By Patrick F. Cannon

On a whim, and with enough time on my hands, I decided to watch a filmed version of Eugene O’Neill’s Long Days Journey into Night. O’Neill, who was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1936, based the play on his own family, which was notably dysfunctional. With a running time of 174 minutes, dysfunction gets its full due. Written in 1941, it was not performed on stage until 1956.

            Released in 1962, the film version stars Katherine Hepburn, Ralph Richardson, Jason Robards, Jr, and Dean Stockwell. All, of course, are long gone. Hepburn needs no introduction, and Robards is perhaps best remembered for playing Ben Bradlee in All the President’s Men. Richardson was an English actor of the same generation as Lawrence Olivier and John Gielgud, but less well known in this country. Dean Stockwell, who played the youngest son, based on O’Neill himself, had a long career on both stage and screen before his death in 2021. Then, a glutton for punishment, I decided to watch another O’Neill classic

            The Iceman Commeth – written in 1939, but first produced in 1946 – runs a full four hours! The version I saw was released in 1973. Its cast included Lee Marvin, Robert Ryan, Fredric March, Bradford Dillmann, and Jeff Bridges (the only one still with us); and a wonderful group of character actors you’ll recognize without quite remembering their names. All are great, but I would signal out Robert Ryan – from a noted Chicago family – for his performance as a disillusioned anarchist (the play is set in 1912).

            The location is Harry Hope’s (played by March) New York saloon, populated with a group of drunks and prostitutes, each living with his or her set of illusions. They are awaiting the annual arrival of Theodore “Hicky” Hickman, a travelling salesman who comes to celebrate Hope’s birthday, and who not only has great stories to tell, but buys the drinks! This time, he’s sober and bent on exposing everyone’s “pipe dreams.” I’ll leave it at that. You’ll have to watch it to see what happens.

            What struck me as I watched these filmed versions was how few of our more famous American actors ever take on these classical roles. It is as if a classical pianist never tested him or herself by playing the Beethoven sonatas. A notable exception is our greatest actor, Denzel Washington, who played Hickey in a 2018 Broadway production; and who has also taken on Shakespeare on several occasions. Another was Kevin Spacey, who has been blackballed for his alleged sexual misdeeds, for which he has never been convicted (he should run for president). Although not “leading man” types, the late Brian Dennehy, and Stacy Keach, both distinguished themselves in classic roles. And I should add Alec Baldwin as an actor unafraid to step on a stage.

            Most of our actors apparently don’t have the urge to test themselves, as the British do, in the great classic roles, whether Shakespeare, O’Neill, Williams or Miller; just as our singers prefer to sing their own songs instead of classics like Gershwin, Porter, or Berlin. It’s a pity, really. Actors like Tom Hanks or Leonardo DiCaprio are certainly capable of taking on Hickey in The Iceman Commeth. They could certainly afford to. Are they afraid to test themselves against the past? Or is it just easier not to?

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

I’ve been doing this blog since the Fall of 2015 and haven’t missed a single week. In case you’re interested, that’s 435 weeks in a row. I keep doing it despite  realizing that my opinions don’t seem to have gained much traction.

            For example, I have several times expressed my distaste of tattoos. Yet, everything I see tells me that they’re more popular than ever. I should have known I was losing ground when they started being called “body art.”  Since I have yet to see a tattoo that enhances a person’s appearance – quite the opposite, in fact – I can only take satisfaction in knowing that as they age, the tattooed ladies and gentlemen will regret their decisions as their skin inevitably turns into wrinkled paper, and the now bright colors fade  into indistinct blurs.

            Speaking of art, I’m afraid the definition thereof now includes anything that someone claims it to be. For example, if I were to blow my nose whilst strolling jaunty jolly along a sidewalk and toss the tissue away; and were someone to yell at me, I could claim it was my artistic comment on our throwaway society. Who could object in this world where giant metal balloon animals sell for tens of millions? Alas, my making fun of it has only caused prices to rise! And I get no thanks!

            My espousal of classical music and the Great American Songbook (Berlin, Porter, Gershwin, etc.) has fallen on deaf ears – literally deaf from listening to over-amplified guitar riffs. Whatever happened to the singer whose talent didn’t need dancers and light shows to distract an audience? When did the lyrics become irrelevant? Where is it written that you must write your own songs, even if they’re mediocre? Another of my lost causes.

            So, apparently, is Donald Trump. Recent polls have shown him ahead in the president’s race, despite the fact that  he’s a lying, cheating, bigoted, and dishonest sociopath (and that’s just scratching the surface). I’m certainly glad I’m not on his bad side. Those who have annoyed him have had their lives threatened by the crazies who respond to his tirades as if coming from the Almighty. And speaking of the Almighty, there are even some religious folks who literally believe Donald has been sent by God to clean out the temple (Washington).

            His baleful influence has resulted in a Congress that has passed fewer laws than any since the Great Depression. The House of Representatives has become a bad joke. Several Republican members have resigned in disgust, making the party’s hold on power even more tenuous. Their tireless efforts to prove that “Crooked Joe” has enriched himself in the public trough have come to naught. And blaming poor Joe for all the rest of our ills – and there are many – gives him way too much credit!

            As a natural conservative, I find this year’s apparent choice (I hold out hope it might change) highly depressing. I frankly don’t want to vote for either Trump or Biden. I console myself that I’m not legally required to make a choice. I can either just vote “down ballot” (if I can find candidates worthy of a vote), or perhaps write in someone like Mitch Daniels or John Kasich, who are, in my definition anyway, actual Republicans.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

I read recently that young couples are reluctant to have children because they believe the little tykes will just contribute to the ultimate death of the planet. On the other hand, maybe one of them will discover a way not only to halt global warming, but to reverse it.

            We just don’t know, do we? What we do know is that the birthrate in this country is 1.6 children per woman, below the replacement rate of 2.1. In 1950, it was three. Were it not for immigration, our population would be declining, and we would have an even more fundamental problem in filling all the available jobs. Look at Japan to see what happens to a country with highly restrictive immigration policies.

            This is not a plea for unrestricted immigration. We should have a rational policy that prevents or at least discourages illegal immigration (“undocumented” is just a feel-good euphemism). But we should also ask ourselves why our most-educated women are having the fewest children? The birth rate for women with only a high school education is 2.053 (still below the replacement rate); for those with a bachelor’s degree, it’s 1.284. Are they just too smart to have kids?

            It seems to me that this fear of the future is palpable, as if the challenges we face are somehow unique in the history of humanity. Really? I don’t want to give a lesson in world history, but you might want to Google “black death” for starters. (And, by the way, the Earth’s climate has never been static – in its long history, it has been both warmer and colder than it is now.)

            It is also argued that the birth rate would rise if we had more generous government benefits for families. Yet, in Scandinavia, with extremely generous benefits for mothers and children, the birth rate is no better than ours. Ditto for most of the rest of Europe.

            Closer to the truth, we have the wish of educated young women to firmly establish their careers before having a family. Those who know me best realize I’m not a woman, so what I say should be taken in that context. But I know this: every career has its ebbs and flows. A working life lasts about 50 years. Does it make much difference if you take time out to have children in the early twenties – when fertility is at its highest – or wait until the mid-thirties, when it’s declining and less sure?

            And isn’t not having children as a way of saving the planet just another reason for not undergoing the bother and expense of raising them? Are they really that concerned about a dying planet? Do they not have any confidence that future generations will do what is needed to keep the planet alive? Do they really think that it’s going to burn to a cinder in the lifetime of any child they might have?

            As it happens, I belong to an extended family that is highly educated and that has more than reproduced itself. We need more people like them. If we do save the world, what’s the point if there’s no one around to enjoy it?

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Those of us who live in the provincial backwater of Chicago need to find ways to broaden our horizons. One way I do this is to subscribe to the online edition of the venerable New York Times, which is doing OK in a declining newspaper market.

            I’m still loyal to the Chicago Tribune, which is slowly fading away. They still run the “Dear Amy” advice column, which carries on the tradition of Ann Landers. “Amy” is Amy Dickenson, who daily deals with the same relationship and family problems that bedeviled people even before the invention of newsprint.

            Being in the cultural capital of America, the Times’ advice team deals with the additional problems inherent in that status. For example, they confront sexual problems that we’re inclined to keep to ourselves here. I just can’t imagine “Dear Any” weighing in on what is and isn’t acceptable among sado-masochists. But they also deal with the more mundane, as this query from a reader shows.

            “A good friend has a new romantic interest. We are huge fans! The problem: he wears loose glitter in his hair. The last time he visited, our home was covered in tiny, impossible-to-gather pieces of glitter. {Editor’s note: Don’t you hate to get greeting cards covered with glitter?} We want to support this new relationship, and dictating how people dress doesn’t sit well with us. But the glitter mess is overwhelming. Can we say something to our friend?”

            As you might expect from the “Newspaper of Record,” the response was eminently sensible. “My theory,” responded Timesman Philip Galanes, “after consulting my barber {Editor’s note again: I wonder how my own barber, Frank the Albanian, would respond?.}, is that the boyfriend is not using enough hair gel (or other adhesive) to keep the glitter in place.” But of course! Galanes goes on to suggest speaking to the be-glittered boyfriend directly, mentioning that “we’re still digging it out of the sofa from your last visit.” Who could object?

            I must confess I’ve never seen anyone with glitter in their hair, although I’ve gotten used to seeing members of both sexes sporting hair dyed in bright colors. And although I have no actual data, most of them also seem to be covered in tattoos, and have their heads and faces pierced with a strange variety of metal appliances.

            The Times also has sufficient staff to cover the fashion scene in general. There was a time when this meant female fashion. Now, the lads get almost equal treatment. If you’re au courant, you may have noticed that male models seem as malnourished as their female counterparts, who have long been fashionably skinny and pouty. The strange thing, though, is that the clothes the lads wear are large enough for big, brawny fellows. Or, equally confusing, several sizes too small.

            Once, the beau ideal of manliness was Gary Cooper; now, it seems to be someone like Timothee Chalamet, whose hair weighs more than the rest of him. Perhaps I should go on a diet and consider changing barbers? Of course, Frank the Albanian might be more than willing to cater to the glitterati. I must consult him when next I visit.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon  

By Patrick F. Cannon

I was going to do a (hopefully) amusing piece this week, but you’ll have to wait until next week to have a hearty guffaw. Instead, I’m afraid Donald Trump once again rears his hairy head.

            Regular readers will know how much I loathe Trump, so will be surprised when I say that the civil judgement against him in New York for exaggerating the value of his assets in applying for loans was more than a little politically motivated. Technically, of course, he no doubt broke some law or other, just as many others have who have not been prosecuted. After all, is it not the bank’s responsibility to determine whether to grant the loan? Since the loan was repaid with interest and on time, they seemed satisfied with the result, and no doubt considered and discounted Trump’s inflated valuations. Do you wonder why they weren’t asked to testify by the prosecution?

            If New York Attorney General Leticia James were to prosecute every similar case, she would have to double her staff. But she won’t; nor will Manhattan District Attorney Alvin Bragg, who seems determined to double down with the hush-money, Stormy Daniels criminal case. While Bragg’s case is stronger, it will also give Trump an opportunity to campaign without having to bother to do anything but stand outside courtrooms and play the martyr. And even if the loan fraud judgement survives appeal, don’t be surprised if the monetary award is drastically reduced. 

            Then we have the fiasco in Georgia, where the actual case against Trump is also strong, but where District Attorney Fanni Willis has jeopardized it by having an affair with the outside prosecutor she hired to the tune of $650,000, and with whom she took expensive trips he paid for, claiming that she reimbursed him for her share in cash. Really?

            It seems less and less likely that Trump will be convicted of anything before the election. Even if he is, the inevitable appeals will drag on, perhaps for years. In the end, the voters will have to decide if they want him to serve a second term. For many Republicans and conservatives, it comes down to a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea. In this case, the devil is someone they know, Trump, and the deep blue sea is a man that represents a political party that they believe over governs and overspends.

            On Tuesday, November 5, you and I will likely be faced with that baleful choice. Do we vote for a thoroughly bad man, whose only saving grace is he isn’t a Democrat; or a man already showing his age, and who may or may not live through a second term, and who’s likely vice-presidential candidate is widely disliked? Or not vote at all, which may be a popular choice?

            It’s a hell of a thing, isn’t it?

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon       

By Patrick F. Cannon

I’ll be 86 on March 2, so I thought I should find out what other famous people were born on the same date. As you might expect, the first names that pop up on Google are current celebrities, including Daniel Craig, Robert Downey Jr (both very fine actors), Lindsay Lohan and Miley Cyrus (cuter, but of somewhat lesser stature). But how about names from the past, eminent in other fields?

The venerable Porky Pig will be 89 on March 2. He is rather benign and even likeable. I much preferred Elmer Fudd and his Sisyphistic quest to put an end to his nemesis, Bugs Bunny, but you can’t always choose who shares your birthday.

In contrast to Porky, there’s Pope Leo XIII (1810-1903), one of the longest serving popes. Leo was often called the “Commie” pope because in his encyclical “Rerum Novarum,” he had the temerity to say that workers should be allowed to have unions and be treated with respect. Not being Roman Catholics, the Robber Barons paid no attention. J.P. Morgan was even heard to say: “Pope who? What’s a pope?”

I’m sure there must be some Poinsettias from Christmas still doggedly clinging to life, perhaps in your home? As it happens, they were originally brought back from Mexico by the diplomat Joel Roberts Poinsett (1779-1851), our first ambassador to Mexico, and later US secretary of war. Over the border in Texas, Sam Houston (1793-1863), another March 2 baby, was that independent republic’s first president. Many Texans still think it’s independent or should be. Sam didn’t die at the Alamo, having been prudently absent, so later represented Texas in the US Senate. I can’t recall whether the current city was named after him, or vice versa.

            I’m honored to share a birthday with the great Yiddish writer Sholem Aleichem (1859-1916), who emigrated to this country in 1906. He was a tireless promoter of Yiddish as a major language but is best known today for writing the stories that were the basis for the legendary musical, Fiddler on the Roof. Another great writer born on March 2 was Tom Wolfe (1931-2023), who wasn’t afraid to write “big” novels, and who gave us the thrilling space saga, “The Right Stuff.”

            And how about DeWitt Clinton? He served as mayor of New York City, governor of the state, and as a US senator. But he’s best known as promoter of the Erie Canal, which connected the Atlantic Ocean at New York City to the Great Lakes and thence to Chicago. Once the Illinois and Michigan Canal was completed, you could float your boat from New York City to New Orleans (if you had a lot of time on your hands).

            The great Swiss cyclist Oscar Egg (1890-1961) shares my birthdate. He held the world’s one-hour record several times and was also the first winner of the inaugural Chicago Six Day Bicycle Race in 1915. Held annually at the Chicago Coliseum until the mid-1950s, Oscar rode again to Chicago glory in 1916 and 1923.

            Great musicians were also born on March 2. The German-American composer Kurt Weill (1900-1950) gave us The Threepenney Opera, with its famous song, “Mack the Knife.” A particular favorite of older men is his “September Song” from Knickerbocker Holiday of 1938. If you want to hear it sung by the actor who introduced it on Broadway, Walter Huston, just do an internet search.

            And don’t forget the great jazz tenor sax player, Eddie “Lockjaw” Davis (1922-1966). And although best known as Lucille Ball’s exasperated husband on “I Love Lucy” (and in real life), Desi Arnaz (1917-1986) was a mean conga drum virtuoso and band leader before striking it rich on television.

            Finaly, Mikhail Gorbachev was born on March 2, 1931 (died 2022). I was always amused at his bemused expressions when listening to Ronald Reagan. But best of all is Theodor Seuss Geisel (1904-1991), known as “Dr. Seuss,” who gave me so many wonderful verses to read to my children, including “I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them, Sam-I-Am.” I never liked them either, but I loved saying the words.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

I thought I’d turn this space over today to a French writer, Albert Camus, who died in 1960, but who continues to speak to us today. He wrote these words in 1949 in The Artist as Witness, and they seem to me to be truer today than they were then.

            “There is no life without dialog. And in the major part of the world, dialog has been replaced today by polemics…But what is the mechanism of polemics? It consists in considering the opponent as the enemy, consequently in simplifying him and refusing to see him. We have no idea of what the man we are insulting looks like, or whether he ever smiles, or how. Having become three-quarters blind by the grace of polemics, we no longer live among men but in a world oof silhouettes. There is no life without persuasion. And today’s history knows only intimidation. Men live and can only live on the basis that they have something in common on which they can always get together.”

