An Outrageous Outbreak!

By Patrick F. Cannon

To my great surprise, there seems to be an outbreak of Bentleys in the near Western suburbs (not to be confused with a Gaggle of Geese or a Choir of Angels). I don’t mean Bentley’s Pancake restaurants, or the pet supply stores, but the British motorcar.

For the uninitiated, Bentleys have been made since 1909, and are named after their creator, W.O. Bentley. To car enthusiasts, they are best known as winners of the 24-Hour race at LeMans, France in 1924, and from 1927-30. They went bankrupt soon after, and were taken over by Rolls Royce. Thereafter, they became Rolls Royce’s with different and less showy grill. Strangely enough, the brand is now owned by Volkswagen (go figure).

On the same day recently, I saw two Bentleys in Oak Park and one in River Forest. Had I been tooling around Lake Forest or the Gold Coast, I wouldn’t have been the least surprised to see them (and Ferrari’s as well). On the other hand, River Forest is about number 12 in the list of richest ZIP codes in the Chicago area; and parts of Oak Park (northwest) would be if separated from the rest of that diverse community.

You could argue – and many Oak Parkers of the “progressive” persuasion would prefer that you walk or ride your bike – that buying a Bentley is conspicuous consumption of the worst kind. After all, the cheapest one is likely to set you back about $220,000. If you must drive, a Toyota Prius might only cost $30,000, and put you in good stead with your bewhiskered neighbors. But here’s the thing: at current rates, the Bentley buyer is putting $22,000 in sales tax money in the public coffers instead of the $3,000 that the Prius buyer contributes.

Of course, we’re continuously reminded that the rich “don’t pay their fair share.” If you don’t believe it, just ask the Chicago Teacher’s Union (CTU), or any of the numerous candidates for the Democratic nomination for President in 2020.  Just last Sunday, Joe Biden, on 60 Minutes, allowed as how the rich should be squeezed a lot more.

It may come as a surprise to the CTU, but the Chicago public schools are largely financed by individuals who don’t send their children to public schools; and by the commercial property owners who employ the parents of those who do. The CTU talks about a corporate head tax, as if those heads belong to people who live in Timbuktu.

As far as the “fair share” of Federal income taxes go, the top 1% pay 38.47% of the total; the top 5%,, 59.14%; and the top 10%, 70.08%. The bottom 50% pay an exorbitant 3.11%. Although Chicago’s real estate tax rate is actually lower than most of the suburbs, the fat cats with $5 million condos contribute mightily to the total, and their lavish spending habits fatten the sales tax coffers much more than the canny Walmart shopper. The sales tax on a couple of Big Macs might be a buck; on two meals at Alinea, it could reach $75 or even more if the top of the wine list beckons.

So, to say the rich don’t pay their fair share is absurd. The real problem we all face is governments who refuse to do one (or both) of two things: reduce expenditures to match revenues; or increase revenues to match expenditures. Since Bill Clinton (of all people) left office in 2001, neither the Democratic or Republican parties have expressed any interest in balancing the budget. If the Federal Government or the State of Illinois (and you can throw in the City of Chicago while you’re at it) were businesses, they would have to declare bankruptcy.

Perhaps we need a new party, which I would call the Pragmatic Party. In the meantime, the next time you see a Bentley drive by, give the driver a thumbs up.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Just Plain Bad

By Patrick F. Cannon

I’ve recently resisted writing about President Trump. The world probably doesn’t need another opinion about him, after all. But recently I’ve talked with some of his supporters, people I like and respect. I won’t stop liking and respecting them, but I would like to remind them and all of Trump’s supporters – including Republicans in the Congress – of something they need to admit and accept: Donald Trump is a bad man.

How bad? Let me just say this: we have had presidents who have knowingly lied to the American public, but in most cases they knew they were lying and did it anyway, sometimes for reasons they thought were justified. Trump lies continuously, and really doesn’t make a distinction between truth and fiction. If he says it, then to him it’s true. He is a classic narcissist; only he is important; only he deserves loyalty (notice how he quickly turns on people who deign to disagree with him).

