Blame Game

By Patrick F. Cannon

President Biden failed to show up at the scene of the Norfolk Southern Railroad derailment in East Palestine, Ohio, so somehow it became his fault. Our canny former president, Donald Trump, did show up. As it happens, that area of Ohio voted overwhelmingly for him in 2020, so he came to preach to the choir.

East Palestine is just west of the Pennsylvania state line, in a part of Ohio hit hard by the loss of heavy industry, like its neighbors Pittsburgh, Youngstown, Wheeling and Steubenville. Area residents voted for Trump because they felt betrayed by their government, and saw him as a champion against the entrenched establishment. They thought he really cared about them, and many still believe he does. The evidence suggests, however, that he cares only about himself. In private, he probably sees them a “losers,” a word he cherishes.

The reality is the tide of change washed over this and other areas, leaving behind what has come to be known as the “rust belt.”  Someday, the tide may change and bring back prosperity, and no doubt the president of the day will take credit, just as Biden has taken credit for today’s low unemployment and seeming prosperity (he tries not to say too much about inflation).

The derailment was an accident, one of many that occur every year on the nation’s railroads. President Biden had nothing to do with it. The responsibility lies purely with the Norfolk Southern Railroad Company, and lax regulation. That it happened in East Palestine was their misfortune. Living in the Chicago area – crisscrossed with tracks as it is – I shudder to think what a similar derailment would have meant had it happened on the tracks that travel through the Austin neighborhood.

If we’re honest, we should admit that the blame for many of our problems is shared more or less equally by Democrats and Republicans. Let’s take inflation. Stimulus and infrastructure programs passed by both parties have contributed to it. An example: I received checks I didn’t need, which I promptly donated to charities and other non-profits. I was also given tax cuts, which the nation couldn’t afford. Who do we blame? Trump, Biden, Obama, Bush? Or maybe FDR? How about ourselves for electing self-servants instead of public servants?

President Biden is being blamed for the mess at the southern border. But the immigration mess has been with us for multiple administrations. There are legislators from both parties who have worked together to craft solutions that would both better protect the border and deal rationally and humanely with the millions of illegal immigrants who have become an important part of our economy. What has happened to these bipartisan efforts? Partisan squabbling, that’s what.

(Of course, presidents are responsible for some of our misfortunes. I’ll just mention two that we can lay at President Biden’s feet: leaving Afghanistan like a thief in the night; and forgiving student loans before last year’s mid-term elections when he must have been told it might not be found constitutional.)

Back to the derailment. Due to deregulation – a Republican mantra – we now have freight trains 200 or more cars long. These endless trains – if you’re waiting for one to pass – are crewed by just two people, an engineer and conductor. Just one bearing failure in one wheel among nearly a thousand can cause a major derailment, yet railroads are not required to have heat sensors. As it happens, the Norfolk Southern does have sensors, but at intervals too far apart in this case. There is bipartisan legislation pending that would mandate heat sensors every ten miles. If through some miracle it passes, you can be sure President Biden will take credit for it!

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire!

By Patrick F. Cannon

Nikki Haley, former governor of South Carolina and US ambassador to the UN, has announced a run for the Republican nomination for president. Age 51, Haley has suggested that any candidate 75 or older for that office should be required to take a cognitive ability test to see if they are truly capable of leading the free world. An otherwise obscure congressman, Scott DesJarlais (R-TN) – he’s 59 – did her one better by suggesting a constitutional amendment to make it mandatory.

            For many reasons I won’t go into here, this idea isn’t going anywhere (not least because it might occur to members of Congress that they might be tested!). Another idea that won’t fly – although it makes perfect sense to me – is to require all candidates for Federal office and judgeships to take a lie-detector test.

            I took one once, and must have passed, since I got my security clearance. I don’t remember every detail, but it starts with some obvious yes and no questions to set some kind of base (and yes and no are the only answers you can ever give, except for follow-ups). For example, the examiner might ask if you ever stole anything. If you honestly answer yes, he might ask what. I won’t bore you with my youthful transgressions, except to say they were minor.

Of course, lie-detector tests can’t be used in court, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be used in the court of public opinion. So, as a public service, I have compiled a list of questions an examiner might use when grilling candidates. (I should mention that some sociopaths and other goofballs don’t recognize the difference between the truth and a lie – you know who I mean – so probably could pass the test easily).

• Have you ever read the Constitution of the United States?
• Do you ever want to read the Constitution of the United States?
• Do you really think all men are created equal?
• Do you think it’s OK to legislate morality?
• Do you secretly read the New York Times?
• Do you secretly read the National Enquirer?
• Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?
• Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the ACLU?
• Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Oath Keepers?
• Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution?
• Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the United Daughters of the Confederacy?
• Do you secretly speak French?
• Would you like to be a lumberjack and wear women’s clothes?
• Have you ever stolen your neighbors newspaper?
• Have you ever lusted after your neighbor’s wife? Or husband?
• Do you ever change your position on an issue based on polling?
• Do you think Tom Brady is cute?
• Do you practice smiling in your mirror?
• Do you care about anything other than getting elected?
• Do you think the Chicago Bears are ever going to win the Super Bowl again?
• Do you think God is a Republican?
• Do you think the Devil is a Democrat?
• If you thought you could get away with it, would you lie, cheat, steal and even commit murder to become president of the United States?

I won’t have to take this test, or even a cognitive ability test, because I turned 85 this very day, and have better things to do with my time than run for any office, even dog catcher (although I do love dogs, and that’s no lie!).

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

New “Menu” in Town

By Patrick F. Cannon

Buoyed by the improving economy, famous chef Jean Claude “Boomer” Bilbao has opened a new fine dining restaurant in the chic Chicago suburb of Forest Park. Called simply Boomers, it  features the usual tasting menu, but with a twist – instead of $500 a head, it’s available for $50! (or $65 with wine/beverage pairings).

            During my recent visit, and honoring a long tradition, the meal started with an amuse bouche (literally, “funny mouth” in English). In an expensive emporium, this might consist of a perfectly-poached quail egg, nestled in a foam made of Indian Ocean squid ink, presented in a tiny porcelain spoon. Boomer’s take on this classic starter is more modest, but no less tasty, consisting of a perfectly-seared nugget of Spam, served on a tiny leaf of iceberg lettuce. This is paired with s mere thimble (literally) of Virginia Dare’s famous pink wine.

            My fellow diners must have been amused, for their laughter only stopped when the next plate was served. I must confess that it was a dish I had never encountered in my extensive culinary travels – Pidgeon gizzards braised in Mountain Dew. Our server explained that chef had installed traps on the roof, which provided a reliable source of the notably stupid fowl. After extracting the entrails, what remained was sold off to fine dining spots in Chicago, where they were branded as wild-raised “squab.” A decanted white wine of unknown origin helped get this distinctive dish down.

            These tiny rarities were soon disposed of to make way for a palate cleanser. Our server – an aspiring actor of unknown sex – explained it was a mixture of avocado and zucchini, blended together in a freezing centrifuge, then molded into elegant little cubes, and placed on a heart-shaped piece of Brawny paper towel. Finally, using a medicine dropper, the server delivered just one drop of Klingler’s justly famous hot sauce to the top of the cube. The room was soon filled with a multi-colored mist; it was thus difficult to see one’s fellow diners enjoying this combination of the bland and fiery. Pure spring water was served to cool palates.

            It was now time for the main course! Chef Boomer himself led the servers from the kitchen, and stood by while each of us was served a gold-finished aluminum can, accompanied by a church key. “You have all heard of the famous Kobe beef of Japan, fed with the best of feeds, supplemented by beer and sake, with the sacred cows even massaged! This results is the world’s best, most expensive, but fattest meat. I cannot in conscience serve it, but I can offer you  the essence! It seems the rich diet produces a rare wind – called the “Divine Wind” in Japan – which the producers have now canned for export to a choice clientele. This evening, that’s you! 

            “If you’ll take your opener, get as close to the can as possible, then quickly open it and breathe deeply at the opening, you will experience a sensation unique in the Chicago area. Let me count to three; at three everyone open their cans in unison – one, two, three!”

            The assembled diners sniffed in unison. A variety of noises ensued. For me, the fleeting odor remined me of nothing so much as the smells in my Army barracks on a Sunday morning after the lads had spent Saturday night drinking beer and eating pizza at the NCO Club, although the odors then were somewhat less fleeting.

           After this unique experience, dessert was something of an anti-climax: Oreo cookies blended into a mousse with Mogen David Extra Heavy Malaga, and topped with a Maraschino cherry. When Chef Boomer and his staff came out, they were greeted with an emotional silence instead of the usual applause. I’m sure they were heartened by this reaction. In any event, I’m told tables at Boomers are booked months in advance.

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

G.O.A.T.?

By Patrick F. Cannon

The basketball player LeBron James recently became the all-time leading scorer of the National Basketball Association (NBA), taking that distinction away from Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. Many fans immediately claimed that James was the Greatest of all Time, or G.O.A.T., in shorthand. “Wait a minute,” many responded, “what about Michael Jordon? After all, he’s the all-time leader in points per game and won more NBA titles in his years with the Chicago Bulls!”

            Sports fans love to argue about stuff like this. Who’s the greatest hitter of all time? Babe Ruth? Ted Williams? Ty Cobb? How about the greatest football player? Many claim that honor for Tom Brady. But how about Jim Brown? Or Walter Payton? Or, from different eras, Sammy Baugh or Bronco Nagurski? Was Roger Federer really better than Rod Laver? Or Max Verstappen superior to Juan Manuel Fangio? Can we really compare athletes from different eras?

            For the snootier among us, who was the greatest painter? Was it Rembrandt, Picasso, or perhaps Jeff Koons, with his colorful carnival of the animals? Was Mozart better than Beethoven? And just what is the “Great American Novel?” A recent article by Rick Kogan trotted out Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby once again. A fine book, no doubt, but better than Saul Bellow’s Adventures of Augie Marsh? Or Twain’s Huckleberry Finn? Or Grace Metalious’ Peyton Place, which shocked the nation?

            You see the problem here. But while I think it’s fruitless to name the G.O.A.T. in the world or even in our country, it may be possible on a more local basis, and in more modest pursuits. For example, I have had my hair cut in several states, and even in foreign countries, but  by far the greatest of all barbers was undoubtably the legendary Pino “Golden Scissors” Grimaldi, who emigrated from Sicily to ply his trade at the once fashionable Hotel Brevoort in downtown Chicago.

            Now long gone, replaced by a sterile office building, the Brevoort was home to the famous literary luncheon group, the Potawatomy Powwow, where you might find literary lights like James T. Farrell, Sinclair Lewis, Saul Bellow, Ernest Hemingway, Mike Royko, Rick Kogan, and yours truly, quaffing a Martini or two, and enjoying the famous Roast Turkey with shad-roe dressing. 

            If you were lucky, you could end the day getting a Grimaldi haircut. I should tell you that an appointment with Pino wasn’t easy to get. In fact, you added your name to the waiting list of favored customers, then hoped that those above you would either move out of the area, or die. Once you were in his list, you could be certain of getting an appointment, although initially it might be at an inconvenient time.  Refusing an appointment time was tantamount to lifetime  banishment.

            Once ensconced in Pino’s chair, you would be treated not only to a perfect haircut, but receive the benefit of his breadth of knowledge about any and all subjects – sport, politics, finances, the very meaning of life. It was said by more than one customer, that a shave, haircut and shampoo at Pino’s hands could cure the worst hangover! Every mayor of Chicago was a customer – even Jane Byrne – as were financiers and captains of industry. I’m told that he was a rich man when he finally retired to Palm Springs, but not as rich as we! His departure signaled the end of the Golden Age of men’s haircuts.

            Another “greatest” in my long experience was the king of short-order cooks, the redoubtable Pablo “Chewy” Garcia, who manned the griddle at the Olympiad, just west of the Chicago River between Union and Northwestern Stations. If you sat at the counter, you could see Chewy work his magic, handling a dozen or more breakfast orders at one time, and never getting one wrong. His only help was a rotating group of interns, young men still wet from swimming the Rio Grande. In my experience, he was the only short order cook who actually knew the difference between over easy and over medium, and whose poached eggs were perfection itself.

            Although I never saw him in action for lunch, I’m told his olive and mushroom burgers were legendary, and his fries always perfectly brown and crispy. Great honors came his way, including the “Golden Griddle Spatula” and Honorary Membership in the American Hellenic Educational and Progressive Association. He even became baptized in the Greek Orthodox Church! Alas, the Olympiad closed in 2010, yet another victim of unbridled development. So, Chewy hung up his grease-spattered apron for the last time and retired to Santorini.    

Perhaps I should also mention Joe “Magic Rag” Conyers, who kept the wing tips of bankers, lawyers and politician gleaming for so many years in the lobby of City Hall; but then I remembered that few men have shoes these days you can actually shine, so wouldn’t have any idea what I was talking about..

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

Biggest and Best!

By Patrick F. Cannon

In the early 1970s, I did a stint as director of public information for the City of Chicago’s Department of Public Works, which is responsible for building public stuff in the city. Its two main bureaus were architecture and engineering. It didn’t take me long on the job to realize that Chicago was home to the biggest and best of a lot of things.

            For example, it has the largest water treatment plant in the world, the James W. Jardine, which is next to Navy Pier on the lakefront. It’s a truly amazing place; alas, fears of a terrorist attack after 9/11 has closed it to the public. By the way, a second Chicago water treatment plant on the South Side is the 8^th largest.

            Although it’s loathe to admit it processes sewage, the Metropolitan Water Reclamation (!) District is the largest such system in the country, handling the unmentionables of more than 10 million people in the greater Chicago area. The part of it that I was most involved with was the so-called deep tunnel project, one of the largest public works projects in US history.

While it won’t be fully completed until 2029, its vast system of deep tunnels and reservoirs are designed to eliminate the flooding that occurs after a heavy rainfall; and the discharge of sewage into the lake that sometimes results because Chicago has a combined sewer system (instead of separate systems for rainwater and sewage).

            In my day, we had a neat model to explain it all to the public. Looking something like an ant farm, it simulated what the new system would do in a heavy rain. After plugging it in, and flipping the switch, the rain would pour down into the sewers, thence to the vast subterranean tunnels (I actually went down in one once – it was 30 feet in diameter!), where it could be stored until it could be conveyed to the treatment plant. It gurgled and whooshed to everyone’s astonishment.

            It has since been eclipsed, but I was present for the construction of the world’s largest parking garage, located at O’Hare International, then the busiest airport in the world (it now goes back and forth with Atlanta’s). The garage has no less than 9,000 parking spaces, and woe betide the returning parker who has forgotten to write down the location of his or her spot!

            Although it wasn’t dedicated until shortly after I left city employment, the Sears Tower had been topped out and would be the world’s tallest building for many years. And although I haven’t been able to fully confirm it, I believe Chicago’s 26-mile coastline is the longest of any city set aside for purely public use.

            With 37, Chicago also has the most movable bridges of any city in the world. I once did a booklet on the bridges with the chief bridge engineer, Lou Koncza (he later became the city’s chief engineer). Born in Poland, Lou was a courtly gentleman, always immaculately dressed, whose enthusiasm for his bridges was infectious. Working with him was a highpoint of my tenure with the city. I wish I’d saved a copy of the booklet. By the way, when I moved back to Chicago in 1956, an occasional freighter still plied the river. Now, the only time the bridges are raised is when sailboats enter the lake in the Spring and return in the Fall.

            By the way, on some days you might get blown over by the wind crossing one of those bridges. Although it turns out we’re not really the windiest city in the world, today’s wind and rain might make you think we are. Actually, as you history buffs know, we got the name “Windy City” from the politicians and blowhards who extolled our virtues when boosting Chicago to host the 1893 World’s Fair. We did get the fair, to the consternation of our jealous friends in New York!

            Finally, before you get bored out of your minds, I was reminded at a family gathering last week that Western Avenue, at 23.5 miles, is the longest street in any city in America. Although I’ve never driven the entire length at one time, I have driven all of it at one time or another. Oh, and I once had an apartment bedroom that overlooked it, and lived in another just a block away. It could be loud, but there were several fine Italian restaurants within walking distance. Of course, they were the greatest!

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

Would You Rather Swing on a Star?

By Patrick F. Cannon

Most mornings I find myself humming or even singing some long forgotten song as I get up and stagger into consciousness. I have no idea why they force themselves up from deep within my memory as I awaken, but they invariably do.

            A few mornings ago, I found myself singing these lyrics, not out loud, but in my head: “Would you rather swing on a star/Carry moonbeams home in a jar/And be better off than you are/Or would you rather be a mule?” The title of this song, from the movie Going My Way, is “Swinging on a Star.” It was sung by the movie’s star, Bing Crosby, one of the greatest pop singers and movie stars of the first half of the 20^th Century. Indeed, the movie won the Academy Award as Best Picture of 1944; and the song – with music by Jimmy Van Heusen and lyrics by Johnny Burke – was awarded Best Song.

            It seems strange to me that songs like that would bubble up from my memory on a regular basis; even stranger that I would remember the lyrics, although sometimes inexactly (if I have time, I check). I was six when the movie came out. My sister took us to the movies fairly regularly, so I might have seen it then; I did see it later on television.

Crosby plays an Irish-American priest sent as an assistant to an inner-city parish with a crotchety pastor, played by the Irish actor best suited for a role like that, Barry Fitzgerald; who, by the way, won the Best Supporting Actor Oscar.  You may remember Fitzgerald better from The Quiet Man, in which he played the matchmaker. If you’ve never seen Going My Way, you might want to look it up. The Quiet Man is always shown on or near St. Patrick’s Day.

Even stranger is another song that recently sprang from deep within my noggin: “Watching all the Girls Go By,” from the 1956 Frank Loesser Broadway musical, The Most Happy Fella (Loesser is better known for Guys and Dolls) . I never saw it; but I would have heard the recorded version of the song, which was a hit for The Four Lads that same year. It goes: “Standing on a corner watching all the girls go by/Standing on the corner watching all the girls go by/Brother, you don’t know a nicer occupation/Matter of fact, neither do I/Than standing on the corner watching all the girls/Watching all the girls/Watching all the girls go by.”

I would imagine standing on a corner watching all the girls go by might get you arrested these days. But so far I’ve gotten away with singing it in my bathroom while shaving. Just for the record, other songs that have come to my mind over time include “The Way You Look Tonight,” “Bridge Over Troubled Waters” (I’m not stuck in the 1940s and 50s), and one of my all-time favorites, “What’ll I Do.” Written in 1923 by a genius, Irving Berlin, Frank Sinatra sang it better than I do. By the way, you can find his version – and samples of all the songs I’ve mentioned – on the internet.

Finally, a favorite that often comes to mind goes like this: “Oh, I’m a happy wanderer/I wander to a fro/I wonder up the Zeider Zee/To zee the buffalo/Valderi/Valdera/Valdari/Valderah..ha…ha…ha…ha…ha/Valderi/Valdera/A knapsack on my back.” I was astonished to find that these lyrics are nothing like those written by the composer, the German Florenz Freidrich Sigismund. Of course, the original song was written in German, so perhaps my translation is as good as any.

To be memorable, like a great poem, a song has to have lyrics that fit the tune and even rhyme. It’s unlikely, therefore, that I shall ever wake up singing “I ain’t got no satisfaction.” Or, for that matter, with visions of the Mona Lisa appearing before me. While the visual arts are important, they don’t touch our souls in the same way. It may seem a cliché, but music really is the universal language.

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

New Blood is Needed!

By Patrick F. Cannon

I live in Illinois’ Seventh Congressional District, a classic of Gerrymandering (look it up). Danny Davis is the current congressman. I’ve met him a couple of times, and he is a courtly and affable fellow, and is known for excellent constituent service. He is, however, 81 years old. Although I’m not sure, I think he will probably run for re-election in 2024. Frankly, I think it’s time for some younger blood, so I’m seriously thinking about running against him.

            “Wait!”  you might say. You’re even older than he is! Strictly speaking, you would be correct. But I have decided to be 32-years-old when I run. How could this be possible? In this great country of ours, one is not bound by one’s birth certificate. If you can change your sex on an official document, why not your age? Thirty-two seems a good age to me. The minimum age is 25, but that seems a bit young. While you might well have graduated from college – and even graduate school – by then, it doesn’t suggest much real experience in the world. That extra seven years could make all the difference.

            “But see here,” you could respond, “the jig would be up when they see you. You might pass for 75, but no one’s going to believe an old codger like you is 32!” I have to agree, but I plan to hire an actor to handle the public campaigning. As you may know, Chicago is a major center for live theatre, and there are always plenty of out-of-work actors looking for a juicy role. I’m thinking a clean-cut fellow, whose skin has just a hint of brownness. That way, it would seem believable when I claim that I have both distant African-American and Hispanic ancestors.

            As to educational background, mine is perfectly acceptable, but it lacks a bit of exotic cachet.  You may recall that former President Bill Clinton had Georgetown, Yale and Oxford (as a Rhodes Scholar) on his resume. Alas, there are several Rhodes Scholars in Congress, so claiming one for myself might cause a problem. But I very much doubt that there are any graduates of the Institute National du Service Public (INSP) in Paris, which has trained numerous French presidents and prime ministers. My French is a bit rusty, but I could stipulate that my stand-in actor has some French. Problem solved!

            What, you may ask, did you do for that seven years between getting your advanced degree at INSP and today? Well, I could claim to have been a deal maker for Goldman Sachs, but that’s a bit overdone. Instead, how about a stint digging water wells in Equatorial Guinea? No one really knows where it is, but it sounds needy and exotic. And maybe followed by several years teaching Bangladeshi women how to start their own fabric businesses? And how about working with a new generation of Juan Valdezes to establish organic coffee plantations in remote areas of Columbia?  Finding time to start a homeless shelter in Lake Forest should make up  the rest of those seven years!

            Of course, I’ll eventually be exposed, just like that George Santos fellow, but so what? With such a divided Congress, they’ll need my vote. And if they try to get rid of me, I’ll claim age discrimination!

Copyright 2023, Patrick F, Cannon

Shush! It’s a Secret!

By Patrick F. Cannon

I don’t think anyone really knows how many classified documents exist in the various branches of the Federal government, but some of them have recently been found at the offices and homes of former President Donald Trump and the current occupant, Joe Biden. Biden’s seem to have been holdovers from his years as vice president. Special counsels have been appointed in both cases to discover if any laws – other than common sense – have been broken.

            While it would be prudent to let the investigations decide the seriousness of these lapses, it has been reported that at least some of the documents found in Biden’s former office were briefing documents related to foreign trips. If you were planning a trip to Russia, you would be well advised to visit the Department of State web site and get a briefing document to alert you to the pitfalls of travel to that worker’s paradise. It obviously wouldn’t be classified. But if you were vice president, your briefing document would include juicy details that your hosts might object to – and it would be classified.

            I happen to have a Top Secret security clearance, although it’s not active. It seems you keep your security clearance – which I’ve had since 1961 – unless it’s specifically cancelled. The most famous cancellation involved J. Robert Oppenheimer, who led the team that developed the Atomic Bomb. He lost his clearance in 1954 during the “Red Scare” because he had been associated in the 1930s with some “progressive” (read Communist) organizations, and had opposed the development of the Hydrogen Bomb. The Biden administration has recently restored his clearance, a purely symbolic gesture. He died in 1967, his career ruined.

            My clearance was related to my service as a cryptographer in the US Army from 1961-63. In case you think I labored to break Russian codes, that’s what a “crypto analyst” does. Instead, I used machines to encode and decode classified messages in a communications center located in La Rochelle, France. Lucky me! Or at least until I had to spend the last six months of my two-years’ service in middle of the Mojave Desert!

            I had a Top Secret clearance because it was possible that I might have had to handle such a message. As it happened, I never had one classified higher than Secret. By the way, the other (and lowest) classification was and is Confidential. These are still the main classifications, although there are permutations.  I still can’t tell you the content of the messages I encoded/decoded, but I was in the Army during the Berlin Wall and Cuban Missile crises; and the early stages of the Viet Nam debacle. The reason I was in La Rochelle? The Army operated a major supply port just down the Atlantic coast at La Pallice.

            In addition to taking a lie-detector test, I found out later that the F.B.I. had interviewed my friends, neighbors and employers. Homosexuals were barred from serving in the armed services then, so the lie-detector and background check was designed, among other things, to discover your sexual tendencies, or whether you were a Commie or anarchist. The sexual thing may have been related to the reports that several of the British intelligence officers who had spied for Russia had been gay, and it was presumed – without any real evidence – that their sexuality made them vulnerable to blackmail.      

            By the way, having a Top Secret clearance doesn’t mean you have total access. For example, my signal company commander had the clearance (all officers do), but he wasn’t permitted access to the secure room where we did our work – we called it the “vault.” Even Members of Congress, who are automatically given clearance, are only granted access on a “need to know” basis. Certain officials, including the president of course, are given total access.

            Once I had decoded a message, it was either delivered personally or picked up by the addressee(s). They were required to show identification, proof of clearance, and sign a register. What they then did with it was out of my hands. Of course, that’s the rub. Legally, they had to store the message – or any classified material – in an approved safe, not in a box stored next to their favorite Corvette. Of course, that’s the problem. Who’s checking on this stuff? No one, it seems.

            There are any number of cases where government employees – even C.I.A. agents like Aldrich Ames – walked off with classified documents and sold them to the Russians. And who can forget Chelsea (born Bradley Edward) Manning? But there are many more cases of simple carelessness. Instead of locking it up, bureaucrat X just leaves it on his desk; or brings it home to read later, where it gets mixed up with the bills and bank statements. Since there are millions of pages of this stuff floating around, is it any wonder that so much of it goes astray?

            Every study of security classifications has concluded that much of it need not have been classified to begin with. Reform is suggested; reform never happens.  It has also been suggested that documents are often classified to avoid disclosing embarrassing missteps or even illegal activities.   I don’t doubt that for a minute. Finally, I have a modest proposal. Let’s hire James Earl Jones to read the contents of the documents found at Mar El Lago and Wilmington outload on national television for all to hear. It might take a while, but it could be quite amusing.

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

Everyone OK With Puppies?

By Patrick F. Cannon

You may wonder why I’m illustrating this week’s article with a photo of cute puppies. Well, I thought, who could object to seeing puppies? Then I remembered the more avid members of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA), who would object to the “enslavement” of dogs, cats and other animals for the amusement of their human owners.

            In any  event, I thought a photo of inarguably cute puppies would be safer than, say, a painting of the prophet Muhammad. As it happens, some, but not all, Muslims object to the visual depiction of the founder of their religion. They think it smacks of idolatry, much as the early Christian protestants did during the Reformation when they painted over and otherwise obliterated the iconography in the cathedrals and churches of Northern Europe.

            Erika Lopez Prater, an adjunct professor of art at Hamline University (St. Paul, MN), showed a 14^th Century Persian painting of Mohammad receiving revelations from the Angel Gabriel, and got fired for her transgression. This, even though she warned Muslim students beforehand, giving them the choice of watching or not. Since a Muslim student complained anyway, the university saw no other possible remedy than denying Prater a new contract and apologizing to its Muslim students.

            As it happens, Hamline is the oldest university in Minnesota. It has a student body of about 1,800, and prides itself on its high ranking among smaller universities. Its mission statement has the usual twaddle about diversity and inclusiveness. I saw nothing in its literature to suggest it has any religious affiliation. Yet, it has decided to give in to religious pressure and commit an afront to academic freedom, thus joining the increasing number of schools that have disgracefully done the same.

            What Hamline has done is wrong in so many ways that one hardly knows where to begin. It has decided that the students, not the university and its faculty, are the best judges of what will be taught. As someone who knows something about the history of the visual arts, I can say with some conviction that artists have often tested the limits of toleration. In this case, the 14^th Century Persian artist was not doing anything of the kind. What he did was perfectly acceptable for that time and place. But today’s students seem to think history started with them; and that their beliefs are the only ones that matter.

            The Muslim students claimed that showing the image was clearly Islamophobic (I’m sure that would have been news to the Muslim artist who painted it). Hamline’s president, Faneese S. Miller, agreed, claiming that respect for Muslim students “should have superseded academic freedom.” Far too many university leaders seem to be of the same mind.  The word “pandering” seems to fit.

            The men who founded our republic – some of them religious themselves – understood that religion needed to be separated as much as possible from government and education. We have struggled with this from the beginning. We need to keep struggling. We need only look at countries like Iran and its enemy Israel to see how religion can distort rational public life. If we permit Muslim (or any religious) students to limit what can be taught, where does it end? 

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

Hope Springs Eternal

By Patrick F. Cannon

I’ve been a fan of thoroughbred horse racing since 1957. In addition to the Chicago tracks – Washington Park, Arlington Park, Sportsman’s Park, Hawthorne (all now gone except the latter) – I have been to the races New York, Florida, California and Arkansas; and overseas in England, Ireland, France, South Africa, and Hong Kong. While never a big bettor, I’m sure I’ve lost more than I’ve won (the fate of most gamblers, whether they admit it or not).

            After all these years of fandom, I decided last year to take the plunge and become an owner. Partnerships in owning horses have become much more common, as the cost of buying well-bred young horses has increased. Among others, MyRacehorse – which I chose –  enters partnerships and offers small shares of their share in a variety of horses to folks like me. One of them, Authentic, won the Kentucky Derby and Breeder’s Cup Classic. So, for less than $300, I bought miniscule shares in three two-year-old horses. On January 1, as all race horses do, they all became three years old.  

            Only one of them, Ein Gedi, has actually run, finishing fifth and seventh in her two starts. In watching her races, I had the feeling that she was more comfortable being part of the herd than leading it. In both, she was among the leaders, but seemed unwilling or unable to break free and lead. Horses are, after all, herd animals, and most herds have only a few leaders. She was supposed to run recently at Tampa Bay Downs in a turf (grass) race, but heavy rains caused the race to be transferred to the dirt track, and she was scratched.

            Because she seems uninterested in being a race horse, she may be sold as a brood mare prospect. She was bred in England; her sire is the highly successful Oasis Dream, and many well-bred but unsuccessful mares have themselves produced excellent race horses. By the way, she was named after an oasis in Israel called Ein Gedi, which translates as “spring of the kid.” A good name, but a horse that won’t make me rich.

            Another filly that I own part of, Night Combat, is not going to the races at all. It seems she had an injury that will prevent her from ever standing the rigors of training and racing. She is also well bred, being a daughter of Malibu Moon, who sired more than 130 stakes winners (and counting) before he died in 2021. She will also be sold as a broodmare prospect. My share might be a couple of bucks.

            Still alive – as we horsemen are wont to say – is Three Jewels, a colt by the Triple Crown winner, American Pharoah. Last year, he had a small bone chip removed, a common occurrence for young Thoroughbreds. Just the other day, he was diagnosed with bone bruising, another common ailment. He will spend the next 90 days living in grassy splendor in sunny Florida. If he heals properly, he might return to training for a summer debut.   

            So, I am the part owner of one horse who has run without winning; one that will never run; and one that may run – if he doesn’t run into a fence or other solid object – this coming summer. Discouraged? Not a bit of it. Indeed, I just bought three shares in a handsome two-year-old colt by Candy Ride, an undefeated champion who has sired numerous takes winners, including the new sire sensation, Gun Runner. His name is Secret Crush, no doubt a reference to the on-line game, Candy Crush.

            I like the name, and, you know, this could be the one!

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon