By Patrick F. Cannon

I have 42 framed pictures on the walls of my two-bedroom condominium: one original oil; seven original water colors; seven signed and numbered etchings; four signed and numbered lithographs; one pencil sketch; 12 photographs; and 10 reproductions. I also have numerous framed photos on tables and in bookcases. All have some personal meaning, or they wouldn’t be there.

            That’s nice, you’re thinking, but what’s he getting at? Well, as it happens, my partner Jim Caulfield and I are working on a new book on Frank Lloyd Wright’s famous Robie House in Chicago. It is one of eight Wright buildings that have been designated as World Heritage Sites by UNESCO.  We have already published a book on the other one in the Chicago area, Oak Park’s Unity Temple. If you don’t mind a bit of self-promotion, our most recent book, Louis Sullivan: An American Architect, just won the 2025 Gold Medal from the Independent Publisher Book Awards, our fourth such award.

            I love Robie House. It is one of the landmarks of  modern architecture, admired throughout the world. But if I bought it, I’d have to get rid of most of those 42 pictures. Aside from a couple of bedrooms, and the first-floor reception area, the main spaces defy the comfortable accommodation of most paintings. If you look at Jim Caulfield’s photo of the living room, what you mostly see is beautiful art glass. What little wall space available would demand only the smallest frames and even they would look clumsy.

            There are other Wright houses that confound the picture hanger. He would have claimed, with some justice, that the house itself was work of art enough. To be fair, sideboards and other built-ins at Robie do provide adequate surfaces for pottery, statues, and plants. Studying period photographs from the family that lived longest in the house show only two small, framed pictures in the living and dining rooms. The original owner, Frederick Robie, was an engineer and apparently put more emphasis on light and air than framed works of art. For him, and for many others, the house works just fine. But, as much as I admire it, it’s not for me.

            Another Chicago-area house that defies framed art is Ludvig mies van der Rohe’s Farnsworth House in Plano (although at 57 miles distant, “Chicago area” is stretching it a bit). It’s essentially a glass house, with a few interior walls. I have seen a couple of photos that show a framed picture on the main fireplace wall, but I imagine purists would frown upon desecrating it this way! But again, there are people who would love to live in what they consider a minimalist masterpiece.

            Some architects have always believed they know best where and  how people should live. Most people stubbornly resist these diktats. And they should, even if their taste runs to the now ubiquitous “McMansion.” There is nothing wrong with period styles, although I would prefer that the detailing be accurate, whether Tudor, Georgian, or even Prairie. And if you want a glass house, so be it; just don’t start throwing stones.

Copyright 2025, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

An email I received recently reminded me that the famous Chinese artist Ai Weiwei once exhibited a triptych of photographs showing him holding, then dropping and shattering, a 2,000-year-old Han Dynasty urn. When asked about it, he said: “Chairman Mao used to tell us that we can only build a new world if we destroy the old one.” I should mention that his father, a famous poet, suffered during Mao’s so-called Cultural Revolution.

            I should also point out that Weiwei (pronounced “way” “way” in case you wondered) owned the vase. The Mao comment was meant to be ironic, but his actual point was to suggest that works like the urn are only valuable because we or someone else says they are. Anyone who keeps track of the contemporary art market knows that the strangest things – Jeff Koon’s metal balloon animals and the duct-taped banana are often cited as examples – sell for inconceivable amounts.

            Assuming I had the tens of millions of dollars that a Koon’s balloon now costs, would I be within my rights to blow it up? Even if I believed, as I do, that it’s more a joke than a work of art? Let me get back to the urn.

            During the Han Dynasty (206 BC-220 AD) great advances were made in pottery design and production. The urn was almost certainly thrown by hand on a potter’s wheel, just as today. The man who made it took great care in shaping and finishing it. Did he think he was creating a work of art? Probably not. And he probably would be astonished to find out that it survived 2,000 years until it was destroyed to make a statement about the absurdities of the art market.

            But I think he would also have been saddened. He had created a pot that he hoped would be used with care, and would last a long time, or at least until some clumsy oaf dropped it. He would have thought it inconceivable that a fellow creator would break it on purpose. He might well have wondered why Weiwei didn’t destroy one of his own works.

            So, no matter the intent, I don’t think Weiwei had the right to destroy someone else’s work, even though it was probably only worth a few thousand dollars at most. Of course, much worse has happened to works of art throughout history. In 2001, for example, the Taliban destroyed Afghanistan’s famous Bamiyan Buddhas in their fervor to rid the country of idolatrous images. And in case you’ve forgotten, countless works of religious art were destroyed for the same reason during the Reformation by fervent Protestants.

            War is another destroyer of art. It’s impossible to  know how many great works have fallen victim to it. Thousands were destroyed or lost during World War II, including major works by Rubens, Rembrandt, Holbein, Van Gogh, Raphael, Courbet, Degas, Van Dyck, Durer, Canaletto, and Bellini. Coventry Cathedral is only one of the great buildings destroyed by bombing or shelling. And the famous monastery at Monte Cassino was another victim of “military necessity.”

            A more recent phenomenon is the defacement or destruction of works of art for political reasons. Christopher Columbus wasn’t sufficiently progressive, so let’s take his statues down, deface or even destroy them. We don’t like so and so’s ideas, so let’s shout him down or remove his books from our libraries. Wagner? Wasn’t he a Nazi? And on and on.

            As I have said many times, Jeff Koons is a minor artist, if an artist at all. But I would never think of destroying one of his beflowered puppy dogs, even if I owned it, and it was in my back yard.

The Nan Dynasty potter isn’t around to defend his work, but we are.

Copyright 2025, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Let me tell you — life is no walk in the park; nor bowl of cherries; or all sunshine and rainbows; and definitely no picnic. When you get up in the morning, you better beware! Dark forces are lurking in the shadows, ready to leap out and smite you on the kisser!

            Just the other morning, for example, I did the laundry. Now in my building, the laundry room is just off the lobby. As I’m on the third floor, I have to take the elevator down (I could take the stairs, but what’s the elevator for?). When I got back to my apartment with the laundry basket, one of my socks was missing! Why does this happen? Obviously, either the washer or dryer didn’t think it got enough money, so it charged me a sock. Why socks? Why not underpants, or washcloths? We are not to know, for evil forces are at work.

            No big deal, you say. Have you ever had to go shopping for a new pair of socks while wearing only one? A bare foot in an old shoe is clammy and uncomfortable, I can assure you. Maybe I should buy an extra pair, but money doesn’t grow on trees you know!

            I have another outrage to impart! I have been a loyal customer of the Jewel food stores for 60 years – yes, 60 years! – and my local store is conspiring to make it impossible to find a place to park. Often, when you think you’ve found an empty spot, it’s another of those endless grocery-cart return spots! This time of year, they eliminate even more parking spaces to find space for a vast edifice dedicated to selling plants and flowers, thus taking business away from local lawn and garden centers.

            As if that wasn’t enough, now they have put eight spaces aside for people who are waiting for clerks to come with stuff they’ve ordered online. The last time I was at the store, all eight spaces were empty — mocking the poor schmoes like me who bravely venture forth in all weathers to pick out their own groceries  

            In case you didn’t know it, Jewel is now owned by Albertsons, a grocery company founded and still headquartered in Boise, Idaho. I’ve never been there, but my impression of that state is the odd mountain among endless dry and dusty plains. The state plant is the tumbleweed. Vast spaces for parking lots and cows are readily available. The executives have likely never been to the Chicago area, where you can’t just push the cows aside to add parking spaces!  

            Which brings me to my final complaint. Once again, the powers that be in remote Boise have decided my Jewel needs to be completely reorganized, just at the point I knew where everything was. One day I arrived to find armies of people taking stuff off shelves and moving products to places some expert in Boise had decided made more sense. While all this was going on – and it took what seemed like years – the old signs remained in place. So, where you expected to find toilet paper, instead you came upon cat food! And I don’t own a cat!

            Well, I can’t let all this defeat me. I guess I’ll just have to pull up my sock and get on with life!

Copyright 2025, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

I was amazed by the reception my recent effort to provide budding authors with the openings of possible stories received. To help even more struggling scribes, and as a service to the world of letters, I am providing a few more for consideration. I only ask some small measure of appreciation (a share of royalites would be nice).

• It was a dark and stormy night. Once again, Smithers had forgotten his umbrella. He considered: “What shall I do? What can I do?”
• The bear was somewhere in those woods; the dark and menacing woods; trunks looming and barring his way, as they had for generations of the Yokums; his people, indefatigable seekers, always hunting the bear; but for all those generations past, was the bear hunting them?; or was it even a bear (genus Ursus, family Ursidae), or some primordial hairy man; or indeed a female, or both; or the dreaded Sasquatch?
• It was winter, and that was the year the snow came rolling down the mountain. The air was crisp and cold, and the snow was always there. And the tenente had lost his gloves.
• He knew his age was held against him in certain quarters at the C.I.A. At 14, he was by far the youngest analyst. But there was no doubt about his doctorate from MIT. How could he prove to these older higher ups that the threat was real; that tiny Andorra was indeed trying to smuggle a nuclear device into the US in a tin of sardines.
• I often stood at the shore, looking through the morning mist at the flashing light across the rushing river and in the trees. What did those trees hide? Why was the light flashing? Would my modest dingy make it across or would I be swept out to the endless sea?
• Sir Dreadful had journeyed long. From Jerusalem he had ridden to Acra, then taken ship across the stormy Mediterranean to France. He and his faithful charger Argent then rode north, enjoying the hospitality of noble friends, until arriving in Calais. A short voyage in fine weather took them to England and home. As he approached his ancestral castle, he spied his faithful servant, William. Instead of rushing to meet his master, gone these two long years on the crusade, he ran back across the drawbridge, which was immediately raised. What can this mean, thought the puzzled knight.
• Flossie was taking the day off, so I was alone in my office. Business was slow, due to a declining divorce rate. As a private eye, I was used to these ups and downs. I knew my trusty key-hole camera would soon be needed again, but just now I was reduced to playing solitaire. Then, I heard to outer door open, and a silky voice say “hello, anyone here?” I opened my office door and there she was – long blonde hair, ruby red lips, and a royal blue silk dress that seemed to be all that was between me and curves that would put Mulholland Drive to shame. That’s how it all began.
• I had come to the remote kingdom of Diphtheria to walk among and enjoy the majestic forests and towering mountains for which it was so justly famous. After a particularly grueling trek, I was relaxing in my hotel room with a glass of warming local schnapps when there was a knock on my door. Opening it I was faced with a military officer dressed in the uniform of a hussar. Behind him were two common soldiers. “Mr. Smithers?” he inquired. I assented. “I must ask you to come with me. You have nothing to fear, but the matter is urgent.” With that, he escorted me to a waiting carriage, which sped us to the royal palace. I was brought to a splendid room and left alone. Then a door opened, and a dignified old gentleman came in. “I am the Grand Duke Dmitri, and I have a request to make.” Just then I noticed the large portrait on the wall of a man dressed in royal robes and wearing a crown. The face that stared back at me from the canvas was my own!  

Well, that’s enough for now. I can hardly wait to see how those stories end!

Copyright 2025, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

There are approximately 2.4 billion Christians in the world; of those 1.4 billion are Roman Catholics, by far the world’s largest organized religion (there are 1.7 billion Sunni Muslims, but they have no central organization). But as we’ll no doubt find out in the coming weeks – as a new Pope is chosen to succeed the late Pope Francis – it’s also one of the world’s most over organized.

            While Francis was widely loved by many Catholics for his tolerance (permitting the blessing of same sex marriages, for example), that very tolerance was anathema to traditional and conservative Catholics. There will be much drama behind the scenes as the liberal and conservative cardinals battle to keep or regain control of the massive bureaucracy that governs the church. When the new pope is chosen, they will pretend all is well. Among the laity, and below the surface, the battles will go on.

             Francis was, it seems to me, only acting on what he perceived as the actual message in the gospels – love God and your neighbor. Sins are inevitable but can be forgiven. Judge not, lest you be judged. Read the Sermon on the Mount, and act on it. This is no place for the history of the Church, but over the centuries it has taken these simple messages and created a vast edifice of rules and regulations and the structures to enforce them. For example, a standard version of the New Testament runs to about 180 pages. It includes the gospels, epistles, acts of the apostles and revelations. One edition of the Catechism of the Roman Catholic Church needs 925 pages to interpret them.

            Reporting to the pope are approximately 5,600 bishops, of whom 252 are currently also cardinals. Only 135 of them – those under 80 – are eligible to vote for the new pope. They will meet in the Sistine Chapel, beneath Michelangelo’s transcendent frescos. Their deliberations will be done in secret, with only the cardinals present. The current system dates to the 13^th Century, and was devised by man, not God.

            Nor did God, in the person of Jesus, have anything to do with most of that 934-page Catechism, much of which is ignored by many Roman Catholics. Surveys have shown, for example, that Catholic women widely ignore the Church’s ban on artificial birth control. To most, there’s no logical difference between the acceptable “rhythm” method and the pill (except the pill is more dependable). They also struggle to see in the words of Jesus any ban on priesthood for women.

            The church is capable of change. It was only in 1139 that priests were required to be celibate and unmarried.  The Mass, the basic ceremony of the church, has been changed in form and content and is now said in the local language. As an altar boy (no girls then), I was required to learn my lines in Latin. The priest didn’t face the congregation, who mostly had no idea what he was saying anyway.

            To Pope Francis, every human being was a child of God with a divine soul. He would have agreed to the fictional detective Harry Bosch’s credo: “everybody counts or nobody counts.”  His opposition to abortion was inherent in this, and I can’t see the Church changing its position on this fundamental issue. But almost everything else has changed over time and can change again. It will be interesting to see if the new pope will open the door a bit wider, or slam it shut. Finally, don’t we need someone like the pope to tell our leaders their decisions affect real people?

Copyright 2025, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Recognizing that many of you budding novelists may find it difficult to get started, I have drafted a series of story openings that should spur your own creativity. You can then use your imagination to finish them to your own satisfaction. I have included several genres, in hopes that you’ll find one to your liking.

• The ancient church was lit only by a few candles. I stood alone in the vast nave, when suddenly something I barely felt hit my head and fell to the floor in front of me. I picked it up. It was a tiny bird’s nest, intricately constructed and containing only a tiny feather. Just then, I heard the creaking sound of a door opening.
• Smithers stood alone in the noon heat; his hands bound behind his back. He looked across the plaza to the ragged group of soldiers, puffing on their cigars and idly chatting in a language he couldn’t understand. A door opened behind them and a young officer, nattily uniformed and sporting a handlebar mustache, emerged. How, Smithers wondered, had it all come to this?
• I rode into town on my exhausted horse. It could have been any town in this God forsaken wasteland. Wind driven tumbleweed skipped over the lone street. I could just hear the sound of a tinny piano coming from the inevitable saloon. The wooden sidewalks were empty, but I could see furtive eyes peering from behind curtains. Then, the silence was broken by the sound of a single gunshot.
• Millie was running late. She just managed to get in the overcrowded subway car before the doors closed. She managed to find a bar to hold on to as the train lurched one way and then another. With her free hand, she checked her phone for messages. A sudden violent lurch banged her hand on the next passenger and the phone fell to the floor. Before she could bend down to retrieve it, it was returned to her. As she took it, she was looking up at the bluest eyes she had ever seen.
• Curuthers could never have imagined he would find himself in such a dilemma. His very future was at stake. As much as he tried to move him, Professor Goodfellow’s position seemed firm and unshakable. Without saying it directly, he had made it clear to Curuthers that he would never get tenure. His eminence in the field of convoluted text  interpretation would certainly sway the others on the committee. Murder seemed the only solution.
• They had been orbiting the planet Piculbal for three months longer than planned. Their atomic thrusters had failed, preventing their return to Earth. Now, rescue was at hand. A spaceship was on its way, expected to arrive in 14 days. In the meantime, the crew was on reduced rations, adequate to maintain their basic health. Captain Kirk was overjoyed that he would be able to be reunited with his family in time for Christmas. It was then he noticed Ensign Gargan’s head emerging from the tunnel. Where was the rest of him, he wondered?
• His search began in the main wing – the Blue Room, the Red Room, the State Dining Room. Nothing. Surely, he thought, it would exist in the West Wing?  He peeked in the Cabinet Room, the Roosevelt Room, the various staff offices, and finally the Oval Office. Bereft. Upstairs, he thought. Surely there must be intelligent life somewhere in the White House?
• Clark Kent was considering retirement. The last phone booth in Gotham had been hauled away, and he was at a loss to find a convenient place to rip off his suit and emerge as Superman. He knew the caped crusader was still needed; after all, Lex Luthor had just been paroled. Would Lois Lane have any ideas? If he used a public restroom, would it be misinterpreted?
• He double-checked the address. It matched the one on the iron gates, which were open. The long driveway was overgrown with weeds and wound through the dark woods. As he drove through the mist, he wondered why he had received an invitation from this wealthy but mysterious family. Suddenly, the massive gothic-revival house appeared. For a moment, he considered turning around but decided to press on.

Should none of these openings suit your needs, please let me know and I’ll  endeavor to provide one that does.

Copyright 2025, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Denzell Washington is appearing in the title role in Shakespeare’s Othello on Broadway. Jake Gyllenhaal plays Iago, perhaps the more interesting character. This star power has resulted in ticket prices approaching $1,000! Washington may be our greatest actor, but I think I’ll wait for the movie!

            It has been generally assumed that Othello was black, although he is described as a “Moor,” which traditionally meant an Arab from North Africa. They ruled Spain for many hundreds of years, and were not black as we would now describe it. Nevertheless, the part has been played notably and successfully by such African Americans as Paul Robeson, James Earl Jones and now, Denzell Washinton.

            I have seen Othello live only once, at the Chicago Shakespeare Theatre with Chicago actor James Vincent Meridith in the title role. He is also African American. On the other hand, many white actors have played the role. Interestingly, the British actor, Ronald Coleman, played an actor playing Othello in the film, A Double Life. In it, life imitates art when Coleman thinks his wife – and costar – is having an affair and actually kills her in the famous final scene. It’s a black and white film, but Coleman simply slightly darkened his skin. He won the best actor Academy Award.

            The great Lawrence Olivier unfortunately went further in his film of the play. Perhaps no one was willing to confront the great man, but they should have pointed out to him that doing the role in the same kind of black face that white performers used to don for minstrel shows might not strike the right note! While Olivier gives an impressive performance, it’s nearly ruined by his makeup choice.

            By now, it’s common for black actors to play roles that used to be reserved for whites. Just the other night I watched a movie where black and white siblings had the same white parents! While we have become used to this kind of casting, it doesn’t always work in reverse. Even with makeup, Tom Hanks would never be asked to play the role played by Denzell Washington in the film version of August Wilson’s Fences.

            In Shakespeare’s time, women weren’t permitted on stage, so female roles were often played by young men. These days, male actors have been known to play women (think Tootsie and Some Like it Hot), and Glenda Jackson famously played the title character in King Lear. In general, actors should be able to play any role. They are, by definition, acting. Despite what activists might contend, you don’t have to be blind to play a blind person. Our old friend Ronald Coleman also played an artist who lost his sight in the 1939 film of Rudyard Kipling’s novel, The Light that Failed.

             I saw a clip from the new Othello, which is “modernized” by having the characters dress in contemporary military uniforms, although Shakespeare set it originally in the late 16^th Century. I’m never quite sure why this is done. To make the play seem more relevant to  our times?  Frankly, you don’t make Shakespeare’s themes more universal by putting the actors in modern clothing.

            Another example of this is the 1995 film version of Shakespeare’s Richard III, with Ian McKellen in the title role. Here, Richard and his minions are dressed in Nazi-like uniforms. Trying to equate the dynastic wars in 15^th Century Britain with Fascism in 20^th Century Europe is a real stretch. And while I greatly admire McKellen as an actor, what’s with the mustache?

            I can recommend Olivier’s 1955 film version of Richard III. In the climactic battle scene, Richard doesn’t say “A tank, a tank, my kingdom for a tank!” He would happily have settled for a horse.

Copyright 2025, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

The Chicago Cubs won their home opener last Friday and are pegged to win the National League’s Central Division. The capacity crowd at Wrigley Field looked like they were at a Bear’s game, since they were bundled up against a temperature in the 40s and a stiff breeze.

            Assuming a good season, the “friendly confines” will see many capacity crowds, who will pay ticket prices based on the day of the week and the quality of the Cub’s opponent. You could pay as little as $20, but the average will be about $60, with more desirable seats going for more than $100.

            If you’re hungry, a simple hot dog will go for about $10; a slice of pizza for $14; a pretzel (hopefully with some mustard) goes for $8; basic beer is about $10, but if you have more elevated taste, a craft version will set you back $16; something called a Beer Bat is $30 (but you get to keep the bat-shaped container it comes in); and your sweet tooth could be assuaged with a $8 soft serve. But more exotic fare is also available!

            New this year will be jibaritos, baseball doughnuts, and fried ranch bombs. Perhaps some explanations might help. A jibarito is a sandwich favored by Puerto Ricans in Chicago that substitutes fried green plantains for bread. For the uninitiated, a plantain is a little banana that’s inedible until it’s fried. The filling could be pork, ham, or any meat, along with lettuce, tomato, and other stuff.

The baseball doughnut is indeed a doughnut in the shape of a baseball, with icing that simulates stitching. When you buy it, you can fill it with a choice of blueberry or strawberry jam, which you inject yourself!  A ranch bomb is a roundish pastry filled with stuff like cheese, bacon, or other stuff with ranch (as in ranch dressing) spices, deep fried and served with “spicy honey drizzle.” When the Boston Red Sox are in town, Wrigley will honor their visit by adding lobster rolls to the menu. If you get one in Maine, you will pay about $30. Of course, Chicago isn’t Maine, so you will pay more.  

Anyway, if the famous “family of four” wants to go to a Cubs game this year, they can expect to pay around $300 for an average game. Back in the late 1940s, my brother and I would go to games at Comisky Park. I was about 10 and he was a year older. We went without our parents. Can you even imagine that now? Anyway, we would take the 67^th Street streetcar to State Street, then transfer to the State Street version to 35^th Street and the ballpark. The fare was then 10 cents.

General admission was 50 cents. I don’t remember what a hot dog cost, but I doubt it was more than 25 cents. Add 10 cents for Coke, and our outing would have set our parents out a grant total of about two bucks. In today’s money, that’s about $25, more than worth it to get rid of us for an entire afternoon.

You may not believe this, but around 1970, a hot dog was pretty much your only dining choice at Wrigley Field. Of course, you could get peanuts and Cracker Jacks. You might have been able to get a soft drink other than Coke, but I think only one beer brand would have been available, Budweiser as I recall. You could also get coffee, tea, hot broths, and hot chocolate.

I know this because for a time I worked for a company called Compact Industries, who franchised office coffee services. Our Chicago franchisee, Compact Coffee Service of Chicago, supplied these beverages to Wrigley. Can I admit they were dreadful? Phil Wrigley, who still owned the Cubs then, didn’t care. Our products were cheap, so he could sell them at a handsome profit. I wondered how much coffee or any hot drink they sold on opening day this year?  I found out coffee will set you back about $6, which seems like a bargain when it’s in the 40s. One hopes the weather will soon improve and coffee sales decline accordingly. By the way, you can get a double dog with fries at the famous Gene & Jude’s on River Road in River grove for $5.55. It’s takeout only, but you can always eat your Chicago dog in the car while listening to the Cubs on the radio.

Copyright 2025, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

When then citizen Donald Trump paid Stormy Dainels $130,000 to keep her trap shut about their sexual encounter, it was considered a hush money payment, not blackmail. Apparently, if both parties agree to the settlement without coercion, everything’s hunky dory. You may recall that he was convicted of hiding the payment, not making it.

            While only a guess on my part, I would think Stormy was only one of several women who got paid off during Trump’s interesting passage through life. At any rate, he has become something of an expert in using something very like blackmail in  his orgy of revenge against those he accuses of being involved in the criminal indictments he escaped by being elected president. At least three (and counting) of America’s largest “white shoe” law firms have caved to Trump’s threat to bar them from Federal facilities and take away partner’s security clearances.

            For those  who don’t have a clue what “white shoe” means, it refers to bygone days when rich men wore white buck shoes with their summer duds. They were also favored by Ivy League undergrads, the kind of young men who ended up with the largest and most prestigious New York and Washington law firms. By the way, you can still  buy white bucks if you’re willing to keep them white or perhaps have a Jeeves to do it for you.

            One of the firms that President Trump targeted was Skadden, Arps, Slate, Meagher and Flom. Rather than lose business, Skadden Arps agreed to provide causes and people Trump specifies with $100 million in free legal services. Since both sides agreed to this arrangement, it seems to be perfectly legal. But really, it’s blackmail, isn’t it? Just like threatening countries with high tariffs or threatening Republican lawmakers with primary opponents if they don’t say Trump’s lies are the gospel truth.  

            A law firm founded in Chicago, Jenner & Block, decided not to cave. Instead, they’ve taken the Trump administration to court, claiming the president’s revenge spree is unconstitutional. This makes no impression on Trump, who isn’t aware we have one. I don’t have a clue how the courts will rule on this and the dozens (or is it hundreds) of lawsuits brought by Trump’s aggrieved victims.

            Do you see the irony here? The president will now be able to use Skadden Arps and the other firms who cave to defend his actions in court. They will be required by the canon of ethics to give their best efforts on behalf of the clients he chooses for them. You know, just like they’re required to give their all for an accused murderer.   

            I wonder if any of these legal eagles will give a helping hand to Rudy Guiliani? The last time I looked, he was still trying to collect the $2,000,000 in legal fees he says Trump never paid. Rudy – a bankrupt by the way – is still under indictment in Georgia, so the costs will keep adding up. His former client is said to be disappointed in Rudy for failing to overturn the 2020 election. Just another loser like John McCain. If he’s really broke, he can always get a court-appointed attorney. He might have defended himself, but he was disbarred.

Copyright 2025, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Many years ago, I took a course in auto tune up. You learned how to change spark plugs and points and check the timing with a cool timing light. You could also change your own oil and filter, and a bunch of other stuff. Most cars needed a tune up about every 10- or 12,000 miles. Over time, as electronic, then computerized, systems took over, it became impossible to service your own vehicle.

            I had a mechanic once who took new customers only when a current customer recommended and vouched for them. The last time I went there with my Chevvy station wagon, they told me they were closing. I was incredulous – losing a good mechanic was like losing a favorite barber! Why? I asked. They were all getting on in years, and they decided they didn’t want to invest in the computers they would need to service the new cars.

            The other day I went for my emissions test. When they first started doing this, they would insert a probe into your exhaust pipe, which would sniff to see if you were emitting noxious gases. Now, they plug into your computer, which tells them immediately if your engine is naughty.

            There was a time when you could open your car’s hood and see not only the engine, but all the stuff that went with it – battery, generator, distributer, spark plugs, starter, water pump, etc. In my 3-series BMW, the battery is in the trunk. There is no dip stick to check the oil; you now do it through the computer. When you open the hood, all you can see are the filler caps for the windshield washer and cooling system tanks. The engine is hidden beneath a plastic cover that informs you you’re driving a BMW.

            You may not realize it, but all this engine bay covering and general complexity adds to the cost of service. Simply getting to components takes time. The mechanics must move and/or remove stuff just to get to what they need to fix or replace. They charge – in Illinois – about $130 an hour to work on your car, and the clock is ticking while they try to uncover the defective widget.

            As it happens, I have an exceptionally fine mechanic, Pete. A week ago, after discovering on a day when the temperature reached 80 that my air wasn’t working, I brought it in. The refrigerant was gone. Pete and his guys tried to locate a leak but couldn’t find one during an inspection of the components they could see, probably because all the refrigerant was already gone. They put new refrigerant in, so the air is working again.

            But Pete wants to find the leak if any, so I’m going to bring the car back in three or four weeks, whereupon it will be put on the lift and inspected with infra-red lights and special goggles. In some areas, they’ll have to use a special probe to get at otherwise hidden components. If there’s a leak, they should be able to find and fix it. At $130 an hour, plus parts.

            Look, cars are better now. They last longer, they’re safer, they even talk to you if you get lonely. But all that comes with a cost. All an owner can do now is maybe change the oil, if they can find the filter that is.

            I had a Volvo wagon back in the early 1970s. It was orange and had a brawny four-cylinder engine. Everything in the engine bay was clearly visible. It had dual SU carburetors. These were ubiquitous in British cars of the period, and Volvo also used them for a time. I loved them. If the engine started running a bit roughly, I could get a regular screw driver and easily adjust them until the engine smoothed out. Now, cars have fuel injectors. They work better, but good luck fixing them (or even finding them!).

Copyright 2025, Patrick F. Cannon