Everyone should realize that only the courts and the Congress have kept him from ruling by decree. He is less intelligent than Hitler, and has more hair than Mussolini, but he is the same type of megalomaniac.

Anyway, it seems unlikely that the Senate will vote him out of office, even if he’s impeached by the House (but we can always hope!). And unless the Republican Party regains its soul, he’ll probably be their candidate in 2020. If you plan to vote for him anyway, by all means go ahead, but please do so without illusions. Vote for him knowing that he is a thoroughly bad man.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Rah, Rah, Sis Boom Bah!

By Patrick F. Cannon

The State of California, in its typical wisdom, passed a law that, beginning in 2023, will permit college athletes to hire agents and sign endorsement contracts. The National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA) has predictably opposed this, reiterating its longstanding stance that a college scholarship is payment enough for the student athlete.

To give you an idea of what a football or basketball scholarship is worth at a Division I university, here are some examples, including at my alma mater, Northwestern:

• Oklahoma — $124,556
• Alabama — $137,124
• Ohio State — $160,152
• Northwestern — $212,000
• Notre Dame — $213,956
• Stanford – $223,672

It should be pointed out that the future value of a degree from the last three far exceeds that of the first three. Oh, and I should mention that these athletes are housed and fed much more lavishly than the run of the mill student, and get supplied with a lot of free branded clothing (all of the above universities will have exclusive deals with Nike, Adidas or similar supplier).

Of course, you need to actually graduate to get the full value. Graduation rates vary from 97 percent at Northwestern to 40 percent at Florida International. Perennial powerhouses Florida State and Oklahoma graduate 55 and 47 percent respectively.

Despite playing at the top level, fewer than two-percent of these athletes will ever play professional sports. And that’s likely about the percentage of student athletes who could hope to get any kind of endorsement deal. So, will the California law really do what it purports to do?

Now, anyone who has played organized football at any level will know that practice is the dues you pay to play the game. It’s time consuming and very hard work. Elite athletes are also expected to work out during the off season. Since they have no time available to hold any kind of part-time job, why not pay them the minimum wage for mandatory practices and workouts? While I personally think the free ride is payment enough, these payments would at least be quantifiable and fair to all. Many student athletes come from poor families and this would help them in particular; but I would guess that most come from families that can help them pay for some incidentals and travel.

There’s no question that major sports like football and basketball generate significant income for some universities. Both Texas and Texas A&M in that football mad state generate nearly $220 million a year in revenue. In the Big 10, Ohio State pulls in $205 million and Michigan, $195. All of them will claim that this income is what pays for non-income generating sports, and that’s probably mostly true.

Could it also help pay the minimum wage for mandatory practice for all sports? They would no doubt say no, but they do find a way to pay football coaches lavishly: last year Nick Saban of Alabama pulled in $8.3 (all in millions); Urban Meyer at Ohio State, $7.6; Jim Harbaugh at Michigan, $7.5; and (I love these names), Jimbo Fisher was paid $7.5 at Texas A&M; and Dabo Swinney a mere $6.5 at Clemson (no doubt he’ll be asking for a raise).

In my ideal world, universities would offer only academic and needs-based scholarships; and students would play sports for the love of the game. But as we know, my ideal world was never the real world and never, alas, will be.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

The Truth Has Consequences

By Patrick F. Cannon

It should come as no surprise that the Chinese government reacted in its usual fashion by severing ties with the Houston Rockets after its general manager, Daryl Morley, tweeted support for the Hong Kong protesters. Before he did something of an about-face and claimed that he of course supported freedom of speech, Adam Silver, National Basketball Association president, had tried to placate the Chinese and limit the financial damage to the NBA, which is highly popular in China.

There is, of course, no freedom of speech in China. And the Chinese Communist Party isn’t likely to grant any if it can help it. In case you’re wondering why the Hong Kong protesters are wearing masks, it’s because the Chinese authorities use face recognition technology to identify its “enemies” for future punishment.

We are asked to celebrate cultural differences, but is there no limit? For decades, the Chinese have been stealing our technical and trade secrets. And this thievery has not only been limited to the mainland government. On my first trip to Taiwan, I noticed that most of the goods I saw were pirated. In a hotel bookshop, every book I picked up – bestsellers all – were obvious phonies. Ditto branded clothing. No problem getting a Gucci handbag at a great price.

Please understand that I am quite aware that not all of our own business people are perfectly ethical, but perhaps they’re more subtle? Here’s a personal story that gives some insight into the way the Chinese often do business.

When I was public relations and communications manager for Lions Clubs International, we had our international convention in Hong Kong. To get the convention, the Hong Kong Lions club members entered into a contract with the association that spelled out the responsibilities of both parties. Among the stipulations was one that forbade the local Lions from selling merchandise in competition with the parent organization. Now, my division produced and sold a video of convention highlights. We didn’t in those primitive days have the technology to do the editing and produce copies on the spot to a level of quality that would satisfy us, so took orders for later delivery.

One of the events we covered was an elaborate parade that was and is an annual feature of the Lions’ convention. One of the readers of this blog, and my golf buddy,, Ralph Wagoner, was then the producer and director of the video. He and his crew were on the parade route with their equipment doing their job when they were swooped down upon by the local police and made to leave. This despite credentials that gave them the right to be there.

I can’t say I was shocked when I discovered later that the local Lions had in fact produced their own video and sold it openly just outside our convention venue. And not only the video, but a wide variety of products with the Lions’ emblem emblazoned boldly on them, all of this in violation of the contract they had signed and our copyright.

I can only hope that the young people protesting in Hong Kong represent a new China, but based on my own experience and its long history of authoritarianism, they better keep their masks on for the time being.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

They is a Nice Person

By Patrick F. Cannon

Pity the poor doctor or nurse who is tasked with checking either the “male” or “female” box on a birth certificate, based only on the evidence of his or her eyes. If they only knew the consternation this could cause in the future, they might have wished for another choice, say “to be determined.” But more on this later.

I’m 81 now, and people my age often marvel at the technological progress that has taken place during their lifetime. Man has been to the Moon, for goodness sakes; and you can now correct spelling and grammar mistakes without whiteout. And while the quality of the content hasn’t greatly improved, you can literally at any given moment choose from among hundreds or even thousands of movies or programs to watch on your jumbo-sized television screen.

But to me the greatest advance has been in society’s toleration of sexual orientation. When I was born, sexual relations between same-sex partners was illegal in most US jurisdictions. If such laws are still on the books, they are not now enforced. Indeed, it is against the law to discriminate against anyone for their sexual orientation, although I’m not naïve enough to believe that subtle (and even not so subtle) forms of discrimination don’t still exist.

This does not mean that many religionists still don’t rail against homosexuality, citing the bible as their authority. While the bible is a worthy book in many ways, it continues to give cover to people who need to mind their own business. Nor can the Koran be held blameless – the majority of the 72 countries that still ban homosexual relations are Muslim. Some – Iran, Somalia, Saudi Arabia, Yemen, and the UAE, among others – can impose a death sentence as punishment.

Toleration is necessary and admirable, but it should not blind us to reality. Many of our fellow countrymen were willing to ignore scientific evidence, for example, and caused a measles epidemic. And corporations are happy to pander to the anti-science brigade by labeling their products “No GMOs.” Every science-based study of genetically modified organisms has found them to be perfectly safe. And how, all of a sudden, did so many folks become lactose or gluten intolerant?

To get back to the beginning, when did people start believing you could change your sex? It’s simply not possible. Nor can you be born with the “wrong” sex. You are what you are. This does not mean that some men and women have not always preferred to live as the opposite sex. If they wish to do so, that’s their business. But when they ask us to change an official public record because they claim that some poor misguided medical professional “assigned” them the wrong sex at birth, then we’re not practicing toleration, but fantasy.

It is only in the last century that medication and surgery have permitted some transgender people to seem to be the opposite sex. Sex hormone injections and radical surgery can accomplish a cosmetic transformation (that is, by the way, irreversible); but they do not change the patient’s sex. I often wonder how a surgeon can justify surgery that doesn’t, in fact, do what it purports to do. What happened to “do no harm?”