            In 1949, in the aftermath oof World War II, we had the beginning of the Cold War, the first Arab-Israeli conflict, the anti-colonial uprisings, the Communist victory in China – and nuclear proliferation. Now, we have the continuing Arab-Israeli conflict, Ukraine, Taiwan, unimaginably more efficient weapons of all kinds, and Red versus Blue here and in many other countries. And Camus’ words resonate more than ever.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

I hate to kick a man when he’s down, but President Biden continues to demonstrate that even now – in the final year of his term – he is too old to fully function in his role as the de facto leader of the free world. Even most of his own party wishes he would step aside and make way for a younger candidate to oppose (alas, it looks like) Donald Trump in November.

            Add to these misgivings the report of special counsel Robert K. Hur, in which he declined to prosecute the president in the classified documents case in part because he found him a “well-meaning, elderly man with a poor memory,” and with “diminished faculties of advancing age.”

            Many have criticized these comments as “gratuitous.” I disagree. Kur made them because the president’s faulty memory would have weighed in his favor in any possible trial, by providing reasonable doubt as to his motivation. President Biden compounded the damage by holding a news conference to denounce the report, at which he confused the presidents of Egypt and Mexico. His staff must have, by now, raised “cringe” to high art.

            His mental capacity is flawed now. What will it be like when he’s 86, which he will be if he’s re-elected and serves his full term? He will be nine years older than Ronald Reagan was when he left office, and Reagan was noticeably failing mentally at the end. I’ll be 86 in less than a month, and I suspect my memory is better than the presidents, but I don’t have to undergo the daily stress of his office. Do you know anyone whose mental capacities improved with age?

            I know he always wanted to be president. He tried and failed several times. After loyally serving as Obama’s vice president for eight years, his persistence was rewarded, after Hillary Clinton failed to stop Trump. I can’t help but feel that many party leaders assumed he would be satisfied to serve one term. Clearly, he wants to hang on; and some, probably including his wife, are encouraging him to do so.

            We have a strange situation in this country. On the one hand, we have a Republican Party that seems frightened to death of the ultimate grifter, Donald Trump. On the other, we have a Democratic Party whose members tell pollsters they think President Biden is too old to run again, but whose leadership won’t come out in public and say what they must believe.

            I’m reminded of 1974, when Republican leaders Senators Goldwater and Scott, and House Minority Leader Rhodes went to see President Nixon to tell him that there weren’t enough votes left to prevent his impeachment in the House and conviction in the Senate. While they didn’t demand he resign, he got the message.

            I’m sure we’re all familiar with the technique of “intervention,” when a group of friends and/or relatives confronts an addict in an attempt to get him or her (or perhaps “they”) to admit to having a problem, as a first step in overcoming it. Why doesn’t a group of Democratic Party leaders (and donors!) confront President Biden with the obvious: “You’re too old to run again. If you do, you’ll go down in history as the cranky old man who gave the country back to Donald Trump. If you step down, you’ll be able to point to your achievements and act the elder statesman role!”

            But then, I struggle to think of any of the current crop of politicians who put the interests of the country before their own.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Thank God I don’t have to fly much anymore. Just got back from Tampa on a visit to my son Patrick, and it was the usual uncomfortable experience. Small seats, no legroom, full flight, crumbly cookies, narrow aisle – well, if you fly, you know it’s no fun. Thankfully, it was only a two-and-a-half-hour flight, and it was on time.

            Look, I understand economics. The airlines want to get as many seats as they can on their airplanes. The Federal government regulates them and could theoretically mandate larger seats with more leg room, but they have to balance that against this: “fewer seats, higher fares.” The resulting equation means OK comfort for someone 5 feet 3 inches, weighing 130 pounds, but torture for me at 6 feet 2 inches and 240. The reality is that my knees touch the seat in front of me. And, to add to the torture, you’re not allowed to get up and stand in that narrow aisle, once a Godsend on longer flights.

            If you’re old enough, you can remember better days. I flew commercially for the first time in 1956, when I moved from Pittsburgh to Chicago after my mother died. As I recall, the plane was a two-engine turboprop, and we landed at the newly-opened O’Hare. Over the years since, I have been on just about every commercial craft then flying, starting with the legendary DC-3, which took me from Nairobi, Kenya to a dirt landing strip near a game park.

            My first time in the air was in a Piper Cub, piloted by an employee of my father, who had been a World War II pilot. I have no idea where the little airport was, but it must have been a southern or western suburb of Chicago. I have also been up a couple of times with my pilot son in a Cessna 172. The only other single-engine plane I can recall flying in was one the US Army used for courier service in France. As I recall, it had a radial engine and could accommodate six passengers. Also in the Army, I flew from Augusta, Georgia to McGuire Air Force Base in New Jersey – enroute to the ship that would take me to France – in a Lockheed Constellation. Early in my post-Army career, I also flew in its piston-engine competitor, the Douglas DC-7.

            My first business flight was in 1963 from Chicago to New York for an orientation session with my new employer, the Union Camp Corporation. We flew in a Sud Aviation Caravelle, a twinjet manufactured in France. Get this! It was all first-class, and only male passengers were permitted! We were served cocktails and steaks by young and comely stewardesses (still called that in those pre-politically correct days).

            You newer fliers may be interested to know that some early versions of the Boeing 747 jumbo jet actually had bars, some with pianos. Because even the coach seats were adequate and even comfortable, and you could stretch your legs and even join a sing-along, travel was at least bearable. And, of course, for any flight longer than a couple of hours, you got a meal, which was not always great, but at least something you didn’t have to bring aboard.

            Before I retired, I mostly flew business or first class for longer flights. Now, I suffer with the folks in steerage. For some international flights, airlines offer an upgrade for coach seats that provide a bit more leg room. It’s another dodge like baggage fees, but worth it if you’re taller than average.

            There was a day when air travel was an adventure. People actually went to the airport to see friends and family off on their adventures. No more. And no more smiling faces in the departure lounge or singing “Fly Me to the Moon” at the piano bar.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

See You on the Radio

By Patrick F. Cannon

For more than 20 years, my Sunday morning routine has not changed much. After a hearty breakfast, I watch CBS Sunday Morning from 8:00 to 9:30 am, then read the Sunday Chicago Tribune. The television magazine program has always run for an hour-and-a-half, but the Trib has dwindled over the years to become a shadow of its former self.

            From 1994-2016, the program was hosted by Charles Osgood, who died on January 23, age 91. Concurrently, Osgood – who always considered himself a “radio man” – did a radio program called “The Osgood File.” He was also a dab hand at the piano, and something of a poet, although he always said he was just a “rhymer.”  

            He succeeded Charles Kuralt as host. As it happens, I hired both to be speakers at Lions Clubs International conventions. One of my staff members picked Kuralt up at the airport and delivered him to the venue the next day. I met him then, and somewhere have a photo taken with him and my staff. One of his most popular features was “On the Road with Charles Kuralt.” He travelled the county in a motor home, stopping in small towns and attractions along the way. In his talk, he was able to mention the Lions clubs and members he had encountered along the way. This went over well with American members in the audience of 15,000, but less so with German and French attendees!

            I personally picked up Osgood at the airport. In those simpler days, you could meet people at the gate. We paid for first class for our guests and speakers, so he was one of the first passengers off the plane. We exchanged pleasantries, and I took his suit bag, which was his only luggage for this quick trip. About halfway down the concourse, he suddenly patted his suit jacket, stopped and said: “I think I left my wallet on the plane.”

            Back to the gate we went, where one of the staff hustled back to the plane and found his wallet. In the hired limo to the hotel, we chatted about this and that. At one point, he asked if I had ever worked in radio, because, as he said, “you have a radio voice.” Ever since, I wished someone had said that to me fifty years ago. I might have given Wally Phillips a run for his money.

            Anyway, he was the nicest speaker I ever hired. As a tribute, I’ll end this with a verse he used to end his talk the next day. It seemed that the Census Bureau had created a new category for describing households: Persons of Opposite Sex Sharing Living Quarters (or POSSLQ). Here is Osgood’s take on it:

            Come live with me and be my love

   And we will some new pleasures prove

            Of golden sands and crystal brooks

            With silken lines and silver hooks.

            There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do

            If you would be my POSSLQ.

            You live with me, and I with you

            And you will be my POSSLQ.

            I’ll be your friend and so much more;

            That’s what a POSSLQ is for.

            And everything we will confess;

            Yes, even to the IRS.

            Someday on what we both may earn,

            Perhaps we’ll file a joint return.

            You’ll share my pad, my taxes, joint;

            You’ll share my life – up to a point!

            And that you’ll be so glad to do,

            Because you’ll be my POSSLQ.

Rest in peace, Charles Osgood.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon