By Patrick F. Cannon

Those of us who live in the provincial backwater of Chicago need to find ways to broaden our horizons. One way I do this is to subscribe to the online edition of the venerable New York Times, which is doing OK in a declining newspaper market.

            I’m still loyal to the Chicago Tribune, which is slowly fading away. They still run the “Dear Amy” advice column, which carries on the tradition of Ann Landers. “Amy” is Amy Dickenson, who daily deals with the same relationship and family problems that bedeviled people even before the invention of newsprint.

            Being in the cultural capital of America, the Times’ advice team deals with the additional problems inherent in that status. For example, they confront sexual problems that we’re inclined to keep to ourselves here. I just can’t imagine “Dear Any” weighing in on what is and isn’t acceptable among sado-masochists. But they also deal with the more mundane, as this query from a reader shows.

            “A good friend has a new romantic interest. We are huge fans! The problem: he wears loose glitter in his hair. The last time he visited, our home was covered in tiny, impossible-to-gather pieces of glitter. {Editor’s note: Don’t you hate to get greeting cards covered with glitter?} We want to support this new relationship, and dictating how people dress doesn’t sit well with us. But the glitter mess is overwhelming. Can we say something to our friend?”

            As you might expect from the “Newspaper of Record,” the response was eminently sensible. “My theory,” responded Timesman Philip Galanes, “after consulting my barber {Editor’s note again: I wonder how my own barber, Frank the Albanian, would respond?.}, is that the boyfriend is not using enough hair gel (or other adhesive) to keep the glitter in place.” But of course! Galanes goes on to suggest speaking to the be-glittered boyfriend directly, mentioning that “we’re still digging it out of the sofa from your last visit.” Who could object?

            I must confess I’ve never seen anyone with glitter in their hair, although I’ve gotten used to seeing members of both sexes sporting hair dyed in bright colors. And although I have no actual data, most of them also seem to be covered in tattoos, and have their heads and faces pierced with a strange variety of metal appliances.

            The Times also has sufficient staff to cover the fashion scene in general. There was a time when this meant female fashion. Now, the lads get almost equal treatment. If you’re au courant, you may have noticed that male models seem as malnourished as their female counterparts, who have long been fashionably skinny and pouty. The strange thing, though, is that the clothes the lads wear are large enough for big, brawny fellows. Or, equally confusing, several sizes too small.

            Once, the beau ideal of manliness was Gary Cooper; now, it seems to be someone like Timothee Chalamet, whose hair weighs more than the rest of him. Perhaps I should go on a diet and consider changing barbers? Of course, Frank the Albanian might be more than willing to cater to the glitterati. I must consult him when next I visit.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon  

By Patrick F. Cannon

I was going to do a (hopefully) amusing piece this week, but you’ll have to wait until next week to have a hearty guffaw. Instead, I’m afraid Donald Trump once again rears his hairy head.

            Regular readers will know how much I loathe Trump, so will be surprised when I say that the civil judgement against him in New York for exaggerating the value of his assets in applying for loans was more than a little politically motivated. Technically, of course, he no doubt broke some law or other, just as many others have who have not been prosecuted. After all, is it not the bank’s responsibility to determine whether to grant the loan? Since the loan was repaid with interest and on time, they seemed satisfied with the result, and no doubt considered and discounted Trump’s inflated valuations. Do you wonder why they weren’t asked to testify by the prosecution?

            If New York Attorney General Leticia James were to prosecute every similar case, she would have to double her staff. But she won’t; nor will Manhattan District Attorney Alvin Bragg, who seems determined to double down with the hush-money, Stormy Daniels criminal case. While Bragg’s case is stronger, it will also give Trump an opportunity to campaign without having to bother to do anything but stand outside courtrooms and play the martyr. And even if the loan fraud judgement survives appeal, don’t be surprised if the monetary award is drastically reduced. 

            Then we have the fiasco in Georgia, where the actual case against Trump is also strong, but where District Attorney Fanni Willis has jeopardized it by having an affair with the outside prosecutor she hired to the tune of $650,000, and with whom she took expensive trips he paid for, claiming that she reimbursed him for her share in cash. Really?

            It seems less and less likely that Trump will be convicted of anything before the election. Even if he is, the inevitable appeals will drag on, perhaps for years. In the end, the voters will have to decide if they want him to serve a second term. For many Republicans and conservatives, it comes down to a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea. In this case, the devil is someone they know, Trump, and the deep blue sea is a man that represents a political party that they believe over governs and overspends.

            On Tuesday, November 5, you and I will likely be faced with that baleful choice. Do we vote for a thoroughly bad man, whose only saving grace is he isn’t a Democrat; or a man already showing his age, and who may or may not live through a second term, and who’s likely vice-presidential candidate is widely disliked? Or not vote at all, which may be a popular choice?

            It’s a hell of a thing, isn’t it?

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon       

By Patrick F. Cannon

I’ll be 86 on March 2, so I thought I should find out what other famous people were born on the same date. As you might expect, the first names that pop up on Google are current celebrities, including Daniel Craig, Robert Downey Jr (both very fine actors), Lindsay Lohan and Miley Cyrus (cuter, but of somewhat lesser stature). But how about names from the past, eminent in other fields?

The venerable Porky Pig will be 89 on March 2. He is rather benign and even likeable. I much preferred Elmer Fudd and his Sisyphistic quest to put an end to his nemesis, Bugs Bunny, but you can’t always choose who shares your birthday.

In contrast to Porky, there’s Pope Leo XIII (1810-1903), one of the longest serving popes. Leo was often called the “Commie” pope because in his encyclical “Rerum Novarum,” he had the temerity to say that workers should be allowed to have unions and be treated with respect. Not being Roman Catholics, the Robber Barons paid no attention. J.P. Morgan was even heard to say: “Pope who? What’s a pope?”

I’m sure there must be some Poinsettias from Christmas still doggedly clinging to life, perhaps in your home? As it happens, they were originally brought back from Mexico by the diplomat Joel Roberts Poinsett (1779-1851), our first ambassador to Mexico, and later US secretary of war. Over the border in Texas, Sam Houston (1793-1863), another March 2 baby, was that independent republic’s first president. Many Texans still think it’s independent or should be. Sam didn’t die at the Alamo, having been prudently absent, so later represented Texas in the US Senate. I can’t recall whether the current city was named after him, or vice versa.

            I’m honored to share a birthday with the great Yiddish writer Sholem Aleichem (1859-1916), who emigrated to this country in 1906. He was a tireless promoter of Yiddish as a major language but is best known today for writing the stories that were the basis for the legendary musical, Fiddler on the Roof. Another great writer born on March 2 was Tom Wolfe (1931-2023), who wasn’t afraid to write “big” novels, and who gave us the thrilling space saga, “The Right Stuff.”

            And how about DeWitt Clinton? He served as mayor of New York City, governor of the state, and as a US senator. But he’s best known as promoter of the Erie Canal, which connected the Atlantic Ocean at New York City to the Great Lakes and thence to Chicago. Once the Illinois and Michigan Canal was completed, you could float your boat from New York City to New Orleans (if you had a lot of time on your hands).

            The great Swiss cyclist Oscar Egg (1890-1961) shares my birthdate. He held the world’s one-hour record several times and was also the first winner of the inaugural Chicago Six Day Bicycle Race in 1915. Held annually at the Chicago Coliseum until the mid-1950s, Oscar rode again to Chicago glory in 1916 and 1923.

            Great musicians were also born on March 2. The German-American composer Kurt Weill (1900-1950) gave us The Threepenney Opera, with its famous song, “Mack the Knife.” A particular favorite of older men is his “September Song” from Knickerbocker Holiday of 1938. If you want to hear it sung by the actor who introduced it on Broadway, Walter Huston, just do an internet search.

            And don’t forget the great jazz tenor sax player, Eddie “Lockjaw” Davis (1922-1966). And although best known as Lucille Ball’s exasperated husband on “I Love Lucy” (and in real life), Desi Arnaz (1917-1986) was a mean conga drum virtuoso and band leader before striking it rich on television.

            Finaly, Mikhail Gorbachev was born on March 2, 1931 (died 2022). I was always amused at his bemused expressions when listening to Ronald Reagan. But best of all is Theodor Seuss Geisel (1904-1991), known as “Dr. Seuss,” who gave me so many wonderful verses to read to my children, including “I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them, Sam-I-Am.” I never liked them either, but I loved saying the words.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

I thought I’d turn this space over today to a French writer, Albert Camus, who died in 1960, but who continues to speak to us today. He wrote these words in 1949 in The Artist as Witness, and they seem to me to be truer today than they were then.

            “There is no life without dialog. And in the major part of the world, dialog has been replaced today by polemics…But what is the mechanism of polemics? It consists in considering the opponent as the enemy, consequently in simplifying him and refusing to see him. We have no idea of what the man we are insulting looks like, or whether he ever smiles, or how. Having become three-quarters blind by the grace of polemics, we no longer live among men but in a world oof silhouettes. There is no life without persuasion. And today’s history knows only intimidation. Men live and can only live on the basis that they have something in common on which they can always get together.”

            In 1949, in the aftermath oof World War II, we had the beginning of the Cold War, the first Arab-Israeli conflict, the anti-colonial uprisings, the Communist victory in China – and nuclear proliferation. Now, we have the continuing Arab-Israeli conflict, Ukraine, Taiwan, unimaginably more efficient weapons of all kinds, and Red versus Blue here and in many other countries. And Camus’ words resonate more than ever.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

I hate to kick a man when he’s down, but President Biden continues to demonstrate that even now – in the final year of his term – he is too old to fully function in his role as the de facto leader of the free world. Even most of his own party wishes he would step aside and make way for a younger candidate to oppose (alas, it looks like) Donald Trump in November.

            Add to these misgivings the report of special counsel Robert K. Hur, in which he declined to prosecute the president in the classified documents case in part because he found him a “well-meaning, elderly man with a poor memory,” and with “diminished faculties of advancing age.”

            Many have criticized these comments as “gratuitous.” I disagree. Kur made them because the president’s faulty memory would have weighed in his favor in any possible trial, by providing reasonable doubt as to his motivation. President Biden compounded the damage by holding a news conference to denounce the report, at which he confused the presidents of Egypt and Mexico. His staff must have, by now, raised “cringe” to high art.

            His mental capacity is flawed now. What will it be like when he’s 86, which he will be if he’s re-elected and serves his full term? He will be nine years older than Ronald Reagan was when he left office, and Reagan was noticeably failing mentally at the end. I’ll be 86 in less than a month, and I suspect my memory is better than the presidents, but I don’t have to undergo the daily stress of his office. Do you know anyone whose mental capacities improved with age?

            I know he always wanted to be president. He tried and failed several times. After loyally serving as Obama’s vice president for eight years, his persistence was rewarded, after Hillary Clinton failed to stop Trump. I can’t help but feel that many party leaders assumed he would be satisfied to serve one term. Clearly, he wants to hang on; and some, probably including his wife, are encouraging him to do so.

            We have a strange situation in this country. On the one hand, we have a Republican Party that seems frightened to death of the ultimate grifter, Donald Trump. On the other, we have a Democratic Party whose members tell pollsters they think President Biden is too old to run again, but whose leadership won’t come out in public and say what they must believe.

            I’m reminded of 1974, when Republican leaders Senators Goldwater and Scott, and House Minority Leader Rhodes went to see President Nixon to tell him that there weren’t enough votes left to prevent his impeachment in the House and conviction in the Senate. While they didn’t demand he resign, he got the message.

            I’m sure we’re all familiar with the technique of “intervention,” when a group of friends and/or relatives confronts an addict in an attempt to get him or her (or perhaps “they”) to admit to having a problem, as a first step in overcoming it. Why doesn’t a group of Democratic Party leaders (and donors!) confront President Biden with the obvious: “You’re too old to run again. If you do, you’ll go down in history as the cranky old man who gave the country back to Donald Trump. If you step down, you’ll be able to point to your achievements and act the elder statesman role!”

            But then, I struggle to think of any of the current crop of politicians who put the interests of the country before their own.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Thank God I don’t have to fly much anymore. Just got back from Tampa on a visit to my son Patrick, and it was the usual uncomfortable experience. Small seats, no legroom, full flight, crumbly cookies, narrow aisle – well, if you fly, you know it’s no fun. Thankfully, it was only a two-and-a-half-hour flight, and it was on time.

            Look, I understand economics. The airlines want to get as many seats as they can on their airplanes. The Federal government regulates them and could theoretically mandate larger seats with more leg room, but they have to balance that against this: “fewer seats, higher fares.” The resulting equation means OK comfort for someone 5 feet 3 inches, weighing 130 pounds, but torture for me at 6 feet 2 inches and 240. The reality is that my knees touch the seat in front of me. And, to add to the torture, you’re not allowed to get up and stand in that narrow aisle, once a Godsend on longer flights.

            If you’re old enough, you can remember better days. I flew commercially for the first time in 1956, when I moved from Pittsburgh to Chicago after my mother died. As I recall, the plane was a two-engine turboprop, and we landed at the newly-opened O’Hare. Over the years since, I have been on just about every commercial craft then flying, starting with the legendary DC-3, which took me from Nairobi, Kenya to a dirt landing strip near a game park.

            My first time in the air was in a Piper Cub, piloted by an employee of my father, who had been a World War II pilot. I have no idea where the little airport was, but it must have been a southern or western suburb of Chicago. I have also been up a couple of times with my pilot son in a Cessna 172. The only other single-engine plane I can recall flying in was one the US Army used for courier service in France. As I recall, it had a radial engine and could accommodate six passengers. Also in the Army, I flew from Augusta, Georgia to McGuire Air Force Base in New Jersey – enroute to the ship that would take me to France – in a Lockheed Constellation. Early in my post-Army career, I also flew in its piston-engine competitor, the Douglas DC-7.

            My first business flight was in 1963 from Chicago to New York for an orientation session with my new employer, the Union Camp Corporation. We flew in a Sud Aviation Caravelle, a twinjet manufactured in France. Get this! It was all first-class, and only male passengers were permitted! We were served cocktails and steaks by young and comely stewardesses (still called that in those pre-politically correct days).

            You newer fliers may be interested to know that some early versions of the Boeing 747 jumbo jet actually had bars, some with pianos. Because even the coach seats were adequate and even comfortable, and you could stretch your legs and even join a sing-along, travel was at least bearable. And, of course, for any flight longer than a couple of hours, you got a meal, which was not always great, but at least something you didn’t have to bring aboard.

            Before I retired, I mostly flew business or first class for longer flights. Now, I suffer with the folks in steerage. For some international flights, airlines offer an upgrade for coach seats that provide a bit more leg room. It’s another dodge like baggage fees, but worth it if you’re taller than average.

            There was a day when air travel was an adventure. People actually went to the airport to see friends and family off on their adventures. No more. And no more smiling faces in the departure lounge or singing “Fly Me to the Moon” at the piano bar.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

See You on the Radio

By Patrick F. Cannon

For more than 20 years, my Sunday morning routine has not changed much. After a hearty breakfast, I watch CBS Sunday Morning from 8:00 to 9:30 am, then read the Sunday Chicago Tribune. The television magazine program has always run for an hour-and-a-half, but the Trib has dwindled over the years to become a shadow of its former self.

            From 1994-2016, the program was hosted by Charles Osgood, who died on January 23, age 91. Concurrently, Osgood – who always considered himself a “radio man” – did a radio program called “The Osgood File.” He was also a dab hand at the piano, and something of a poet, although he always said he was just a “rhymer.”  

            He succeeded Charles Kuralt as host. As it happens, I hired both to be speakers at Lions Clubs International conventions. One of my staff members picked Kuralt up at the airport and delivered him to the venue the next day. I met him then, and somewhere have a photo taken with him and my staff. One of his most popular features was “On the Road with Charles Kuralt.” He travelled the county in a motor home, stopping in small towns and attractions along the way. In his talk, he was able to mention the Lions clubs and members he had encountered along the way. This went over well with American members in the audience of 15,000, but less so with German and French attendees!

            I personally picked up Osgood at the airport. In those simpler days, you could meet people at the gate. We paid for first class for our guests and speakers, so he was one of the first passengers off the plane. We exchanged pleasantries, and I took his suit bag, which was his only luggage for this quick trip. About halfway down the concourse, he suddenly patted his suit jacket, stopped and said: “I think I left my wallet on the plane.”

            Back to the gate we went, where one of the staff hustled back to the plane and found his wallet. In the hired limo to the hotel, we chatted about this and that. At one point, he asked if I had ever worked in radio, because, as he said, “you have a radio voice.” Ever since, I wished someone had said that to me fifty years ago. I might have given Wally Phillips a run for his money.

            Anyway, he was the nicest speaker I ever hired. As a tribute, I’ll end this with a verse he used to end his talk the next day. It seemed that the Census Bureau had created a new category for describing households: Persons of Opposite Sex Sharing Living Quarters (or POSSLQ). Here is Osgood’s take on it:

            Come live with me and be my love

   And we will some new pleasures prove

            Of golden sands and crystal brooks

            With silken lines and silver hooks.

            There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do

            If you would be my POSSLQ.

            You live with me, and I with you

            And you will be my POSSLQ.

            I’ll be your friend and so much more;

            That’s what a POSSLQ is for.

            And everything we will confess;

            Yes, even to the IRS.

            Someday on what we both may earn,

            Perhaps we’ll file a joint return.

            You’ll share my pad, my taxes, joint;

            You’ll share my life – up to a point!

            And that you’ll be so glad to do,

            Because you’ll be my POSSLQ.

Rest in peace, Charles Osgood.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

If you’ve been reading these weekly musings long enough, you’ll know that I’m not a big fan of the proliferation of governments, agencies and corporations that employ people to tell you what to do, or why they can’t or won’t. One solution for multiple Federal anti-poverty programs that I’ve advocated: get rid of the multiple agencies that provide financial assistance and replace them with one that decides eligibility based solely on family size and income and sends a monthly check sufficient to cover all eventualities (food, housing, medical care, etc.). I’m told that some people will game the system. Guess what? They already do. In my system, there will just be fewer bureaucrats worrying about it.

            What spurred me to write this was a January 18 David Brooks column in the New York Times. With apologies and thanks to David, let me repeat some of the stuff he found out. First, and this should be no surprise to most folks, a third of all health care costs go to administration, costing the average American $2,000 a year. What these administrators mostly do if figure out ways to deny coverage. I recently experienced this when my doc hit the wrong button on his computer. He thinks he’ll be able to fix it, but I’m not holding my breath.

            Here’s a shocker. According to a study in the Harvard Business Review, there is now one administrator or manager for every 4.7 employees, doing stuff like anti-harassment training, writing corporate mission statements (I was once guilty of that), collecting data and managing “systems.” Here’s one that Brooks didn’t mention: At the height of World War II, there was one general or admiral for every 6,000 troops; now there is one for every 1,600. The poor enlisted soldier can barely walk a block without having to salute someone!

            Why does it cost so much to go to college? Well, M.I.T., for example, has eight times as many nonfaculty employees as faculty. In the University of California system, non-faculty positions increased 60 percent between 2004 and 2014 (God knows what it is now). Faculty positions? Eight percent. Many of the new administrators spend their time worrying about the meaning of free speech, or whether the school is measuring up in equity, diversity and inclusion (D.E.I.).

            Brooks gives us the example of Mark Edmunson, who teaches literature at the University of Virginia. Once the self-evaluation he had to submit ran to one page. “Now he has to fill out about 15 electronic pages…demonstrating how his work advances D.E.I., to make sure his every waking moment conforms to the reigning ideology.”

            Finally, although it beggars belief, Edmunson quotes these rules his university devised to govern how students, faculty and administrators should practice sadomasochistic sex: “When parties consent to BDSM 3, or other forms of kink, nonconsent may be shown by the use of a safe word, whereas actions and words that may signal nonconsent in non-kink situations, such as force of violence, may be deemed signals of consent.”

            Has all this made for a better, more humane world? You tell me. And by way, the Federal government is our largest employer, with about 3,000,000 on the payroll. Wall-Mart comes second with 2,300,000. And they give you value for money, and a smile when you walk in the door.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

I don’t know how many time people have said to me: “I don’t understand how anyone could vote for Trump.” The reason I won’t vote for him is simple – he’s a horrible, awful human being, and I despise him with all my heart and soul.

            But that doesn’t mean that I don’t understand why some 40 percent of my fellow citizens currently say they would vote for him rather than President Biden (assuming both end up being the actual nominees). Let’s just explore a few of the more obvious reasons.

            Conservative Christians – and that includes a significant number of Roman Catholics – believe that abortion is morally wrong. To many of them, Trump is a hero because he appointed justices to the Supreme Court who made it possible to overturn Roe v Wade. Now, I don’t think Trump really cares about abortion either way, but he sees it as important to his base, so changed his former “pro-choice” stance. The left’s demonization of those who oppose abortion for strongly-held moral and religious reasons just hardens their attitudes, which Trump exploits (as many another politician would also do).

            As it happens, the majority of Americans support abortion, but within limits.  Many have suggested it be legal up to about 13 weeks, or about 10 weeks before fetal viability. After 13 weeks, abortion would only be permitted for medical reasons. This sensible compromise exists in some states, but others ban abortion outright. Absent Federal law, the current Supreme Court decided to punt, with predictable results.

            I know people who voted for Trump in 2016 and 2020 and may vote for him again. All of them are good citizens and neighbors, as generous and civic minded as you would wish. Do you wonder why they resent being demonized because they believe in the sanctity of human life? Or that they are concerned when their children are exposed to a variety of sex education that is far too sophisticated – and dare I say doctrinaire? – for little kids? And are concerned when their young sons and daughters are forced to share bathrooms with someone obviously of the other sex? Or girls who are required to compete in sports with trans girls? Rightly or wrongly, President Biden takes the rap for all of it.

            I won’t go into all the varieties. of “wokeness” that infuriates people, including me. I will point out, however, that there is a growing reaction against its more blatant examples. The presidents of both Harvard and the University of Pennsylvania discovered – I’m sure to their amazement – that sometimes there is a clear wrong and right. And that the major donors who give them all that money understand the difference better than they do.

            This is not to say that every Trump supporter is a solid citizen. It’s clear that a significant number are racists, nativists or just plain wing nuts. Although many Republicans are trying to rewrite history (including Newt Gingrich’s attempt to rehabilitate Richard Nixon), I watched January 6, 2021, on live TV, and showing some footage of smiling and peaceful Trump supporters isn’t going to erase the violence.

            Finally, Americans of both parties are sick of the dysfunctional Congress and government. Trump supporters see him as someone who will shake things up. As for me, I worry that the shaking might turn into an earthquake. The Republicans could make a more rational choice, but it doesn’t look like they will. It won’t be a dull year, anyway!

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

A bottle of Domaine de la Romanee Conti red Burgundy, vintage 1945, sold for $558,000 at auction, the highest price ever paid for a standard-size bottle of wine. That must have been a good year, because a bottle of Chateau Mouton-Rothschild red Bordeaux of the same vintage sold for $310,000. Not to be completely outdone by the French, a bottle of Screaming Eagle California Cabernet Sauvignon (the main grape used in Bordeaux as well) once sold for $500,000. It was a relative youngster, vintage 1992.

At nearly 80 years old, are the French wines still drinkable? Maybe; then again, maybe not. Because of that doubt, I have always been puzzled by wine collectors. On the rare occasions when one of these bottles is opened, it’s just as likely to be undrinkable as it is to be transcendent. And there’s so much chicanery in this market that the finest Gallo Hearty Burgundy might be lurking in that bottle of Chateaux Margaux.

Collectors are interesting people though. Many are speculators, making bets on the future. I was watching a car auction recently, and several of the offerings were essentially brand new models that had been made in limited numbers or were the last of their kind. They had the kind of mileage a new car would have; some even had their protective covers intact. The idea was to buy the car new, wait a year of two, then hopefully sell at a profit. The seller would put a reserve price that would guaranty at least a small profit. Amazingly, to me anyway, a car bought for $100,000 often sold for $150,000 or even more.

The contemporary art market is similar, it seems to me. The collectors who bet on Warhol, Basquit or Jeff Koons early on have been amply rewarded for betting on what could become fashionable among the gullible (including museums). What their investments will look like in 100 years is open to question, but why should they care?

I’m not really a collector. If I had had enough dough when I was younger, I might have bought myself a Ferrari, but I would have driven it, even if only in good weather. Many years ago, I almost bought a small Rembrandt etching of a young man reading. It had been printed during Rembrandt’s lifetime, and could have been had for about $10,000. I decided against it. Had I bought it, it would be worth about $35,000 today. I think I spent the money on a new roof instead. (By the way, to me a single Rembrandt self-portrait is worth more than all of Warhol’s and Koon’s collected works.).

Of course, some people collect stuff because they love it. I had a colleague once who collected baseball cards. He was may age, and started collecting in 1945 or thereabouts. Why? He loved baseball. I’m sure lurking in his collection were cards worth a lot of money. But, alas, he stored them in his basement, which flooded one day when he wasn’t at home. He mourned their loss, not for the money, but for the love.

In comparison, what are we to think if the Saudi Arabian prince who paid a record $450.3 million for Salvator Mundi, a “lost” painting by Leonardo da Vinci? Did he buy it for love or ego? Does it hang in his bedroom, or languish in a vault?

The greatest fear of collectors in it for profit is the fickleness of the market. If you watch Antiques Roadshow, you may have noticed that the market for so-called “brown” furniture (Georgian, Regency, etc.), has declined significantly. And most of those collector plates that you used to see advertised in the Sunday supplements are now worthless (and the Sunday supplements are gone too). On the other hand, the strangest collectible of all, Beanie Babies, seem to be holding their own. I just saw one advertised at $40,000.

But the most successful collector I ever knew was Guido “The Collector” Santucci, from the old Italian neighborhood in Chicago where I used to live. I think his collecting must also have had something to do with baseball, since he always seemed to have a bat in his hand.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon