At Random 

By Patrick F. Cannon

I didn’t have any thoughts this week worthy of 700 words, so here are some that rose to the surface, and then receded before I could fully hook them.

I had planned to travel to New York last September to see the Frank Lloyd Wright exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA), which, with the Avery Library at Columbia University, is now the major repository of his work. Fate intervened and I had to cancel the trip. In conjunction with the exhibit, MOMA produced a catalog – Frank Lloyd Wright: Unpacking the Archive. Looking through its some 250 pages — which barely scratch the surface of an archive that contains some 55,000 drawings, renderings and sketches, which not even the three-volume Complete Works pretends to encompass – it once again became clear to me that Wright was the greatest architect of the 20^th Century.

From time to time, it has become fashionable to denigrate him, particularly by disciples of Mies van der Rohe, Corbusier, Walter Gropius, or Louis Kahn, among others. But any fair review of the work, built and unbuilt, must lead inevitably to Wright, and even for some early doubters eventually does. I’m reminded of Philip Johnson, no mean architect himself, describing Wright as past his prime in the early 1930s, only to admit later in life that he had been mistaken; indeed, that jealousy had probably played a part in his earlier opinions.

President Trump is already preparing his acceptance speech for the Nobel Peace Prize, although he will modestly leave it to others to nominate him. He exhibits his inevitable and tiresome bravado because North Korea’s Kim Jong-un has agreed to meet with him to discuss the de-nuclearization of the Korean peninsula, among other issues.  Because he does not read, and the past is thus a mystery to him, he seems unaware of the baleful results of past negotiations with Kim’s father and grandfather. He should be reminded that in former agreements, we did what we agreed to do, and the North Koreans did not. Nevertheless, if an agreement is reached and this time they actually comply, I’ll nominate President Trump myself.

The #Me Too movement has broadened its focus on sexual harassment to once again call attention to gender bias in employment. In its ideal world, at least half of jobs in all professions and areas would be held by women. On the surface, this seems reasonable, but like all attempts at quotas, it doesn’t square with reality.

The real question should be this: how many women want to go into a specific profession or jobs? Clearly, they want to go to medical and law schools, for they now account for 51 percent of students in these schools. If this increases to 55 percent, should we be concerned about bias toward men? Within medicine, 82 percent of residents in obstetrics and gynecology are women. Could it be that this specialty appeals to more women than men?  And could it possibly be that women just aren’t interested in orthopedic surgery, where they make up only about 14 percent of residents?

The problem with quotas is that they simply ignore reality. We should be looking instead at areas where there is actual bias. For example, although there has been considerable progress, women have yet to achieve full salary equality. And we should certainly be looking closely at cases where qualified women are not being given equal access to available jobs that they want and are qualified for. But we should also accept that women prefer some kinds of jobs over others. Study after study has shown that women tend to choose fields that seek to make the world a better place. If this means they would rather teach than carry a gun, let’s be grateful. And at the risk of being accused of heresy, are there not women even now who think raising children is a worthwhile vocation?

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

 

Would You Believe It? 

By Patrick F. Cannon

I’m always amazed that some people persist in hanging on to ideas and concepts that have been proven false again and again. For such people, the scientific method and even simple common sense must not be allowed to intrude.

My son-in-law Boyd reminded me of one recently  in the AM Update he sends to his clients and friends every week day (he’s in the securities business, but in addition to market information and advice, he provides his  readers with great recipes, and progress reports on his garden. Let me know if you’d like to be added to his distribution list).  He pointed out the persistence of Marxist ideas despite their failure every time misguided souls trot them out. In my own lifetime, I need only mention Russia, China, Cuba, Venezuela, North Korea, and most of the countries of Eastern Europe, who finally escaped the baleful influence of Russia beginning in 1989.

I could also mention Great Britain, whose foray into “democratic socialism” after World War II resulted in a stagnant and even dying economy, only saved in the 70s and 80s by the free market ideas of the hated Margaret Thatcher. Even now, although she lost power in 1990 and died in 2013, Thatcher is still widely detested by the intellectual and creative classes in the UK, who appear to long for a return to state socialism, even though the unemployment rate in the UK is at 4.3 percent, compared to the rest of Europe at about 7.3 percent.

In this country, despite an even lower unemployment rate, the political science and history faculties of many of our universities are full of Marxist theorists who feel the creed deserves one more chance, as if practice makes perfect. Thus we have Bernie Sanders; and, yes, the hordes of students who shout down those who disagree with the party line. Really, it doesn’t take much to go from Marxist to Stalinist.

To change the subject only slightly, regular readers will know of my disgust at the increasing prevalence of the “Non GMO” labeling of food products. In case you don’t know, GMO stands for Genetically Modified Organism. Put simply, these are seed strains designed to resist damaging insects, require less water and be more productive. Good stuff, right? Not to the loony “environmentalists” who claim that GMOs are somehow a plot to destroy the planet, despite numerous studies over many years that have found no ill effects from the use of GMOs.

Ever suspicious of anything that is developed in the United States, the European Union has actually banned GMOs, claiming their long term effects are unknown, disregarding all evidence to the contrary. And to their shame, many food producers are pandering to the science deniers by labeling their packages with the crackpot approved “Non GMO” label.

In case you’re not aware of the fact, the agricultural scientists of the United States have helped farmers around the world increase crop yields, while reducing the need for chemicals and irrigation. The world’s population is now approximately 7.3 billion and growing; yet, actual hunger is almost always the result of political upheaval, not lack of food.  And although “organic” farming may be a desirable ideal, it can only feed those who can afford its high prices. Oh, and by the way, its benefits in actual nutrition have proven to be largely negligible.

And please don’t get me started on the folks who get their news and opinions from Fox and MSNBC. They are the greatest argument I know for immediately getting a subscription – either print or digital – to a reputable newspaper. Keep in mind that what many call “fake news” is just news they don’t want to hear.

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

 

That Toddlin’ Town 

By Patrick F. Cannon

I did a quick calculation and found I have lived in Chicago and environs for roughly 65 years. I was not born here, but in a now sad town near Pittsburgh named Braddock, after the British general who managed to lose a battle in the vicinity in what we call the French and Indian Wars (George Washington was also present; he had better luck next time). Braddock the town became a poster boy for Rust Belt decline, so it lost a battle of its own.

My family moved to Chicago when I was in the second grade; we moved back to the Pittsburgh area when I was in the seventh grade. I returned to Chicago when I was 18 and have been in the area ever since, except for two years in  the Army and a bit less than that in Minnesota as a result of the job transfer. In Chicago itself, I have lived in South Shore, Rogers Park, Logan Square and the near Southwest Side. I have also lived in Glenview, Oak Park (for 42 years altogether) and now, Forest Park. In my travels, if someone asks me where I live, I say the “Chicago area.”

I say that because neither Oak Park nor Glenview (or Hinsdale or Winnetka for that matter) would exist were it not for Chicago. They drink Chicago water (treated in the two largest water treatment plants in the world, which  serve over 8 million people); their sewage is treated in a system originally designed to stop dumping sewage in Lake Michigan; and they fly in and out of the area from Chicago-built and operated airports. Hundreds of thousands of them also board commuter trains every morning that run on tracks that linked Chicago to the rest of the country, making it, as it still is, the railroad center of the United States.

Chicago commodity markets – even though the famous open outcry trading is largely gone – still set the prices for just about everything America and much of the rest of the world eats. And increasingly, Chicago’s location and amenities have made it a location of choice for corporate headquarters.

People in the suburbs who “never go into the city” and see no reason why they should deprive themselves of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, one of the top three in the world; the Art Institute of Chicago, America’s second largest art museum; and other world class museums like the Field Museum of Natural History, the Adler Planetarium, the Shedd Aquarium and the Museum of Science and Industry. Worse yet, they deprive their children of the opportunities to broaden their education and their minds.

Now, the suburbs do have opportunities for excellent musical theatre (the Paramount in Aurora is a fine example), but not on the scale that is always available in the city. Again, with a few exceptions, there is very little serious theatre in the suburbs; in the city, you could go to the theatre every week of the year and never exhaust the possibilities. Among others, the Goodman and Steppenwolf theatres have national reputations, and regularly send their productions to Broadway.

Chicago, of course, has its problems. It is still grappling with the consequences of decades of forced segregation, and of financial mismanagement by the city and state governments. When they can, African-Americans are fleeing the city to seek better housing and education for their children. Those that can’t are forced to live with crime and substandard housing. Large areas of the south and west sides consist of empty land and abandoned buildings. Even so, there are hopeful stirrings. Chicago already has, for example, six of the top ten high schools in Illinois; and overall test scores have improved for all public schools. While much more needs to be done, new housing is being built with units set aside for lower-income families. And the construction of hotels, office buildings and high-end apartment buildings is at an all-time high.

Because of its location and other advantages, Chicago never fully declined like Detroit and Cleveland. It supports – sometimes with illogical loyalty – two major league baseball teams, a storied NFL franchise and occasionally successful basketball and hockey teams. Depending on who last built an addition, it rotates with Las Vegas for the honor of the world’s largest convention center. And it almost certainly has the most beautiful and useful waterfront in the United States.

For these and other reasons, it would be well for those suburbanites who drink Chicago water, but “never go into the city,” to keep in mind that their safe and charming communities would not even exist were it not for Chicago. Literally.

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

Money Barks 

By Patrick F. Cannon

The last time I looked, the American Kennel Club (AKC) recognized 190 dog breeds. In addition to the familiar ones like Poodles, German Shepards, Labs, Collies and Cocker Spaniels, in 2014 the AKC registered its first Coton de Tulear. As you can see from the illustration, they’re cute little balls of cuddly white fur. Neither sex weighs more than about 8 pounds, so they’re the kind of pooch you might see peeking out a handbag toted by some fashionably-dressed rich woman.

Indeed, one such woman – Barbra Streisand – is a notable Coton de Tulear owner.  A recent news story revealed that her favorite Coton, named Miss Samantha, had died at age 14. Before that sad event, Streisand had some of her DNA harvested, which was then used to clone Miss Samantha, resulting in not one but two pups, Miss Violet and Miss Scarlett. It has been reported that a single cloning costs about $50,000; perhaps she got a discount for doing two.

Now, I have always admired Streisand’s singing.  When she was young, her singing voice was in sharp contrast to her strong Brooklyn accent. She often appeared on the Tonight Show with Jack Paar, and had the reputation of being a somewhat kooky free spirit. She had successful careers on both the Broadway stage and later in the movies, most notably with Hello Dolly and Funny Girl.  She also starred in one of the worst movies ever made, The Way We Were, which amazingly (to me) was a great success.

Needless to say, she has made a great deal of money. While she doesn’t work much any more – she’s 75 — I’m sure the royalties keep pouring in. She has been generous in supporting charities and, like all the Hollywood nabobs, Democratic candidates. Over the years, she has also spent millions on decorating and redecorating her houses. She is not only a singing star, but a favorite of the crowd that can’t wait for the next issue of Architectural Digest, where the envious gawk at the excesses of the envied. Anyway, considering how much dough she has, cloning a favorite dog seems like something she might have done out of the petty cash.

It was also stupid. Most experts could have told her that cloning may result in a dog that looks just like the dear departed, but it’s unlikely that its temperament and other qualities would be the same. Coton de Tulears are not cheap, but you can buy a show- quality pup for about $4,000, or about $46,000 less than a cloned one. And, like other breeds, there are rescue dogs that actually need a new home available for much less.

Thankfully, self indulgent dog lovers like Streisand aren’t as numerous as the cloners (mostly in Korea) had hoped. Most folks can accept that their dogs are going to die before they do. When they die, they grieve and then often go right out and get another one. I have owned no fewer than eight in my life. At my age, my sweet Poodle, Rosie, may be the last, but it’s wise to never say never.

While cloning the family pet is bad enough, I’m afraid that human cloning will come whether we legislate against it or not. The people who even now want to do it will find candidates rich enough and  arrogant enough to think that they are somehow superior to the general run of their fellow humans, and thus worthy of eternal life. Not sure how much they’ll charge, but if rich folks are willing to pay $50,000 to give new life to a pooch, I guess the sky’s the limit.

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

They Just Love to Run 

By Patrick F. Cannon

This year, the Kentucky Derby will be run on Saturday, May 5. It will be the 144^th renewal. Only the Travers Stakes at New York’s Saratoga Race Course, run since 1864, is older. Both races are for three-year-old thoroughbreds only; interestingly, the August Travers is often called “the mid-summer Derby.”

On average, about 15 million people will watch the Derby, or roughly 10 percent of Americans with a television set. It is the first race of what has come to be known at the Triple Crown. The second, the Preakness Stakes, is held at Pimlico in Baltimore two weeks after the Derby; and the last, the Belmont Stakes, three weeks after that at the same-named race track in New York. If a single horse has won both the Derby and the Preakness, the ratings for the Belmont will exceed that for the Derby. After a long delay – it was last done by Affirmed in 1978 — American Pharaoh achieved that feat in 2015.

(I should mention that thoroughbred racing was once the most popular spectator sport in the United States, and it was no accident. In most states, on-track wagering was the only form of legalized gambling. Were that still the case, that 15 million audience would be doubled or even tripled in size.)

Most Americans will remember other Triple Crown winners like Secretariat, Seattle Slew and Citation, just as they remember Baseball’s Most Valuable Players like Willie Mays, Tom Seavers and Billy Williams. But only hard core baseball fans will remember MVPs like Harry Byrd, Bob Allison, Curt Blefery and Carl Morton, just as some Kentucky Derby winners like Giacomo, Sea Hero, Ferdinand and Hoop Jr fade into the past.

Just as one year’s crop of rookies is more notable than another’s, so it is with race horses. Those of us who have been following the sport for a long time will remember 1957, the year that featured Bold Ruler, Gallant Man, General Duke and Round Table; and who can forget 1977-78, when Affirmed and Alydar battled back and forth, with Affirmed winning the Triple Crown and Alydar missing it by a total of a single length over the three races?

This year might feature such a rivalry. Last Saturday, Justify – in only his third start – easily won the Santa Anita Derby; and a week or so before that, Mendelsson won the UAE Derby in Dubai by more than 18 lengths. Both are American-bred sons of the deceased sire Scat Daddy, although Mendelsson – the highest priced yearling sold at public auction in 2016 – has been raced and trained in Europe by the members of the Irish Coolmore breeding and racing group. (That’s Scat Daddy in the illustration. He was only 11 when he died; most stallions produce into their 20s.)

Both horses are somewhat bucking the odds. Mendelsson would be the first European-trained horse ever to win the Derby; and Justify would be the first since Apollo in 1882 to win the Derby not having raced as a two-year old. And he would only be the second to win the Derby after having only three prior starts (he has won all three).

On the day, I plan to bet both horses to win, and to pair them in an exacta box (which is a bet where you have to bet two horses, either of which can win as long as the other one finishes second). I frankly won’t win much. I hope you watch the race and see how I’ve done.

Coincidently, yesterday’s e-mails brought me a notice form Arlington Park that tickets for Arlington Million Day are now available for a discount. The three Grade 1 turf races that day (August 11) are the only important races left on Chicago’s calendar. Arlington was once one of the most important centers for summer racing in the country. Now, it struggles to retain third rate status. For example, the average daily purse at Arlington last year was $197,000. Purses at overlapping meets at other tracks include Belmont Park in New York at $792,000; Del Mar in California at $532,000; and Saratoga later in the summer in New York at over a million dollars a day. The purses at the New York tracks are supplemented by other forms of gambling, as are the purses of increasing numbers of tracks around the country. If you owned horses, where would you race them?

Probably not in Illinois. Why? Those of us who live in Illinois know the reason. How can we expect a state that has become the laughing stock of the country for its inability to solve its fiscal mess take the time to save racing? It somehow managed to permit video poker in local taverns, but acting to save horse racing in Illinois seems beyond them. Could it be that donations from established gambling organizations are somehow related to this? Perish the thought.

So, if you live in Illinois, you can eventually expect the tracks to close as the land they’re on becomes too valuable to devote to marginal operations. You will then have to go to Indiana to watch thoroughbred racing. On the upside, you may well run into old friends who have moved there permantly.

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

 

 

 

Stupid Little Ball 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Although the weather has been a bit nippy of late, there is no doubt that the golf season is nigh in the north of the United States. Just the other day, my golf buddy Skip and I were at the driving range to hit a few and get back in the swing of things; on the way there, I passed a golf course. Despite a temperature in the mid 40s, I spied two hardy fellows on a par 3 I had played many times.

When (or if) the weather warms a bit, we will be booking a tee time and returning to the fray.  Until the weather turns cold – usually in October – we will try to play weekly at one of the two courses we favor (with an occasional foray further afield). Our pattern is nine holes followed by lunch. After he returns from Florida in mid-May, we’ll be joined by partner Dick, who will have played all winter, darn him. I will try to beat my low score of last year, 42 for nine holes. It may be a vain hope, as I’ll be a year older.

I took up the game when I was 10 or 11. At the time, we were living in the South Shore neighborhood of Chicago; our building was directly across the street from the Jackson Park golf course. As these were flush times for the family, my brother Pete and I  were each given a set of golf clubs, starter sets from Sears consisting of driver, three-wood, putter, and 2,5,7 and 9 irons. With these, we would sneak onto the course when it wasn’t busy and play a few holes. The nearest hole to our building was a par 3 across a lagoon, from which we would retrieve balls hit into it by the local duffers, selling them for 25 cents to passing golfers.

Unbeknownst to us, someone had a contract with the course to drag the lagoon for the lost balls, and this fellow chased us away one day. As it happened, the next hole was lined on the right by trees. At about 200 yards out, the fairway widened to an area not visible from the tee. One day, larceny in our little hearts, we waited for a ball to land there.  When one did, one of us ran out to fetch it; alas, a golfer on the parallel hole saw us and starting chasing us. We ran through the woods and across 67^th Street and up an alley. A normal fellow would have stopped chasing us, but not a golfer. He persisted until Pete – who was fleet of foot – outdistanced him and I managed to hide under some back stairs.

After we had to move back to the Pittsburgh area, golf was not possible until we began caddying at a local country club. It was hard work, which I escaped by getting a job at the local amusement park. Pete kept at it for quite a while longer. If you went out twice a day, carrying two bags each time, you could make about $10. I made about half that bussing tables, but it was much easier work.

I really didn’t play much golf until I was married and working for a guy who was nuts for golf. He actually conned the company into paying for our permanent tee time; after the company moved to northern Iowa, we got free memberships in the local country club.  Looking back, this was my golden age. I was still young and could hit my drives 250 yards and on a good day shoot in the low to mid 80s for 18 holes.

After I lost that job in a failed palace coup, I really didn’t play regularly until I retired, mainly because with two children it wasn’t easy to put aside 5 or 6 hours on a Saturday to hit the links. I did occasionally play at a golf outing, but that was about it until I retired.

Now, many people just don’t understand why anyone would waste their time with what they see as a silly game. After all, why would a grown man or woman spend hours of their precious time chasing around the countryside hitting a little ball? One that defies being hit squarely with an implement at the end of a long shaft?  I confess it is a mystery, but one that has engaged seemingly intelligent men and women, including Presidents Taft, Eisenhower, Nixon, Ford, both Bushes, Obama and the current occupant. In case you think men are the only fanatics, let me remind you that such notable women as Condoleezza Rice and my sister-in-law Mary Beth are also addicted to the noble game.

The game was invented by the Scots, which explains a lot. Its literature is copious. I recently read a two-volume set of tales by P.G. Wodehouse, another addict. While written in the 1920s, they might well have been written today. While the names of the clubs has changed (we generally use numbers now instead of mashie, niblick, spoon, etc.), its universal truths remain immutable.  Like Wodehouse, we all have our favorite golf stories. This is mine:

One fine day, late in the afternoon, a young man was playing alone. He was trying a new grip, and testing out a new set of clubs, his third in as many years. On the 12^th hole, he hooked his drive to the left. While it landed in the fairway, its momentum caused it to roll into the trees. Noting the location, he entered the trees and soon found his ball. As luck would have it, its path was blocked by trees; the widest opening was perhaps only a foot. As he contemplated whether to try a shot, or simply take a penalty stroke and drop it outside the trees, a shaft of light suddenly illuminated both him and the ball; then a voice came from above and said (sounding much like James Earl Jones): “How would you like to be a great golfer?”

“I would wish it above all other things!” he replied.

“Would you wish it even if it came at a cost?”

“What cost?”

“As your skill improved, your sex drive would decline.”

The young man considered this for only a moment. “It’s a deal! By the way, who are you?”

“I’m the golf God.” Then the bright light disappeared as suddenly as it had come. But true to the golf God’s word, the young man hit his ball through the tiny gap. It landed just short of the green, whereupon he pitched it to within one foot of the hole. He sank the putt for a par. By the end of the year, he had won the club championship. The next year saw him the winner of the state amateur, and the following year he qualified for the ultimate, the United States Amateur Championship.

Before traveling to the storied Oakmont Country Club near Pittsburgh for the tournament, he played one last practice round on his home course. As it happened, he was playing the very hole where he had encountered the golf God, when he again hooked his shot, which dribbled into the same area of the woods. Once again, he found the ball. As before, a shaft of light illuminated the scene. He looked up and said:

“Is it you, golf God?”

“Yes, my son.”

“Why did you cause me to hook my tee shot in the very same place?”

“I wanted to give you a chance to reconsider your decision. Do you still want to be a great golfer at the expense of your sexual drive?  Surely, you can’t be having much sex now?”

“No, I’m not, oh great golf God. I’m down to about once a month.”

“But verily, for a young fellow such as yourself that’s not nearly enough?”

“Well, actually, great one, it’s not too bad for a priest.”

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Copyright (with apologies) 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

All’s Well That Ends Well

By Patrick F. Cannon

(We are in the Oval Office. The Sun is shining outside, and a shaft of light shines on President Trump, who sits behind his desk in his latest acquisition – a rather large, throne- like Louis XIV chair, covered in gold leaf. He holds a gold pen, and appears to be practicing his signature on a large piece of parchment. He occasionally glances at a wall of large-screen TVs, which are tuned to Fox, CNN, MSNBC and the Playboy Channel. There is the sound of a discrete knock on the door.

Trump: (In a stentorian voice) Enter!

(A young man, dressed in a navy blue suit with a red tie, comes through the door, and approaches the desk with some trepidation. He holds a leather folder, upon which is emblazoned the Great Seal of the United States.)

Trump: Who the hell are you? I don’t remember seeing you around here.

Smithers: I’m Smithers, Mr. President, the assistant to the assistant chief of staff. I have some proclamations for you to sign.

Trump: I thought I sent for my chief of staff?

Smithers: You fired him yesterday.

Trump: Oh, yeah, I remember now. He disagreed with me about something. He didn’t realize that a President of the United States can’t be wrong! Tillerson got to be uppity too, lecturing me about foreign policy. Listen, I got golf courses around the world, even in Bali! I bet Tillerson’s never even been there! But you said you were the assistant to the assistant chief of staff. Where’s he — what’s his name?

Smithers: You mean Alfred E. Newman? He quit after your fired General Kelly. I believe he said he got a job feeding the hyenas at the National Zoo.

Trump: Good riddance to him and the rest of them too. What’s the first proclamation?

Smithers: It’s the one declaring your birthday as a national holiday.

(Smithers places it before the president, who signs it with his usual flourish.)

This one designates Mar El Lago as a national monument.

(More flourish)

I’ve been asked to tell you that this last one might be illegal. The White House counsel says you might not be able to pay for the wall by selling advertising on it. He thinks the Constitution only gives Congress the right to raise money.

Trump: Why do my lawyers keep looking at the Constitution? I never read it and I’m the President. Who is my lawyer now, anyway?

Smithers: The guy you brought in from Chicago, Glen Lerner. He apologizes, but says that even in Illinois you have to know something about the Constitution to pass the bar exam.

Trump: Excuses, excuses! I managed to graduate from the highly prestigious Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania without ever reading a book.

Smithers: If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. President, how did you manage that?

Trump: I paid someone, just like I’m paying you. By the way, I noticed my secretary wasn’t at her desk. What gives?

Smithers: She just didn’t show up, but Kelly Girl promised to have a new one here by 10.

Trump: Isn’t Secretary Carson supposed to be here at 10?

Smithers: I’m afraid he had to cancel. Seems he and the misses have to go to Ikea to pick out a new dining room set for his office. On the proclamation, maybe you could just sign it. Maybe by the time the courts rule on it, the wall will be up. You know, a fait accompli.

Trump: Enough with the French! Anyway, I like your thinking Smithers. You’re my new chief of staff!

Smithers: Wow! That’s great, sir. I can’t wait to call my mom.

Trump: Later, Smithers, later. Right now, I want to run an idea by you.  You know my building in Chicago? The Trump Tower? It’s the tallest building in the country! And the best! I was so proud of it, I put my name on it. I have my name on most of my stuff, even my underwear. Maybe you’ve noticed – on the news and in the newspapers, they keep talking about the “Trump White House.” But when people come here, how do they know it’s the Trump White House?  It could be any old white house. My idea is to put a sign on my White House, not too obvious, maybe on the roof – it could light up at night and maybe flash. What do you think? Best idea ever, right?

Smithers: (Poor Smithers looks a bit shell-shocked. He is struck dumb for a moment; but finally gathers himself.) I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Mr. President. The people kind of think of it as their house, that they let the President live in for a few years. I don’t think a sign would be very popular.

Trump: Are you trying to say you don’t like my idea?

Smithers: I’m afraid so.

Trump: I can’t have anyone working for my who doesn’t love my ideas, so you’re fired!

Smithers: (Agast) But you just gave me the job ten minutes ago!

Trump: Look, I’m doing you a favor. At least you get fired as chief of staff, not from a flunky job as assistant to the assistant chief of staff. Oh, on your way out, would you send in the new secretary if she’s here? She better be a looker, or I’m cancelling the contract with Kelly Girls.

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

 

 

About Actors 

By Patrick F. Cannon

There was an interesting piece in a recent edition of that bastion of intellectual inquiry, Parade Magazine, about the actor, Damian Lewis. I first saw Lewis in the HBO miniseries “Band of Brothers.” If you missed it, it followed a company of soldiers of the 101^st Airborne Division from D-Day to the end of the war in Europe. Lewis played the company commander, Dick Winters, based on a real soldier. More recently, he has appeared in the series “Homeland” as a Marine Gunnery Sergeant who is suspected of being turned by Al Qaeda; and in “Billions,” in which he plays a ruthless hedge fund manager.

These characters are, of course, Americans; Lewis happens to be British. And not only British, but really British, a graduate of Eton College and the Guildhall School of Music and Drama. Like most British actors, he served an apprenticeship with the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, and has returned to the stage regularly, as recently as last year. Oh, and despite his distinguished career, the Parade article focused mostly on the fact that he shares his red hair with Prince Harry, Julianne Moore and a singer named Ed Sheeran (I guess they forgot about Carrot Top).

Lewis is only one of many Brits who have played Americans on television and in the movies. To mention only a few others: Hugh Laurie, Benedict Cumberbatch, Andrew Garfield, Alfred Molina, Jonny Lee Miller, Jason Isaacs, Dominic West and Tom Hiddleston. From other generations we can summon up Anthony Hopkins and even Lawrence Olivier. And how about the Australians?  Russell Crowe, the late Heath Ledger, Guy Pearce and Anthony LaPaglia have all played Americans.

One skill their dramatic training has provided is the ability to do accents, beginning with the many regional accents in Britain. Transferring that skill to American accents isn’t that much of a stretch. Tom Hiddleson (Eton, Cambridge, Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts) was chosen to play country legend Hank Williams because he could not only speak like Williams, but sing like him too.  Oh, and by the way, Hiddleston appeared as Hamlet last year in London, directed by Kenneth Branaugh, the actor/director who has also played American characters.

The British invasion has not gone unnoticed. Samuel L. Jackson complained that a black British actor could not credibly play an African-American part. To extend this logic, you would have to find a Dane to play Hamlet, or a Russian to play Uncle Vanya. What is needed for any part is a trained actor, and this is where many Americans fall short. For example, neither George Clooney nor Leonardo DiCaprio has had any formal training, or even graduated from college. Nevertheless, both have done good work in films. As far as I can determine, however, neither has ever set foot on a stage.

While DiCaprio is more talented than Clooney, it’s hard to imagine either of them playing Macbeth or King Lear, or a part in any play by Eugene O’Neill. But a serious actor will want to play such roles, just as a serious pianist will want to attempt the Beethoven sonatas. It’s what professionals want to do, and should do. It’s what Kevin Spacey did before his career was halted by sexual transgressions; and perhaps will again after a period of penance. A talent like his should not be wasted.

I mentioned that Damian Lewis returns to the stage from time to time.  One of our greatest American actors, Marlon Brando, never returned to the stage after he started making movies. He always seemed a bit embarrassed to be an actor, as if it wasn’t a worthy profession. Yet, he did nothing else worthwhile with his life. He also claimed that playing the same role night after night was boring. Frankly, I think he was lazy. After all, it was a lot easier to play the Godfather than Hamlet or King Lear.

We do have trained actors, just not enough to go around. To fill the void created by the ever-increasing demands for “content” in the hundreds of channels of television – not to mention the movies and even the countless theatres thriving in New York, Chicago and other cities – actors are needed, no matter where they’re from. But inevitably the cream will rise to the top; and at the moment, the cream comes from Britain.

Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

Tales from the South Horrific 

By Patrick F. Cannon

There was a time when I was a crack shot. Well, perhaps not the crackest of crack shots, since the United States Army had a higher marksmanship award than my ranking as a Sharpshooter. Somehow, at least to me, “Sharpshooter” has a bit more cache than the actual highest ranking, Expert.

I achieved my ranking with the M-1 Garand rifle, the standard issue weapon during World War II and the Korean War. It was gas-operated and semi-automatic. Loaded with a clip of eight rounds, bullets could be expended as quickly as you could pull the trigger. It weighed about 10 pounds; in all, about six million were made before it was replaced by the M-14 just before the Viet Nam War.

One was issued to you very early in basic training and remained with you for the next eight weeks. I’ve forgotten my serial number, but I can assure you that I could then spout it out on command (but I’ve never forgotten my service number, which was US55702219 in case you’re interested). The rifle was your constant companion. While you didn’t sleep with it, it was always nearby, locked in your wall locker. You spent much time cleaning it. A speck of dust in the barrel would cause your platoon sergeant to explode in a paroxysm of rage. A similar rage would occur if you called it a “gun.” You would then be required to recite this ditty: “This is my rifle (holding it up), and this is my gun (pointing at your crotch); one is for shooting, and one is for fun.”

Part of the cleaning ritual involved taking it apart and putting it back together. Even after more than 55 years, I believe I could still do it. Before you actually took your test, you had to “zero in” your personal weapon, which meant adjusting the sights to suit your particular eyesight. When you finally shot for record, it didn’t involve shooting at bull’s-eye targets, but at human shaped targets that popped up at various places and distances on the shooting range. Considering the times, you might have thought the targets would have Russian faces, but they didn’t.

I should mention that both my basic and advanced training were in Georgia. I first arrived at Ft. Benning – at 182,000 acres, one of the Army’s largest posts – by bus from Ft. Leonard Wood in Missouri, where I had entered the Army and nearly froze to death, as it was early March. Ft. Benning was warmer, which was welcome, but it was in the middle of nowhere and consisted of forests and red clay soil. When it was dry, the red dust covered everything; after it rained, the clay turned into the greasiest and slimiest mud you could imagine. Being in the Army, you naturally spent a good deal of time either walking or crawling through it; and watching out for the snakes too.

I went to Signal School at Fort Gordon. It was near Augusta, which is home to the Master’s Golf Tournament.  We were able to take a quick tour of its home, surely one of the most beautiful golf courses in the world. This was 1961, and the club was just as segregated as Augusta itself. Indeed, we were warned not to go into town with our African-American friends. I believe both the golf club and town have grudgingly integrated by now.

Once I left basic training, I never fired an M-1 again, and can’t even recall ever seeing one, except in movies about World War II. My next weapon was the M-1 Carbine, a smaller rifle which used the same .30 caliber bullets, but was designed to be a handier weapon for airborne troops and others who needed something smaller and lighter than the Garand.  While I had one assigned to me, I only fired it once, when I was required to qualify with it when I was stationed in France as a cryptographer.

Let me interject here that my duty station was a communications center located in La Rochelle, an Atlantic Ocean port between St. Nazaire and Bordeaux. This post had served the same function for the French Army before 1940, and then was used by the German Army until 1945, whereupon we took it over until thrown out of France in the 1960s by Charles DeGaulle, who never forgave us for liberating his country in 1944.

As it happened, the shooting range we used was built by the Germans. It was indoors and had the traditional bulls-eye targets. It was a cooperative effort – when you weren’t shooting, you operated the targets from a pit where the ropes that raised and lowered the targets we located. Before I descended into the pit for my turn, one of our sergeants noticed that one of the targets was askew and asked me to reach across and fix it.

To do this, I stepped on a sturdy looking beam, which gave way, causing me to fall into the pit. I fell on my back, and had the wind knocked out of me. While that luckily was the extent of my injuries, I was excused from further duty (it’s an ill wind that blows no good). I have always suspected that the departing Germans had sawed almost through the beam, hoping that some unwary American would complete the job.

My last duty post was with a combat support signal company. Because I had been favored with a cushy job in France, the Army decided I should end my career in the middle of the Mojave Desert in a God forsaken place called Fort Irwin. While we spent most of our time painting our vehicles after the blowing sand had worn the paint off, when we were actually training, my station was in a small and space-constricted van.

I was assigned not one but two weapons – a .45 caliber Browning Automatic pistol, which was the standard side arm for the Army from 1911 to 1986 (I believe they’re still made); and the legendary “grease gun,” a small machine gun reputedly made out of old tin cans. While the younger among you may not know what an actual grease gun used for lubricating cars looks like, I can tell you that this machine gun also somewhat resembled a caulking gun. It was just about as accurate.

As it was small, it was issued to people who worked in confined spaces, like my van, and tanks. The only time I ever fired it was at a firing range, when actually hitting any part of a target 50 yards away was considered a miracle. As I recall, it was a miracle denied to me.

Although the Army saw fit to trust me with these four weapons, I have never since owned any kind of firearm. Recently, I had occasion to fire an M-1 Carbine. I did OK, but it was so noisy that I think I’ll take a pass next time. While I was in the Army during the Berlin Wall and Cuban Missile crises, I was fortunate never to actually use my weapons for anything but target practice. When I think back to my fellow basic trainees, I’m not sure all of them were as lucky.

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon