Change is Good, Right?

My son Patrick is always on the alert for yet more proof of the absurdity of our curious species. His latest example is from a country notable for its humorless espousal of personal freedom: the Netherlands.

It seems that a 69-year-old Dutchman named Emile Rattelbrand (not brained) has petitioned the courts to change his birth certificate to reflect the age he actually feels, which happens to be 49. Emile claims to be in fine fettle, looking more like the younger age. Although his photo somewhat belies this claim, I concede that he looks to be in decent shape.

One of the reasons he gave is perfectly understandable, if weird. It seems that a fellow of 49 would have a much better chance of attracting ladies on the hook up and dating app, Tinder. Being of a rather venerable age myself and not in the market, I confess I hadn’t heard of it. Although their web site glosses over it, son Patrick claims many if not most of its customers use it to hook up for casual sex. Apparently, Emile feels that greater numbers of passionate ladies would consider a tumble with a chap of 49 rather than one pushing the dreaded seven oh.

Looking at Emile’s photo, I think a few other changes might help him to convince the courts to change a 6 to a 4 on his birth record. He has decidedly grey hair. A trip to the hair salon could easily fix this. I would caution, however, against going black. I had a grey-haired editor working for me who decided to go back to his youthful black (he was Cuban). He came to the office one day with not only coal black hair, but coal black beard, mustache and even eye brows. The laughter of his female colleagues’ echoes in my brain to this day.

The youthful Dutchman also could use a bit of skin tightening. A visit to a plastic surgeon would soon fix this, giving him every chance of convincing a judge that he had found the fountain of youth. Alas, without a change in the law, it might be of no avail. But Emile should take heart – the good burgers in the Netherlands legalized drug use years ago, as well as euthanasia.

Changing official birth records is not unheard of, even in this country. Although only some states permit it, it’s now possible to change the sex on a birth certificate (although some unfeeling states demand proof of sex reassignment surgery). Mistakes apparently are made at birth. The nurse or doctor who fills out the birth certificate – a legal document – often does so after merely looking at the newborn to determine if the squalling tike has a tiny penis and scrotum or a vagina. Apparently, the actual sex at birth is subject to later review.

If a person wishes to live as the opposite sex, he or she should be free to do so. After all, some people have been doing this for hundreds or even thousands of years. But the governmental sanctioning of the falsification of public records is going too far, isn’t it? If you can change your actual birth sex on a public record when it’s not actually possible to change your sex regardless of how many hormone treatments and surgeries you undergo, why can’t old Emile change his date of birth to increase his chances of getting lucky?  Actually, I’m feeling pretty chipper myself this morning!

Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

Give Thanks 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Note: This is from last year, with changes as necessary. It still expresses my thoughts about my favorite day.

It has always been good advice to stay away from politics while you’re enjoying your Thanksgiving turkey dinner. The holiday is meant to be a time to give thanks for our blessings, which our politicians have decidedly not given us for many years. So, let’s toss them on the trash heap of history where they belong and celebrate Thanksgiving properly.

First of all, let’s give thanks for the amazing turkey. Over the years, farmers have taken a wild bird of amazing toughness and developed one that, properly cooked, can be sublime. I can say that because I have been responsible for making the family turkey for many decades, and it always turns out to be edible, despite my feeble culinary talents.   Were Keats alive today, he would certainly write an “Ode to the Gobbler.”

(Of course, the noble bird isn’t perfect. I had a neighbor during my brief period of living in Albert Lea, Minnesota, who had been the county sheriff. He was part Native American and had a dry sense of humor. After he retired, he decided to raise some turkeys on an acreage he then owned. One night, there was a violent thunderstorm. His herd of turkeys became frightened and herded together, to the point that they smothered each other and mostly died. Sheriffy, as the locals called him, never ate turkey again. He told me their stupidity lost him a lot of money and thereafter he only ate ham for Thanksgiving.)

By tradition, so many side dishes are made that the most finicky of eaters can be satisfied. Even the vegetarians (how sad to be one on Thanksgiving) can find enough to eat. And when all are satisfied, my wife Jeanette and I have at least two more turkey dinners to enjoy, not to mention the turkey soup that the carcass so generously provides.

Around the dining table today will be our daughter Elizabeth and her husband, the inimitable Boyd; Boyd’s brother Bart and his wife Lisa, in from Seattle; son Riley, temporarily domiciled in Chicago, and daughter Rachel, in from Madison with her friend Peter. We’ll also welcome another Boyd sibling and our good friend, Cathy; and my son (yet another of that noble name) in from Florida. If politicians are discussed at all, it will be only to make fun of them.

In addition to being thankful for our families and friends, we can find much else to be grateful for. Amidst all the world’s problems, there is cause for optimism. For example, abject poverty in the world has been reduced from more than 50 percent 50 years ago to less than 15 percent today. In addition to inventing the more obvious technologies that have transformed computing and communications, American scientists and engineers have developed medicines and techniques that have helped people around the world live longer and healthier lives. And our agricultural scientists, despite the science deniers who oppose advances like GMOs, are helping farmers feed an increasing world population with an ever-declining availability of tillable land.

Our own country is now essentially energy independent; indeed, we are in a position to export fuel. Free market capitalism and some government programs, even though often poorly run, have helped reduce actual poverty to about five percent. Unemployment is about as low as it can get. Recent research has concluded that dysfunctional families are the only remaining significant cause of childhood hunger.

Finally, I would like to remind everyone that Americans are the most generous people on earth. Our donations of cash and labor help not only our fellow citizens, but people around the world. In addition to social services, our cultural institutions and great universities – the best in the world — are the creations of generous philanthropy.

I could go on. Just remember if you will that Thanksgiving is just that, a day to, as the old song says “accentuate the positive.” Let politics and other cares intrude on another day.

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

But I Don’t Like Turkey!

By Patrick F. Cannon

My ode last week to the joys of a proper Thanksgiving turkey dinner was well received on the whole. I must admit, however, to receiving some plaintive pleas from the few among my readers who actually don’t like Turkey. As pandering to minority rights is one of my priorities, I have decided to offer some menu ideas for this worthy, if misguided, group.

For those of my readers who are dedicated vegetarians, I offer this toothsome concoction. Into a food processor, throw generous quantities of the following: chick peas, lentils, wheat germ, oats, lima beans, pumpkin seeds, organic fresh avocado, Greek yogurt, black strap molasses and the whey from goat’s milk. Process until smooth. Here’s the festive touch. Pour into a well-greased turkey-shaped mold of the sort usually meant for Jell-O. Bake in a 350-degree oven for two hours. Let cool, then unmold and enjoy!

(If you’re a vegan, substitute tofu for the yogurt and almond milk for the goat’s whey. If your sensitivities don’t permit the turkey mold, you might try the internet to see if a mold in the shape of Miley Cyrus’ cute little head is available.)

By the way, a good starter for the above would be a concoction I recently heard an emaciated TV cook extol: avocado and miso spread. Sounds yummy to me.

In another vein, I find that many meat eaters among you deplore how we waste some of the animal’s innards that once were staples in our ancestors’ diets. Only our French cousins, it seems, regularly eat the organs and intestines of farm animals. In my own youth, kidney stew was a staple and favorite. And it’s so easy! For this recipe, I favor lamb kidneys. You may have noticed that they don’t appear regularly (or at all) in your butcher’s meat case, but any reputable shop should be able to special order some for you.

As they are rather small, you will probably need three or four kidneys to feed your hungry brood. After trimming arteries, connective tissue and other extraneous bits, cut the organs into bite-sized bits. Put into a large pot with chopped onion, and cover with water. Simmer slowly, skimming the crud off the top as you go. Now, one must admit that some more sensitive folk find the smell of simmering kidneys unsettling. Needless to say, running the exhaust fan and opening all the kitchen windows is helpful, but the weak of stomach may wish to take in a matinee at the local cinema.

Anyway, after the crud stops appearing, add cut up potatoes and carrots and season to taste. When the vegetables are tender, serve what has become a hearty kidney stew in bowls, along with a crusty bread. You’ll be surprised at the reaction.

A more obvious substitute for turkey would be ham. Now, you could just bake a whole or half ham, but I have another variation you might try. Instead of a large chunk of ham, ask for ham steaks. One steak should feed two or three, so buy accordingly. To speed cooking, they shouldn’t be too thick – a half inch is about right.

Grease a large frying pan or griddle with bacon fat or lard. Fry the steaks thoroughly on both sides until a crust forms. My daughter Elizabeth suggests that what we’re looking for rather resembles tree bark. When satisfied with the firmness of the finish, pour a bottle or two of maraschino cherries and their juices over the ham and continue heating until the sauce is piping hot. Cut into serving portions with a chain saw, and make sure your steak knives are sharp. As a side dish, canned asparagus can’t be beat.

Instead of the usual pumpkin pie, you might opt for a true American desert. Simply pile serving plates high with Twinkies and Ho-Hos. You might also provide a pitcher of chocolate sauce as an accompanying treat!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

Gobble, Gobble

By Patrick F. Cannon

I have been told by those in the know that fear of Thanksgiving dinner is growing every year. Many couples and even families have fled their homes on this hallowed day, ending up in some expensive restaurant that promises Thanksgiving dinner “with all the fixings.”

If I may say so, this unfortunate trend is distinctly un-American. It is, after all, our unique holiday, begun – if you recall your history – by the storied Pilgrims in the 1600s, who sat down to a Turkey and Boston baked bean dinner with their Native American neighbors. Now, of course, the Native Americans have been moved to their own verdant landscapes in the storied West, so we must make do with family and friends. The concept is however the same: we gather over a hearty meal and give thanks for out blessings, such as they are.

As I understand it, the fear involves that actual preparation of the meal. My dear wife Jeanette and I have been hosting Thanksgiving Dinner for more than 30 years. We are happy to share the experience gained with those whose trepidation has led them away from hearth and home on this hallowed day.

All festive occasions should begin with hors de oeuvres. Because the meal to follow is a bit on the heavy side, I would suggest lighter nibbles. Little pretzel sticks always go well, as do dry roasted peanuts. For the gourmets, you could offer that old standby, sour cream and onion dip, but instead of rippled potato chips, cut up some celery and carrots into bite-sized sticks. Please save the pate de foie gras for another day.  The thoughtful host will also offer a full range of alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks to liven up the pre-dinner festivities. To impress your guests, I have a suggestion – do as I do and make a one-time purchase of a premium booze, Makers Mark bourbon, for example. After you’ve enjoyed it yourself, fill the empty bottle with Old Rotgut. Your guests will be none the wiser.

But the centerpiece of any Thanksgiving dinner is, of course, the turkey. A noble bird, indeed, and much improved during my long lifetime. Perhaps you recall Norman Rockwell’s famous painting, “Freedom from Want,” one of four celebrating President Franklin Roosevelt’s Four Freedoms (speech, worship, and from want and fear). In it, a beaming grandpa stands over the handsome bird, ready to carve it for his expectant and happy family. Tom Turkey looks scrumptious, but I can tell you from experience that looks can be deceiving.

In my youth, the bird often yielded dry white meat, which required copious amounts of gravy to make palatable. While the legs were moister, they were full of strange tendons and other bits and pieces, making it a challenge to separate enough flesh to actually eat. By contrast, today’s turkey is a miracle of modern science. Grandpa’s version was closer to the wild bird, which can scurry about and even fly for short distances. Through selective breeding and magic potions, we now have a fowl that can barely walk, much less fly, but yields much more – and more tender – white meat and much less supportive framework.

Nowadays, most folks buy a frozen bird. These are perfectly adequate and much less expensive than fresh, which you may also have to order in advance. If you’re a stickler for such things, suit yourself. Depending on the number of guests you expect, you can get one as small as 12 pounds or as large as 20 pounds or more. It should be purchased a week or so in advance, since it will take about that long to thaw in your fridge (a still frozen bird on Thanksgiving morning is a nightmare).

Some people, myself included, stuff the cavity with a mixture of bread and other stuff (my secret, alas). Others warn against this, claiming that if not fully cooked, it might kill you and your guests. Suit yourself, but I believe in actually cooking the turkey until it’s done. I have yet to lose anyone, and can tell you that the dressing cooked inside is tastier than that cooked outside. However, mine is so legendary that I have to do both to meet the demand.

There will be cooking directions on the bird’s wrapping and I suggest you follow them. As to the important gravy, I can offer no advice, since Jeanette makes it. As with so many other things, I refer you to the internet for suitable recipes.

As to side dishes, you must of course have mashed potatoes. The recipe is quite simple: cook suitable potatoes until tender, drain, then mash with whole milk, salt and pepper, and lots of butter. Depending on the state of your arm muscles, you can accomplish this with a manual masher or a stand mixer. Some people like to put other stuff in them, but why bother? Another classic side dish is the green bean casserole. This was invented in 1955 by Dorcas Reilly of the Campbells Soup Company, who died just this year at 92, full of deserved honors. The recipe includes green beans, mushroom soup (of course) and French-fried onions. Again, the internet is your source for detailed instructions.

Jeanette insists upon sweet potatoes, although I deplore them. If you decide to have them, make sure they’re cloyingly sweet and are topped with melted marshmallows. You should have at least one more vegetable. I recommend carrots. After peeling, I cut them on the bias, which gives them a jaunty look. They go well tossed with a bit of honey. Based on experience, I know that my wife will almost certainly make another vegetable. Because of the number of dishes, the standard dinner plate is not considered sufficient, so a smaller side plate is also provided.

I almost forgot cranberry sauce. I favor the canned, jellied variety. It comes out of the can in an impressive cylinder, which can be sliced into rounds, and arranged on a serving plate with perhaps a sprig of parsley to set it off.

As to wines, I prefer a good pinot noir and a dry Riesling; your guests should find one or the other to their taste. For desert, pumpkin pie is a traditional choice. For the more adventurous, can I recommend that other classic from the nation’s test kitchens – mock apple pie? I have written previously about my admiration for the anonymous genius who was able to look at the simple Ritz cracker and conjure up an apple pie without needing the fruit itself. A suitable ending, I think, for this most American of celebratory meals.

As you can see, it’s all very simple and doable. Why would anyone choose to go to a restaurant instead?

Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

Unwisdom of the Ages

By Patrick F. Cannon

I was baptized a Roman Catholic and educated in its schools through the eighth grade. Except for one lay teacher, all my teachers were nuns. For several of those years, I was an altar boy (no girls need apply). In the upper grades, I also served as a Patrol Boy (again, no girls), the then equivalent of crossing guards. It’s difficult to imagine today’s parents trusting their darlings to some officious kid.

Most of those years – the late 1940s and early 50s – were spent at St. Phillip Neri parish in Chicago’s South Shore neighborhood. Day by day, the Dominican nuns there were the Catholic Church to me. Although I served at mass, the parish priests – and there were four in those halcyon days – were on another plane. They were friendly enough I suppose, but seemed to us to be higher beings, a status the nuns encouraged us to believe.

None of the priests there or at any parish I belonged to before or later ever tried to molest me. And none of the priests I have known since have – at least to my knowledge – been accused of this most despicable of crimes against children. Yet, we know that some priests did, and were protected in many cases by church leaders who seemingly were more concerned to protect the institution than the children put in their care.

I recently watched, for the second time, Spotlight, the movie that told the story of how the Boston Globe uncovered the Archdiocese of Boston’s cover up of decades of priestly abuse; eventually Cardinal Law was forced to resign for his role in the scandal. More recently, we have seen news stories about hundreds of cases covered up in Pennsylvania. Those of us in Chicago, of course, are aware of similar cases here.

One remedy often put forward would be to permit priests to marry. While I’m in favor of a married priesthood (and ordaining women too), it would do little to solve this particular problem. It seems that the percentage of priests who molest children is no higher than that of men in the general population. It is true that the percentage of homosexual priests is higher than the general population, but there is no evidence that homosexual priests are more likely to molest children that heterosexual ones.

The real scandal then has been the cover up. For hundreds of years, the church has been run primarily by old men. And not only old men, but old men reluctant to change anything in a church they believe to have “eternal” practices and dogma. Of course, much of what they think is eternal has been no such thing. It was only in 1139 at the Second Lateran Council that it was decided that priests could not marry. This rule was so widely flouted that they had to reinforce it in the 16^th Century. I have heard many arguments for a celibate priesthood. None, it seems to me, is convincing.

The one put forward most often claims that a man must be married only to the church and his flock. A wife and children, it is said, would be a distraction that would prevent the priest from fully carrying out God’s work. And then, they throw in the clincher: after all, Jesus wasn’t married! Granted, he probably wasn’t, but on the other hand almost all the great men in history managed just fine with a wife and kiddies.

I would argue that the best reason to permit married men and women in the priesthood is purely practical. How many parishes now depend on one priest instead of the four who once served St. Phillip Neri? Indeed, how many churches have closed simply because there was no priest to serve them? If almost every other religion manages to support a married ministry, why not the “one, true” church? Alas, what seems logical to logical people, seems unthinkable to the old men who stubbornly wander the corridors of the Vatican. While they mutter over their beads and argue arcane points of theology, Roman Catholics everywhere have stopped going to mass, or have left the church altogether. The church continues to count them among the faithful, but can no longer count on their support.

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

The Rot Spreads

By Patrick F. Cannon

By now, we’re all used to the attack ads that make our political campaigns so amusing. But until recently, I hadn’t realized that our sophisticated techniques had reached into the most remote areas of our great land.

Although not widely known, I was born into modest circumstances in the coal mining community of Dismal Seepage, West Virginia. As a young lad of 12, toiling in the mines taught me the value of hard work. The town itself is so far back in the hills that its current Congressman, the Honorable Rufus T. Firefly, has as yet been unable to find it. At one time, most of its citizens, like me, worked in the mines. Now, most are on welfare. The women spend most of their time gossiping at the Baptist church hall, while the men hang out at the general store, coughing and wheezing.

It’s also the county seat for Despond County, one of the least populated in all of these United States. One of the county elected offices is the Dogcatcher. Now, you may think this is a joke, but I assure you that no office is more critical to the health and well being of Despond’s residents, particularly those who live in Dismal Seepage. While most of the people in the county live in the town, there are some folks who live in even more remote areas, some as far as the Slough of Despond or even the Valley of Despair. They are rarely seen in town, coming in only for Mason jars and rifle ammunition.

Here’s the problem. In their mountain fastnesses, they knew nothing of spaying or neutering. Their mangy barnyard curs reproduce with abandon, but only the strongest survive to battle for table scraps and the odd critter that stumbles into their domain. The rest have to leave to fend for themselves in the woods and hollows. Many, inevitably, end up in Dismal Seepage, where they often confuse the local citizen’s legs for the game they’re used to eating. The mayor disclaimed responsibility for controlling them, claiming that the voracious doggies had come to town from the county. Reluctantly, the county commissioners – all staunch Democrats – decided to act.  By unanimous vote, they decided to create the elected job of Despond County Dogcatcher. They also gave themselves the power – considering the urgency of the situation – to appoint an incumbent until the next election should occur.

Only one name recommended itself – Frank Dassisi, known to many of the “dog whisperer.” Himself the owner of the only purebred dog in town, a big black Poodle, Frank had a way with animals of all kinds, and was the only person in town who had not been bitten by one of the wandering curs. Frank was also the only Republican in town, and agreed to take the job only if he could run in the next election with that label. Desperate, and besieged by scarred and irate citizens, the commissioners reluctantly agreed.

As soon as he was sworn in, Frank began luring the strays into his back yard. He fed and cleaned them and – as if by magic – they became as docile as little lambs. When sufficient numbers were gathered, he loaded them into a county truck and took them to a shelter in Charleston, whence they were shipped as “West Virginia Mountain Hounds” to unwary liberals in Chicago and New York.

The good citizens of Dismal Seepage were finally able to stroll unmolested around town; more importantly, they stopped complaining to the county commissioners. Unbeknownst to the peaceable kingdom, however, trouble was on the horizon. When the next election season rolled around, it seems the chairman of the State Democrat Party, state senator Claghorn, was reviewing the list of candidates in the various counties and noted, with astonishment, that a Republican was running unopposed for Dogcatcher in Despond County. No Republican had ever run for office in that county, much less run unopposed by a candidate from the party of Thomas Jefferson, Jefferson Davis and Rod Blagojevich.

He was soon on the phone (land line, for no cells reached Dismal Seepage), berating County Commissioner Denver for permitting such an outrage! “Is that shiftless son on yours – John is it – still sponging off you?”

“Well, he is between jobs.”

“Put him on the ballot! He won’t need to sponge on you anymore, and we’ll handle the whole campaign.”

Faced with dire consequences if they refused, the rest of the commissioners agreed to put young John Denver on the ballot. Now, as it happens, although Dismal Seepage has a general store, folks actually have to go up the road to the metropolis of Logan (pop. 1800) to get more than milk, bread and Coca Cola. On their way back, they couldn’t help but notice that a long unused billboard had come to life. On it was a picture of Frank Dassisi being hugged by a beaming Donald Trump, with this bold message: Trump and Dassisi will tax your welfare check to build lavish puppy palace! Vote for Denver to stop their grab!

Coincidently, full color mailers turned up in everyone’s mail box. On the cover, there was a picture of Dassisi with his Poodle Fifi, with the caption: How can dogcatcher Dassisi afford a fancy foreign dog? And is Fifi more than just a pet? And are the strays he picks up actually going to good homes, or direct to the Chicago stockyards? What do you think is in those famous Chicago dogs?

Dassisi of course got a mailer himself, and heard about the billboard, which he inspected with disbelief. When he called Commissioner Denver to complain, that wily politician pointed out that he and his fellows had nothing to do with it, were in fact shocked, but were powerless to stop the onslaught. He claimed it was some shadowy group “up in the capital.” Indeed, the small print at the bottom of the billboard and mailer read: Paid for by the West Virginia Animal Protection Political Action Committee, which is solely responsible for its content. Not authorized by any candidate.

Dassisi, suddenly shunned by his neighbors, knew when he was licked and dropped out of the race. Unmarried and retired from the State Highway Department, he took his fat pension and Poodle and moved south to Ashville, North Carolina, where exotic dogs were not unknown.

Young Denver was duly elected Dogcatcher, and as could have been predicted, Dismal Seepage soon went to the dogs.

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

Don’t Read the Fine Print!

By Patrick F. Cannon

I’m sure the television networks and local stations were in near panic mode when tobacco advertising was banned in 1971. No more happy faces extolling the virtues of their favorite brand as they merrily skipped toward an early grave. Could they survive with only detergent, deodorant, cereal and gasoline commercials? Little did they know it, but salvation would eventually come to their rescue.

As often has been the case, the Supreme Court and Federal regulators would take a hand and provide replacements – and then some. Throwing hundreds of years of legal tradition out the window, it was decided in 1977 that the American Bar Association’s Canon of Ethics ban on lawyer’s advertising their services was an unconstitutional limitation on their exercise of free speech. Lawyers who once exhausted themselves by chasing ambulances could now put up a billboard or air a cheaply produced commercial reminding citizens of their God given right to sue! Who in Chicago has not heard that adornment of the legal profession, Glenn Lerner, reminding his listeners: “in a wreck, need a check?”

Now, it’s true that some law firms show a bit more dignity. Instead of showing crashing cars and trucks, they have actual (sometimes) real clients proudly boasting about the millions they got through the exertions of their lawyers; of course, the lawyers rarely mention that they likely got almost half of it, and only take cases they know they’ll win, despite their protestations that they’re champions of the little man.

The docs beat them to the punch, although they have not been quite so aggressive. The Federal Trade Commission (FTC) gave them the right to advertise in 1975, although most – plastic surgeons and sex docs excepted – have mostly limited their advertising to a web site. I should add, however, that hospitals have been extremely aggressive in touting their sterling records, and this of course trickles down to the docs on their staffs.

Dentists have been more aggressive, particularly those who replace your real teeth with false ones screwed into your jaw bones. They tout easy financing, but don’t mention that a full set of chompers might cost you 50 grand.

But the real windfall, particularly for the networks, has been prescription drug ads. I’ve never been quite sure what these hope to accomplish. One supposes the idea is to get the suffering patient to urge their physician to replace their current pills with the latest miracle drug. They may also feed into the significant percentage of the population (are you one?) who imagine, without evidence of any kind, that they must be about to take to their death beds, despite not having even the slightest real symptoms.

Why anyone would eagerly want to take Bombasta, Exultuma, or Fracaraca after learning their scary side effects is beyond me. The Federal Drug Administration (FDA) insists that these ads at least highlight their direst side effects, which might run from a runny nose to instant death. But if you really want to be frightened, ignore the TV ads and look at the print ads. One page will show a smiling patient gamboling on a beach with his Poodle. But do turn the page and read every one of the thousands of words of warning. You might need a magnifying glass and a stiff glass of bourbon. On the other hand, maybe you should just trust your physician to read it for you.

(And then there are election ads, but you’ll have to wait until next week to learn how they have penetrated deep into the mountain hollows.)

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

That Can’t Be True 

By Patrick F. Cannon

(I thought that this piece, from 2016, was worth repeating; for example, the pandering “Non GRO Project Verified” seals are becoming more common.)

Miami Herald columnist Leonard Pitts recently wrote about how people continue to believe what they want to believe regardless of the facts. I’ve written before about the mistaken belief that crime is on the increase, despite statistics that show a steady decline. He quoted a recent survey that showed that 61 percent of Americans still believe that crime is increasing.

Pitts himself said that he found it hard to believe a recent survey that found a majority of Native Americans weren’t bothered by the name of the Washington Redskins. He admitted he thought the survey must be flawed in some way, despite its being commissioned by the decidedly liberal Washington Post.

The scientific method also continues to be under attack by stubborn groups who simply don’t seem to understand it. As a result, for example, children are contracting infectious diseases that should have been prevented by vaccinations; vaccinations that misguided parents believe are the cause of autism and other maladies. Now, it’s true that some very small number of children will have an adverse reaction to vaccinations (or  any other medication, for that matter), but rigorous scientific studies have shown convincingly that the benefits so far outweigh the risks that further discussion is pointless. But try telling that to the true believers.

Another hot topic among science deniers is Genetically Modified Organisms (GMOs). Despite the fact that numerous peer-reviewed studies have shown no adverse effects from growing or eating them, there is a steady drumbeat to either ban them outright, or force producers to label products that contain them. The European Union, that bastion of bureaucratic perfection, has actually banned them. In my view, this has more to do with a persistent anti-Americanism that any real fear that they would hasten the end of the world. Perhaps our European friends are sick and tired of the undoubted fact that almost every scientific and technical advance seems to sprout first in the United States. Both in Europe and here, the anti-GMO forces are reduced to simple fear mongering. Not “the sky is falling,” but “the sky might fall.”

GMOs are just one of a series of agricultural advances that are helping to feed a growing world population. And while we might pat ourselves on the back for eating organically-grown food, we need to keep in mind that the majority of the world’s population can’t afford that luxury. It may be that organic farming methods will develop in the future to the extent that they will be able to feed the world at a price it can afford. I look forward to that day. In the meantime, I console myself with the fact that numerous studies have demonstrated that organically-raised food has no significant nutritional benefit over the stuff most people eat.

Finally, the most persistent bogus science must be astrology. Shakespeare had it right 400 years ago, when he admonished one of his characters: “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.” I don’t hold out much hope for its disappearance. I read recently that another bogus science, alchemy, had a famous adherent — none other than Sir Isaac Newton. Alas, he never got hit in the head with a golden apple.

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

A Grain of Truth 

By Patrick F. Cannon

I’ve never quite understood what the phrase “a grain of truth” actually means. Some people seem to think it means that in a loaf of lies there may be hidden just a single grain that, isolated from the rest, could possibly be true, thus making the loaf palatable enough to swallow.

Increasingly, politicians of both parties are counting on us to think that just a little truth is truth enough. Here’s an example from my home state, Illinois. Unless you don’t watch television (in which case, congratulations), you’ve no doubt been told in ads from his opponent J.B. Pritzker that Governor Bruce Rauner is personally responsible for the state’s undoubted fiscal mess. Now, I happen to think that he is about as inept a politician as it’s possible to be, but I also believe he actually tried to put the state on a better fiscal course.

Why did he fail? Could it possibly be that he inherited most of the mess from someone else? And that the “someone else” preferred to keep doing business the same way? From 2003 until he took office in 2015, both the governorship and both houses of the legislature were controlled by the Democratic Party. They still control the latter, which, by the way, is responsible for passing a balanced budget. And the party itself is still controlled by Michael Madigan, a Chicago legislator who has been representing a district of roughly 100,000 souls for 47 years and is the longest serving speaker of any legislative body in the United States.

In the expected tit for tat, Rauner’s ads accuse Madigan and his cohorts of running a “corrupt” government. Using the old guilt by association tactic, he accuses J.B. Pritzker (a fellow billionaire) of corruption by association.  As it happens, Madigan has never been indicted for any crime. He is an expert in gaming the system; a system, it must be said, that he has been largely responsible for designing. Official corruption is an actual crime (as Chicago and Illinois citizens know to their sorrow), so accusing Pritzker of corruption is crossing the line unless he can back it up with facts.

I do know folks who say it’s OK to stretch the truth a little, but only for the candidate they favor. When the other side does the same thing, somehow it becomes dishonest. Now, I do think there are occasions when it’s acceptable for politicians to lie. I’m reminded of Winston Churchill’s statement about World War II that “in wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies.” Despite what many might think, running for office is not the same of fighting a war. So, it’s OK to lie to the Nazis, but to the voters?

Lying by politicians has become so pervasive that one of the world’s most accomplished liars became president of these United States. He continues to lie with abandon, confident that his supporters are satisfied with just the merest grain of truth. When we excuse a candidate who lies about his or her opponent because we agree with some of his or her positions, we have participated in the debasement of our politics.

When was the last time you saw a campaign ad that actually told you what the candidate stood for or planned to do, rather than highlighting the fictional crimes of the opposition?  Are you truly satisfied with just a grain of truth in an army of lies?

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

Chapter 9 

Science Marches On 

Man has struggled to understand the mysteries of the Universe ever since it began with the big bang some 8,000 years ago. In addition to widespread temporary deafness and the killing off of the dinosaurs, the bang so addled people’s brains that it took some time for true scientists to emerge.

Curiously, good sense reemerged in Poland of all places, with the birth of Nicolaus Copernicus (1473-1543), called “Stash” by his friends. Educated by the Saturine fathers, he was strolling through the countryside one day and noticed something curious. A prodigious walker, Stash noticed that the further away he got from Crackowe (sic), the shorter the church steeples seemed to be. While the good fathers had insisted that the earth was flat, this phenomenon seemed to suggest that the earth might not be flat after all. Whether it was round or perhaps shaped like a watermelon (Stash’s favorite fruit), was still to be determined. It also occurred to him that if the Saturines were wrong about the shape of the earth, could they also be wrong about masturbation?

After an additional year of walking, Copernicus finally concluded that the earth was indeed round, helped along by the undoubted fact that the sun and moon seemed to be round too. He posited the theory that the constant revolutions of the heavenly bodies must have eventually worn them into globes. He tried his theory out with watermelons and pears, but hunger intervened and the experiment was abandoned.

His most controversial theory suggested that the earth revolved around the sun, which ran counter (or was it counter clockwise?) to the established dogma of Holy Mother the Church.  Fortunately for Stash, he died before his theory was published, thus avoiding the wrath of the Inquisition. Ever loyal to their wayward student, however, his former teachers celebrated his life with a Saturnalia.

Galileo Galilei (1564-1642), born in Pisa, then took up the cudgels or was it the gauntlet?  Now you may wonder how he came to have this strange name. When his father took his infant son to be baptized at the Basilica of the Holy Bovine (this was Tuscany after all), the priest naturally asked him what name he had given the little tyke. “Galileo,” responded the proud papa. “Yes, yes,” the holy fellow responded, “but what last name?”

“Well, that’s it padre, my dear son only has the one name.”

“Not permitted, sir, everyone must have two names, according to the prescripts of the church, as spelled out in Chapter 1,101 of Canon Law.”

Reluctantly, the proud papa ventured the name “Galileo Galileo.”

“Nice thought, but Chapter 1,102 makes it clear that one can’t have the same first and last names. Might I suggest naming the little bambino Galileo Galilei? I think I might just be able to slip that one past the Office of the Nomine Patre.”

So that’s the story. Despite the best efforts of the ecclesiastical legislators, however, few people today follow these precepts, preferring to name their children after flowers, rock musicians or mushrooms.

In any event, even at an early age, little Galileo wandered the earth looking skyward. As he often walked into trees, or buildings, or tripped over low walls, he was thought by his neighbors to be something of a menace to navigation. Eventually, they learned to steer clear and go about their business.  After all, this was Pisa, where even the buildings seemed confused.

Despite a good many knocks to the head, young Galileo went on to the University of Pisa, where he studied medicine and everything else that anybody then knew about. The conventional wisdom of those days said that Aristotle had pretty much figured everything out, but the budding genius wasn’t buying that. He had by then read Copernicus, and was beginning to have his doubts about how the heavens actually operated.

As so often happens in history and Agatha Christie mysteries, another “aha” moment changed the course of the story. It seems Galileo was draining a glass of grappa one day and, looking through the bottom of the glass, noticed that olives on a nearby tree seemed to have gotten larger. When he looked through the other end of the glass, the olives got smaller!  What if, he posited, one could take a piece of clear glass and grind and polish it until it gave a clear, enlarged image? Further, what if one put a series of such glasses in a tube until the image was enlarged many, many, many times?

He was soon hard at work on his idea and mentioned it to a visiting merchant of Venice, who immediately grasped its commercial possibilities. What if one could put such an instrument at the top of St. Marks, and thus get advanced warning not only of hostile fleets, but of the ships of ones competitors? In off hours, one could also get a peek in a neighbor’s bedroom window.

If he’d stopped there, he might have stayed out of trouble, but he began to train his telescope on the heavens above, and his observations convinced him that the despised Copernicus had been right after all and the earth wasn’t the center of the Universe, but a paltry planet spinning around the Sun. Well, this didn’t sit too well with Pope Rictus XVI, who summoned Galileo to come to Rome forthwith to explain why he shouldn’t be burned at the stake, or at least be drawn and quartered.

In due course, Galileo was convicted of “heretical common sense,” and placed under house arrest. This did not prevent his friends from visiting and telling him stories of their travels. To while away the time, he wrote up their stories in a little book he called the Decameron, but wisely used the pen name, Boccaccio, after a neighbor and pig farmer, who couldn’t read and would thus be none the wiser.

The only other scientist of any note until Thomas Edison was born was Sir Isaac Newton (1642-1726 in the old calendar, but 1643-1727 in the new, which most people preferred, since it let you live a bit longer).  He was born at Woolsthorpe Manor in Woolsthrorpe-by-Costerworth, in the county of Lincolnshire (I kid you not). His father died before he was born, and his mother remarried when he was three. Her new husband was an Anglican priest, who apparently took a dim view of young tikes, so mom left little Isaac to be raised by his grandmother.

Apparently, marrying Ma Newton was the kiss of death, because hubby number two soon died, and young Isaac – by then the brightest bulb at the local school – was put to farming the family land. One day, as he was resting under an apple tree from his exertions with the plow, he was rudely awakened from his nap when an apple fell upon his noggin. When his head cleared, he stood up just in time to dodge another apple. Why, he wondered, did the apple fall instead of rising? Thinking, as all scientists are wont to do, that there must be a reason, he began the thought process that would eventually lead to the invention of gravity.

By the way, as a matter of interest, the apple was of the Macintosh variety. This fact was suppressed for hundreds of years, as the English did not want the Scotch to get any credit. They fostered the rumor that the apple had been a Granny Smith, named after a local pub owner. Now you know the truth.

While the glimmerings of gravity whirled about his brain, he realized that he did not yet have enough education to be taken seriously, so he packed a bag and walked to Cambridge, where he was admitted to Trinity College. There he perfected his theory of gravity, invented the science of optics and even found time to come up with that bane of high school students everywhere: the calculus.

His achievements were much honored. He was made a Knight of the Bath, whose rituals still include an annual get together where all the knights gather at a communal bath, drink a lot of ale and frolic in the nude. He became president of the Royal Society and Master of the Royal Mint. It must be this last that led him to experiments in alchemy, which proves that even the smartest people can be as dumb as you and I.

By the way, he’s buried in Westminster Abbey, just next to David Livingstone, who wouldn’t be there at all had he not been found by Henry Morton Stanley. Such are the vagaries of history.

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(Alas, thus far there is no Chapter 10. Maybe next year.)

Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon