Favorite Things, Part 1 

By Patrick F. Cannon

The Rogers and Hammerstein musical, The Sound of Music, is despised by sophisticates like me as being excessively sentimental and cheerful. A case in point would be the song “My Favorite Things,” which extols the virtues of “Raindrops on roses, And whiskers on kittens, Bright copper kettles, And warm woolen mittens.” Yikes!

Nevertheless, the musical may be the most popular of all time, and contains some of Richard Roger’s most beautiful melodies. The heirs of the composer and lyricist are happily counting their royalties and could care less about the “tut tuts” of people like me.

While “whiskers on kittens” isn’t one of my favorite things (I don’t hate cats, but I could happily live without them), the song got me to thinking.  So, from time to time, in this space, I’ll let you know about some of the things that I prize most highly.

One is Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Originally written for the harpsichord as a series of exercises for the 13-year-old Johann Gottlieb Goldberg, who must have been quite the prodigy, it consists of an aria and 30 variations. It runs to about 80 minutes, give or take. While there are many recordings on the original instrument, it is now most often played on the piano. The most famous recordings are the two versions done by the wonderfully eccentric Canadian virtuoso, Glenn Gould. He was given to humming along with his playing, which must have driven recording engineers crazy; and was so adverse to cold that he wore a hat, coat and mittens even when visiting Florida. He was only 50 when he died in 1962.

I own both of his recordings and listen to them often, usually during long car rides. How many times? I’ve lost count, but it must be over 100. While that may make me seem as eccentric as Gould himself, I have a simple defense: the Goldberg Variations is one of the greatest musical accomplishments of all time. If you haven’t heard it, you can find various versions, including Gould’s, on the internet. What can it hurt to give it a listen?

One of my pet peeves (one of many) is that the majority of people simply never listen to so-called Classical music. And not only that – the audience for it is dwindling. Now, you might hear about sold-out houses when Ricardo Muti, the music director of the Chicago Symphony, is conducting, but “sold out” doesn’t mean what it used to. The total audience for Classical music has stayed roughly the same while the population continues to increase. Thus, in real terms, the audience is declining. A sold out audience at Symphony Center totals 2,500, while a sell out at a rock concert at Chicago’s United Center totals 23,500. I believe the Rolling Stones sold it out three times recently.

With due respect to the Stones, their lifetime musical output doesn’t equal the Goldberg Variations. It doesn’t bother me that people like the Rolling Stones – I like a good deal of popular music myself – what amazes me is that they dismiss Classical music without actually ever listening to it  Do they think it’s too hard? It’s music, for God’s sake. All you have to do is listen. For most of it, you don’t even have to worry about the words. It doesn’t require thought. It is the purest of all the arts because it reaches us most directly.

That’s why the Goldberg Variations is one of my favorite things.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

The Vagaries of Existence 

By Patrick F. Cannon

In the event you think I lead a charmed life, what with my lovely wife Jeanette and two doting children – not to mention my new Forest Park, IL condo, which overlooks one of the nicer alleys in our new community – let me disabuse you of that notion.

Life, as they say, is fraught. On the 8^th day of July, while motoring to St. Louis with my brother Pete and his wife Mary Beth to my great nephew Patrick’s wedding, with my wife Jeanette at the wheel of the BMW, a semi decided that it wanted to be exactly where we were at the time. Throughout the history of motoring, this has never worked to the advantage of the smaller vehicle. Such was the case here, as the driver’s side of the BMW was more or less destroyed. Through some miracle of physics or geometry or perhaps magic, no one was injured. Jeanette kept her cool and managed to get the car on the right shoulder; the truck came to rest on the left shoulder, just opposite.

It was about 3:30 pm and we were just approaching the bridge over the Mississippi that would land us in St. Louis. From there, it would be a mere twenty minutes or so until we arrived at the conference center at Washington University, where we were staying and where the rehearsal dinner was scheduled to begin at 5:00 pm. Now, if the world worked with the efficiency that I mistakenly think is actually possible, we might have still made the dinner dressed appropriately. But, as you may have guessed, it rarely does and this was no exception.

The truck driver turned out to be a nice guy, and apologized for hitting us. He said he thought one of his tires had blown and pulled over without looking. Eventually, an Illinois State Trooper showed up. He questioned everyone concerned and then spent what seemed like hours writing up his report in his air- conditioned car while we amused ourselves on the shoulder in 90 degree heat. An Illinois emergency tow truck also appeared, but not to tow us, but to be on stand by to prevent further calamities. Eventually, the trooper called a state-approved towing company, who had to tow it to their facility in Illinois, as they were not permitted to cross the border.

Breaking some kind of law, I’m sure, the trooper and the state emergency vehicle drove the four of us over the river and dropped us off at Busch Stadium, home of the hated Cardinals, where our son-in-law would eventually pick us up. By the way, across the street from the stadium is quite a nice pre- and post-game facility where they sell cold Budweiser, if you can believe it. We indulged. My son-in-law, Boyd, then drove us to the towing company’s lot so we could retrieve our clothes and other stuff.

After arriving at the conference center, while the rest of the crew was at the rehearsal dinner in their sweaty togs, I was on the phone with State Farm for a good hour. Thankfully, a large Manhattan and dinner were sent along to me. The next morning, I rented a car. The actual wedding and reception were great and the rental car got us back on Sunday. Alas, I had to keep it longer than I wanted, because our other car was in the shop n Oak Park!

The local repair shop, which had done OK for us in the past, finally decided that the starting problem (it didn’t) was a keying fault. After a couple of days, it was determined that his computer couldn’t handle the job, so referred us to the local Ford dealer, who did the rekeying at a cost of nearly $600. The very next day I went to the Village of Forest Park’s municipal building to get some forms (did I mention that we were in the process of moving? Which we did this past Monday).

When I tried to start the car in their lot, it of course didn’t start. It was towed back to Ford, who concluded that the real problem was some kind of transmission module, which they replaced at no cost, since it was still under warranty.

In the meantime, the BMW was making its way to St. Louis and then back to Illinois. As mentioned, it was initially towed to a facility in Illinois. State Farm called the towing company to arrange to have it towed to their facility in St. Louis. Regrettably, they didn’t call until the next day, a Saturday, and the towing company said they were closed for the weekend! In the event, they didn’t get the car until the next Tuesday, whereupon they had it towed to a body shop in Freeberg, IL for repair. As I write this on August 4, it’s still there.

My good friend Jerry at Freeberg Auto Body, in explaining the endless delays, said: “If it was a Chevrolet, I would have had the parts the next day, but it’s a different story with a BMW.” After having talked to Jerry many times since July 13, he now seems like a member of the family. On Tuesday, he said all was well and the car would be ready today. So, I made a reservation on Amtrak for the morning train to St. Louis tomorrow to pick up the car.

As I’m so fond of saying, “It’s an ill wind that blows no good.”  I have always enjoyed train travel, and as a young man even worked for the New York Central Railroad. My last long trip was overnight to Saratoga Springs, NY to spend a few days at the races and enjoy this lovely part of New York State. The trip was a thoughtful birthday gift from my wife Jeanette We hit a truck in Cleveland.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

It’s Too Vulgar for Words! 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Our good friends at the Oxford English Dictionary tell us that “vulgar” is defined as a thing or person “lacking sophistication or good taste; unrefined.” I have my own definition. What is vulgar is simply something that is more than it needs to be.

For example, when some singer decides to render our national anthem as if it were a jazz, blues, country, hip hop, disco or mariachi song, it’s vulgar, unnecessary and usually painful or even comic. Our national anthem can be difficult for singers like my brother Pete and me, but most trained singers can easily render it as written. Why don’t they? And why are people like Roseanne Barr asked to sing it? Her rendition at a San Diego Padres game still haunts my every dream.

Although it draws tourists by the millions, the palace at Versailles is also vulgar. Vulgar because it was meant to show the average Frenchman that the king was so far above him that he could afford to have rooms that nobody actually lived in. If you’ve been to Versailles or any number of similar palaces, you’ve not doubt walked through numerous rooms of no apparent purpose (they did have purposes, however silly). While we might admire individual pieces of furniture or decorative art, the final effect is vulgar in the extreme.

In a similar mode, Michelangelo’s ceiling in the Sistine Chapel isn’t vulgar because its subject is fully in keeping with its location. Ditto for any number of frescoes in churches and religious buildings. But what of the frescoes I’ve seen that glorify the builders of the many private palaces that dot the English countryside? It’s been awhile, but I seem to recall that Blenheim Palace has a ceiling fresco showing the 1^st Duke of Marlborough (Winston Churchill’s ancestor) trouncing the hated French at the Battle of (you guessed it) Blenheim. Showy self regard and vulgarity? You bet.

While folks aren’t actually building anything quite like Versailles any more, they are indulging their egos by building houses so large and showy that you might think they had a dozen little kiddies to house. If they actually have two, it would be exceptional. Yet their mini hotels often have seven or eight bedrooms and 10 bathrooms. A wine cellar is mandatory, even though most of them couldn’t tell the difference between Chateau Margaux and Carlo Rossi. Of course, they also hire decorators to fill their palaces with over priced stuff, including paintings chosen not for their artistic, but rather their decorative value.

It’s probably hopeless to point out that the now common use of the eff and emeff words are vulgar in the extreme. I was guilty of dotting my sentences with them when I was in the Army, but rarely do so today. Once, educated people would never have used profanity in public. Now, education is no barrier to vulgarity. I once cringed when I heard educated young women use the eff word; now, they toss it around like it’s a badge of their liberation. I don’t have any personal experience in this, but no doubt their professors sprinkled their lectures with similar profanity.

I won’t even try to comment on today’s so-called comedians. Suffice it to say that vulgarity is the enemy of wit. And it seems to be winning.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

No Answers from Me 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Donald Trump, he who in not going to go away unless we send him, has said he will be the “law and order” president. If so, he is going to have to explain away these “facts” (a word that is seemingly alien to him):

In 1995, the violent crime rate in the United States was 684.5 per 100,000 people; in 2005, it was 469.0; and in 2014 (the latest full year figure available), 365.5.

For murder, the 1995 rate was 8.2 per 100,000; in 2005, 5.6; and in 2014, 4.5. Crime wave indeed. If you live in the Chicago area, as I do, you might be inclined to question these statistics, for there has been a significant increase in shootings and murder this year. According to Heather MacDonald in the Wall Street Journal: “Through July 9, 2,090 people have been shot (in Chicago) this year, including a 3-year-old boy shot on Father’s Day who will be paralyzed for life, and 11-year-old boy wounded on the Fourth of July, and a 4-year-old boy wounded last week. How many of the 2,090 victims in Chicago were shot by cops? Nine.”

There can be no excuse for some of the officer-involved shootings of black men that we have seen recently, just as there can be no excuse for the recent execution of police officers by black men. A more sobering fact is that 93 percent of black murder victims were killed by other blacks, and that, despite having only 13 percent of the population, blacks accounted for more than 50 percent of all murders nationally.

In Chicago, black on black killings are almost all gang related, and are one of the reasons that blacks are moving out of the city in increasing numbers. It is also one of the reasons why black men are often unfairly targeted for traffic stops and other incidents. In a recent piece that appeared in the Chicago Tribune, a young black man told of being stopped a block from his own home in Naperville (a perfect example of an upper middle class community).  Despite showing the policeman a driver’s license with his Naperville address, he wasn’t believed. In fact, he was spread-eagled and searched. Eventually, the cop had to bow to the inevitable and apologies were later issued.

I don’t know the solutions to these problems, but I do know that there are people of good will who are trying. They probably know by now that there are no simple answers to problems that have developed over many generations. Blaming the schools and the police is both simplistic and wrong. And simply saying that more jobs is the answer is another illusion. In the current economy, there are hundreds of thousands of jobs going begging because companies cannot find qualified applicants.

One thing I do know – if you graduate from high school and present yourself properly, you will find some kind of job. If you go on to learn a trade or marketable skill, you will find a better job. If you graduate from a university, you will find an even better job and probably a career.

I often drive though the West Side of Chicago on my way downtown. During school days, I see many young men of school age hanging out on street corners. They are almost certainly gang members and in some way connected to the drug trade. Until a way is found to get them off those corners, Donald Trump can be the law and order president until the cows come home, and he won’t move even one of those kids off their corner. Of course, I don’t have the solution either. I hope someone comes along who does.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

Chapter Five

Darkness Spreads Across Europe

(With many cares to occupy my mind — one car wrecked in St. Louis and another in an endless visit to the repair shop — I didn’t have time for a new piece, so here is yet another chapter from my upcoming History of the World.)

After the fall of Rome, priests and monks throughout Europe feared the worst. The barbarians seemed more interested in pillage and rape than in the heritage of Greece and Rome. They appeared to worship rocks and trees, and didn’t seem particularly interested in leading sober, responsible lives. They weren’t faithful to their wives and they drank a lot too.

Even worse, they thought nothing of taking a scroll or book and tossing it onto a fire to keep it going. So, very quietly, the clergy begin tucking manuscripts under their robes and fled to an island so remote and inhospitable that there they felt safe even from barbarians.  The island is now called Ireland.

For the next 500 years, until they felt the coast was clear, they preserved the wisdom of the ancients in remote monasteries and thus saved civilization.

This period is called the Dark Ages, not because there was less actual light, but because the people of Europe lived in ignorance and despair. Of course, we have few details of their lives because the historians were holed up in Ireland. In such cases myth takes the place of fact. This is not to say that some elements of these stories were not true, just as some parts of an Oliver Stone movie may be true.

We’re fairly certain, for example, that someone very like King Arthur did exist, but we can never know whether he looked more like Richard Burton or Richard Harris. We do know that the wheel had not been lost, since it is known that Arthur dined at a round table. In addition to hacking away at great joints of Ox, he amused himself by sending his knights on long quests for something called the Holy Grail, which was presumably the cup that Christ used at the Last Supper (it may also have been used at the Last Breakfast too, but that’s pure conjecture). This got them out of his hair for long periods of time, in particular Lancelot, who was known to cast his fevered eye on Queen Guinevere.

Lancelot was ever confused, since he spent a good deal of time searching for Excalibur, a sword that for some reason had been stuck in a stone. He finally found it, wrenched it free and used it to kill the Holy Quail. By the time he got back to Camelot, both Arthur and Guinevere were in Valhalla. They had died in each other’s arms, a tender scene later immortalized by Mallory in Le Morte de Arthur.

The myths of Camelot have engaged legions of artists down to the present day. Novels, plays, paintings, epic poetry, movies and comic books have all used the story as grist for the artist’s muse. There have also been operas, although many of these have mythcarried.

When Lancelot returned, in addition to finding his lady love dead, he found he was now a vassal of the new King, Ethelred. He was the son on Arthur’s sister, Princess Ethel and the Viking interloper, Eric the Red. Thus began the first famous line of English kings. Notable among them was Ethelred the Ready, who was known to keep his fly open at all times. His son was Ethelred the Unready, who was given to sleeping late and who sometimes forgot his head, which made a curious sight. He was ready enough, however, to produce Ethelred the Really Red, who had not only the dynasty’s signature red hair but a famously bulbous drinker’s nose. When his own son was born, he was so much the worse for drink that he bellowed “he canoot be my son.” It seems the little prince had black hair. The midwife thought Ethelred was naming him, so he became King Canute.

Ethelred promptly died of alcohol poisoning, so King Canute the little tyke became. Even by later standards of royal pomposity, Canute was notable. One day he went to the seashore near what is now Brighton to get a bit of Sun and build himself a sandcastle. As still happens, the tide eventually began to come in. Fearing the worst, Canute ordered it to cease, having built himself a dandy little castle. It didn’t, whereupon Canute went into a sulk. While he was in it, the Saxons sacked his real castle and deposed him. Although an Angle, poor Canute didn’t have many. To keep the peace, the Saxons permitted intermarriage, thus creating the Anglo-Saxon race.

Meanwhile, in Ireland, the monks were busy copying all the books, scrolls and other bits of paper they had carried from Europe. As you can imagine, it was tedious work. To while away the long days, they took to embellishing some of the letters with fancy stuff and drawing little pictures. The results were so lively and bright that they became known as illuminated manuscripts. The most famous of these, the Book of Kells, is now in the library at Trinity College in Dublin. Friar Kells, one supposes, was one of the more artistic monks.

Calligraphy (see Caligula, Chapter IV) was thirsty and exacting work. Fortunately, the monks had invented beer, which helped them get through the day. Since they sat quaffing suds while they copied, they soon became known for their heft. Ever since, the drink they invented has been called Stout.

Unbeknownst to the monks or the various Ethelreds for that matter, in Arabia a wandering nomad named Mohammed had had a vision and was soon taking dictation from a God named Allah. The result was a new book of revelations called the Koran. In a latter day, a New Yorker named Joseph Smith had a similar experience and produced the Book of Mormon (but we’re getting ahead of ourselves).

The Koran took off where the Hebrew Old and Christian New Testaments left off. While Mohammed thought Isaiah and Jesus were good enough fellows, he claimed both were simply prophets like himself and there was only one God, the aforementioned Allah. To make his point clear, he decided to conquer the world. He took the same route as the Carthaginians, across North Africa. While he died before the campaign was over, his armies continued and soon conquered Spain.

The Franks got wind of what was happening and gathered an army on their side of the Pyrenees, confronting the Mohammedans (as they were now called in honor of the aforementioned Prophet) at Tours in 732. They prevailed and sent the hordes packing back over the mountains. Their leader, Charles Martel, was able to return to his vineyards, where he was perfecting a new spirit that has come to be known as Cognac. For his effort, he was awarded three gold stars by the Franks, which he used as the symbol of his new invention.

Charles’ son, Pepin the Short, united all of the Franks into a nation called Francia. Apparently, this name was considered a bit too effeminate and was ultimately changed to France, which it is called to this day. It should be noted that the original derivation of the word “Franks” came from the Celtic name for “frogs” and not a kind of sausage as one might suppose. Since the tribe that later became the Franks was known for their love of frog legs, their enemies took to calling them the “frog eating so and so’s” or “frogs” for short. Many, in particular the English, continue to use this ancient description.

It was Pepin’s son, Charles the Long Hair (in French, Charlemagne), who became the most famous of his dynasty. He was a real Christian gentleman and was happy to help Pope Hadrian I deal with his enemies in Italy. He soon conquered them and the Germans too. As a reward, Pope Leo III (Hadrian having departed this mortal coil) crowned him Holy Roman Emperor on the steps of St. Peter in 800. While he was grateful, he didn’t particularly like the weather in Rome, so he established his capital in Aachen, which, in addition to being easy to find in the German dictionary, has a moderate climate. He built a lavish palace there and sent word to Ireland that the Dark Ages were over.

His summons was perhaps premature. No sooner had he died than his grandchildren began squabbling over the empire. It soon was carved up into France and Germany, which has caused problems to this day. Also, the Vikings began to nibble away at the fringes, as did the Magyars, who came from the east in search of food, being of famously ravenous appetite.

Even though the Holy Roman Empire survived in name only, Charlemagne’s encouragement of learning had a lasting effect. Many of the Irish monks stayed on to found schools and breweries. As time went on, most European nobles could speak Latin as well as their own language, and could spout chapter and verse from the Bible. Only one country, England, held to its doggedly ignorant ways, but that was soon to change.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

Tweets Through the Ages 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Twitter tweets seem all the rage these days. Since they are limited to 140 characters, they are ideally suited to people who would struggle to come up with a thought that would require more than that number. Thus, tweets are ideal for politicians and entertainers.

In modern times, the first notable tweeter was undoubtedly that most famous of canaries, Tweety Bird. Who can forget her (or is it his?) plaintive cry when suddenly there appeared that most fearsome of cats, Sylvester?  “I tawt I taw a puddy tat. I did! I did see a puddy tat!”, Tweety tweeted, thus entering the Twitter Hall of Fame.

Two recent inductees are Kim Kardashian and Donald Trump. Kim, she of the Rubenesque derriere, is married to that thought leader, Kanye West. Mr. West is given to controversial statements in his role as a public intellectual, causing the faithful (so far, anyway) Kim to tweet in his defense: “Kanye is a genius, even if he acts like a jerk.”

Donald Trump’s faithful followers, when not dragging their knuckles as they patrol our borders, can hardly wait for his daily tweets. When Muhammad Ali died, the Presumptive Trump did not disappoint, tweeting: “Only losers die. Who’s the greatest now?”

Alas, many of the great figures of history came before Twitter freed the banal from bondage. One can just imagine what some of their tweets might have been:

Moses. “If you hadn’t been dancing around that golden calf, and given me a hand, I could have brought all 20 commandments down. Then you really would have been in trouble!”

Darius. “Don’t let a few Greeks get in your way. All they’re good for is slinging hash.”

Julius Caesar. “Heed thee not soothsayers. The Ides of March indeed!”

Jesus Christ. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they might see the Kingdom of God, but peace on earth is clearly out of the question.”

St. Francis. “When you come right down to it, it’s all for the birds!”

Napoleon. “Waterloo? Just a little hick town until I put it on the map!”

Karl Marx. “After years studying the diuretics of history in the reading room of the British Museum, I can safely predict the death of Capitalism by 1900.”

Teddy Roosevelt. “Bully, bully, bully, bully, bully…”

Vladimir Lenin. “I can promise you that the state will eventually wither away, leaving only perfect harmony and freedom.”

Herbert Hoover. “I assure you that the economy is fundamentally sound. Just you wait and see, 1930 will see a return to prosperity.”

Groucho Marx (no relation to Karl). If you want to know the meaning of life, don’t ask some effete chain smoking Frenchman. Just ask my brother Harpo.

Franklin Roosevelt. “I assure you that the economy is fundamentally sound. Just wait and see, 1934 will see a return to prosperity.”

Josef Stalin. “I am always happy to recommend a vacation in Siberia to my fellow Russians. The climate is so bracing.”

Richard Nixon. “I am not a crook! I can afford to hire people to steal for me.”

Hilary Clinton. “I cannot tell a lie. It was actually me who cut down the cherry tree.”

Patrick F. Cannon. “If music be the food of love, then at least we’ll die with a song in our hearts.”

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Copyright, 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

Rat a Tat Tat 

By Patrick F. Cannon

My son Patrick has a small collection of firearms, which he showed to me during a recent visit with him in Florida. He keeps them locked away, but enjoys going to the shooting range to see if he can hit the broad side of a barn. On at least three occasions, I’ve tried to join him, but fate has always intervened. Most recently, there would have been an hour wait for a firing position, an hour we didn’t have.

I was particularly interested in firing two in his collection, a Browning .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol, and an M1 Carbine. When I was in the Army, I had occasion to qualify with both, as well as the standard infantry weapon of the time, the M1 Garand; and the submachine gun affectionately known as the “grease gun.”  I qualified with the Garand (used during World War II and Korea) as a “Sharpshooter” during basic training. Only “Expert” was higher, so I did OK.

I ended up in the Signal Corps in La Rochelle, France. There I was issued a Carbine, with which I qualified at a former German Army indoor shooting range, which was near one of their submarine pens at La Pallice, the port just south of La Rochelle. The pen, by the way, was the site for the film Das Boot, and is still there, the roof pockmarked by Allied bombs that never penetrated.

In mid-1962, I was transferred to another signal company and sent to Ft. Irwin, California, in the middle of the Mojave Desert. It was combat support company, and I worked in a signals van. I was issued with both a Browning .45 and a grease gun. The idea here, I decided, was that if the Ruskies broke into the van, you would grab your grease gun and pull the trigger, with the hope that you would hit something, if only the ceiling. The pistol was reasonably accurate at 25 yards. At the same distance, you were lucky to hit the target at all with the grease gun.

In any event, when I qualified with it in the late summer of 1962, it was the last time I ever fired a gun. I don’t own one, and have no wish to own one. If I did, I’m sure I could pass a background check, as would my son, who is what we could call “a responsible gun owner.”

If you’re good at math, you may have noticed that I haven’t fired a gun in 54 years, which makes me just as qualified as anyone else to comment on gun control. By the way, I learned that roughly 40 percent of Americans own guns, and 20 percent own 65 percent of them. Like my son, many Americans own multiple guns. I don’t want to get bogged down in statistics, but most murders are committed with guns, with the actual firearm murder rate fairly consistent at about 3.6 per 100,000 population.  The majority are committed by criminals against other criminals. And while our murder rate is not the highest in the world, it is high compared to the countries in Western Europe, for example.

Recent mass murders have brought these issues to the fore – who should own guns, and what kind? The members of the legendary National Rifle Association (NRA) largely agree that background checks are appropriate, but their supposedly elected leaders, personified by their doctrinaire front man, Mr. Wayne LaPierre, fear that any kind of control will lead to a mass confiscation of guns from everyone except the police. The only thing more absurd than this contention is that some people believe it.

You may be surprised to learn that many people in countries like the United Kingdom actually own guns. To do so, they must apply for a license and pass a background check. They must also state a reason, which might include hunting, sport shooting or even, in rare cases, self protection. Just like a driver’s license, they have to renew from time to time. I imagine if you’ve committed a felony since getting your license, renewal might be a problem. By the way, in a recent year the gun murder rate in the UK was 0.06 per 100,000.

The following sensible proposals would no doubt bring the braying LaPierre out of his stall spouting righteous indignation:

• All gun owners to have a background check before receiving a permit to own firearms. The permit to be checked against a data base by any seller, including at gun shows. All sellers and re-sellers would have to be licensed.
• Those not eligible for a permit should include felons, and people diagnosed with a specific mental illness, such as schizophrenia.
• No one on the “no fly” or terrorist watch lists could get a permit, although they must be told the specific reason they are on either list, and have the right of appeal. There are too many instances of US citizens being on one or the other of these lists in error, and having extreme difficulties in getting their names removed.
• Background checks must be thorough, with at least a full week permitted to complete them. It’s difficult to think of any valid reason for needing a firearm sooner.
• I suppose it makes sense to ban assault rifles, if only because they can accommodate large clips. If that can’t be done, perhaps it might be sensible to ban clips that hold more than 10 rounds. Since automatic weapons are still banned, target shooters and hunters can make no convincing arguments for larger clips. Does it really take more than 10 rounds to kill Bambi?

I’m afraid I have no hopes that any of this will pass at the Federal level. And any immediate effect is highly dubious, since it’s estimated that 340 million guns are already floating around the United States. Any impact of tighter regulations would take decades to be felt, and would have little immediate effect on the illegal trade.

In any event, while the Republicans might support some meaningless symbolic gesture to mollify the public, their fear of the NRA will prevent anything meaningful. After all, this is the party whose leaders are lining up to support Donald Trump, forcing one of the most respected conservative voices, columnist George Will, to leave it after more than 40 years. He won’t be the last. Nor should he be.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

(I had planned an insightful piece on current events for this week, but found the thought of doing so too depressing, so here, for your education and edification, is a chapter from my forthcoming history of the world.)

Chapter IV

The Glory That Was Rome

By Patrick F. Cannon

Although the date is obscure, Rome was founded by two young babies named Romulus and Remus, who apparently were abandoned by their mother on the banks of the Tiber River. A wandering she-wolf heard their pitiable cries and stopped for a look-see. The little tikes were soon sucking away at her teats, which awakened her maternal instincts. They soon grew into big strapping fellows and protected the wolf in her old age. When she died, they buried her beneath what became one of the Seven Hills of Rome, the Canine.

The brothers eventually ventured forth and found wives, returning to found a settlement along the banks of the Tiber that eventually grew into a great city. The Romans were always grateful to them. Because Romulus was the elder, he became known as the Father of Rome; Remus became the Uncle.

Rome wasn’t built in a day, but by 509 BC the republic was established. The very next year, Lars Porsena of Clusium assaulted Rome. He might have succeeded had it not been for the brave Horatio, who held them at the only bridge spanning the Tiber in those days. Lars was so devastated by the defeat that he kept retreating until he got as far as modern day Sweden.

For the next few hundred years, the Romans set about establishing a pretty big empire. Their main enemies were the Carthaginians, whose base was in North Africa. While the Romans were busy conquering the Greeks and the countries of the Eastern Mediterranean, the Carthaginians were taking the great circle route through Spain and Southern France. In 217 BC, their great leader Hannibal crossed the Alps with his famous war elephants, striking fear into the hearts of the Romans. Because of this, the battles came to be known as the Panic Wars. Ultimately, the elephants died without seeing Rome and the tide of war swung to the Romans. The later battles were so small that they were styled the Punic Wars.

It should not be supposed that the Romans were merely good soldiers. They invented the paved road, the arch, and sanitary water and sewer systems. The first sanitary engineer was the great Commodius, who was troubled that he was drinking the same water from the Tiber that his fellow Romans were peeing in (and worse) upstream.

With better sanitation, Romans lived longer than their enemies, and despite the invention of the tenement, Rome was soon bursting at the seams. As is the case with modern Japan, it was decided that a portion of the population had to be out of the country at all times to reduce overcrowding. Their numbers were legion, which became the name of the resulting tour groups.

Regrettably, Rome’s neighbors weren’t ready for the influx of tourists and tended to resist their incursions. This led, after the Romans armed themselves, to the first tourist invasions. Eventually, they conquered most of what are now Western Europe, the Middle East and North Africa. They built roads as they went and soon all of them led to Rome. Roman law was everywhere established and it was said that a Roman citizen was safe anywhere he chose to go, except perhaps Scotland.

Alas, the glory days of the republic were not to last. When Roman generals had conquered the entire known world, they became restless and out of sorts and began squabbling among themselves. Eventually, Julius Caesar, Pompey and Crassus were the only three left and ruled jointly. While Julius was away conquering part of the unknown world (Britain), Pompey seized power for himself. Caesar soon tired of the British fog and rain (which had turned the natives blue) and returned to the Gaulish Riviera, where he was astonished to find a message from the Senate telling him that he had reached the mandatory retirement age. He took this badly and decided to confront the Senate. Taking his legions with him, he began his journey, only to get another message warning that if he crossed the Rubicon River he would be found in contempt of the Senate.

Since his legions were more numerous than the Senate, he crossed the Rubicon and burned his bridges behind him. There was now no going back and Caesar swept all before him. Pompey fled to Greece, was defeated there and ended up in Egypt. Seeing which way the wind was blowing, Cleopatra had him killed. As a reward, Caesar favored her with his amorous attentions. She had trouble with the birth of his child and it had to be delivered by opening an incision in her tummy, an operation that is now called a Caesarian section.

Back in Rome, Caesar became a virtual dictator. With the republic thus threatened, Brutus and Cassius (he of the lean and hungry look) assassinated Caesar, but made the mistake of letting Marc Antony give the funeral oration. When they reviewed the script, it seemed OK, but Antony delivered it with such dripping sarcasm that the mob soon turned against them and they had to flee to Greece. They forgot that this hadn’t worked for Pompey. As the poet Cicero so aptly said: “those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”

Marc Antony was also to learn this bitter lesson. He formed a partnership with Octavian and Lepidus (known as the “beetle browed”), but made the mistake of going to Egypt and getting involved with the seductive Cleopatra. While Antony was dallying, Octavian squashed Lepidus like a bug and took ship to deal with Antony. He defeated Antony’s fleet at Actium in 31 BC. Not wishing to be dragged back to Rome in chains for the amusement of the mob, Antony committed suicide. Heartbroken, Cleopatra grabbed a handy snake and did the same.

Octavian changed his name to Augustus to suit his new stature and became the first Roman Emperor. His successors were a decidedly mixed lot. Caligula invented a new way to write Latin, but also had his horse made a Senator. As he said, “the place is full of horse’s asses anyway.”

Nero invented urban renewal, but took a shortcut and burned Rome before rebuilding it. Increasingly, assassination became to favored way to change governments. By 238 AD, it got out of hand. In that year alone, Rome was ruled by Maximus, Gordian I, Gordian II, Pupienus (a real shit), Balbinus and Gordian III, who finally cut the knot and ruled until 244 AD.

Many of the emperors had themselves named Gods, which somewhat cheapened the religion of the day. It must be said that the Romans already had more than their share of Gods. They had myth-appropriated all the Greek deities, simply changing their names, and added a few of their own. All of this created a great deal of work for sculptors and architects, but soon the highways and byways were clogged with shrines. Because they had at least to say a brief prayer at each of the shrines, the Roman Legions began taking longer and longer to reach their outposts facing the barbarians, with increasingly dire results.

Had they but known it, the answer to their prayers was close at hand. First, one of their subject peoples were the Hebrews, who long had espoused the one-God theory. The reason for this is unclear, but may have had something to do with their nomadic life. One God, after all, is pretty portable.

Since the Hebrews seemed content to keep their God to themselves, the Romans didn’t see them as much of a threat. But when the followers of a Hebrew named Jesus Christ – whom the Romans had crucified to keep peace with the Hebrew priests, who considered him a rabble rouser – began touting him as the Son of God throughout the Roman world, that was a bit much.

The Christians, as they called themselves, had a new wrinkle on the one-God idea. They still claimed there was one God, but he had three personas: God the father, God the son (the heretofore mentioned Jesus) and God the Holy Spirit. No one really knew what God the Father looked like. Jesus, on the other hand, was known to have been beardless and have long hair and blue eyes.  Oddly enough, he also looked more like an Englishman than a Jew. The Holy Spirit didn’t look like anyone, because he was invisible.

Because it was less confusing than the Roman system of a God for every occasion, and you didn’t have to buy as many statues, Christianity appealed to the poorer elements in the Empire. While the Romans were inclined to be tolerant, increasing pressure from the sculptors and architect’s guilds convinced the Emperors that business was bound to suffer, so they outlawed the budding religion. It must also be said that Christianity didn’t encourage people, even Emperors, to suddenly decide they were Gods too.

History is often a matter of happy coincidences. The banning of the new religion coincided with the rise of a new entertainment industry in Rome. Chariot races had long been popular, as had battles to the death between Gladiators. As the Empire expanded, generals increasingly brought back wild animals like Lions and Tigers. Zoos were established, but weren’t too exciting, as the wild beasts slept most of the time, a problem at zoos to this day.

Many Christians were caught and simply crucified, with their bodies given to the zoos as cheap and convenient meat. The Lions and Tigers seemed to enjoy these treats and some unknown impresario put two and two together and came up with the idea of saving both the labor and materials used for crucifixions by feeding the Christians directly to the big cats in the Coliseum. The mob loved the new event and the culminating event of the season become known as the Supper Bowl.

Alas, the Emperor Constantine put the kibosh on this popular event by legalizing Christianity. He even became a Christian himself, although he prudently waited until he was dying, thus becoming the first known deathbed convert.

The majestic Coliseum sadly fell into disuse. It still stands today, but the cats that roam its ghostly precincts are more likely to be fed by the Christians than to eat them.

The Empire itself also began to decline as it increasingly depended on hired mercenaries to keep the barbarians at bay. It occurred to many of these bluff soldiers that the only way to get a raise was to take power, so they would march on Rome and kill the emperor. So much time was spent doing this that sufficient watch was not being kept on the barbarians, who were soon making inroads on the very roads the Romans had built to conquer them.

Among the many tribes marching on Rome were the Visagoths and Ostragoths. While the Romans were able to keep an eye on the Visagoths, the Ostragoths were a little sneakier. Eventually, they got together and sacked Rome in 476, thus ending the Western Empire. The Eastern Empire lasted another thousand years, mainly because it was pretty far away in Constantinople and the nearby tribes spent most of their energy fighting each other, much as they do today. When the Eastern Empire finally fell in 1456, it was the forces of Islam who did the deed. They treated the inhabitants so foully that they became known as the Turkeys. They rather liked this and have retained the name to this day.

When Rome itself fell in the fifth century, Europe entered what is now known as the Dark Ages.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

Profiles of Courage? 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Wherein lies political courage? And of what does it consist?

I am an American living in Illinois, and I have been struggling to find answers to these questions. On the national level, we see a once proud political party pathetically trying to rationalize its support for a presumptive presidential candidate who is at least a world class narcissist if not an actual lunatic. For their trouble, they are risking the possible destruction of the party of Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt, Robert Taft, Dwight Eisenhower and Ronald Reagan. And why?  Because, presumably, they fear the victory of Hillary Clinton more than the loss of their own souls.

I do not like or respect Hillary Clinton. She has shown, throughout a checkered career, that there is no position she is not willing to change for political expediency (to be fair, she is not unique in this shabby flexibility). Trade policy is only one of many where she has done an about face. Once a supporter – NAFTA, after all, was one of her husband’s triumphs – she has caved in to her party’s left wing and union supporters to oppose free trade policies that have helped reduce extreme poverty in the world from 44 percent in 1980 to 12.7 percent in 2012, according to the World Bank.

Yet, I would vote for her rather than Donald Trump. While she is a cynical opportunist, she is at least an experienced, informed and probably competent opportunist. Like presidents before her, many of her ambitions will be reined in by a recalcitrant Congress. And she will feel free, like most politicians, to forget her campaign promises.

A Trump victory will bring the country into uncharted territory, and if it happens, the Republican establishment will be as guilty as he. Here are the names of just a few of the Republicans who have betrayed their principles by endorsing Trump: Paul Ryan, Mitch McConnell, John McCain, Jeff Sessions, John Boehner, Dick Cheney, Bob Dole, Rand Paul, Newt Gingrich, Rick Perry, Mike Huckabee and Rance Priebus (who at least is paid to be a huckster for the party). The honor roll of those who have refused to endorse Trump is shorter: all the Bushes, Mitt Romney, Mark Kirk, Lindsey Graham, Ben Sasse, and a few others. Important conservative media figures like George Will, Charles Krauthammer and Joe Scarborough have said they will not support Trump, even though the thought of another Democrat in the White House turns their stomachs.

As to Illinois, the current pickle we’re in is the triumph of hubris over the public interest. While there is plenty of blame to go around, on balance it’s the refusal of the arrogant Speaker of the House, Mike Madigan, to countenance any compromise that would give even the slightest credit to Governor Rauner, whose own arrogance is wearing thin. The Democrat legislators have the power to send Madigan into retirement, but not the guts. I realize that he controls campaign funds, but I sometimes wonder if he isn’t also the J. Edgar Hoover of Illinois politics, with secret files on all of his minions.

All of these messes are the strongest argument I know of for term limits. With them, most of the names I’ve mentioned would be back practicing law in Podunk (perhaps not good news for Podunk, but there you are).

I’m reminded of Britain in 1940, when the failed policies of Neville Chamberlain before and during the early days of World War II had caused Conservative member Leo Amery to rise in Parliament and directly address his own party leader. At the end of his speech, he spoke these words, quoting Oliver Cromwell’s speech to the 17^th Century Long Parliament: “You have sat too long for any good you have been doing. Depart I say and let us have done with you. In the name of God, go.”

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

(I’m sure the blogosphere has been full in recent days with amazed comment about the unlikely fact that two of the most unpopular people in the United States are going to receive their party’s nomination for president. But we can’t think about the implications of this all the time, can we?) 

To Save or Not to Save 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Several years ago, I wrote a book about Louis Sullivan and his architecture. While doing the research, I discovered that fewer than 40 of the approximately 200 buildings that he built alone and with his partner, Dankmar Adler, then survived. Indeed, in 1972 I was working in the Loop and watched the 1893 Chicago Stock Exchange being demolished (fragments may be seen at the Art Institute and other places). I was in the Army in 1962 when another of his masterpieces, the Schiller Building of 1891 came down, so was spared the agony of watching its destruction and replacement by a parking garage.

Slowly, over the years, we’ve managed to do a little better. Chicago now has a stronger landmark ordinance, even though it’s not foolproof. Daniel Burnham and Charles Atwood’s 1895 Reliance Building was restored and repurposed as the Burnham Hotel; Louis Sullivan’s Schlesinger & Meyer Department Store (later Carson, Pirie Scott) was restored and is now the multi-purpose Sullivan Center; and Chicago School landmarks such as the Rookery, the Marquette, the Monadnock, the Old Colony, and Chicago Buildings still have their place in a resurgent Loop.

Two buildings just as familiar to generations of Chicagoans have been sitting vacant and deteriorating for years: the former Main U.S. Post Office and original Cook County Hospital. Both have been replaced by modern facilities. And both, it seems to me, illustrate the difference between saving a building for historical as opposed to architectural merit. Personal taste enters into this, of course, but neither can claim unique architectural distinction.

Another criterion is this: do visiting architects, architectural historians or architectural buffs have these buildings on their must see list? I doubt it. (It would be interesting to determine how many people visit the Chicago area primarily to look at its vast array of significant buildings.)

Built between 1913 and 1916, and designed by Richard Schmidt and Paul Gerhardt, County Hospital is an overblown and needlessly fussy exercise in the French Beaux-Arts tradition. If it is saved, then, it should not be for any architectural merit, but for its great historical meaning. Almost until it closed in 2002, it was the hospital of last resort for the county’s poor. At its height, it had as many as 3,000 beds, and trained generations of doctors. Its dedicated doctors and staff were featured in numerous movies and television series. Of course, it had its share of political patronage and corruption, but it may be worth saving for historical reasons alone. If a developer is willing to spend $500 million of private money to convert the building to a hotel and apartments, they should be applauded.

The old Post Office, by Graham, Anderson, Probst & White, has more of a claim to architectural interest, but there are several more distinguished examples of Art Deco design, some by the same architects, including the former Field Building at LaSalle and Adams, and the Merchandise Mart. Historically, the Post Office was built as part of the Union Station complex (the station was also designed by the firm).  Its size – it was once the largest building in the world – was dictated by the vast mail order businesses of Sears Roebuck and Montgomery Wards, at a time when most merchandise moved by rail.

Many Chicagoans have routinely driven through the building, as it straddles the Eisenhower Expressway. Its very size makes it a more dubious development risk. Like the hospital, a developer has stepped forward with a $500 million plan to convert the vast building to office space, after paying $130 million to buy it. I’m dubious that it can be done even for that amount, but if it can, it’s also worth saving.

But if either building ends up requiring a substantial public investment, then I think the public’s money could be better spent elsewhere, although I’m not at all sure that our current crop of political leaders actually understands what the phrase “the public good” actually means.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon