You Get What You Pay For

By Patrick F. Cannon

If you live long enough, and pay attention, you’re bound to learn something. One lesson people seem to forget from time to time and to their peril is this: if it seems too good to be true, it probably is. Related somewhat to this pearl of wisdom is a special favorite of mine: You only get what you pay for.

I learned this lesson the hard way. All the suggestions that follow are based on bitter experience. Many of you will have learned similar lessons, and may find my advice a bit late for you. I urge you to forward it along to your children, grandchildren, and other of your young friends so that they may benefit from our mistakes.

Here’s an example. When I was 19 or 20, my brother-in-law dragged me along to what he claimed was a fantastic men’s suit sale. It was taking place at what we might now call a “pop up” store (the implication being that the suits came from a truck hijacked on its way to Saks Fifth Avenue). I ended up buying two suits I didn’t really need (my job at the time didn’t require one). The first time I sent one to the cleaners, it came back a different size and shape. I complained to the cleaners, who nicely told me that is was the fault of the cheap fabric and bad tailoring. I bought my next suit at Baskins in Chicago, now gone, which was owned by Hart, Schaffner and Marx. It was much more expensive, but on the other hand it lasted for many years. Lesson learned.

These days, one often sees a commercial claiming that a retailer’s “Snappy Man” line of suits – regularly $750 – can be had for $299, and not only that! the second one is free! Now, a real $750 suit, say at Nordstrom’s, might go on sale for $599 at the end of the season (if they have your size, which is doubtful). If the only time you’re going to wear the suit is to the occasional wedding or funeral – and you’re not going to take it to the dry cleaners too often – maybe Joseph J. Skanks $299 double bill will work for you, but of course you’ll have gotten what you paid for.

(Again, back when I was a callow youth of 19 or 20, I briefly worked with a man who would buy his clothes at Robert Hall – a long gone cheapo chain that catered to men who couldn’t see well – and sew in labels from Marshall Field’s. He had other quirks and so was soon fired, so I never got a chance to ask why he didn’t sew the labels on the outside?)

By the way, I don’t have a clue about women’s duds, but I suspect the same principle applies: if you want quality, you have to pay for it.

Furniture is another area where quality counts. If you buy something that you have to put together, don’t expect it to last forever. I realize young people just starting out often have limited funds, and are thus lured to trendy stores like Ikea. That’s fine, as long as they realize the stuff is eventually going to be consigned to the alley next to the garbage cans. They would be better served by shopping at one of the many resale shops that deal in used furniture. Bored rich folks often tire of their quality stuff, hire a decorator, and donate the despised but expensive pieces to a charity or resale shop.

(Just as an aside, I just celebrated my 81^st birthday. In fact, I’m really only 75. But I reckon that six years have been taken off my life by putting together cheap pieces of furniture. Every time I do it, I swear it’s going to be last time. I mean it this time!).

How can you tell the good stuff? For wood furniture – say a dining room set – try lifting it. If it’s too easy, it’s probably pine or some kind of composition material. Real Oak, Walnut or Mahogany will be really heavy. On cabinets, dressers and the like, pull out a drawer. If they’re constructed of actual wood, with dovetails and mortice and tenon joints (you can look them up to see what they look like), you can expect them to last. If on the other hand all you see are little nails, take a pass. Upholstered furniture can be tricky. Suffice it to say, if that snappy-looking couch costs only $599, it’s going to end up in the alley too.

Automobiles are a special category. First of all, some young people can’t be bothered to have one at all. If they’re hale and hearty, they ride their bikes to work, regardless of the weather; or they use their omnipresent phones to summon Uber or Lyftt; or, as a last resort, use public transportation. I’m talking about city slickers here. If through some accident of fate they actually get married and have children, they often end up in the suburbs, where they discover that biking 40 miles to work can be tiresome and time-consuming. Reluctantly, they discover that they may actually need an automobile.

Here, I must somewhat qualify my “you get what you pay for” philosophy. To be sure, your best choice might be a Rolls Royce, for which you would require a live-in butler/mechanic. It would probably outlast you, thus becoming a family heirloom. If you’re of a more-jaunty disposition, a Ferrari might suit you (again, you might require a full-time mechanic). Either might well set you back $300,000 or even more. Truth be told, however, a $30,000 car, properly maintained, could last 20 years or more. It would provide utility, but no fun.

If you like to drive – if the lure of the open road hasn’t died in you – I advise you to get your miles in while you can. Your betters are planning to eventually trap you in a self-driving vehicle as part of their long-range plan to take all the fun out of life. In this regard, I heard somewhere that New Hampshire is planning to change its state motto from “Live Free or Die” to “If you want to live free, move somewhere else.”

Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Better Not Yell Fire!

By Patrick F. Cannon

The first amendment to the Constitution of the United States – the first-ever national written constitution – has been a damn nuisance from the start. Here it is, in case you have forgotten it:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

It’s part of the Bill of Rights, which went into effect in 1791. As it was the first of 10 amendments, James Madison and the other folks responsible obviously thought it might be the most important. It has certainly been one of the most argued over by our fellow citizens and the courts. And still is.

While the meaning of other amendments may be subject to debate – the Second Amendment, with its confusion about just what the phrase “A well-regulated Militia” actually means in relation to the “right to keep and bear Arms.” is a good example – I have always thought that the First Amendment simply means what it says. Read it again. What can “make no law” mean other than, well, make no law. Nevertheless, some people have always had a problem with some or all it.

There are still folks who think religious freedom means the freedom to be a Methodist, Baptist, Episcopalian or (more recently and grudgingly) a Roman Catholic. They’re not at all sure about Jews, and they wish Muslims would go back to the desert where they belong. The current president, although I doubt he believes in anything except himself, seems to be their spiritual (sorry about that) leader.

It’s that second clause, however, that seems the most confusing to many of our fellow citizens, including President Trump. Notice that “freedom of speech, or of the press” are grouped together. With a few exceptions – yelling “fire” in a crowded theatre, advocating the violent overthrow of the government, knowingly spreading lies in public about your sister-in-law – you can pretty much say what you want. That doesn’t mean that anyone is going to pay attention to you. I have always thought that the corollary of you getting to say what you want, is my right to ignore you.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to work for everyone. For example, on university campuses throughout the Republic, what I would describe as the “Marxist Left” has decided that it isn’t enough to simply ignore speech that they find distasteful; they must actively prevent it from taking place at all. If a conservative speaker is invited by the university or an affiliated group, these groups will raise an outcry, and often have succeeded in getting the invitation withdrawn by craven university administrators. When this fails, they will show up at the event and prevent the speaker from being heard, even if it means resorting to violence.

Although they would deny this characterization, this is of course a classic totalitarian tactic. It was used on the right by Mussolini and Hitler, and on the left by Stalin, Mao, Castro, Chavez and the various Kims. The justification has always been the same – we must prevent the average schmo from being contaminated by false ideologies. Despite their demonstrable failures, the ideas of such luminaries as Marx and Marcuse refuse to die.

Widespread distrust of freedom of the press also refuses to die, particularly among politicians. I’m quite aware that even the most respected newspapers make mistakes, and may even show bias in some of their coverage. But in general, newspapers like the New York Times, Washington Post and Chicago Tribune have strict standards of accuracy for their news columns. Politicians do not like to be held accountable – President Obama didn’t like it, and President Trump actually hates it. He has convinced his deluded followers that most of what is written about him is “fake news.”  He thus subscribes to that other classic totalitarian dogma – say a lie often enough and some people will begin to think it’s true.

He thinks the press is out to get him, and they are. As they should. As they should with all politicians, regardless of party. It particularly rankles President Trump that the Washington Post has kept track of his demonstrable lies or misstatements. As of March 4, the total was 9,014. Well, I guess he really is the greatest.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Redemption is Possible

By Patrick F. Cannon

I’m just now reading Ron Chernow’s Grant, the most recent biography of the Civil War’s greatest general, Ulysses Simpson Grant. I have read others, but this will probably be the last. It runs to nearly 1,000 pages, and is well-researched and well written, as you would expect from a writer whose biographies of Washington and Hamilton are as near to definitive as is currently possible. Many years ago, I read Grant’s own Personal Memoirs, which may be the best-written first-person account of the war. More on that later.

One of the themes of Chernow’s book is redemption. If you know anything about Grant, you will know that he was, on balance, a failure before the Civil War. He had a credible record at West Point and in the Mexican War, but when he was stationed at a lonely outpost in Oregon, where he could not afford to bring his family, his drinking – he was and remained an alcoholic – eventually led to his forced resignation from the Army in 1854.

From then until 1861, Grant failed at everything he tried. When the war started, he was working at his father’s leather goods shop in Galena, Illinois. Initially, his offer to serve his state and country was rebuffed, but eventually he received a volunteer commission and it transformed his life. Unlike most of the officers in Illinois regiments, he was an educated and experienced military officer. His organizational ability became apparent, and eventually he would be given command of troops on active service, and a commission in the Regular Army.

His first possible battle never took place. The Confederate commander refused battle and withdrew. The lesson Grant took from this was that the enemy was just as afraid of him as he was of them. He never forgot this. He made his reputation with the capture of Forts Henry and Donaldson and thereafter actively sought to bring his enemy to battle, in sharp contrast with the dithering of Eastern generals like McClellan, Pope, Burnside, Hooker and others. Eventually, President Lincoln made him general-in-chief of the entire Union Army. Although he went on occasional drinking binges during the war, they only occurred when he was not actively engaged in operations, and never when his family was with him.

Grant commanded in the field, and personally supervised the Army of the Potomac, which directly faced the legendary Robert E. Lee. He was also responsible for overall strategy in all theaters, which was to bring the Confederates to battle, rather than just occupy territory. He was not a vindictive man, and treated the defeated enemy with respect, although he considered them traitors.

During the war and after he was a loyal friend, but that loyalty was not always returned. His presidency was marred by the actions of friends who took advantage of him to enrich themselves. He himself was never implicated in any of this.  After his presidency, he was swindled by his business partner and found himself in debt.