So, let’s by all means tolerate people’s sexual orientation and proclivities. I fully proscribe to this dictum: what people do to each other in their bedroom is none of my business. I’m even happy for the media to go along by using the pronouns that folks ascribe to themselves no matter their actual sex (the latest one is “they” for non-binary people). Just don’t ask me to also deny reality.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Cooking Make Easy, Part Three

By Patrick F. Cannon
Simplify, simplify, simplify! That has ever been my culinary motto. Now, at long last, I shall reveal my strategy for cooking fine, but simple, dinners.
Let me hasten to say that I have nothing against complicated dishes; indeed my wife Jeanette specializes in meals that often take two or more days to finally reach the table. But I have always been mindful of the dictum of the legendary French chef, Pierre Savarin a la Carte, who admonished his assistants to KISS, as in “keep it simple stupid!” He has always been my hero and guiding light.
This is, of course, just a brief essay, not an outright cookbook. Therefore, I will only share with you two of my favorite and most famous dishes – steak, and linguini with white clam sauce. First, steak. For our purposes, there are three suitable and widely available cuts – porterhouse, New York strip and ribeye. The porterhouse is known as the “King of Steaks,” because it includes both the tenderloin and the strip. It takes a young person to consume this vast slab of beef; it can easily feed three or even more normal folk.
The strip steak is the most common cut, and is entirely acceptable. For the ultimate in tenderness, the ribeye is supreme. But – and I cannot stress this enough – only prime grade beef makes a great steak. Because you will pay between $18 and $25 per pound (depending on the wealth of the neighborhood where your butcher is located), you may only serve steak on rare occasions, unless you’re a captain of industry or a professional athlete. But keep in mind that the steak you buy and cook for $25 would cost $65 or more in a better steakhouse. Alas, poorer people will have to follow Marie Antoinette’s advice: “Let them eat pork.”
No matter the type, have your butcher cut it two-inches thick. Unless you’re feeding ravenous young men, a one-pound steak easily feeds two; a two-pounder, four; and so on. To cook it, you will need a heavy frying pan. When the steak is at room temperature, pat it dry, and salt and pepper to taste. Put some fat – I prefer butter, but other oils or lard are acceptable – into the pan. Turn on the burner (excuse me for being obvious, but some of our dimmer folk do require specific instructions) and when the fat is bubbling or shimmering, add the steak. Brown thoroughly on all sides, then put the pan into a 400-degree oven until the internal temperature of the meat reaches 135 degrees, which is medium rare. An instant-read thermometer is a helpful tool for this and other kitchen uses. (By the way, if you prefer your steak well done, ruin a cheaper cut of beef.)
Put the meat on a cutting board or platter and cover with aluminum foil (titanium foil would also work, but it doesn’t yet exist). After 15 minutes or so, slice against the grain and serve. To me, the classic side dishes are sautéed mushrooms, baked potato and steamed asparagus. Such things as bearnaise or A-1 sauce should only be served with lesser grades of beef. The true “prime” must stand alone! (Well, a great glob of butter could be placed on top when it comes out of the oven.)
Linguine with clam sauce makes a cheaper, but delicious meal. You can be a purist and buy fresh clams (quahog is only one possible variety), but it’s a lot easier to buy canned whole clams. One can is sufficient for 8 ounces of pasta; for a full pound you will need, not surprisingly, two cans.
In a 12-inch non-stick sauté pan, add a goodly amount of best olive oil (“best” is the pretentious word Martha Stewart uses in describing ingredients) or just plain old extra virgin, preferably from Italy. To this, add a bit of chopped onion or shallot and several of those garlic things, also chopped. Sauté until tender and fragrant, but not burned. Add the juice from the can or cans and a generous amount of vino bianco. Season with salt and pepper, a sprinkling of herbs de province, and red pepper flakes to the limit of your tolerance. When the liquid is reduced to your liking, add the clams, which only need heating.
In the meantime, you should have been cooking your pasta in salted, boiling water. When it reaches the perfect state of al dente-ness (which strangely enough means “to the tooth” in Italian), drain it (mandatory) and pour it into the pan with the sauce. Mix the pasta and the sauce on low heat until well mixed and piping hot. If you are that kind of cook, garnish with some chopped parsley and a drizzle of olive oil before serving in a great big bowl or, if you’re a stickler for form, in individual bowls. Serve the same vino bianco you used for cooking.
Technically, you should not provide any grated parmesan cheese, as it is widely thought that it does not complement clams or similar seafood. Yet, some people like to grate cheese on any pasta dish. I do not wish to use my undoubted eminence to guide your wishes in this matter. I can only say that at some Italian restaurants if you ask for parmesan for your linguine with white clam sauce, you will be screamed at, or worse. But if you insist on parmesan, you must only use the real stuff from Italy, not the ground up mixture that passes for it here.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon
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Cooking Made Easy, Part Two

By Patrick F. Cannon

I had hoped to continue my culinary explorations this week with advice on how to prepare an unforgettable dinner, but fate has intervened. A massive outcry from many of my faithful readers has demanded that I give the breakfast egg more of its due.

As you will recall, I only gave advice on cooking sunny side up, over-easy and over-medium eggs. What, the angry mob demanded, happened to scrambled, poached and various kinds of boiled eggs? Do not they have a place on the breakfast plates of our great country? Upon sober reflection, I am convinced that they do.

I suspect that the first scrambled egg was a mistake. Imagine Ogg the cave man breaking an egg on the hot rock; instead of staying intact, it splatters. In frustration, Ogg attacks it with a stick, thus further scattering it about. Food being a bit harder to come by in those days, he can’t afford to throw the mess away, so he eats it. Hmm, not bad, he thinks. The scrambled egg is born of an accident, just like most stuff we eat (the oyster being the best example).

It took thousands of years to perfect the perfect recipe for this simple dish, but here it is. First of all, let your eggs reach room temperature, unless you live in an igloo. Let’s say you’re making breakfast for yourself and your inamorata. Break four eggs in a bowl, and add one quarter cup of whole cream! Not whole milk. Not almond phony milk. Not anything but whole cream. Whisk the eggs and cream until combined. Set aside for a moment and place a non-stick frying pan on a burner set to medium. Add a lot of butter.

When the butter is just melted, pour in the eggs. With a spatula, continuously work the eggs from the outside in until done to your liking. Immediately serve them. Let the eater salt and pepper to taste. Do not permit anyone to season their eggs with ketchup, mustard, or hot sauce. Such condiments may be acceptable at a cheap diner, but properly scrambled eggs should never be thus defiled.

There are those who would claim that olive oil can be substituted for butter. It is no accident that they are usually natives of Italy, Greece or Spain, where most olive oil is produced. If you go to the dairy case of your local grocer, you will find eggs, butter and cream. You will not find olive oil. Ask yourself, why?

94-percent of Americans have never poached an egg, because the thought of doing so scares them to death. If you can get your courage up, fill a pan with water and bring to a steady simmer. Add a couple of tablespoons of white vinegar. If you were to add red wine vinegar, your eggs whites would turn pink. If that thought pleases you, then give it a shot.

An extra step is very helpful. Instead of cracking the eggs directly into the water, crack them into a small bowl, then gently slide into the water. Standing at the ready with a slotted spoon, watch until the whites solidify, then scoop out. What you do with it is your own business. I favor plopping them on a piece of buttered toast. If your tastes run to Eggs Benedict, I suggest you save your sanity and just go to a good restaurant.

I’m sure you’ve heard the old expression: “He (or she) is such a bad cook, he can’t even boil an egg.” If you believe yourself to be such a person, you have no doubt been frightened by everything I’ve written above. But don’t despair. I believe with all my heart that anyone can in fact boil an egg.

Take a sauce pan and fill it with water. Place it upon a stove burner turned on to hot. When the water boils, turn the burner down until the water is just boiling. You must have a timer. Again, the eggs should be at room temperature. If you want a really soft-boiled egg, set the timer for three minutes; turn it on and put the egg in the water. When the timer goes off, take the egg out and run it briefly under cold water to stop the cooking. Eat more or less immediately, as a cold soft-boiled egg is loathsome. If you want the white to be more set, cook for four minutes. Six minutes should give you a hard-boiled egg.

There are of course other kinds of eggs – the Chinese eat something called the 100-year-old egg. I won’t tell you how to make it; otherwise you might actually have to eat it.

(Next week, finally, dinner is served!)

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Cooking Made Easy

By Patrick F. Cannon

Regular readers of this space will remember my tribute to my late mother’s culinary skills in the article titled Home Cookin’. Some wondered if her accomplishments had influenced my own efforts to advance the cause of haute cuisine.

Indeed they have. I had meant for some time to share my expertise, but more mundane matters always seemed to intervene. This morning, however, I awoke with such a feeling of accumulated guilt that I felt I could no longer withhold my kitchen secrets from a wider world.

Now, my wife Jeanette has a shelf full of cook books. You should forswear the use of any of this advice from so-called experts. If you look into any of these alluring tomes, you will notice vast lists of ingredients and pages of instructions. No human can follow them without getting lost. The following recipes are all inclusive. Simply follow them and you can’t go wrong.

Let’s start with breakfast. Now, as we all know, a productive day must start with a hearty breakfast. If pressed for time – and aren’t we all? – simply grab a box of Cheerios, pour some into a handy bowl and add some milk. Whole real milk is preferred, but 2% is acceptable. Never use skim milk; it is a watery abomination. Adding a bit of fruit can be a healthy addition. (By the way, there is no such thing as “Almond Milk.” It’s juice, for God’s sake.)

If more time is available, can I suggest bacon and eggs? Many happy homes have been torn asunder by an inability to properly fry an egg. Bacon is relatively easy. Put strips of bacon into a frying pan and cook on one side until they look done, then turn over and do the same. I suggest putting the strips on a piece of paper towel to drain while undertaking the eggs.

Do not cook the eggs in bacon fat! It will overwhelm their delicate taste. Eggs must be fried in butter; no substitutes permitted. Simply melt some butter in a non-stick frying pan, then crack the eggs and slide what’s inside the shell into the pan. I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how to crack an egg. If you botch this simple task, cooking is clearly not for you. Anyway, there are two parts to the egg, the white part and the yellow part. The yellow part, called the yolk, should stay intact during the cooking. If it breaks, or leaks, the purist will throw this egg away and start anew. I would suggest feeding the offending egg to your dog. Dogs, as we know, will eat anything.

Some people will like their eggs “sunny side up.” This simply means you cook the egg until it seems done, then gently transfer it to the plate. But many prefer what is called “over easy.” These are queasy folk who are sickened by runny whites. The double-queasy want their eggs “over medium” to err on the safe side. For the first, you turn the egg over and cook for an additional 10 seconds, for the second, 15. If you lose track of the time, you might end up with “over hard.” Again, if you have a dog, that would be an option; or, you could try that old family refrain “take it or leave it.”

You must, of course, serve toast. Like me, you should always keep a loaf of Wonderbread on hand. Invest in a toaster. Most have controls that permit one to customize one’s toast. For example, it might have a scale of 1 to 5, 1 being “why bother” to 5 being “burnt to a crisp.”  One is constantly amazed at the wonders of technology.

If you want to get exotic and add side dishes like hash-brown potatoes, you needn’t worry. They, and many more breakfast sides dishes, are easily available in your grocer’s frozen food case.

Now that we have dispatched breakfast, we can move on to lunch. As a first option, I would suggest calling a friend and meeting him or her at a local restaurant. This gets you out of the house and hones your social skills. If you have to stay at home, I suggest the classic soup and sandwich combo. For soup, can I suggest one of those classics, Campbell’s Chicken Noodle or Tomato? You can, by the way, enrich the Tomato soup by using milk instead of water.

Although some restaurants gussy up the simple sandwich by adding exotic ingredients, including the dreaded avocado, simple is always better. Really, all you need are two slices of Wonderbread, some sliced lunch meat and cheese preferable pasteurized, processed American. I do tolerate some lettuce and tomato, if time permits.

As to condiments, ketchup must only be used for red meat, or fried bologna. Mustard may also be used for red meat, and goes well with ham and uncooked bologna. Mayonnaise is most acceptable for fowl, but has been known to be slathered on any sandwich, particularly the “Club”, which features turkey and bacon, along with lettuce and tomato. For the bigger of mouth, this classic is often double-decked. For the inattentive, ingredients in the lap are a possibility.

There you have it. Two-thirds of the daily nourishment dealt with, without recourse to any cook book. But a major challenge awaits!

(To be continued. Next week: Dinner is served!)

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

It’s Just Too Much!

By Patrick F. Cannon

I would never claim that our times are more vulgar than any in the past, but our claims would surely be at least competitive.

The word itself has many meanings and uses, which to me boil down to this – that which is more than it needs to be is vulgar. Let me give you an example. In a movie whose title I can’t remember, and whose plot escapes me, Bing Crosby is auditioning a girl singer, whose identity is lost in the mists of time (it was probably in late 1940s). As she sings her song, she does dance moves and gesticulates (love that word) in time with the song. Bing stops her, and asks her what is more important, her or the song. Then he sings the same song, standing quietly and enunciating every word of the lyric clearly. As I recall, she gets the message and goes on to be a great star! Of course. But would she now?

Tony Bennett, now in his 90s, still just stands there and delivers the song. Others who do the same are mostly jazz or folk singers, not exactly performers at the top of the charts. Live pop performers now rarely appear without a troupe of barely-clothed hard bodies, of both sexes, writhing behind them; and behind them, a band which seems to mostly consist of over-amplified guitars and an electronic keyboard, which makes a variety of strange sounds. At the front, of course, we find the Beyonce’s and Lady Gaga’s of the world, both of whom have actual talent, but have concluded that vulgarity sells better than the song itself. Can we blame Cher for starting this? Or maybe it was Liberace?

Having written five books on Chicago architecture, I see a good deal of vulgarity in the built environment. It’s interesting to me that similar ornament can be coherent on one building and vulgar on another. For one of our books, my partner Jim Caulfield went to Buffalo to photograph Louis Sullivan’s Guaranty Building. Built in 1895, there is scarcely any of the façade that isn’t covered with ornament – but somehow Sullivan’s genius makes it work. In contrast, for an otherwise nondescript condo building in Oak Park, the architect chose to apply panels of Louis Sullivan-inspired ornament to the façade. there it looks ridiculous and, yes, vulgar.

Vulgarity in architecture was raised to its absolute peak in Las Vegas, where it’s not unexpected, but even great architects are not immune to artistic overreach. The great Frank Lloyd Wright’s occasional flights of fancy sometimes miscarried, but most fortunately remain unbuilt. Current superstar Frank Gehry has designed some truly wonderful buildings, but several real stinkers too. His “Fred and Ginger” apartment building in Prague still bemuses the locals; and what was he thinking when he designed 8 Spruce Street in Manhattan, whose façade seems to be melting? Another stinker – and I realize my opinion may not be widely shared – is the Hotel Marques de Riscal in Spain. I’d rather stay at the Holiday Inn.

Let me end with a tribute to comedians like Jerry Seinfeld and Jim Gaffigan, who work “clean.” Let me admit here that when I was in the Army, my utterances often included the classic profanities: f_ _ _, m_ _ _ _ _f_ _ _ _ _, and c_ _ _s_ _ _ _ _.  I’m being delicate here, but you know what I mean.

After I left the Army, I largely abandoned their use, other than occasionally muttering them to myself on the golf course or in traffic. I also stopped eating ham for several years, after having to eat too much of it in Army mess halls. Eating ham isn’t vulgar, but profanity as a verbal crutch most certainly is. And when did comics of both sexes decide that their sex lives were endlessly fascinating? And when did we start agreeing with them?

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Leaping Lizards!

By Patrick F. Cannon

For those of us who live in Chicagoland, it’s been another eventful year. The capital of the Midwest got a new mayor, Lorie Lightfoot, whose tread on the political establishment has been anything but light. As usual, the Feds have indicted two aldermen, and have raided the offices and homes of a few more. Even though the murder rate continues to decline, you wouldn’t know it from listening to the evening news. Oh, and a special prosecutor has been named to look into the handling of a case of a no-talent actor who phonied up an attack on himself designed to get him a raise on a television series shot in Chicago, and then got off with a slap on the wrist.

There was much more, but all of it was eclipsed by the discovery of an alligator in a lagoon at Garfield Park. Until the poor creature was captured by Frank Robb, an expert imported from Florida, sightings and un-sightings were daily fodder for the local TV stations and even made the national news. He was dubbed “Chance the Snapper” in honor of Chicago’s own Chance the Rapper. Even after he was exiled to a refuge in Florida, his fame demanded a few follow-up stories, which may have finally stopped. Robb also had his moment of fame and must have been tempted to hire an agent. (As recently as Tuesday, there was a flash report on the news that he had found love. By the way, Robb sports a biblical beard. Biblical beards and tattoos seem to be today’s daily double. Why?)

My own experiences with the American Alligator are considerable. Most recently, on my many trips to Florida, I have spied the odd one lazing on the banks of a water hazard at one of the state’s many golf courses. Other than discouraging one from seeking a lost ball, they seem to mind their own business, which seems to be sleeping in the Sun.

On one trip, my brother Pete, his wife Mary Beth, and my wife Jeanette and I went to the Florida Everglades, where we took an air boat ride through that fascinating landscape, which I’m told is actually a slow-moving river. There were several very large gators in the waters surrounding the starting point, no doubt regularly fed by the owners to add a bit of atmosphere.

But my ultimate experience with the noble reptile came during a family trip to Disney World in the Summer of 1983. Son Patrick and daughter Elizabeth were then teenagers; we had taken them to Disneyland in California when they were much younger, and decided a trip to see the recently opened Epcot in Orlando was in order. We booked a package trip through a tour company, which included air, hotel and rental car.

The beginning was not auspicious, as one of the engines of the chartered jet caught fire at the gate. It was soon put out, and we were assured it was just a bit of spilled fuel that had ignited. We managed to get to Orlando, whose airport then was little more than a glorified hut, with outdoor baggage claim. We picked up our rental car, which broke down before we got to the main road. Duly issued another one, we finally made it to the hotel, which was OK, and even had a nice pool.

I won’t bore you with our experiences at Disney, except to say that we had a good time. Once we had exhausted its possibilities and ourselves, we had some free time and were looking for something else to do. In those days, Disney World was pretty much it; no Universal Studios or any of the other attractions that have turned Orlando into the fantasy capital of the world.

We did, however, stumble upon one of our Republic’s great roadside attractions: the legendary Gatorland Zoo and Jumperoo. We entered through a gators mouth (natch) into a building whose gift shop sold every possible gator-themed item – everything from refrigerator magnets to giant plush gators. The zoo itself included every imaginable permutation of the animal, with caimans and crocs thrown in for good measure. But it was the “Jumperoo” attraction that has embedded itself permanently in our memories.

Imagine if you will a platform extending over a pool full of alligators. Upon it stands a man with a wash tub full of raw chickens. The man takes a bird and holds it over the pool. In just a split second, a gator seemingly leaps up about four or five feet and grabs the chicken in its frightening maw and splashes back into the water below. While it chomps on its chicken, another chicken takes its place; another gator leaps – and so on until the tub is empty. (We were later told that the gators don’t actually leap, but rear up on their tails.)

Understandably, the audience was mesmerized, including our good selves. By the way, we couldn’t help noticing that the crowd mostly looked like it too had emerged from some dark and dismal swamp. Whole families seemed to share only one set of teeth. It may have been that Disney was a bit too rich for their blood, or perhaps it was just a matter of taste. Nowadays, a single day ticket at Disney costs about $110; at Gatorland, a mere $29.95.

Can’t recall just when, but the original building was destroyed by fire, but apparently has been lovingly rebuilt, including the gaping jaw entrance. You could enliven your next trip to Florida with a visit. I see on their web site that the show goes on.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon