A Balancing Act

By Patrick F. Cannon

I was born in 1938, so would have been six years old in 1944 when World War II was entering its most dramatic final stages. In those days, we went to the movies at least once a week, and I vividly recall the newsreels, with their reports of America’s increasing battlefield successes in Europe and Asia. One of the popular slogans that kids recited was based on Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs: “Whistle while you work, Hitler is a jerk, Mussolini is a meany, and Tojo’s even worse.”

            We had no real idea then of the horrible carnage these men had unleashed, even though they were routinely demonized in the press and government propaganda. In the end, I learned they caused the death of between 65 and 75 million soldiers and civilians. Stalin was our ally during the war, but he was no less a monster than his Axis protagonists. For example, in the early 1930s, forced agricultural collectivization caused the death from starvation of at least 4 million Ukrainians. Stalin’s admirer Putin seems to be following in his footsteps.

            During my lifetime, these monsters have had many descendants – Mao, Pol Pot, Idi Amin, Saddam Hussein, Slobodan Milosevic, both Assads; the various Kim’s of North Korea – not to mention the serial killers and mass murderers who seem to fill the news almost daily. Compared to them, and to be fair, Donald Trump hardly measures up, loathsome as he is.

            It’s easy then to be pessimistic about the human race; and yet, while these and other monsters were plying their gruesome trades, others were making positive contributions – and are still doing so. No one really knows how many people were kept alive by the development of Penicillin, but its wide availability starting in 1942 certainly saved the lives of hundreds of thousands of soldiers in World War II. I think we can gratefully thank Alexander Fleming and  his colleagues at Oxford University, Howard Florey and Ernest Chain, with beginning the process of vaccine development that has saved many more lives than Hitler and his ilk were able to end. (If we could have kept politics and religion out of medicine, even more people would be alive today.)

            I have said this before, but it bears repeating: abject poverty around the world has never been lower, thanks largely to free-market Capitalism. Advances in agriculture, primarily due to American scientists, are feeding a growing world population. Starvation does exist, but primarily in war-torn areas of Africa. Although you might think otherwise if you believe the doomsayers, malnutrition is almost nonexistent in this country, and is largely limited to medical conditions, mostly anorexia. Do some children occasionally go hungry? Yes, but not because food isn’t available for them.

            Although climate change is real, the alarmists who predict the end of mankind don’t seem to have any faith that mankind will find a way to “not only survive but prevail,” as the American writer William Faulkner said in his acceptance speech when he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. It will be a much slower process than the idiots who throw paint on works of art would wish, but emerging technologies will eventually solve this problem just as Fleming and his successors had found ways to kill the bacteria and viruses that once killed so many of us.

            I know how hard it is to be positive when we’re burdened with what seems to be the worst gang of politicians in our history. To stay sane, I try to remember that the Austria that spawned Hitler also gave us Mozart; the Italy that fostered Mussolini also fostered DaVinci; and the Japan that followed Tojo to its ruin has enriched us with the work of Katsushika Hokusai (see above) and, more recently, economic and ubiquitous digital photography.

            So, let’s not give way to despair. And why not make that year-end donation to your favorite cause? Or give a buck or two to the next panhandler you come across? It is, after all, the season to be jolly.

\Copyright 2022, Patrick F. Cannon

Happy Holidays From Dogpatch!

By Patrick F. Cannon

Well, another year has passed, so I thought I’d bring you all up to date on the family as the holidays approach. As usual, there wasn’t a dull moment. First the bad news: old Uncle Abner won’t be with us this year – once again, the Parole Board turned him down. I guess he’ll have to serve the full sentence. Heck, he’ll only be 70 when he gets out. If he watches his health, he ought to be able to enjoy some of the cash he has stashed away. He still refuses to tell me where it’s hid, despite me telling him inflation is eating away at it, and I’d be happy to invest it for him. Oh, well, he’s as cantankerous as ever.

            Daisy Mae is pregnant again. Not sure who the father is this time either. As you know, all her kids look just a little different. I call them the rainbow coalition. She’s a worker though. Taking an online course in beauty culture, using money borrowed from the government. She says no one every pays off them loans, so it’s like a free education. Aren’t these young folks smart?

            As you know, young Georgie is in the army. He made it all the way to corporal before he got busted back to private for drinking on duty. At least they didn’t give him a dishonorable discharge like his brother Amos. I guess they treat drunkenness and attempted murder different.

            You probably heard that Aunt Nellie got married again. You kinda lose track, but I think this might be number six. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that her former husbands all died suddenly.  At least they all left her some money. Maybe she’ll have better luck this time. The new husband looks healthy enough.

            I’m proud that the family remains on the cutting edge of social change. Cousin Charlie announced that he was changing his name to Charlene. Guess we’ll all have to bone up on our pronouns. I suggested to Charlene that the beard might be considered odd for a lady, but he’s (she’s?) quite fond of it, reminding me that the carnival that comes through town still features a bearded lady. So, it looks like a career change might be in the offing too.

            I’m sure you’ve seen all the media stories about son Ralphie. As you know, he’s the only member of the family to graduate from college – and Harvard no less. He’d already graduated by the time they found out he’d phonied up his transcripts and ACT scores to get in, and by then were too embarrassed to go public. Ralphie says the trick is to get in. After that you don’t have do much, since they think you’re already smart enough.

            Anyway, Ralphie’s now got the record for the greatest Ponzie scheme in history. Unlike old Madoff, he got away to Russia with the dough before it was discovered, so all that education sure paid off.  That picture of him and Putin riding those white horses bare-chested made all the papers. Funny though, when we tried to get a passport to visit him, we got turned down. I complained to our congressman, and he told me he was surprised too, since he thought they would be happy to see us leave the country. Not sure what he meant by that.

            I hope you won’t believe that story about wife Rosie being found naked with the preacher. She told me it was just a new way or praying; something about going back to the innocence of Adam and Eve before they ate the apple. She said it made her feel so good she might try it again.

            As for me, my run for Congress didn’t work out so good. I thought for sure having former President Trump’s endorsement would do the trick, but those crooked Democrats foiled me by actually going to the polls and voting. I was wrongly criticized for not having any political experience, which I thought was actually a plus. I also thought it was unfair to bring up those accusations of sexual misconduct, especially since the statute of limitations had already expired. Anyway, if the former president of the United States can play grab ass, why not your humble servant? I guess I’ll just have to go back to selling used cars salvaged from the recent hurricanes. I always hate to see stuff go to waste.

            My brother Caleb says he won’t be attending any of the family’s Christmas gatherings this year. Says he can’t afford to, since he claims I borrowed $5,000 from him some years back and never paid him back. He’s the eldest you know, and it’s sad to see his memory starting to fail him.

            Well, that’s all for this year. You have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. As for me, I can’t wait to see what the future has in store for Yokum family.

Copyright 2022, Patrick F. Cannon

Have Some More Ice Cream!

By Patrick F. Cannon

I’m obese. Not morbidly obese, but I could certainly stand to lose 20 or even 30 pounds. I even know how I could do it: dispense with the daily cocktail (occasionally supplemented by a glass or two of wine); cut down on the pasta; and forgo the almost daily dish of ice cream. Oh, and the cookies too. I already exercise, but I could do a bit more.

            So, I know why I’m overweight and how I could lose the excess. Yet, a “guest essay” in the New York Times reported that the world’s top researchers on obesity met at the Royal Society in London and couldn’t agree on anything but one thing: obesity is not a personal failing.  This is reassuring to me and my fellow fatties. And it must be more than reassuring to the morbidly obese, many of whom have always claimed that being chubby is simply a result of hormones or even a lifestyle choice.

            As it happens, part of our weight problem is related to our relative prosperity. Sugar, once a luxury, is now relatively cheap. We like sweet stuff and can afford to indulge on a daily basis, whereas our ancestors enjoyed it only as a rare treat. The number of jobs where physical labor ate up the calories have also dwindled. Meat was once an occasional luxury. Fast food outlets did not exist; nor did prepared and packaged meals.

            I don’t want to go too far into the weeds here, but about 41 percent of Americans are technically obese, defined as have a body mass index (BMI) 30 or higher (have the 60 percent who aren’t obese been vaccinated, or do they just have better self-control?). Morbid obesity starts at a BMI of 40 or more, or 100 pounds above normal weight. The Centers for Disease Control (CDC) estimates that obesity added $173 billion to our  health care costs in 2019, mainly from some kinds of cancer; coronary artery and cardiovascular disease; type 2 diabetes (with its own litany of problems); and stroke, among others.

            While there are some medical and mental conditions that can cause obesity, the majority of overweight people know why they’re chubby and can actually do something about it, despite what the experts might believe. Many of you reading this have gone on diets and lost weight. Others have resumed their former eating habits and put it back on. It would be nice to blame your backsliding on fate, wouldn’t it?

            Nowhere in the Times article was any mention of calorie intake and personal choice as a factor in obesity. I think it would be instructive to quote from the author’s (Julia Belluz) concluding paragraph: “Until we see obesity as something that’s been imposed on society, not as something individuals choose (my itals.), the fat shaming, magic hacks and bad policies will continue. Until we stop blaming ourselves and one another and start focusing attention on environments and systems, the global obesity rate will continue its ascent…”

            No individual should ever be “shamed” for obesity or anything else for that matter. But what of education?  Perhaps I missed it, but I see no concerted public education project to alert people to the dangers of obesity. As a former smoker, I can attest to the effectiveness of the relentless anti-smoking advertising campaigns. In 1965, 43 percent of adults in this country smoked; in 2018, 14 percent. Among young people, the rate went from 27.5 percent to 8.8 percent.

            By all means, let’s treat those who have actual medical or mental conditions, but why should the rest of us be left off the hook? Are we really that helpless and hopeless?

Copyright 2022, Patrick F. Cannon

National Service?

By Patrick F. Cannon

I first set foot on British soil on November 11 in the early 1980s. I was enroute to India for a meeting, and decided to break the trip by spending a few days in London to see the sights. I took a train from Heathrow which left me off in a tube (subway) station just a couple of blocks from my hotel.

            The first thing I saw when I emerged from the station was an elderly gentleman dressed in a red uniform selling poppies. November 11 was for many years called Armistice Day, for it was on that day in 1918 that World War I  hostilities ceased. Since we managed to have World War II since then, it came to be called Remembrance Day in the UK, and Veteran’s Day here. I was reminded of this a couple of weeks ago when I saw a photo of the new King Charles III placing a wreath at London’s Cenotaph, the memorial designed by Sir Edwin Lutyens to commemorate those who had died in World War 1.  

            The man who sold me the poppy was, I discovered later, a Chelsea pensioner, a resident of the Royal Hospital Chelsea, a retirement and nursing home for British Army veterans; thus the red unform. Selling poppies is still a tradition in the UK; here, not so much, since the American Legion, which sold them, has declined in membership, along with so many other volunteer organizations.

            While originally meant for those who had served in the war, the day now honors all veterans, including me. I managed to avoid shooting wars, although I was in the Army during both the Berlin Wall (1961) and Cuban Missile (1962) crises. I was drafted, and served the required two years in France and the Mojave Desert. After basic training and signal school in Georgia, I can’t say my service was in any way burdensome. But it was worthwhile in many ways.

            Why worthwhile? The draft ended in 1973, although young men are still required to register when they turn 18. Sometime in the mid-1970s, I wrote an op-ed in the Chicago Tribune calling for its return, but in a different form. Instead of just military service, draftees could opt for a variety of ways to serve their country for one or two years. The Peace Corps was mentioned, but so were  things like the Depression-era Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC), which brought unemployed young men together in camps to improve the National Parks and do other needed public works.

            One of the reasons the country is now so divided is simply that our young people are segregated by class, income and education. My close friends in the Army – in just two years – included a blacksmith’s son from rural Illinois; one from New Jersey, whose father was the export manager for the Ford Motor Company; the son of a wealthy tobacco farmer from North Carolina; a black kid from Chicago who had enlisted to escape the gang culture; a banker from Long Island; and even a distant cousin of the Kennedy’s. Education level ranged from near illiteracy to a master’s degree in biology (strangely, the Army in its mysterious way decided he would make a good cook!).

            I think one year of national service would be enough. If the “draftee” opted for the military, that would be sufficient time to go through basic training and a specialist school. After the year was up, these young people (of both sexes by the way) would then be required to serve a term in the National Guard or reserves. The armed services would still be primarily volunteer forces. Everyone who does national service would receive educational benefits.

            Would the young person destined for Harvard benefit from serving with someone who was destined to be a plumber or truck driver? And vice versa? Most would.  Some of course wouldn’t. In my case, I wouldn’t be the person I am today – more than 60 years later – were it not for being forced to spend two years learning about people and places I hadn’t known existed. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to go from Lake Forest to Harvard to Wall Street with a detour to a barracks in Appalachia. Maybe the young lady from New York’s upper east side wouldn’t see the “other” as quite so deplorable. And Veteran’s Day might have a whole new meaning.

Copyright 2022, Patrick F. Cannon   

Happy Thanksgiving

By Patrick F. Cannon

A roasted Turkey is the centerpiece of a classic Thanksgiving dinner. Of course, not everyone loves the big bird. One such was a former neighbor of mine in Albert Lea, Minnesota, where I lived for a couple of years in the late 1960s due to a job transfer. It had a population in 2020 of about 20,000, about the same as when we lived there. We moved from one of the cheapest houses in Glenview (a fairly upscale suburb of Chicago) to a new house in Albert Lea, which was about twice the size for roughly the same cost, a bit more than $25,000 in 1968.

            The next door neighbor was the retired county sheriff. Can’t remember his name, but he was known around town as “Sheriffy.” He was an amiable but quiet fellow, part Native American and part Norwegian. Before he bought his new house, he had lived on some “acreage” (as the folks in the area would have called it) on the edge of town. To make use of some of his land and generate a few bucks, he decided to raise some turkeys. The way it worked was you bought some poults (babies), put them in some kind of enclosure, fed them, then sold them to a processor when they reached market weight.

            Anyway, Sheriffy had his flock near market weight when a big-time thunderstorm blew through the area. It seems the birds were terrified and huddled together so closely that they all suffocated to death. No turkeys, no income. Sherrify hadn’t realized, he said, “how stupid the damn things were. I’ve never eaten Turkey since. Ham is what we have.”

            As for me, I’ve eaten Turkey for Thanksgiving as long as I can remember. My mother was an indifferent cook, but there was always enough gravy to make the tough Turkey go down. Even the Army managed to put on a traditional feast when I was stationed in France and later, the Mojave Desert. After that, and for many years, my sister Kathleen hosted Thanksgiving. Married to an Italian (Emilio Giuseppe Evangelisti), she became an excellent cook. We always started with a pasta course, and the food kept coming! I always overate.

            After Kathleen died, and I remarried, my wife Jeanette and I always hosted Thanksgiving and I was put in charge of making the hallowed bird. I have become (justly) famous for my stuffing. I would give you the recipe but there isn’t one. I just play it by ear. I can, however, give you some advice. Because there’s nothing worse than wet and gooey stuffing, always toast the bread the day before, cube it, and let it dry overnight. Don’t be afraid to search the freezer for those bits of bread you always forget about. If there’s some rye or whole wheat lurking in the back, thaw it out and throw it in the mix.

            I also add some breakfast sausage. I fry a package of (usually 8) patties, drain them on paper towels and chop into small cubes. I also dice a lot of onion and celery. These are sauteed in a very large pan in butter, along with some fresh parsley, rosemary and sage. I then add some shaved carrot, diced apple and minced, dried cranberries to give a bit of color. I usually root  through the spice drawer and sprinkle in anything that looks likely, as well as salt and pepper to taste. No garlic though. Garlic is a no-no in stuffing.

            After this mixture cools a bit, I add it to the bread and mix it thoroughly. If it’s a bit dry, I add some turkey stock until it’s (in my view) perfect. Then into the bird it goes. There’s always enough to both stuff the gobbler and fill a casserole. There is a school of thought that says you should never stuff the bird. I suppose if you forget to cook the turkey completely, this might be a problem. But in 35 years I have never sickened anyone who ate my stuffing.

            I should mention here that the raw bird will have a sack full of innards in the cavity. I have heard of people who have inadvertently left this in. Since you are one of my readers, I can’t imagine you would be guilty of this. Before you put the turkey in the oven (read the instructions on the packaging to determine oven temperature and approximate cooking time), brush all over with melted butter. Sprinkle on salt and pepper. I always tent with foil for the first half of the cooking time. After it’s done and out of the oven, let it rest for at least 30 minutes before carving. I have seen some inept carving in my day, but don’t worry, it will still taste OK.

            If you have to have ham, buy one of those spiral-sliced ones; really, one of mankind’s greatest inventions. Or, you could have both turkey and ham! Now that would be something to be thankful for!

Copyright 2022, Patrick F. Cannon          

The Horse of the Century (So Far)

 By Patrick F. Cannon

I’d be surprised if everyone reading this today will have heard about the horse that won this year’s Breeder’s Cup Classic on November 5. His name is Flightline and I believe he’s the best thoroughbred race horse since Secretariat in 1973.

            Secretariat of course won the Triple Crown and even made the cover of Time Magazine. Minor injuries and accidents kept Flightline from starting his career until April 24, 2021 of his three-year-old year. He didn’t win his first stakes race until December 26. That was the Malibu Stakes, a Grade 1 race (the highest rating for stakes races). He ran only three more times, all Grade 1 events. In his race before the Breeder’s Cup, the Pacific Classic at Del Mar in California, he won by 19-1/4 lengths. His margin of victory in the Breeder’s Cup was 8-1/2 lengths, the longest winning margin in the race’s 38-year history, and against what was widely believed to be one of the strongest fields ever assembled.

            Horse racing was once the most popular spectator sport in the United States. The reason? In most states, it was the only form of legalized gambling. No more. Numerous gambling options are as near as your phone. You don’t have to go anywhere, least of all to a race track. The irony is that online betting has increased thoroughbred purses substantially, but few people actually attend in person. So, poor Flightline had two strikes against him – no Triple Crown participation and little interest in racing among the general public.

            I was unable to go to the Breeder’s Cup. I was in New Orleans with my daughter Beth and son-in-law Boyd. But I was able to use my phone to place a bet or two. My usual bet is $2, but I bet $10 on Flightline to win. For the day, I was $8 richer, with Flightline contributing $4 of the total (he went off at 2 to 5, which means you won $2 for every $5 you bet). While not earthshaking, it was better than the stock market has been lately! Oh, and I was able to watch the race in the down-time between eating at great restaurants.

            I have seen some legendary horses in person, mostly at now-closed Arlington Park. That includes the great Secretariat, who won an invitational race there on June 30, 1973. I also saw Dr. Fager run the fastest mile ever run on the dirt – one minute, thirty-two-and-a-half seconds – also at Arlington in 1968. On those days, the crowds would have exceeded 30,000. The last day I was at Arlington (last year), I doubt there were 5,000 people there, and it was a lovely Saturday.

            Another reason racing has lost its appeal is that the great horses are retired to stud after their three-year-old year. Were Flightline to run next year, he might well earn $10 or $15 million in purses. He might also be seriously injured enough to be euthanized. The highest stud fee I know of currently is the nearly $400,000 charged in England for the European super horse, Dubawi. That’s what it costs for one mare to have one baby. It has been announced that Flightline’s initial fee will be $200,000. If he services 140 mares (a typical number), he would produce $28 million in stud fees in the first year alone! As they say, do the math.

            Thus, the paradox. The great horses, who might excite the public as Citation, Seabisquit, Seattle Slew (Flightline’s great-great grandfather) and Dr. Fager once did as four- and even five-year-old’s, disappear from the scene before they even mature as runners. Once again, sportsmanship gives way to cold, hard cash. In this, of course, racing is not alone.

(P.S. You should be able to find reruns of Flightline’s races on the NBC sports site, or on YouTube. It’s worth doing.)

Copyright 2022, Patrick F. Cannon

The Little Prince

By Patrick F. Cannon

It has been announced that Prince Henry Charles Albert David, duke of Sussex, earl of Dumbarton and baron Kilkeel, formerly of the United Kingdom and several tiny islands, will soon be publishing his memoirs, which he has titled Spare.  We know him better as Prince Harry.

            The book’s title refers to the practice of the royal family and other peers of the realm to produce “an heir and a spare.” His elder brother William, prince of Wales, earl of Chester, duke of Cornwall, duke of Rothesay, duke of Cambridge, earl of Shathearn, baron of Renfrew, baron Carrickfergus, lord of the Isles, and prince and great steward of Scotland (and some knighthoods to boot) is of course the heir to their father, King Charles III. As William now has three children (an heir and two spares), it’s unlikely poor Harry will ever be king, being fifth in line now. In the Middle Ages the problem might not have been insurmountable, but these are tamer times.

            Prince Harry and his wife, Duchess Meagan, apparently got tired of both their fellow royals and their jobs visiting charities and opening supermarkets in the cold and rain of the UK, so they resigned from the family firm and moved to sunny California.

It’s said the book was going to come out sooner, but Harry decided to tone down its criticism of his relatives because it might seem unseemly after the death of Queen Elizabeth II, or granny as she was known in the family. (Of course, all of them managed to put on a good show of familial solidarity for the funeral. The British tabloids are assuming – or are they hoping? – it won’t last.)

            When Harry was traipsing around the UK on  behalf of the House of Windsor, he was paid about $7 million a year. In return, he cut ribbons, patted little heads and generally kept out of trouble. Duchess Meagan – an actress after all — learned how to wear hats and hold flower bouquets without sneezing. These skills should stand them in good stead as they replace the royal income by trading on their fame in the celebrity-mad United States.

            As it happens, Harry was trained as a helicopter pilot when he served in the British Army. If the celebrity thing doesn’t pan out, he can always sign on as a shuttle pilot. In the near term, things seem to be going well. Like their models – Paris Hilton, the Kardashians, and numerous other “influencers” – they need not actually work for a living. They need only be famous.

            Their fame and related income has enabled them to spend north of $10 million on an estate in Montecito, an enclave for the favored of God near sunny Santa Barbara. Their neighbors include Brad Pitt, Jeff Bridges, Julia Louis Dreyfus, Rob Lowe, Oprah (who obliged with an “explosive” television interview that was worth millions in future earnings), and Gwyneth Paltrow, who knows a thing or two about cashing in on celebrity.

            There is, of course, precedent in the Windsor family for Harry to emulate. His great-great uncle David – briefly King Edward VIII until he abdicated – managed to live quite well trading on his fame as the king who gave up his throne for the love of a woman, in that case another American, Wallis Warfield Simpson.  As Duke of Windsor, he passed his days in a mansion near Paris and the watering holes of the idle rich. He had no worries about money – in addition to an allowance from the royal family, subtle endorsements and appearance fees kept him nice and comfy.

            It’s a wonderful world, isn’t it, when the dupes who get up in the morning and go to work make it possible for others to make money by simply existing. America is, after all, still the land of opportunity!

Copyright 2022, Patrick F. Cannon

Can Reasonable People Disagree?

By Patrick F. Cannon

The number of intentional abortions in the United States was 1,545,170 in 1980, and 930,670 in 2020. In the latter year, that’s about 14 abortions per 1,000 births. Of course, the rate varies by state. My state, Illinois, has a rate of 16.6; neighboring Wisconsin, 5.9 (abortion is banned only after 21 weeks and six days); New York, 26.3 (yikes!); Vermont, 11.4; and so on. Although there has been a spike recently, the overall trend is down.

            Despite this, abortion as a political issue seems to be front and center in this election. In my home state – broke (and woke) Illinois – most of the Democratic campaign ads for the November 1 election paint the Republican candidates as fiends who would take a women’s right to choose abortion away, even, as they all claim, in cases of rape or incest! As it happens, Illinois is one of the least likely states to do anything like this.

            Although I’m conflicted about abortion, I do think women should decide for themselves whether to have one or not.  What troubles me is the demonization of people who oppose abortion for religious or moral reasons. For example, if you are a devout Roman Catholic or belong to a fundamentalist Christian denomination, you are required to believe in the sanctity of human life, no matter it’s form. It you believe that as soon as the woman’s egg is fertilized human life – sanctified by God – begins, then you feel obligated to oppose its termination, regardless of how it took place.

            Recent polls say that 61 percent of American support abortion in some cases; 50 percent support it in all cases. If you add the number who oppose abortion in all cases to those who support it only in cases of rape or incest, you come up with 49 percent, creating a statistical tie. The number of Americans who support abortion only in certain circumstances has remained remarkably constant since 2000.

            When more than 90 percent of American were churchgoers (1900), support for abortion would have been miniscule. In 2020, only 47 percent said they went to church regularly (it was 70 percent as recently as 2000). This mirrors the trend in Europe, where regular church attendance is less that 10 percent in Germany and France; and between 10 and 15 percent in the UK, Belgium and the Netherlands. It’s no surprise then that abortion is legal in most of the European Union, with the exception of Malta. Poland – still staunchly Roman Catholic – also prohibits it except in cases of rape, incest or when the mother’s life is threatened.

            But here, and perhaps for the next few decades, we are divided on this issue. And though there are excesses on  both sides – doctors who performed abortions have been murdered, for example; and pro-life organizations have been vandalized and even fire-bombed – pro-choice advocates seem increasingly to demonize those who oppose abortion for religious or moral reasons. Thus, the negative campaign ads that make some candidates look like heartless monsters. (By the way, what does one’s position on abortion have to do with how one administers the state treasury?)

            In the end, I think it must be the individual woman, not the state, who must decide whether abortion is a moral or medical issue.  But I also think it’s a mistake to demonize people whose sincerely believe abortion is wrong for religious or moral reasons. But neither side of the issue benefits from politicians who position on abortion is not based on any moral quandary, or actual belief, but: “what will get me elected?”   

Copyright 2022, Patrick F. Cannon

Music, Music, Music!

By Patrick F. Cannon

Two articles in the online edition of the New York Times got me thinking about music. Rap and Hip Hop superstar Kanye West, who now prefers to be called Ye (as in Ye Gods?) was being upbraided for a couple of  things – wearing a “White Lives Matter” T-shirt and for having made some antisemitic remarks. Ye, who has a very high opinion of himself, was also mentioned as being our eras equivalent of  Mozart.

            The other article was about the new movie Tar, which stars the always wonderful Cate Blanchette as a female symphony orchestra conductor who has risen to conducting the Berlin Philharmonic, considered by some to be the world’s greatest (although many just rank it as part of the “big three” with Vienna and, yes, Chicago). While generally praising the movie, the writer couldn’t resist pointing out that the protagonist also seemed to prefer the so-called “standard” reparatory (Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, etc.) to “new” and experimental music.

            Let me discuss this first. As it happens, most major orchestras have “composers in residence” programs which pay stipends to young serious-music composers. In most cases, they eventually produce works which are then featured during a concert. Over the years, I have heard some of these works, and a few have been pleasing. Most, however, have been annoying – unmelodic, discordant, and loud. It is said by some that this music is simply reflecting the ugliness that surrounds us in a chaotic world, as if these were qualities unique to our times.

            Here’s a scoop. Mozart’s world was even uglier and more chaotic. He died tragically at 37, which was about the average life expectancy then. Abject poverty was more widespread. Europe had been almost continuously at war for 250 years, and would stay that way for another 25 after Mozart’s death. The gap between rich are poor was at least as wide as it is now, probably wider. Yet, with just a few exceptions, Mozart’s music – all 800 compositions! – is melodic, dramatic and, yes, beautiful. Listening to it, whether in a concert hall or in a recording, gives pleasure.  Is it any wonder that concert goers prefer it to angst-filled contemporary music? (Much visual art also seems angst driven. A cartoon I saw recently showed a couple looking at a painting, which was a blank canvas with a single black dot at its center. The man comments: “Such anger.”)

            Mozart was a real genius. He produced an astonishing number of works in his 37 years because that’s how he made his living. No work, no money. Today’s serious composers exist on grants and academic appointments. I would guess the only non-rock, rap and hip hop composers who make any money are those that compose music for the movies, television, video games and the Broadway stage. John Williams of “Star Wars” fame comes to mind, but I would guess Ye/Kanye tops him with an estimated net worth of $2 billion!

            The audience for his kind of music – if that’s what it really is – is huge and growing. The audience for classical music is declining, if you consider it as a percentage of the total population. Major orchestras exist on philanthropy more than ticket sales (the cost of which are high and getting higher). I wonder how many people will actually pay to see Tar, which is receiving strong reviews, and has one of our greatest actors doing some of her best work. After all, large parts of it have her rehearsing the Berlin Philharmonic in Mahler’s 5^th Symphony, which, by the way, takes nearly 75 minutes to actually perform.          

            So I guess Kanye West is a kind of genius. Not perhaps a musical genius, but a genius in gauging the popular taste. He can fill stadiums with 50,000 screaming and jumping fans, most of whom will have never heard a note of Mozart’s music. And now they have courses in rap and hip hop in the same colleges and universities that once offered courses in classical music appreciation. Kanye even has an honorary doctorate from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, which knows a good deal about pandering to contemporary taste. I leave you today with two quotes from Kanye’s “music.”

            “I feel like I’m too busy making history to read it.”

            “For me to say I wasn’t a genius would be lying to you and myself.”

Copyright 2022, Patrick F. Cannon

What’s Under Your Bed?

By Patrick F. Cannon
When I was about four years old, my sister Kathleen (who then would have been 15) took my year-older brother Pete and I to the movies. As I recall, there were three theatres in our hometown of Braddock, PA. The fanciest was the Capitol. That’s where the big productions went after closing in downtown Pittsburgh. The others were the Paramount and Times. We usually ended up at the Paramount, which featured double features of mostly B westerns.

            Along with Hopalong Cassidy, Johnny Mack Brown, Gene Autry, and other heroes, you would get a newsreel (dominated by World War II, which was just underway) and a cartoon. On that  particular day, the bill of fare instead included two horror movies – The Mummy and The Wolf Man. The latter sometimes appears on old movie channels. The Mummy, originally released in 1931, is generally only available on DVD and maybe streaming services. 

            In case you’d forgotten, a Mummy is a dead Pharoah embalmed and wrapped in bandages. In this particular movie, he’s played by Boris Karloff, who’s more famous for impersonating Frankenstein’s monster. But you have to start somewhere. It seems this particular Pharoah was dug up by a diligent grave robber (a British archeologist). This is a no-no, so Boris rises from his coffin, staggers haltingly toward the camera (the audience), then unwraps himself and takes off after the grave robber. Needless to say, he looked better wrapped up.

            (The discovery of King Tut’s tomb in 1922 and it’s curse would have been fresh in people’s minds in 1931. Similar stories have been a staple of the movies ever since.) 

            Lon Cheney, Jr appeared as the title character in 1941s The Wolf Man, which is now considered a classic of the genre. Poor Lon was strolling through the woods one evening when he was confronted by a snarling wolf, played by Mickey Rooney in wolf’s clothing (just kidding). Anyway, the wolf, whose fangs were dripping with goo, bites poor Lon, but doesn’t finish the job. He recovers, but ever after, when the Moon is full, spouts shaggy fur and a mouth full of sharpish teeth in an early classic of special effects. As with the mummy, panic ensues. The supporting cast was somewhat more memorable, and included Bela Lugosi and a real actor, Claude Raines, best remembered as Captain Renault in Casablanca.   

            On those long ago Saturdays, my sister would often deposit us at the Paramount and go on to the Capitol to see some mushy romance. If her movie finished first, she would be waiting for us; if not, we were instructed to wait for her to take us home.

            Why would I remember this day out of hundreds of forgotten childhood days? Simply because I spent a night of pure terror. As it happened, our parents were away, and Pete and I slept in their bed. Every creak and every shadow foretold the imminent arrival of either the mummy or the Wolf Man. What was under the bed? What lurked in that partially open closet! I’m sure we eventually went to sleep out of pure exhaustion, but eighty years later, I still remember that night.

            While I have occasionally seen a horror movie, in general I have avoided them ever since. To be frank, I have never understood the public’s demonstrated interest in stories about zombies, vampires and fellows wielding chain saws. If I want to be truly frightened, I need only pay attention to the knuckleheads we keep electing to political office.

Copyright 2022, Patrick F. Cannon