As a way of paying off his debts and insuring the future security of his family, he was convinced by Mark Twain to write his autobiography. He did so while dying of throat cancer (he was a constant cigar smoker). He finished it just before he died in 1885. Twain was right – it was a best seller and did insure his family’s future. Its simple, direct style is as readable today as it was then.

In those days, paying your debts and writing your own books was not exceptional. I urge you to read both Chernow’s book and Grant’s Personal Memoirs as a reminder of how a leader can and should behave.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Let’s Have a Party!

By Patrick F. Cannon

In case you haven’t noticed, we now have four political parties, so eventually we’re going to need names for them. As a public service, I will take on this responsibility.

I had thought I might look to France and Italy for inspiration – each, after all, has 40 or so parties – but I discovered that they had foreign-sounding names, so no dice there. Of course, you might ask why we would need names for four, since it’s well known that the United States has a “two party system.” What’s wrong with keeping it that way? Normally, I would be inclined to agree, since it has served us well since just before the Civil War, but I couldn’t help noticing that both the Democrats and Republicans seem to be breaking down into distinct factions. So why not help them along?

Sandernistas. The father (or is it grandfather) of the far-left wing of the Democrat Party is the Honorable Bernard Sanders, the junior senator from Vermont. When we think of Vermont, what usually comes to mind is Maple Syrup and Fall foliage, not Brooklyn-born socialists, but perhaps you haven’t been to Vermont lately. Bernie, as his mostly-young acolytes call him, is a graduate of the University of Chicago, where he earned his Marxist bonifides as a member of the Young People’s Socialist League, the Congress of Racial Equality and the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee.

Back in Brooklyn, he was only one of many socialists, so he headed north to greener pastures.  He first ran for office in Burlington as a member of the Liberty Union Party (Motto: Get Everything Free or Die), but now serves as an “Independent.” In the Senate, he caucuses with the Democrats, and ran for President in their primaries of 2016. Among other things, he is for a single-payer health system, free advanced education for all, and a guaranteed income whether you actually bother to work or not. He advocates having the rich pay for all of this largesse.

Sandernistas don’t read history, so Bernie may not be aware that this has been tried before. After World War II, Britain’s Labor Party got even with the aristocracy by imposing high taxes and death duties. Those who didn’t run out of dough just left the country for less taxing climes. Eventually, there was no one left to tax, the economy collapsed and the hated Margaret Thatcher was waiting in the wings. Oh, and don’t forget the glories of Venezuela, Cuba, North Korea, etc.

Some worry that Bernie is 77, but they should be heartened by the fact that waiting in the wings is 29-year-old Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, the youngest ever member of Congress. She agrees with Bernie on almost everything, when she isn’t trying to figure out how to stop cows from farting, and keeping airplanes aloft without fuel.

Democrat. After the “progressives” decamp, there will still be sufficient old-fashioned Democrats to make a decent showing. Adaptation has always been one of their strong points. Andrew Jackson, who killed the odd enemy in duels and herded the Southeastern Native Americans to verdant Oklahoma, is one of their heroes. They were also the party of slavery and, later, segregation. To be fair, beginning with FDR, they made amends to the point where their Southern brethren no longer felt welcome (see Republicans below). With all the youngsters bolting to Bernie, they might have something of an age problem, although good old Joe Biden is only 76.

No Nothings. The far right of the Republican Party should leave a party that believes in free markets, free trade and personal freedom and revive the No Nothing party of the 1840s and 1850s. They too were anti-immigration, and wanted to make America great (and white and protestant) again. Donald Trump, who managed to graduate from college without learning anything, has been a natural leader, particularly since he not only wants to seal off our borders, but raise tariff walls as well. I’m sure he’s never heard of the Smoot-Hawley Tariff act of 1930, which raised tariffs to end the Depression. Like Socialism, maybe it will work this time.

Republican. If they rid themselves of the No Nothings, perhaps the Republicans can regain their souls and remember that they’re the party of Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt, Dwight Eisenhower and Ronald Reagan. They might also remember that free trade and Capitalism have together vastly reduced abject poverty around the world, and that collective security kept the Soviet Union in check and ultimately led to its downfall. If they can do that, then we might begin to forgive them for their abject submission to one of the truly bad men to have served as President of the United States.

So, there you have it. Some of the old and some of the new. I’m sure you’ll be able to easily choose where you belong. As for me, I’m waiting for the formation on yet another party, which I would call the Liberal Party, but “liberal” in its original meaning.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

I Wish That Doggie Were Mine

By Patrick F Cannon

If you had wanted this dog, you would have needed to bid more than the final selling price of $58.4 million that it fetched at Christie’s auction house in New York in 2013. At the time, it was the record price for a work of art by a living artist, in this case, the ubiquitous Jeff Koons. It has since been eclipsed by the sale last year of a painting by David Hockney for $90.3 million. Hockney’s painting included a swimming pool, three human figures and a French landscape, which no doubt accounted for the higher price. To be fair to Koons, his dog is 12 feet high and made of highly polished metal.

(By the way, I’m a free market guy. If someone was willing to pay $58.4 million for that dog, then that’s what dogs like that were worth that day, just as corn futures were at $3.6975 per bushel yesterday, but were $5.7900 in 2011. You buys your dog and you takes your chances.)

The other difference between the two was the Hockney actually did the work himself. He prepared the canvas, mixed the paints and applied them with brushes and other tools of his trade. Koons doesn’t do that. He has an idea, which his employees execute. Several years ago, he was interviewed by the late and acerbic art critic, Robert Hughes, about his famous sculpture of Michael Jackson holding his pet monkey, Bubbles. Hughes: “Did you do this yourself?’ Koons: “Oh no, I don’t do that.”

In explaining his dog and other balloon animals, he once said (I paraphrase) that he was intrigued by balloon animals because they were full of air, just as we are (unless we stop breathing of course). He is now famous for his banal comments, but why should he care?  You see, he has long had a factory and hundreds of employees to turn the stuff out. Recently, like other manufacturers, he has begun to lay people off, preferring to stake his future on robots.

We mustn’t be too hard on Koons. He is simply the culmination of trends in the market that have been developing for 200 years or so. While there have always been people who have bought and sold paintings and sculpture, they did not buy directly from the artist, but from the artist’s customer. In the early 17^th Century, if you wanted Rembrandt to paint your portrait, you went to his studio. If you were willing to pay his price, you ended up being immortalized. Or you might be the member of the local militia, who decided to share the cost by ponying up your share to have Rembrandt do a group portrait. Although most folks now don’t now particularly care who you were, they will visit the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam to admire “The Night Watch.”

In Spain and Italy, artists were employed mainly by the Roman Catholic Church and the aristocracy. Titian painted cardinals and vast religious scenes; DaVinci did “The Last Supper” for a convent and Michelangelo the Sistine Chapel for a pope; in Spain, Velasquez was court painter to the royal family, and most of El Greco’s paintings still hang in Spanish churches.

While dealing in art is nothing new – there is evidence of a thriving art trade in ancient Rome – its nature has changed over time. Auction houses like Sotheby’s and Christie’s have been in business since the 18^th Century. Originally, much of their business came from British aristocrats selling off the family treasures to raise cash – often to pay gambling debts. This trend accelerated in the late 19^th Century as land rich but cash poor Brits either married off their sons to rich American girls or sold off the country’s artistic treasures to their fathers. American museums are now full of these purchases.

But the main change was not the still-continuing trade in “Old Masters,” but the advent of dealers who bought and sold the work of living artists. On the surface, there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with this, but eventually dealers began to encourage artists to produce works that the market seemed to be demanding. The “new money” likes cows, so why not paint cows? Or landscapes with cows? But wait, maybe pigs are coming into their own! Like the cows and pigs themselves, art became a commodity.

Even artists with the highest reputations were not immune. The legendary French dealer, Paul Durand-Ruel, who almost single-handedly made the reputations of the Impressionists, was actually responsible for suggesting to Claude Monet his series paintings of objects like haystacks and Rouen Cathedral that changed as light changed during the day.

Durand-Ruel, to his credit, actually kept many of the Impressionists going by buying their work and holding it for years as he championed their cause. Eventually, of course, it paid off and he made much more money than they did.

Dealers now “represent” an artist, much like an agent represents an actor or ballplayer. They organize exhibits and take a commission on any works that sell. It is thus to their benefit to hype the artist as much as they can, using the same tools that anyone selling any product might use. To them, art is a commodity like any other. It is a rare artist who can afford to go his or her own way without regard to the market. Thus, an artist can suspend a basketball in a glass case (our friend Koons again), and be perfectly confident that the critics (who are prepared to swoon over the craziest stuff) will go along and even cheer.

Anyway, if you want to know “how much is that doggie in the window,” you obviously can’t afford it.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Tattoo Mania 

By Patrick F. Cannon

I think tattoos are uniformly unattractive (I was going to use a stronger word, but I’m trying to be reasonable here). Let me also stipulate that people I’m related to and have great affection for have them, although fairly discrete ones. I also readily admit that you can be a fine human being and still have a tattoo.

With these provisos out of the way, let me say that I have never seen a tattoo that improved anyone’s appearance. How does the old saying go: If God had wanted you to have a tattoo, you would have been born with one?  This leads me to explore the history of tattoos, to see if God fits in there somehow.

The first tattoo that we know about was found not too long ago, when intrepid Swiss mountaineers came upon a grizzly site as they traversed a melting glacier. What on initial appearance looked like a pile of old leather, turned out to be, on closer examination, human remains. Young Fritz was sent down the mountain to alert the proper authorities, while the others stood guard over the discovery. In due course, a helicopter from the Swiss Bureau of Mountain Cadaver Discoveries descended from the sky. Upon landing, a team emerged with a carbon fibre casket, into which they carefully placed the shriveled horror.

After a secrecy-shrouded period of extensive study, the Bureau announced to the world the discovery of a more or less intact body that was at least 20,000 years old, and whose relative preservation was likely due to being frozen in the glacier. How it could be 20,000 years old when many believe God had only created the heavens and earth some 8,000 years ago, they were loathe to explain. They did speculate that the “Swiss Mountain Man,” as they called him, had been the victim of foul play, as he had a hole in his skull. Perhaps, they posited, he had been headed for warmer climes when he had been set upon by wandering brigands.

But the most stunning revelation was the discovery that he had what looked like a tattoo on his upper right arm. While somewhat faded, it appeared to be a heart pierced by an arrow. Below the heart were some symbols that may have been words of a forgotten language. Linguists are now toiling away trying to find the key that would unlock the ancient tongue, but so far, no dice.

While there is no conclusive evidence, evaluation of bas reliefs at ancient ruins of Assyrian and Babylonian cities seem to show that some figures either have tattoos or are wearing Hawaiian shirts. And everyone knows that the Greeks were enthusiastic tattooists, since Homer wrote in the Iliad: “Brave Achilles, with ‘Mom’ proudly emblazoned on his manly pecs, hurled his lucky javelin at the cowering Trojans!”

When Rome came to power and subjugated the Greeks, tattooing was outlawed throughout the Empire. The guild of Greek tattooists had to go underground, but found a ready market for their talents in Egypt. While primitive tattoos were to be seen on early mummies, later mummies like the so-called “Sailor Pharaoh,” Wetses III, had quite sophisticated anchors on their biceps. Even these underground tattooists were victims of the Dark Ages that followed the Fall of the Roman Empire, but a few of the Greek tattooing families survived in the mountain fastness of the Pindus range.

In the meantime, so-called primitive peoples in the dark corners of places like the Amazon, New Guinea and the Outer Hebrides, continue to use tattoos to mollify their Gods and frighten their enemies. As they slowly become exposed to civilization, they do generally abandon tattooing in favor of Michael Jordon tee shirts.

Back to the Greeks. As the Dark Ages began to lighten up, they left their mountain hideouts and made their way to the world’s ports, where they once again began to ply their trade. There was no lack of drunken sailors, prime candidates for anchors and full-rigged sailing ships. After sobering up and reentering polite society, the former swabbies took to wearing long-sleeved shirts to hide their youthful indiscretions.

So, tattooing remained in the seedier back streets of the world’s ports of call until the now legendary Hellenic needle man, Aristotle Pennassis, changed his sign from “Tattoo Parlor” to “Body Artist.” This struck an immediate cord with rebellious youth, now as always on the lookout for ways to annoy their parents. Instead of a tattoo, they were now sporting “body art.” As with young people throughout the ages, they live only for the moment, not foreseeing that the bloom of youth will inevitably give way to the sagging wrinkles of age. And that today’s passion for Jessica may give way to tomorrow’s lust for Joe.

While I might not live long enough to see the coming horrors, it’s frightful to contemplate. Were I younger, I would put my money on the inevitable rise of tattoo removal technology. Someday, tattoos may be easier to remove than graffiti on the sides of railroad tank cars. But in the meantime, think twice before you mess with God’s handiwork (see, I did fit God in after all).

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Walleeeee!

By Patrick F. Cannon

What we now know as the Great Wall of China was begun as early as 700 B.C.E., which means, in case you’re behind the times, “before the common era.” Coincidentally, it was also 700 years before the birth of Jesus Christ, or B.C. as it used to be known. Since religion must not be permitted to intrude upon any aspect of our lives, some brilliant person came up with the term “common era.” I should have thought that the period before the common era would have been the “uncommon era,” but perhaps once again I’m overthinking things.

Anyway, the wall was meant to keep the nomadic tribes from pestering China. Apparently, the depredations of the Mongols, Tartars, Russkies and other bloodthirsty louts had become tiresome and a wall was constructed to keep them beyond the pale, or was it the dale? Over the years, the wall was expanded until the Emperor Qim Shu Huang finished it between 220-206 B.C.E. (see above). By then, it was some 3,700 miles long. Alas, the invention of the ladder by Genghis Khan in 1200 C.E. proved its undoing. Nowadays, after it was rediscovered by Richard Nixon, it’s mostly a tourist attraction.

Hadrian’s Wall in the north of England is also a tourist attraction, but small beer compared to the Chinese barrier. First of all, it’s only 73 miles long, although to be fair that’s coast to coast in this narrowest part of England. It extends from Wallsend-on-Tyne (I kid you not) on the east coast to Bowness-on-Solay on the west. It’s pretty much just a pile of rocks, with the remains of a Roman fort here and there. It was built on the orders of the Roman Emperor Hadrian, who reigned from 117-138 C.E.

It was easier to build a wall in those days. When Hadrian visited Britain in 122 C.E. (are you getting used to this?), he decided a wall was needed to keep the pesky Scots at bay. Those of you who are regular readers of these musings will recall that the Romans were confronted with barbarians who they thought had painted their faces blue. It turned out it was the weather that turned them blue, as anyone who has travelled to Scotland could tell you. Anyway, what the emperor wanted the emperor got, the Senate back in Rome be damned.

It was a classic military make-work project, much like peeling 100 lbs. of potatoes while pulling KP in an Army mess hall, but out of doors. As an aside, when I was in the Army, I was doing just that one day, when I noticed a commercial potato peeler gathering dust in a corner. “Why,” I asked the mess sergeant, “don’t we use the machine?” He gave me a withering glance (part of his job description) and replied: “Then what would you do?”

Eventually tiring of the weather, the Romans abandoned Britain in 410 C.E. By then, they had ruled for nearly 400 years. Things stayed relatively quiet there until 1066, when they were conquered again, this time by the French. They have been trying to forget this ever since.

Quiet reigned wallwise until 1961, when the Russians and their dear friends the East Germans began building the infamous Berlin Wall. It must be said that it was a bit on the utilitarian side, but nevertheless became something of a tourist attraction. Its distinction among walls was that it was designed to keep people in rather than out. Twenty-seven miles of a 96-mile-long wall were within Berlin. Most of it was demolished after 1989, when the various socialist republics decided democracy was more to their taste.

His Eminence, the Right Honorable and All Highest Distinguished Best President of all Times (by his own admission) Donald Trump has decided to join the legendary wall builders by throwing up a wall along the Mexican border to keep those modern-day barbarians at bay. Now, the border with Mexico is 1,954 miles long, which the All Highest reckons can be walled off for a mere $5.5 billion. That’s only about $2.8 million per mile, and pales in comparison with the $20 billion we spend on crop subsidies every year. Nevertheless, yours truly as usual has an idea that should satisfy everyone.

As we know, the president is also anxious to bring our service men and women back from foreign lands. By all means, let us do so. When they’re all back, they should join those serving in this country at our southern border and put to work building the wall. Labor is after all always the biggest part of any construction bill. Not only would it drastically reduce the cost of the wall, but it would be good, healthy outdoor exercise. Of course, it wouldn’t leave anyone to peel the potatoes, so they might have to find and plug in those old mechanical peelers.

Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

The Fortunes of War

By Patrick F. Cannon

In last week’s blog, I mentioned that I had been trained as a cryptographer – one who encodes and decodes classified messages – by the US Army. I’m not sure how it’s done now, but after training you received your orders, i.e., where you would be stationed. As a draftee, this would normally be for 18months.

What you didn’t want was orders for Korea, Alaska or an infamous remote communications center in Eritrea. The overseas orders never actually said directly where you were going; instead, they showed the Army’s post office address, in my case APO (Army Post Office) 209, US Forces. While many APOs were well known (Germany, Korea, etc.), no one seemed to know where APO 209 might be (or they weren’t telling).

The first stage of my journey to APO 209 was a chartered Lockheed Constellation from Augusta, GA to McGuire Air Force Base in New Jersey, thence by bus to nearby Ft. Dix, where we whiled away the time until our troop ship was ready by pulling KP at a base mess hall. After a few dreary days, we boarded a bus headed to the Army Terminal in Brooklyn, where we boarded the USNS General Patch, destination Bremerhaven, Germany.

Troopships are now a thing of the past. Ours was named after General Alexander Patch, who had commanded the US 7^th Army in World War II. His namesake was 609 feet long, and designed for function, not comfort. My stateroom was a large space at the bottom of the ship, with narrow bunks piled four high. Naturally, by the time I got there only the top bunks were left. One of the amusements of my fellow soldiers was watching me climb in and out of mine.

After 11 seemingly endless days at sea – when I first read a James Bond book – we finally arrived in Bremerhaven. By then, one of the Sergeants on board had told me that the 200 APOs were in France, which cheered me up a bit. From the ship, we boarded a train sitting next to the dock. Early the next morning, we arrived in Paris.

Now, I have since been to Paris several times, but this first time my exposure consisted of what I could see out the windows of an Army bus as it traversed the city from the Gare du Nord railway station out of the city to the South. Our route was basically Orleans-Tours-Poitiers-LaRochelle (where I was headed as it turned out). I remember two things clearly – seeing the cathedral of Chartres rise out of the countryside, and running out of cigarettes.

I left Ft. Dix with a carton of Camels, which seemed sufficient. I guess my idea of crossing the Atlantic was more on the idea of the Queen Elizabeth or SS United States rather than the USNS Gen. Patch. I ran out in Paris. When we got to a rest stop, there happened to be a café nearby, so I went in to buy a pack. They were happy to accept dollars, but had no American cigarettes, so I bought a pack of Gauloises Caporals. In those days, its blue pack was not wrapped in cellophane, which apparently the French hadn’t yet discovered; ditto deodorant.

Now, Camels are among the strongest of American cigarettes, but the first puff of a Caporal made one gasp, and the smoke had an odor something like burning leaves, which I guess they actually were in a way. For you connoisseurs of French cinema, they are the very fags that hung out of the corner of Jean Gabin’s and Jean-Paul Belmondo’s lips in their version of Film Noir.

As with many an airport shuttle I’ve taken over the years, my destination was at the end of the line. I was the only one left when – by then it was raining and dark – we arrived in the company area of the 532^nd Signal Company. It was not actually in LaRochelle, but adjacent to a US Army Hospital 10 miles west of town.

The duty sergeant directed me to a single-story barracks, and told me to pick out a bunk with empty foot and wall lockers, and report back to company headquarters at 0700 in the morning. Oh, and he said that the latrine and showers were in a separate building next to the barracks if I wanted to clean up (which I desperately needed to do). Aside from a light at the entrances at both ends, the barracks was dark. I did find an empty bunk, dropped my heavy duffle bag, and lit a Caporal. After a minute or so, a gruff voice at the other end of the barracks greeted me with: “Put out that Goddam Frog cigarette. We don’t allow them here.” This was followed by the sound of stomping boots, which belonged to a hulking figure who emerged out of the gloom and threw a pack of Lucky Strikes on my bunk.

It turned out my grumpy benefactor was Specialist Moser, who everyone called Mose. We became good friends. His only failing was a love for Hank Williams, whose records he played continuously on the barracks phonograph. I eventually bought Dave Brubeck, Ella Fitzgerald and Frank Sinatra albums and claimed my fair share of phonograph time. Mose was a teletype repairman and was in the ¾-ton truck with me and others the very next day when we went into LaRochelle to go the work.

Our duty station was on the city’s main square. It was (and still is) called Aufredi Caserne. That’s it in the photo. The street in front is Rue Aufredi, named after a 12^th Century merchant who was instrumental in developing LaRochelle as a major trading and fishing port (New Rochelle, NY is named after it. When the Huguenots were forced out of France by Louis XIV, many embarked from LaRochelle and ended up in that area of New York.)

With the advent of steam ships, the harbor became too small. The new, modern port of La Pallice was created south of LaRochelle, and the former port was used primarily for fishing and pleasure boats. And La Pallice was the reason we were there, as it was a major port of entry for the US armed forces in Europe. Most of the message traffic at our communications center (at the far right back in the photo) was related to it. But we weren’t the first tenants.

As far as I can determine, the complex was built early in the 20^th Century primarily as a hospital by the French Army, although apparently there was a telephone exchange and communications center as well. It would have been quite busy during World War I, although the actual fighting came no where near it. It would have served the same purpose during World War II; again, the actual fighting never reached that far South (LaRochelle is south of St. Nazaire and north of Bordeaux on the Atlantic coast). After the French surrendered in 1940, it was taken over by the German Navy, who built one of their submarine pens down the coast in La Pallice.

Although Allied bombers tried to destroy the pens, they failed. They’re still there, with pockmarked roofs the only damage. LaRochelle itself was never bombed and survives today with all of its charms intact. When the Allies invaded in June, 1944, they bypassed the city; the German garrison was still there when Germany surrendered in May, 1945. After the Germans were repatriated, the US Army took it over. Part of it was used as a hospital until the new, larger hospital was built 10 miles west.

When I was there, in addition to the communications center and telephone exchange, it housed the headquarters of the transportation battalion that served the port, a unit of the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division (CID) and a small Naval detachment.

As I mentioned, Mose was a teletype repairman. Working with him in the repair shop was a former German sailor named Fritz. As it happened, when we took over the communications center from the Germans, it included their equipment. Not to go into too much detail, messages were typed into one machine that produced perforated tape, then transmitted through another. To create messages, we used American Teletype machines; to transmit, German Siemens units. These were elegant little machines, finished with black lacquer and gold lettering. Instead of being sent back to Germany, Fritz was hired to keep the Siemens running.

The repair shop was outside the communications center, which Fritz was not permitted to enter. By the time I met him, he had married a French woman and had a couple of kids. He was a little guy, always with a smile on his face. Mose was very fond of him and often had dinner with his family. He had reason to be happy, as he had gone from prisoner of war to valued US Army employee literally overnight.

As it happened, I was there for only 12 months, spending the remainder of my military career in the middle of the Mojave Desert. Fast forward to the late 1990s. My wife Jeanette and I were in Paris, and decided to take to high-speed TVG train to LaRochelle. A trip that used to take seven or eight hours in 1962 now took only three. Our hotel was directly across the square from Aufredi Caserne.

Le Grande Charles (De Gaulle) had left NATO in 1966 and booted us out, no doubt as thanks for liberating France in 1944; thus, the caserne was now once again a French army facility (I later learned it was the office that administered army pensions). I asked the soldier at the guard shack if we might be allowed to have a look around, as I had once been stationed there. He was about to do so, but had second thoughts and called an officer for permission, which he did not give.

Now over 100 years old, this minor military facility in a charming little French city has survived two world wars intact, but nevertheless in a small way reflects the fortunes of war in the 20^th Century. By the way, we thoroughly enjoyed our visit to LaRochelle. There are a couple of stories about it that I might share another time.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon.

Good Old Days?

By Patrick F. Cannon

It would be naive to suggest that anti-gay discrimination is behind us. Often – although certainly not exclusively – it seems related to religious belief. A recent example would be the baker who refused to provide a wedding cake for a gay couple, claiming that doing so would violate his religious principles. Opposition to abortion is almost always couched in religious terms. And so on.

There was a time when homosexuality was actually illegal in most states. In England, Oscar Wilde was jailed for it.  And you may have seen the movie “The Imitation Game,” which told the story of Alan Turing, who was instrumental in breaking the German Enigma codes in World War II, and in many ways laid the groundwork for the computer age. In 1952, he was convicted on homosexuality in Great Britain, where it was still illegal. The great actor, John Gielgud, was also arrested for “homosexual practices.”

These laws were still very much in effect when I was drafted into the US Army in early 1961. You could not be gay and serve legally (although I came to know several during my time in the service). And they took particular care in making certain that no gay person would ever get a security clearance.

Although I didn’t realize it at the time, this sensitivity was directly related to the spy scandals in Great Britain 10 or so years before. One of the former British spies who had defected to the Soviet Union, Guy Burgess, was gay, as was Anthony Blunt, who was suspected then but only later admitted to being a Soviet agent when he was still Keeper of the Queen’s Pictures. The conventional wisdom was that gays were particularly susceptible to blackmail (although no evidence of blackmail was found in either case).

I learned this when, after basic training at Ft. Benning, GA, I was sent to Signal School at Ft. Gordon, in that same lovely state, to be trained as a cryptographer. Now, a cryptographer encodes and decodes classified messages, thus needs a security clearance, in most cases Top Secret. I learned later that the FBI had interviewed my family, friends and co-workers, but I also underwent a lie-detector test.

I was warned in advance that it was best to tell the truth, even if it was embarrassing. For example, like most kids I had indulged in a bit of petty thievery, so when questions like that came up, I told the truth. I couldn’t help noticing, however, that the examiner seemed quite interested in my love life, such as it was. A few days later, I found out why.

As it happened, in my class of about 30 soldiers, there were three WACS (Women’s Army Corps). One day there were only two. It seems one had failed the lie-detector test, and under questioning, had admitted to being a lesbian. In addition to being removed from training, she was discharged from the service for “medical” reasons. I remember her well. She was quite shy, with red hair and freckles. She seemed a good student, although we had not yet begun to train on actual coding equipment.

Gays had a much better chance of surviving in the military if they didn’t need a security clearance and kept their private lives firmly in the closet. Later, as we know, President Clinton had the military adopt the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy, which seemed to codify what already existed, and satisfied almost nobody.

Now, gays can serve without restrictions. This doesn’t mean that they may still suffer more subtle forms of discrimination, as do other minority groups. But compared to the “good old days” of 1961, that’s real progress. Let’s hope the current occupant doesn’t stick his fat nose in this too.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Land of Lunkheads

By Patrick F. Cannon

First of all, I want to apologize to the non-Illinoisans among my readers. Although your state may have similar problems, this is meant for my friends and neighbors in the Land of Lincoln.

Now that Governor Pritzker has been sworn in, I want to congratulate you upon taking out your understandable pique about Governor Rauner and President Trump by giving Illinois not only a Democrat governor, but a veto-proof legislature, led once again by those legendary song and dance men, Madigan and Cullerton.

Our position as the most taxed state in the Union is now secure. Expect an early effort to put an amendment on the 2020 state ballot to permit a graduated income tax, with rates to be set by the legislature. As you should know, we now have a flat rate tax, currently at 4.95 percent of taxable income. This is thought to be unfair, since the poor and the rich pay the same rate. That’s certainly true, and means that someone earning $1,000,000 only pays $49,500 in state taxes, while someone with $50,000 in taxable income is forced to pay $2,475. Even at these bargain rates, the top 10-percent of Illinois’ taxpayers pay over 60-percent of the total, as opposed to 70-percent of Federal taxes.

If the amendment passes, I would guess that the top rate would probably be about 10-percent (it’s over 13 in California), with the base rate at maybe three- or four-percent. That million-dollar earner will now pay $100,000 in state income taxes, more than double. This will no doubt accelerate the trend of well-off retirees establishing legal residence in Florida, which has no state income tax (and no winter). I can tell you that members of my own family are among these, as well as several friends. Of course, some high-income earners still have to show up at the office or factory in the state, but increasing numbers can work from anywhere. In case you haven’t heard it from the politicians, Illinois is second in the country in population loss, and Florida is fourth in population gain.

What is not likely to happen is a constitutional amendment permitting changes in public-employee pensions. As you should know, the current constitution does not permit pensions to be “diminished.”, which the courts have consistently decided means that absolutely no changes can be made. The public employee unions love this, and will fight with all their might any attempt to change it (but will vigorously support the graduated income tax amendment). By the way, “diminished” can mean many things, but I should just mention that the majority of judges are Democrats, and most owe their positions to – wait for it – the Honorable Edward Burke; you know, the guy in the Feds headlights, and whose wife is Chief Justice of the Illinois Supreme Court.

Speaker Madigan and his lawyers have also successfully blocked any term limit referendum from appearing on the ballot, despite 80-percent of Illinoisans favoring it.  Regardless of hundreds of thousands of signatures on petitions, the same courts have always found some technicality to keep it off.

And what possible incentive do Democrats have for supporting a “Fair Maps” amendment that would take control of redistricting away from the majority party and turn it over to a non-partisan commission? They are most certainly going to be in control of state government for the 2020 Census, and thus the map, so Madigan is already licking his greedy chops.

Oh well, as my son-in-law Boyd is fond of saying: “we get the government we vote for.” So, thanks to all you loyal Democrats. Just remember to leave someone behind to turn the lights out.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon