Happy Anniversary! 

By Patrick F. Cannon

I started blogging last year about this time. I looked at my file and counted 51 previous blogs. I should mention that the count doesn’t include a couple of pieces that I reprinted from another source. Anyway, this is number 52, so I’m declaring this the First Anniversary of Cannonnade. In the past year, I did not miss a single week. Whether that has been a blessing or curse, I leave it up to you to decide.

While I didn’t actually do a count, words totaled about 40,000. Some of the early ones were a bit long. In the future, I’ll try to limit each to about 600 words. That way, if you don’t like a particular piece, you don’t have to wince for too long. A few I would probably take back, but I’ll mention only one.

Just like most of the “experts”, I minimized the Trump phenomenon. Early in the campaign season, I noted that he was only getting a little more than 20 percent of the primary votes, with more than 70 percent of voters opting for one of the other candidates. I thought he had reached his peak, but lo and behold, he kept getting stronger as the other contenders dropped off one by one. As the old saying goes, the number of folks who got it wrong about Trump “could fill Yankee Stadium.” I’m not even sure it would be big enough.

I’m reminded once again of Pauline Kael’s remark (she was the longtime film critic for the New Yorker, and a paragon on the New York liberal intellectual establishment) upon the election of Richard Nixon. Presumably never having left Manhattan Island, she remarked: “I don’t understand how he won. I don’t know anyone who voted for him.”

I do know some people who voted for Trump, and actually understand why, mainly having to do with Hillary Clinton. But larger numbers, the actual margin of victory, voted for him because they felt that both political parties had failed them and they were willing to take a shot. I think they made a mistake in choosing Trump as their savior, but there’s nothing we can do now to change the reality.

In the coming year, I’m going to largely stay away from politics. You’ll find that the pundits who were wrong about Trump won’t be dissuaded from filling in for me. In the meantime, one of our good friends, Judy Higginson of Redlands, California (where she fled to be warm instead of cold) has asked me to write something about horse racing, my favorite sport. Once also America’s favorite spectator sport, the spread of legal gambling has reduced its popularity, but not its charms. I’ll try to convince you of that next week.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

Give Thanks 

By Patrick F. Cannon

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 aside 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 (supplemented by a card table extension) will be both of our children, Patrick Jr and Elizabeth, he up from Florida for a few days. My niece Ellen and her friend Gary will be there, as well as my son-in-law Boyd, his brother Bart, wife Lisa and son Riley in from Seattle; and daughter Rachel, who now lives in Madison.  Every one of them is reasonably healthy, and all are successful, smart and amiable. 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 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. Recent research has concluded that dysfunctional families are the only remaining 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 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 intrude on another day.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

The Melody Lingers On 

By Patrick F. Cannon

When Leonard Cohen died last week, my subconscious juke box began to play one of his most famous songs, Suzanne. It was only one of the many excellent songs he had written, but it was the first one to land on my brain’s turntable.

I doubt that there has been a day in my life when some piece of music didn’t exit me through a whistle or hum. If no one is around (always excepting my poor wife Jeanette, who has to put up with it) some words might emerge as well. My interior play list must contain hundreds, and perhaps thousands of melodies.  When it became clear that Donald Trump had been elected, I recalled Don Cornell’s hit of the early 1950s, This is the beginning of the end, I can see the thrill is gone…. Perhaps if Hillary Clinton had won, I might have crooned an earlier hit from Dick Haymes: The moon was all aglow and heaven was in your eyes, the night that you told me those little white lies.

Neither is a truly great song, but our memories aren’t always as selective as we might wish. Here are the first lines of a few more that don’t belong on my juke box, but are there anyway:

In a quaint caravan, there’s a lady they call the gypsy…

            We ought to bake a sunshine cake; it does more good than a big, thick steak…

            Ramona, I hear the mission bells above…

            An old cow poke went riding out one dark and windy day…

            When I go to sleep, I never count sheep, I count all the charms about Linda (this

because I was in love with a Linda in grammar school)

            Whenna da moon hits you eye like a biga pizza pie, that’s amore…

Well, you get the idea. Pride of place in my memory bank, however, is reserved for the songs of Gershwin, Porter, Berlin, Arlen, Rogers and the others who made American popular music the world’s gold standard. More recently, I would certainly add Lennon, McCartney, Simon, Dylan, Sondheim, Lloyd Weber, and Bacharach, to name just a few.

The reason we remember their songs is that the best ones have a distinctive melody, which is critical in helping us remember the lyrics. Just imagine getting a book full of lyrics for which you didn’t know the melody. Would you even read them, much less memorize them? There’s something in our brain that wants to pair the words and music, that seeks a pattern that will enable us to recall even a song we haven’t heard in years.

Similarly, we seek the same kind of patterns in so-called Classical music. Although the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony couldn’t be simpler, they immediately identify what will follow. The work contains other melodic themes, each developed in ways that make the symphony instantly recognizable to someone who has heard it as many times as I have. I could say the same for other of his compositions, and for those of Mozart, Bach, Shubert, Haydn, Chopin, Brahms, Tchaikovsky, Verdi, and Wagner.

Rap and Hip Hop also have patterns of a kind, although the content is often execrable. Much of Rock music depends more on rhythmic patterns and noise than melody and thus the words often seem irrelevant if they are understood at all. Even serious composers seem to have decided that melody is passé. They compose music that is often understood and appreciated only by other composers and a very small audience.  I find it amusing that some music critics decry the lack of contemporary music in major symphony orchestra programs. While they do their best to feature and even commission some modern music, they understand that their audience and particularly their subscribers want music they understand and actually enjoy. At the risk of seeming like a Philistine, I agree with them. And in the words of the immortal Ink Spots: What good is a song if the words don’t belong [but I also reluctantly agree]… to each his own, to each his own…

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

Baseball in Chicago 

By Patrick F. Cannon

My brother Pete called from Pittsburgh the other day to congratulate me on the Cubs World Series victory, and suggested I write something about it. I should mention that we were born in Braddock, Pennsylvania, which is in the Pittsburgh area. Pete has been a loyal Pittsburgher for most of his life, except for time in the Air Force and in Southern California, when jobs in Pittsburgh were almost non existent. In the end, he just couldn’t stay away.

He is a loyal Pirates and Steelers fan, and has loved sports, particularly baseball, all his life. As kids, he would drag me out of bed to play in a summer park league. On our way, he would often have to wake up the other laggards needed to make up the needed nine. This was in McKeesport, then the second largest city in the Pittsburgh area. Earlier, in our few years in Chicago, Pete played any game that involved a ball and a bat, including baseball, 16-inch softball and the local version of stick ball.

It was in Chicago that we first attended a Major League game, at the then Comiskey Park. Since we lived in South Shore, it was natural that we go to Sox games. In fact, several Sox players, including Gus Zernial, lived nearby. He came up in 1949 and in 1950 hit 29 homers and batted in 93 runs. He had his best year in 1951 but, alas, spent most of it with the Philadelphia Athletics after being traded early in the season.

Two of the games we attended stick in my mind. In the late 1940s, the Sox were perennial cellar dwellers (as were the Cubs for that matter). My father took us to a Sunday double header when the Sox were playing the St. Louis Browns, who vied with the Sox for worst team in the American League. The game was scoreless through 17 innings. In the top of the 18^th, the Browns managed to score a run, which was enough as the Sox failed to answer in the bottom of the inning. Satisfied that we had actually seen two games, we didn’t stay for the second game.

On another occasion, Pete and I went alone. We took the 67^th Street (Marquette Road) street car to State Street, then the famous “Green Hornet” car to 35^th Street and the ball park. As the older brother, Pete held the dough. As fate would have it, we became separated. Cash rich Pete somehow ended up in the Loop, having caught the wrong street car. He was eventually able to call home, and my dad drove down and picked him up.

In the meantime, poverty-stricken me, with no money but a good sense of direction, walked home. On the way, I did make a tactical error. It was a week day, and my father’s office on 75^th Street was actually closer, being just east of State Street. It never occurred to me that he might be frantically searching for his overdue son, so the office was closed. The detour added two miles to the walk, which totaled about 12 miles by the time I walked in the door to the general relief of all concerned. As I recall, I was fed a steak and the cops were told to call off the hunt.

Oh, yes, the Cubs. As far as I recall, we only went to one Cubs game during our South Shore years. A friend of the family, whose name and appearance have long faded from memory, offered to take us to Wrigley Field. I’m sure our parents were delighted to get rid of us, so off we went. In addition to being the only Cubs game we attended as kids, it was the only time we ever rode the El. When we went downtown, we always rode the Illinois Central electric commuter train. This time, we took what was then the Jackson Park-Howard line from 63^rd and Stony Island. Although it now ends at Cottage Grove, the South Side portion is now part of the Green Line; and the North leg, the Red.

I don’t recall who the Cubs played that day or whether or not they won. Since I returned to Chicago in 1956, I’ve been to Wrigley quite a few times. As the Cubs got more competitive, it got to be both expensive and a hassle. When I was still working, one of my suppliers had season tickets, so I got to go gratis occasionally, although his tickets were on the lower deck, first base side, behind a column. You had to do some swinging and swaying to follow the ball. I used to park about six blocks away and walk, but I hear even that’s impossible now.

Comiskey Park became US Cellular Field and is now Guaranteed Rate Field. I hope the stupid name brings them luck!  Frankly, it’s easier to attend games there. They have an actual parking lot, and no columns. They did win the World Series in 2005, but it didn’t have nearly the same impact as the Cubs win this year. Anyway, I’ve lived long enough to see both Chicago teams win the big one. Now, it’s the Bears who have become the “loveable losers.”

It’s a great city though, isn’t it?

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

Ghosts of Halloween Past 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Halloween has come and gone, but this year was a disappointment to my wife Jeanette. We now live in an apartment building with a secure lobby; thus, no access for the little trick or treaters. We did see a few when we walked the dog, but nothing like the three or four hundred that would sometimes struggle up the stairs to the front door of our former Oak Park home, delighting Jeanette with their costumes and enthusiasm.

The early years of my own trick and treating are getting a bit dim. I just vaguely remember doing it in the final couple of years of World War II (I was seven when it ended). We moved to Chicago’s South Shore neighborhood during the winter of 1946-47, and my memories are clearer for the years we lived there. Unlike the single-family neighborhoods of Braddock and Homestead, Pennsylvania we had come from, the area of South Shore were we lived mostly consisted of large courtyard apartment buildings. Unlike the elevator building were we live now, they were walk-ups. You still had to be buzzed in, which some kindly tenant usually did.

An evening’s swag could  be considerable. In anticipation, you would carry a kraft-paper shopping bag, of the kind grocery stores provided then. (They’re making a comeback now that many areas are banning plastic).  While not an exhaustive inventory, here’s the kind of stuff you were likely to get: loose pieces of penny candy; apples or oranges; popcorn balls; pennies or (hurrah!) nickels; and occasionally (hurrah again!) an actual candy bar.

The penny candy was usually OK, but the fruit was a disappointment, since it was something you got at home on a regular basis. Popcorn balls were widely reviled. They were hard to eat, and stuck to the other stuff in your bag. Money was  and is always welcome. You  mostly got pennies, but an occasional nickel did appear (remember, in those days a nickel bought you most candy bars  and a bottle of pop). They didn’t have those tiny candy bars that come in big sacks at the supermarket then, so when you got a candy bar, it was the real thing. I still remember once getting a Mounds bar, which came in two pieces and actually cost a dime! Of such moments, lasting memories are made.

For future reference, let me advise those who are active trick or treat dispensers that kids want candy, not some healthy snack. Foist such things on your own children during the rest of the year, but for God’s sake don’t ruin some poor kids Halloween by  giving him or her sealed sacks of oats.

One particular Halloween in South Shore was most memorable. My brother Pete was a Boy Scout and went on a weekend camping trip. Alas, he was gone on the Saturday when the holiday fell that year. When he was deep in the woods, it dawned on him that he was missing the hail of goodies that were justly his. When he returned, he insisted on going trick or treating anyway  For some reason, my parents made me go with  him.

You can imagine the results. While some people were kind enough to give him whatever they had left, most lectured him, and not kindly, on the undoubted fact that Halloween had come and gone. I have often wondered if this scarred my brother for life. There is no outward evidence of this, as he is the most outgoing and enthusiastic man I have ever known. But who knows what darkness lurks in his soul? Anyway, he quit the Boy Scouts post haste.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

I’ll Have the Iced Tea, Please 

By Patrick F. Cannon

I met Cook County Board President Toni Preckwinkle the other night when we were both guests on WTTW’s Chicago Tonight. She was there to talk about the Cook County budget and I was being interviewed about my book, The Space Within. She was on first, but while she was waiting, her staff rehearsed her in some of the questions that interviewer Carol Marin was likely to ask her. Quite a few of them were related to her proposed tax on soda and related drinks.

If it passes, people in Cook County will pay a tax of one cent per ounce on carbonated soft drinks and other bottled and canned drinks, except  water and pure fruit juices. Being a mathematical wizard has permitted me to tell you that it means an additional $2.88 on a case of Coke. At current levels of consumption, the County will rake in $74 million or so. Along with a similar amount in budget cuts, this will just about balance the budget.

In her questioning, Marin suggested that the tax might affect the poor more than anyone else. Fortuitously, President Preckwinkle was armed with a recent statement from the World Health Organization (WHO) that strongly suggested taxing sugared drinks as a way of reducing the consumption of sugar and thus obesity (as a matter of information, diet drinks  would be included in the county tax) . WHO’s diktat was heaven sent, in this case. As we know, politicians love to save people from themselves. Whether this will be the beginning of a cigarette-like trend that will eventually lead to a ban of Coke drinking in public places remains to be seen.

It’s true that the rich don’t worry much about stuff like this. Either their personal chef makes a home brew with rare ingredients and one of those soda machines, or they smuggle in expensive French Chateauneuf du Pop along with their Chateauneuf du Pape aboard their private jets.

Alas, if the soda tax is successful in reducing consumption, then the income from the tax will steadily decline, and the County Board will again have to begin looking elsewhere for income. I didn’t have time to share my ideas on other possible new taxes with Preckwinkle, but perhaps some of these will make their way to her.

I was appalled to discover that bicycle riders, those daredevils of the streets, get off scott free. They consider themselves immune from any traffic fees or laws. Yet, they increasingly clog our highways and byways, and have been favored with special lanes and other perks. While I don’t think little tykes should have to be licensed, I say when you’re 18, you buy a license just like the motorists who spend so much time avoiding you and cursing when you ignore stop signs and red lights.

Another group who don’t pay their fair share is the pedestrians. Their constant backing and forthing on our sidewalks eventually wears them down and out. Make them pay! To be fair, the tax should be related to their weight and shoe size. I’m sure a formula could be devised to accomplish this to everyone’s satisfaction. By the way, having to pay a “walking” tax whether you walk or not would encourage exercise, another fortuitous consequence of social engineering.

Finally, I think people who talk on their cell phones in public should be licensed. When I first noticed this phenomenon, I assumed I was sharing the streets with lunatics, whose numbers were increasing day by day. I soon discovered that they were people who couldn’t resist the urge to talk to somebody, anybody, during every waking moment. They are particularly annoying in enclosed places like El cars and buses. Make them pay, I say. Make them put up or shut up!

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

Petey Did it Too 

By Patrick F. Cannon

As children, many of us were faced with parents who caught us in a lie or some other transgression. A common response might have been: “Petey did it too!” Whereupon, most parents would have responded: “Just because Petey did it doesn’t make it right.”

While you might not have looked at it that way at the time, it was an early moral lesson. Then, as now, we are responsible for our own moral choices. So are politicians who justify their behavior by mouthing their own version of “Petey did it too.” The concept is still the same: your immoral act is your own responsibility, regardless of what your opponent does or says.

We’ve all seen the political commercials that associate the opposing candidate with every (presumed) outrage of his or her political party, followed by the opponent’s statement, “I’m Joe Blow and I approve this message.” By doing so, Joe has committed an immoral act. Let me repeat that, so there is no misunderstanding: Joe Blow has committed an immoral act.

Then, of course, we have the commercials produced by the PACS (political action committees); they tend to be even worse. But rarely so horrible that the candidates they support actually disavow them. Typically, they simply say they aren’t responsible for them, and let it go at that. When was the last time you heard a candidate actually call a PAC out and tell them to stop? Please let me know. I’ll cherish the moment!

There is an extensive apparatus behind these negative ads. Over the years, a new profession has reared its ugly head, whose practitioners I would call political gunfighters. Instead of “have gun, will travel,” there motto is “anything to win.”  What they do is largely amoral. They go from election to election, from candidate to candidate. While most specialize in one party or another, quite a few are happy to work for anyone who pays them. Fact checkers don’t bother them, because they aren’t interested in facts, only impressions. They are creative liars, but liars nonetheless. Did I say “amoral?” Immoral is more accurate.

A good example is a recent ad that seeks to associate Illinois governor Bruce Rauner and, by extension, Illinois Republicans with Donald Trump, who Rauner has consistently refused to endorse. It uses a statement made by the governor during the primary season when there were still numerous Republican candidates. At the time, Rauner refused to endorse any of them, simply saying he would support the party’s nominee. His comment is repeated over and over in the ad, following a series of appalling remarks by Trump.

The ads, according to the PAC that prepared and paid for them, are meant to counter what they say are negative ads about House Speaker Michael Madigan by Rauner’s forces. You know, “Petey did it too.”

Faced with a political process that has become increasing immoral, what can we do? Frankly, with the way candidates are now chosen, very little. Let’s look at the way political parties choose their candidate. Whether it’s by primary, caucus or some other “democratic” method, the system encourages all and sundry to dream of becoming president. The political gunfighters are only too happy to encourage their dreams and take their money.

This year, at the end of a grueling and expensive process, the “democratic” process produced two candidates no one seems to like. Far better, it seems to me, if the process stayed within the state and national committees of the respective parties. It would eventually become clear which candidates had the best qualifications and most support, with the final decision left to the delegates at the national convention (who would not be bound to any particular candidate). With such a system, it’s hard to imagine that Trump or Clinton would have been the choices.

Keep in mind that the primary systems are not enshrined in the Constitution or any law. They are the construct of the party’s themselves. It’s time they admitted their mistake. If they did, it would remove vast sums of money from the process, much of which goes to the gunslingers and their accomplices. To be sure, it would cause a temporary spike in the unemployment rolls, but perhaps some of the savings could be set aside for a retraining program. I would suggest “How to Lead an Ethical Life” as a prerequisite.

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Copyright 2106, Patrick F. Cannon

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, 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 part of the Caddy that’s visible is 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 any more. 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

Bring Your Pencil 

By Patrick F. Cannon

In last Sunday’s edition, the venerable Chicago Tribune, that bastion of conservative Republican values, couldn’t bring itself to endorse Donald Trump for President; nor could they find it in their hearts to once again endorse a Democrat, as they had done with Barack Obama. While recognizing her experience and undoubted intelligence, the Tribune editorial board found it impossible to overlook Hillary Clinton’s long history of secrecy and what to many seems like a persistent pattern of outright lying.

So they decided to endorse Gary Johnson, the Libertarian candidate. Now, Johnson – a two term governor of New Mexico – is now best known for not seeming to know what was going on in Aleppo, and for forgetting the name of the former president of Mexico. Frankly, off the top of my head I don’t know who he was either, but Johnson was a neighbor and I guess met him on occasion. His running mate is William Weld, former governor of Massachusetts, who has also served as a US Attorney. Together, they have the executive government experience that both Trump and Clinton lack.

If they were the Republican candidates, I would not hesitate to vote for them. But, like many I’m sure, I have the nagging suspicion that voting for them would primarily help Trump, whose election would be a catastrophe for the country. For this reason, my wife Jeanette thinks the Tribune made a serious mistake in endorsing Johnson. Better, she thinks, not to have endorsed anyone.

She may be right. The last time there was a serious third-party candidate was 1992 when Ross Perot received almost 19 percent of the popular vote. Some folks at the time claimed that, absent Perot, George H.W. Bush would have beaten Bill Clinton. Actual analysis of Perot voters suggest that he took votes fairly equally from both and that Bush was going to lose anyway.

What would happen this time? Keep in mind that both Johnson and Weld were Republican governors, known for their fiscal restraint. Would disaffected Bernie Sanders supporters really vote for candidates that would likely tell them to stop whining and pay off their student loans? (A brief aside. When Calvin Coolidge was urged to forgive Great Britain’s World War I debt, he responded: “They hired the money, didn’t they?”) Or would they hold their noses and vote for Clinton, who has happily promised them a free ride (while knowing full well that Congress isn’t likely to go along).

So, my thought is that Republicans unhappy with Trump are more likely to vote for former Republicans Johnson and Weld than Hillary Clinton, thus making her chances better. Please keep in mind, however, that I’m the one who said Trump would never have enough support to get the nomination.

As for me, I plan to write in Lewis Black, who is younger than either candidate, and has a master’s degree from Yale into the bargain. So what if he’s a Socialist? He’s a funny Socialist! Also, he’s not married. Think about it.

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Copyright 2016, 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 2016, Patrick F. Cannon