Shark Weak 

By Patrick F. Cannon

On many a misty morning while walking the dog, I have been struck suddenly with terror by the approach of what appears to be the open maw of a gigantic shark – only to be returned to reality by the realization that what appeared to be a basking shark was in reality the front end of an automobile.

Of course, one need not fear a basking shark, since their mouths are open not to swallow you whole, but to allow easy entry to the plankton and other little bits that constitute their diet. I’m not certain why auto makers feel they need to have similar gaping openings in the front of their cars, since the only reason cars have grills at all is to permit air to flow to the radiators that are a part of the cooling systems of most internal combustion engines. In the past, more discrete openings were considered quite sufficient.

I know my friends who own such cars will forgive me, but the current greatest adherents of the basking-shark front end craze are Lexus, Audi, Toyota, Hyundai and Mitsubishi. Ford was once an offender, but has since toned down its front ends (although they may have actually started the whole trend). Other brands have sometimes flirted with the fishy look.

You may have noticed that most of this shark attack has come from foreign makers. What you may not know is that most of the cars they sell here are not only manufactured in this country, but also designed here. It seems car designers are like lemmings – they love to follow their fellow designers off the trend cliff, whether the design makes sense or not.  Leaving the gaping maw profusion aside for the moment, have you noticed that one car now looks much like another?  I have recently rented mid-size Toyotas, Nissans and Hyundais and you would be hard pressed to tell them apart. Indeed, the driving experience itself – comfy but dull – was nearly identical. It is no accident I think that most of the folks who design our cars are graduates of the ArtCenter College of Design in Pasadena. Birds of a feather?

This was not always the case. When I was a kid, I prided myself on the ability to identify every make of American car (pretty much all one saw until the 1960s). Here, in no particular order, were  the brands that were available in, say, 1952: Chevrolet, Pontiac, Oldsmobile, Buick, Cadillac, Ford, Mercury, Edsel, Lincoln, Chrysler, Plymouth, Dodge, Packard, Studebaker, Nash, Hudson, Willys,  Kaiser, Frazer, Henry J, Checker, Rambler, International and Crosley.  I may have missed one or two, but you get the idea. The only foreign cars one was likely to see were MGs, Jaguars, and Mercedes; and increasingly as the years went on, the VW Beetle. Some of the American brands were ugly, but at least they were distinctive! The Europeans, who then couldn’t afford the gas to run them, heaped abuse upon them in their usual superior way.

The Big Three each cultivated a corporate look, even though individual designs might miscarry (who can forget the hapless Edsel). Nowadays, only brands like BMW, Mercedes, Rolls Royce and Bentley stand out, and then only from the front, as they try to retain some vestige of their traditional grill shape.

To me, there are two periods of unsurpassed car design – the 1930s in France and America; and the 1950s and 60s in Italy. It’s 50 years later, and no one has improved on Pinin Farina’s design for the Ferrari Daytona. Google it and you’ll see what I mean. Of course, car design might have to change radically when driverless cars become common. Perhaps they’ll run on some unseen force, levitate through the air or even swim with the fishes. But they better beware of those basking sharks!

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

It’s All Bologna! 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Not too many years ago, I strayed from the straight and narrow path and began eating a healthier lunch. One of the casualties of this tragic mistake was my beloved bologna and cheese sandwich.

It was simply made, but eminently eatable. You would take two pieces of good quality white bread (no Wonder Bread, please) and put a generous dollop of Heinz Ketchup (no substitutions) on one of them. This must be done ahead of time.  In a cast-iron skillet, you would then toss a piece of Oscar Meyer regular bologna. While giving off some of its tasty fat, it would eventually curl up. Upon this inevitable occurrence, you would flip the bologna over and place a slice of Kraft American Cheese, folded to fit comfortably, on the sizzling meat. When the cheese was melted (if I was truly hungry, I confess that there might have been two pieces thus adorned), the bologna was moved via a spatula from skillet to pre-ketchupped bread and topped with the other slice.

As you might imagine – if you have any imagination at all – the result was culinary heaven. Then, alas, one began to hear the siren song of the benefits of the fat free diet. Instead of the ultimate sandwich, I began to eat flax-seed sticks and yogurt (and the odd cookie if truth be told). But, as so often happens, the experts eventually recanted and admitted (sheepishly, one hopes) that a certain amount of fat in the diet was actually beneficial! Eventually, even the much-maligned egg was rehabilitated.

Thus unshackled from the chains of goofy science, I resolved to return to my former love. Off to the Jewel I rushed and bought packages of Oscar Meyer Bologna and Kraft American Cheese Singles. (I have since discovered that Kraft now actually owns Oscar Meyer, whose butcher shop in Chicago started it all. And the whole kit and caboodle is now Kraft Heinz, for good or ill.) Upon arrival home, I immediately ketchupped a slice of bread and threw two pieces of bologna in the frying pan. To my utter amazement, almost no fat emanated from the meat; they just kind of sat there getting unappetizingly charred. Little or no curl!

What can have happened?  I decided that poor Oscar had given in to the fat police and reduced the amount of fat in their signature sausage. While they must be admonished for this craven capitulation, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that many others adorn their packages with the dreaded “Lower, Reduced, or No Fat.” As everyone with any culinary sense knows, these should read “Lower Flavor, Reduced Flavor, or No Flavor at All.”

My friends and relatives know I’m addicted to the potato chip, one of the great American contributions to gastronomy. Now, I find it difficult to find a bag that doesn’t proudly proclaim that it has “40 Percent Less Fat” or some such. And although they don’t say so, I note with dismay that almost all brands now seem to lack enough salt! What is one to do when the conspiracy seems general? As for me, I drew the line when one famous national brand (It’s you Cape Cod) started proudly printing on  their bags the stupid “No GMOs,” thus pandering to the sandal-clad lunatics who believe  that rigorous scientific studies are a mere inconvenience.

Finally, if you know of a brand of bologna that has the fat content of old – that will begin giving it off as it hits the pan, will curl up as it should and not burn before the Kraft Processed American Cheese melts – please do let me know! You will do me, and gourmets everywhere, a great service!

Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

Let’s Hear it for the Guys Who Don’t 

By Patrick F. Cannon

It seems like every day brings news about another male public figure being accused of some form of sexual harassment (this Monday it was Peyton Manning; on Tuesday, Kevin Spacey, albeit in a different category). The most attention has been given to the case of Harvey Weinstein, who seems to have heroically carried on the “casting couch” tradition of such legendary Hollywood producers as Jack Warner, Harry Cohn and David O. Selznick, to name only a few.

The saddest to me is the case of Bill Cosby, who so many people admired for his image as a “clean” comedian and his family-oriented television series. While he has yet to be convicted of any crime, I’m now convinced that at least some of the stories about his sexual predations are true. While I’m not sure there is any research to back this up, the entertainment industry (including the branch that passes for news) seems to be a particular hot bed of squalid activity.

The reason seems obvious – men have traditionally held positions of power over who will or will not work. Except in the few cases where an actress is so obviously superior that she can pick and choose when and where she will work, the number of actresses seeking work far exceeds the number of roles available. To use that power – which also exists in other industries – to gain sexual favors from vulnerable employees is an evil that should have been stamped out years ago. One only regrets that women have only recently felt able to call these monsters to account.

But as so often happens in a society more and more divided politically and socially, we tend to tar everyone with the same brush. Thus, to the radical feminists, all men are predators; indeed, to some of them, all sexual intercourse is rape (Mother Nature be damned!). In such an atmosphere, even the most innocent remark is judged against a standard no man can meet.

Yet, the great majority of men have never sexually harassed the women they work with or supervise. I know I never did, and am not aware of any man I worked with who did so in the 45 years I spent going to work (I confess I can sometimes be oblivious). For most of those years, I was a manager who supervised professionals, including managers. Most were women. While I won’t claim all of them thought I was perfect, none had reason to complain they were treated differently because of their sex.

Please understand that I am not naïve. I absolutely understand that women have been historically paid less than their male counterparts, and have had a long struggle to be considered equally for promotion. And I know that their struggles are not over by any means. But nothing is gained from lumping all men with the likes of Harvey Weinstein. Instead, let’s give some credit to the great majority of men – fathers, husbands, brothers – who held their tongues and kept their hands to themselves.

Finally, let me caution that not every accusation will be true, but will be immediately reported as such whether it has been investigated fully or not. If the accused is famous enough, the story will lead the network news and find its way to the front pages of major newspapers. The damage done to the subject’s reputation and career will be immediate, and lasting, whether or not the accusation is later proved false. Such is the tenor of our times.

Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

(Inspiration did come this week, but needs a bit more time to come to fruition, so this week I offer you a “Greatest Hit” from the past.) 

Is it a Caddy, Daddy? 

By Patrick F. Cannon

There was great jubilation at the University of Chicago recently when a work of art that many had feared might have been lost forever was returned to its rightful place on the University’s Hyde Park campus.

Titled “Concrete Traffic,” it was by the well known German modernist Wolf Vostell (1932-1998). Vostell was a leader in the early days of video art and in organizing the “happenings” that were such a feature of the art world in the 1960s and 1970s. In this case, he took a 1957 Cadillac Coupe Deville and encased it in concrete. Commissioned by the fledgling Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago (now celebrating its 50^th anniversary), it was finished in 1970 and parked in a nearby parking lot. It was there for some time and apparently accumulated numerous parking tickets. Who paid the tickets seems lost to history. As for me, I wondered how they were attached, since there were no windshield wipers. Perhaps the cops taped them on the concrete, artfully one hopes.

Anyway, the sculpture was eventually donated to the University of Chicago, where it graced the campus until moved into storage to make way for the construction of the Logan Center for the Arts. In storage it may have remained – slowly crumbling away – were it not for art historian Christine Mehring. She heard about it, and arranged a visit. What she found appalled her. Here was this great work of 20^th Century art moldering away out of public view.  Hunks of concrete were actually missing, as if it were merely a public sidewalk or something!

It was a challenge, and one that Professor Mehring has heroically met. At a cost of some $500,000, “Concrete Traffic” has been restored and proudly placed in a stall of honor at the University’s main parking garage. You may wonder how it could have possibly cost that much to do a bit of concrete patching. Instead of going to Craig’s List for a local concrete guy, they sought out the experts who had restored the concrete at Frank Lloyd Wright’s Guggenheim Museum in Manhattan. While the niceties might be lost to the layman, there is a great difference between a concrete conservator and a concrete repairer. The former usually has a beard and charges more. I should mention that the only visible parts of the Caddy are its white wall tires. As you might expect, expert opinion was also sought on the proper tire pressure.

The result, according to Mehring, is a work from an “important transitional period from the happenings in the 1960s to the monumental sculptures and environments of the 1970s.”  Since Herr Vostel is no longer with us, his intended meaning is lost to us. Most people think it was an ironic comment on the wasteful consumer culture of America, typified by the land yachts that floated over the (concrete) superhighways that connected our car-mad cities, towns, villages and hamlets.

Europeans in the 1960s, burdened as they were by astronomical gas taxes, tended to drive around in cars like the VW Beetle and the iconic French classic, the Renault 2CV, which, I recall, had a suspension that consisted of husky rubber bands and tore down French roads at a breathtaking 50 miles per hour.

As it happens, I was in France in 1961-62, courtesy of the United States Army. In 1962, the Tour de France was going to pass through La Rochelle, where I was stationed. One day, my buddies and I were watching some of the preparations from a table at a harbor-front outdoor café. Imagine our surprise when a pink Cadillac convertible pulled up and parked in front of the café. Out came two couples, middle-aged and prosperous looking. The spotted us for Americans immediately and happily (for us) plied us with drink and food. They were Texans and, for a lark, were following the Tour around France.

While all this was going on, the Caddy was drawing a crowd. The looks on the French faces was not ironic disgust, but wonder and envy. The only place in France where one could then see a Cadillac was Paris, where they tended to be black and chauffer driven.

Alas, there aren’t too many Caddy convertibles of that vintage to be seen here anymore. Those that survive are cherished; many are housed in museums. But, thanks to Professor Mehring and her colleagues, you can at least sense the existence of a 1957 Coupe Deville beneath the concrete at the University’s parking garage at 55^th and Ellis. If you want to park near it, it will cost you four bucks an hour. But walk-ins are always free. At the cost of a little shoe leather, you can relive the ironic “happenings” of a bygone era. And wonder, as I have, how they’re going to change the tires when they inevitably collapse under the 34,000 pound weight of German irony.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

Finally, My Day Has Come

By Patrick F. Cannon

I greeted the news that the Boy Scouts of America had decided to admit girls to their rolls with unalloyed joy. Now at last I would have hope that one of my long cherished dreams might come true – and all without having to undergo sexual reassignment treatment or that final frontier, surgery.

Perhaps a little background might be helpful. Many years ago, my sainted grandmother Donnelly (when did grannies stop being “sainted”?) told me that she was descended from Betsy Ross, she of the nimble fingers who had sewn the first Stars & Stripes. Granny was my mother’s mother, and her maiden name was Brown. Now, I happen to know where my father’s family came from – an island off the West coast of Ireland called Inishbofin (which is supposed to mean “Island of the White Cow” but that could just be a bit of Irish humor).

I have actually been to the island and the cemetery is full of Concannons (our real name) and Murrays, my fraternal grandmother’s name. (By the way, if you like sheep and rocks, Inishbofin is just the place for you). I know very little, however, of Granny Donnelly’s Irish ancestors. One of my aunts used to correspond with one of them in Ireland, and I recall it was in the North. Now, the name Brown is fairly common among the Scots, so it may be that there is some Scotch-Irish blood lurking in the family tree. As I recall, Ms. Ross was of that heritage. I suppose I could check it out, but it’s getting close to lunch time and one must rations ones time.

I take it as a given then that I’m descended from her. Sainted grandmothers do not lie, particularly those who went to Mass every day of their long lives. On my father’s side, by the way, I was told that the mighty kings of Ireland lurked somewhere in our family tree, but then most Irishmen make similar claims. What I’m actually getting at is this: if I’m related to the legendary seamstress Betsy Ross, then I have a claim to membership in the Daughters of the American Revolution! For how can they hold out against the inexorable tides of history when the Boy Scouts cannot?

As you know, virtually every former all male organization now (more or less) happily admits women. I worked for one of them for many years – the International Association of Lions Clubs – and they soon discovered that women could roar with the best of them, and bounced far fewer dues checks than did the men. Is it not now time for these seemingly exempt all female organizations to stop hiding behind their sex, and enter the brave new world of gender equality? (By the way, I haven’t bounced a check since 1965.)

After breaching the walls of that bastion of female WASP exclusivity, I may seek membership in the American Association of University Women and the Women’s Christian Temperance Union (although the latter might exclude me on a technicality). I would, however, hesitate to seek affiliation with the Colonial Dames, as I’m told you are required to sing their official song – Their Ain’t Nothin’ Like a Dame – at every meeting.

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

Health Insurance Made Simple 

By Patrick F. Cannon

You buy life insurance. You die. Your beneficiaries collect and head for the French Riviera to mourn your passing. If they’re truly lucky, you die by accident with a policy with double indemnity! But don’t commit suicide unless you’re clever enough to hide the fact.

While there are several kinds of life insurance, once one decides whether whole life or term insurance, it’s relatively simple. You pay the premium and they pay up if you die. Car insurance is also relatively simple. You decide on the level of coverage (no deductible, $500 deductible; level of liability; rental car or not; new car replacement; etc), then pay your premium. If a Steinway concert grand piano falls from a great height and crushes your car, you can expect some kind of payment.

When we come to health insurance, all bets are off. Since the Federal government has inserted itself, you may be required to pay for stuff you don’t want, need or are actually opposed to for religious or moral reasons. This morning’s news (Tuesday, October 10, 2017) reported that the Trump administration was rescinding a previous requirement that birth control be a required benefit in health insurance coverage under the Affordable Care Act. Predictably, a female law student at Notre Dame University – one of the institutions that objected to the requirement on religious grounds – is suing to have the requirement reinstated.

Despite the undoubted fact that a majority of Roman Catholics disagree with and actually flout their church’s ban on birth control, the church has steadfastly held firm. Before the requirement was removed, you won’t be surprised to discover that Notre Dame and many other religious organizations of all faiths had sued the government, claiming that the mandate violated the religious freedom clause in the Bill of Rights. Presumably, they will now withdraw their suits, or at least put them on pause.

As you might imagine, lawsuits were immediately threatened by the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) and others, citing the equal protection clause of the 14^th Amendment; and the establishment clause of the First Amendment, which essentially mandates the separation of church and state. It’s a tricky one, isn’t it? Religious groups argue that the birth control mandate violates their religious freedom rights and the ACLU and others argue that dropping it violates the right of every woman to have access to birth control services no matter the tenets of the religious organization she has chosen to work for or study with.

Wouldn’t you just love to be a Federal judge just now?  While you might agree with one side or the other, you will find that the framers didn’t bother to say anything about the right to health insurance, or any other insurance for that matter. So, you’re stuck with the First and Fourteenth Amendments, conflicting interpretations and all.

You can also bet that there will be lawsuits aplenty as a result of Illinois Governor Rauner’s signing of a bill that permits Medicaid to pay for abortions in the state. In case you didn’t know, Medicaid is funded by the Federal government, but generally administered by the states. Rauner claimed he signed the bill because poor women shouldn’t be denied the abortions that wealthier women could afford. Fair enough if you believe in abortion, which the Cardinal Archbishop of Chicago made clear he doesn’t.

(For the record, I’m covered by Medicare, which for some reason doesn’t cover either birth control or abortion.)

Federal involvement is a good thing in many areas. But the current health care mess is a perfect example of what happens when a national consensus is not reached or even sought by one or another of the political parties. Unlike many other countries, this is not a “one size fits all” kind of society. We try to make it so at our peril.

Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon