to a simmer and skim the crud off the surface until it stops forming. Do not open the windows, lest the neighbors call the police. Add potatoes and some carrots and cook until they’re very soft. Serve piping hot in bowls. A slice or two of Holsum Bread to soak up the gravy completes a unique experience.

Now, you are unlikely to find kidneys in your supermarket’s meat case. Fortunately, there are still old-fashioned butcher shops in most cities. While they might not have lamb kidneys in stock, they would be happy to order some for you. Despite the curious lack of demand, every little lamb has two kidneys, just like you and me. Chicagoan should consider Joseph’s Finest Meats on West Addison, or Paulina Market on North Lincoln Avenue. By the way, lamb kidneys are actually good for you!

Only I remain to carry on these family recipes. So, I hope one of my loyal readers will take up the challenge and try them out. If you do, please take a cell phone photo to share with your friends, and the wider world on Tik Tok.

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Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

The old saying “You can’t legislate morality” may well be good advice, but it has always been widely ignored by politicians. Of course, sometimes, you just have to. There has always been a consensus that the biblical admonitions “Thou shall not kill” or “covet thy neighbors goods” are necessary laws in every reasonable society (and even unreasonable ones; I’m sure Hitler’s Germany and Stalin’s Russia had laws against murder and thievery on the books, even if the state itself was given a pass).

In this country, there have always been significant numbers of our fellow citizens who think the country should be governed on fundamentalist Christian beliefs. As their numbers diminish, and they feel under siege, their opinions only harden. The new Speaker of the House, Mr. Mike Johnson of Louisiana, is on record many times as believing that homosexual sexual relations should be against the law – not God;s law, but ours (which he believes should be one and the same). He is also on record as believing the Founding Fathers didn’t mean to protect the government from religious meddling, but religion from government meddling.

Apparently, Johnson and his like are part of what has come to be known as “Christian Nationalism.” This is our somewhat milder (so far) version of the religious fervor that has been such a boon in countries like Iran and Afghanistan; and continues to complicate public life in Israel, where religious parties make it increasingly difficult to govern.

While I think most of us understand the difference between murder and fornication, Johnson and his ilk seem worried about what folks do in the privacy of their dwellings. Since what two men or women do to each other in private has no actual effect on him personally, it can only be that his religion – in this case, the Southern Baptists – has decided it does, so it must be wrong for everyone, not just Baptists. If history teaches us anything – and it doesn’t have such a good record overall – it is that religious fervor does as much harm as good.

I am certainly not against religion in general. Belief in a God can encourage charity, tolerance and good works. But I find it amazing that it can also encourage almost the opposite. It has often occurred to me that the fundamentalists have spent too much time reading the Old Testament, and not enough listening to Christ’s message of tolerance and forgiveness in the New. After all, they call themselves Christians, do they not? Johnson is quoted as saying if you want to know what his political philosophy is, just read the Bible, but perhaps not the part that says “love your neighbor”, unless that means only neighbors who are just another version of you.

Despite what Johnson says and believes, the Founder’s intent was to keep religion out of government, so that its citizens would be free to practice any religion they chose, or no religion at all. Sure, they were mostly Christians, but they also understood the history of “official” religions. After all, many of the new Americans – the Pilgrims, the Quakers, etc, – came here to escape countries like Great Britain where citizens were required to financially support the Anglican church whether they belonged to it or not.

But I think the most interesting thing about the Christian Nationalists is that they are led by the Anti-Christ. Don’t you just love that irony?

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

In these grim days, I remind myself that there is joy available. And his name is Mozart. At the moment, I have two CDs in my car that remind me of his genius – one of string quartets; the other, two of his piano concerti (the 19^th and his last, the 27th). I let them repeat over and over again as I motor along. While he did occasionally let the dark in – Don Giovanni, the Requiem – I think he found it difficult to restrain the immense joy he felt when he was composing.

Beginning with simple pieces when he was 5 (which his father transcribed), he would go on to compose nearly 800 works before he died at 35. Talk about a work ethic! How many of today’s “serious” composers come close? Aaron Copeland, a fine composer to be sure, managed only about 150, and he lived to be 90. The only American composer who can be compared to Mozart is Irving Berlin, who did the words and music for approximately 1,500 songs in a career that lasted nearly 60 years. (It occurs to me that if you could only listen to the music of Mozart and Berlin, you could survive quite happily.)

Most people’s idea of Mozart comes from Amadeus, the 1979 play by Peter Shaffer, made into a highly-successful movie in 1984, directed by Milos Foreman. It painted Mozart as a goofy genius given to scatological jokes, driven to an early death by Antonio Salieri, a pathologically-jealous fellow composer, brilliantly acted by F. Murray Abraham (who got the Oscar for his efforts). Of course, it was all made up by Shaffer, but so effectively that many people took it as gospel.

What did he die of? At this remove, it’s impossible to say, but I love this one: apparently, he suffered frequent attacks of tonsillitis. Then, in 1784, he developed post-streptococcal Schonlein-Henoch syndrome which caused chronic glomerular nephritis and chronic renal failure, which led in the end to a cerebral hemorrhage. Another theory says he died of chronic kidney disease. Take your pick. People died then of things that are just minor annoyances today.

Another who died young was our greatest composer, George Gershwin. He was only 38 when he died of a brain tumor, a glioblastoma, the same kind of always-fatal cancer that killed Teddy Kennedy, John McCain and my wife, Jeanette. He was almost as prolific as Mozart, composing some 500 songs; several symphonic works, including the famous Rhapsody in Blue; and the groundbreaking opera, Porgy and Bess. You could be forgiven if you preferred to substitute him for Berlin (although to be fair, I should point out that Berlin did both music and lyrics; Gershwin’s brother Ira did most of his).

Of course, you might prefer Bach, Beethoven, Schubert, or Brahms; or Cole Porter, Richard Rogers, or even Lord Andrew Lloyd Weber. The point is: on days when the Arab-Israeli conflict has again boiled over, and the once-reliable Republican Party has descended into an embarrassing anarchy caused by a lunatic leader, we need to tune all of it out, if only for an hour or two, and remind ourselves that true nobility and beauty still exist.

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

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By Patrick F. Cannon

I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. According to New York Times critic-at-large Jason Farago (rhymes with “Chicago”), “We are now almost a quarter of the way through what looks likely to go down in history as the least innovative, least transformative, least pioneering century for culture since the invention of the printing press.”

Thank God Farago is paying attention. I confess I wasn’t aware of how bad things had become. Of course, I feel duty bound to confess that I more or less gave up trying to be up-to-date on cultural trends around the turn of the century. Before that, I made some effort to keep track of the newest writers, musicians and visual artists. I read the Times, subscribed to the New Yorker, and trekked to museums and galleries not only in Chicago, but during my travels. I still do visit museums, but am inclined to search out the tried and true.

It’s no wonder then that I recognized few of the names Farago mentioned, Amy Winehouse being one exception. According to him, her “Back to Black” album was the “first major cultural work of the 21^st Century that was neither new or retro – but rather contented itself to float in time, to sound as if it came from no particular era.” Although I’ve only heard a few of its songs, that’s a pretty heavy load to carry. I did check out some of the artists he does admire, including sculptor Nairy Baghramian, and multi-medium artist Pierre Huyghe. Their work seemed little different from other abstract artists working today (or yesterday, for that matter).

The real problem with his arguments is his concentration on what’s happening today, as if our culture can be isolated in time. In fact, our culture is the accumulation of all that’s gone before. One example of a breakthrough work of art he cites is Manet’s “Young Lady in 1866,” which he says “was a radical eruption of temporal specificity.” But Manet himself admitted the debt he owed to Velazquez; indeed the Art Institute of Chicago exhibited his “Aesop” next to a similar painting by Manet (I think it was “Beggar with Oysters”), both almost life-sized vertical compositions.

Almost all works of art owe something to what came before, and we are perhaps the least able to judge the ultimate worth of what’s being created today. Let’s take Manet again. He was considered too radical for the annual Paris Salon, which valued the immense, highly-populated and highly-polished historical and mythical scenes that you can still see at some European museums, particularly the Louvre. Most people now see them as ludicrous, and much prefer to search out Manet and the Impressionists, who were also ridiculed by the establishment.

As to myself, I find little to admire about most contemporary artists. To me, abstract art has long since exhausted its potential, and artists have their eyes focused too closely on market forces. Many fiction writers don’t see the forest for the trees – how many novels set in academia can be written? And where has wit gone in popular music? Couldn’t someone as obviously talented as Taylor Swift stop obsessing about her love life? And isn’t there a reason why concert goers would rather hear Mozart than John Cage?

Of course, I could be totally wrong. A hundred years from now people might well look back at the 21^st Century as a Golden Age, an age when our culture reached a new peak. Or maybe not. We just don’t yet know.

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

If you’re a Democrat or a left leaning independent, you probably think former President Donald Trump is guilty of all or at least most of the 91 criminal charges he faces. If you’re a Republican, you think the whole thing was dreamed up by vengeful prosecutors, who conveniently all happen to be Democrats. On the other hand, you’re absolutely certain that President Biden and his family have enriched themselves by trading on his positions as senator, vice president and now president.

Of course, both sides could be right, or partially right or just plain wrong. As for myself, I think Trump is likely guilty of most of those 91 charges; but I frankly have no clue about Biden. But after a long life studying politicians and politics, nothing surprises me. The Republican majority in the House of Representatives is determined to prove that Biden accepted bribes and other payments to make things happen or not happen for interested parties. If they can agree on a new Speaker, maybe they will.

In the end, my opinion about Trump’s or Biden’s guilt or innocence is just that – an opinion. And if the Republicans in the House vote to impeach Biden, the chance that he would be found guilty in the Senate are no better than the two times Trump was found not guilty during his two impeachment trials. In a nearly equally divided Senate, finding the two-thirds necessary for conviction is a pipe dream. The only time in recent history it might have been possible was forestalled by Richard Nixon’s resignation.

Anyway, the Senate can’t send you to jail; only a jury of your fellow citizens can do that. And that’s where it gets tricky. Many years ago, I was the foreman of a jury in a murder trial in the Cook County courts. The venue was the famous main courthouse at 26^th & California in Chicago. The trial took the best part of a week, and involved a married couple on trial for murdering a neighbor. It seems a group of African-American residents in the Altgeld Gardens public housing development on Chicago’s far south were gathered in a parking lot having a few drinks.

According to witnesses, the wife was falling-down drunk and one of the partiers was making fun of her, to which she took umbrage, complaining to her husband. He promptly went to his unit, fetched a metal baseball bat, returned, and proceeded to beat the offender to death. The prosecutors were able to convince several of the witnesses to testify to the altercation and the fatal beating.

To their credit, the defense attorneys did their best to impugn and confuse the witnesses, but to little effect. When both sides rested their cases, the judge spent some time lecturing us about the laws involved, and how to weigh the evidence. When we went to the jury room, I was chosen as foreman, I think because I was older and had white hair. We took up the wife’s culpability first, and decided she was so drunk that she wasn’t capable of participating in the actual killing.

Everyone agreed that the husband had done what he was charged with. That should have been that, but no. One of the jurors, a young African-American woman, said she would never vote to convict him because he had actually come to the defense of his wife, which should not only not be condemned, but encouraged in the African-American community. I won’t bore you with all the arguments we used to convince her to change her mind. They didn’t sway her, and the judge finally, on my recommendation, declared a mistrial in his case. The not guilty verdict for the wife stood.

Do you think – with Trump apparently in a dead heat with Biden for the 2024 presidential election – that the courts will be able to find 12 citizens who will agree to impartially look at the evidence and vote accordingly? Maybe. Then again, maybe not. One would think the government has a better chance in Democratic DC than in Republican south Florida, where the judge is a Trump appointee (with a fine name, I might add). Remember, it only takes one holdout to hang a jury, unlike the United Kingdom, where a judge may decide to take a majority verdict. And I keep remembering OJ Simpson, clearly guilty, but acquitted because “if it don’t fit, you must acquit.”

If I were the government, I would at least try to make a deal with Trump. Drop the documents case, and offer a deal on January 6. Plead guilty to those charges, in return for no jail time and an agreement that Trump never again run for Federal office, or even endorse a candidate. Frankly, I don’t think Trump’s ego would permit him to do this, but it’s at least worth a try. The alternative is going to be a long and agonizing nightmare that would further damage our increasingly fragile democracy.

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

By all accounts, Donald Trump is a fairly decent golfer. Rory McElroy, after playing a round with him several years ago, thought he probably played to a handicap of 10 or 12. In general, that would equate to an average 18 hole score in the mid 80s. Not bad, although he’s older now. Of course he might keep his score low if he simply moved to a forward tee, which is certainly allowable, and even encouraged for someone his age. For you non-golfers, most courses have at least two tee boxes (or places where you hit your first shot); some, four or even more.

Nevertheless, Trump is a notorious cheater, the reports of his transgressions so numerous that they could fill a book, and actually did – sportswriter Rick Reilly’s Commander in Cheat: How Golf Explains Donald Trump. Not that he thinks he’s cheating; he’s so bereft of conscience that taking advantage of others is just normal for him. Based on long experience with him, I’m sure his lawyers are now getting their money up front.

Here are just a couple of examples of his golf ethics. Playing in a foursome with Trump, Tiger Woods and Dustin Johnson, Brad Faxton reported that Trump’s score somehow didn’t count two balls he hit into the water. Sports announcer Mike Tirico, who routinely covers golf, said that Trump once threw Tirico’s ball off the green into a nearby sand trap. Trump actually owns numerous golf courses, where his caddies say he routinely improves his lies (not his utterances, but the location of the golf ball). He has also been seen to kick his errant shots out of the rough into the fairway.

For most golfers, honesty by their fellow players is assumed. This does not mean that a group that plays together regularly might not agree on some deviations from the strict rules. For example, they might decide that a player may have one “mulligan” per round. That simply means a do-over. Say I hit a ball in the water. With this agreement, I can hit another ball without penalty. Most golfers would save their mulligan for just such a reason, since you only get one.

Improving your lie is a no-no, unless a storm has left the course like a muddy bog. Then the rules of golf permit you to pick up the ball, clean it, and replace it in a dryer place, no closer to the green. You can also concede a putt for one of your fellow golfers, but not for yourself. If you watched the recent Ryder Cup on television, you will have noticed that this is occasionally done in match play, generally for a putt of less than two or three feet.

For Trump, the rules of golf – just like the rules for anything else – are meant for suckers, not for him. And had he limited his cheating to the golf course, he’d be just another jerk nobody wanted to play with. But no. Cheating is a way of life for him – in marriage, business, and in government. How else can you explain those 91 counts, which his loony followers claim are just politically motivated? Perhaps they haven’t noticed that some of the suckers who played the game of life with him are copping pleas, hoping the government will grant them a mulligan for actually telling the truth about their former boss – truths Trump’s supporters seem unwilling to believe. Or maybe it takes one to know one.

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Senate Majority Leader Chuck Schumer has thrown in the towel and said he would no longer enforce a dress code on the Senate floor. In case you didn’t know it, members were expected to wear a suit and tie when doing the nation’s business. Apparently, some senators, most notably the junior senator from Pennsylvania, John Fetterman, who prefers shorts and hoodies, chafed under this tyranny.

As it happens, Fetterman looks uncomfortable no matter what he’s wearing. He towers over his fellow legislators – he’s 6 feet eight inches tall and a bit portly – and doesn’t seem capable of buying a suit that fits, despite his wealth. Nor does he look much more at ease in those shorts and hoodies. What 54-year-old man does?

I imagine he got out of the habit of wearing suits when he was mayor of Braddock, PA; coincidentally, the town were I was born. As a graduate of Harvard’s Kennedy School, he thought he could revitalize this dying Pittsburgh-area mill town. He failed, even though he got a good deal of publicity for giving it the good old college try. Braddock had about 20,000 folks at its height; in the 2020 Census, they could find only 1,721.

When my father served two terms on its city council just before and during World War II, its steel mill was belching fire and smoke 24-7. Prosperity persisted for a few years after the war, then, like all of Western Pennsylvania, a steady decline began. Anyway, we moved to Chicago in 1946, where he had a good job offer. He died when I was 12, but I rarely saw him dressed in anything but a suit and tie. His idea of casual was taking off the tie and suit coat. I’m sure he never wore shorts.

Maybe the Senate should have casual Fridays. When my employer did this, a colleague of mine complied by simply taking off his tie. He just could not bring himself to don a pair of chinos and a sports shirt. Can you imagine Chuck Grassley in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt? How about Mitch McConnell in jeans and a pink polo? Or Susan Collins in pedal pushers and a halter top? Imagine the floor of the Senate looking like a Pickleball court in Naples, Florida. Oh, the horror!

I have written about this a few times, but let me remind you that I think respect for decorum is still important – maybe even more important in a world of declining standards of courtesy and appearance. I just got back from France, where I visited several historic churches and cathedrals. Even though I’m a lapsed Catholic, I automatically removed my cap when I entered. Needless to say, I was in the minority. To most visitors, it was just another interesting tourist attraction. I was on a riverboat cruise. At only two dinners were we asked to wear a jacket (but no tie). This was widely ignored.

Many of you will remember the days when first-class restaurants required gentlemen to wear a jacket and tie. Some even had a supply of ill-fitting “house” jackets and ties to provide to customers who dared show up sans proper attire. Now? In deadly fear of losing even one customer, even slobs wearing backwards ball caps are permitted to spend hundreds of their dollars on sparse “tasting” menus.

There are some holdouts. I often drive past the venerable River Forest (IL) Tennis Club. Members and guests who play there must wear whites. I applaud them for holding the line. After all, there are plenty of places to play the game dressed like a slob. We all know that the quality of members of Congress is at its lowest ever, but they could at least pretend to take their jobs seriously enough to dress like ladies and gentlemen.

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon