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

What Lies Beneath

By Patrick F. Cannon

Unmentionables, scanties, unders, or if you prefer, underwear. That which lies beneath. The last bastion of modesty, or the trigger of desire. For most of mankind’s history, its origins have been shrouded in mystery, never a subject for polite discourse.

As with so many once taboo subjects, I feel it’s my duty to expose once and for all the history of an important branch of the apparel family. I should first tell you that for thousands of years there was no distinction between underwear and outerwear. In warmer climes, folks didn’t wear anything. Where the winter’s chill was likely, only animal skins were available until fabric was invented by the Assyrians. Even then, making cloth was such a laborious task that even one garment required the continuous labor of several slaves for a week or two (depending on size).

Until the Egyptians invented needle and thread in the Second Dynasty, the typical garment was just a square of cloth with a hole in the middle for one’s head, gathered together at the waist with a bit of rope. Such a lavish use of cloth was of course not available to the slaves and lower orders. They had to make do with left over bits; thus, the loin cloth.   They rather resembled the cloth diaper, which most people today have never seen.

You will be as surprised as I was to learn that it wasn’t the Greeks who finally invented underwear. It appears they had been too busy inventing philosophy, democracy, algebra, geometry, saganaki and the mushroom burger. Anyway, the climate in Greece was generally salubrious, so they must have felt no particular urgency to cover their nether regions.

Rome was quite another matter. Although the city itself was quite warm, the restless Romans soon ventured north to conquer all and sundry. As they got nearer the Alps, the cold breezes tended to sweep up under their tunic skirts and shrivel their privates. As if this wasn’t bad enough, it could also raise their skirts, thus exposing chill-reduced manhood. Across the battlefield, their enemies, the Extragoths, hurled abuse and guffaws at them.

That did it. The very nest day, their commander, Pubic Minimus, ordered his legions to wrap their scroti in cloth from their extra tunics. They didn’t immediately realize they had invented underwear, but we do.

Why it took so long for the next advance remains a mystery. Suffice it say that the idea of having openings for one’s legs doesn’t seem to have occurred to anyone until the 11^th Century. If one studies the famous Bayeux Tapestry, which commemorates William the Conquerors victory over Poor Harold at the Battle of Hastings in 1066, one might notice a tiny figure in the background. Apparently, a hapless Saxon, due to the fortunes of war he had been stripped of his outer garments by his conquerors. In his death throes, he seems to be wearing boxer shorts!

The next great advance was the Cod Piece. By the 15^th Century, tights had been developed. Since there was no room for standard underwear, the size of one’s manhood become rather noticeable. As the gents strolled along the avenue, the ladies couldn’t help noticing which fellow was more or less endowed. The Cod Piece, rather like a leather cup, could visually even the playing field, at least until the wedding night. (By the way, that’s Henry VIII up there. Perhaps if he’d gone commando, history might have changed.)

Things stayed much the same until the invention of the elastic waist band by Pierre DuPont in 1824. We now take it for granted that we can simply pull up our shorts, without needing to tie them tight with lace of some kind. Our only decision is the classic one – boxers or briefs? I’m a boxer’s man myself, but belong to a divided family; my brother Pete remains faithful to briefs, or “tighty whities” as they are often styled.

(I feel a responsibility to add something about one of the most complicated of all undergarments, the Union Suit, or “long johns” as they are often called. These winter-worn garments were donned by rustic types in the Fall, and not removed until Spring, whereupon they must now undergo a controlled burn by order of the EPA.)

What advances await us I don’t pretend to know. By the way, you may have noticed I haven’t said much about ladies’ undies. When I began looking into this, it soon became apparent that that subject was so complex that even my curious mind couldn’t even begin to understand its many twists, turns and permutations. Just look at a Victoria’s Secret catalog and you’ll see what I mean.

Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Choice is Good, Except When it Isn’t

By Patrick F. Cannon

As a good American, I’m a great believer in freedom of choice, but not in education. Let me clarify. I do think parents should have the power to send their children to the best possible school, if choice is even possible in their community. I do not believe, however, that children – or even their parents – should dictate what they can and cannot learn.

Americans are, for example, shockingly ignorant of their own history and institutions. Survey after survey has shown that only a small percentage of your fellow citizens can answer even the simplest of questions. One example should suffice: in a survey of students of the top 55 colleges and universities (yes, including Harvard, Princeton, Stanford, Chicago, etc), it was found that only 23 percent knew that James Madison was the principal author of the Constitution, while 99 percent were fully knowledgeable about Beavis and Butthead and their many cultural contributions.

How can this have happened? The answers can of course be complicated, but let me suggest that too much choice is basic to understanding the problem (not that everyone would even agree it’s a problem). Universities now seem to feel that their incoming freshman have had all the history they can stomach. Instead of the classic survey course in American History, which was usual when I went to college, they can pick and choose any of a number of “history” courses designed by faculty to fit their particular research interests (Sexual Politics in the Reagan Era, Marxism if We Gave it Just One More Chance, Why Vermont Matters).

I’ve picked on History, but the reluctance to look to the past extends to other fields as well. Take literature. Why should any American be forced to read Hawthorne, Melville, Twain or even Hemingway for that matter? Weren’t they just the typical white males, with all the horrors that that implies? Why should students’ tender sensitivities be challenged by dead men when the living Bob Dylan just won the Nobel Prize for Literature (broadly defined, as so much is these days).

One of my pet peeves is the conviction among many of the young that music – and almost everything worthwhile in the arts — began the day they were born. Never mind that America has a rich history in popular music. How many of them know who Stephen Foster was, much less Irving Berlin? And that the influence of Jazz and the Blues is pervasive around the world?

And it’s fruitless to even mention Classical music, the audience for which continues to decline in real terms. I suspect that the young people who do listen to and play serious music come from families that grew up in much the same atmosphere. Not to know and understand the differences between Mozart and the Smashing Pumpkins probably doesn’t matter to someone who has never even heard of Mozart (and maybe barely recalls the Pumpkins).

Nobody can or should be forced to like something, but not to even be aware of alternatives is one of the great failures of the current educational system. The emphasis on science technology, engineering and math (STEM), at the expense of the liberal arts, may seem sensible in a world obsessed with instant computation and communication, but who’s going to be left to write the poetry and run the country?  Will ignorance of history continue to lead to the White House?

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Be It Hereby Resolved

By Patrick F. Cannon

When you reach my age, it seems pointless to make New Year’s resolutions. You have either reached perfection in all things, or have learned to live with, and even enjoy, your many failings.

This does not mean, of course, that the rest of mankind has achieved nirvana. Far from it, so I have taken upon myself to suggest resolutions for some people who surely need improvement in one or more ways.

One hardly knows where to begin with President Trump. His failings are many and substantial. He could perhaps begin by saying over and over: “I am not the only person in the world.”

Somewhat related to Trump’s need for self-improvement is a Republican Party in serous need of redemption. Never in living memory have so many elected officials traded basic morality for political expediency. They should resolve to become once again the party of Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt and Ronald Reagan, instead of the party of Warren Harding, Herbert Hoover and Donald Trump. The excuse they give most often is that “Trump is delivering on his campaign promises,” as though this absolves him of being a thoroughly bad man. And simply deciding not to run for reelection is not enough.

Before you consign me to the left wing, I’m afraid the Democrats need to make some resolutions too. One would be to finally say “goodbye” to their elders. A party that is so bereft of talent that it drags out Joe Biden as a serious candidate for President seems just the opposite of “progressive.” The ever-talkative Joe is 76 already, but even he has a year on Bernie Sanders, who is 77. Of course, they may go for a younger man, and drag Al Gore out of the internet for one more run. He’s only 70! Anyway, here’s a resolution for the party of the other Roosevelt: find a candidate in 2020 who’s younger than 70, and who could actually pass history and civics tests. Do not be tempted by the siren call of Hillary. And, for God’s sake, don’t try to foist Elizabeth Warren on our suffering Republic.

Closer to home (Illinois) we will soon have a Democrat governor and veto proof legislature of the same party. J. B. Pritzker was elected not for his qualifications, but because he was even richer than his opponent – the hapless Bruce Rauner – and so could outspend him, which he duly did. He has two choices it seems to me: he could just go along with House Speaker Michael Madigan (76 by the way) and raise taxes to pay for the sweetheart pensions the Democrats have given to their supporters among the public employee unions; or he could do the right thing and use his money and influence to end Madigan’s tenure, and finally pass a constitutional amendment that would permit serious changes to the pension system. If the state pension increases had been always been pegged to the same cost of living increases as the Federal Social Security system, instead of the automatic three-percent as now, the state would be much better off.

And, finally, resolve not to lose hope; or to hate someone just because his or her politics don’t agree with yours. And try to remember that none of us is as smart as we think we are. Happy New Year!

Copyright 2018, Patrick F Cannon