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

 

Slipping Through the Cracks

By Patrick F. Cannon

I was reluctant to comment again on gun control, but for what it’s worth, I think one could argue that assault weapon and bump stock bans would be worthwhile, if mostly symbolic. Do you really need an AR-15 to hunt deer or elk? The bolt- or lever-action long guns that have traditionally been used for this kind of hunting are more than adequate – you could even argue that they are better suited for hunting than an assault-type rifle.

Beyond that, what other “meaningful” gun legislation could we pass? We already have background checks and waiting periods, although they might well be tightened. We have registries that prevent felons and others from buying guns. If we’re worried about a particular gun owner, we can contact law enforcement. What we can’t do is eliminate human fallibility.

In the case of Parkland High School, the FBI had received tips about Nikolas Cruz, but failed to follow up. In the Sutherland Springs, Texas church shootings, the Air Force had failed to add shooter Devin Patrick Kelley’s felony court martial conviction to the national registry. As a result, he was able to pass a background check. In both cases, new laws would have been meaningless. What was needed were people doing what they were supposed to be doing. The strict enforcement of existing laws and regulations would actually have prevented many of the mass shootings.

Schools around the country need to have better security.  Many already lock their entry doors after the school day begins; visitors then must go through a security check before gaining access. Sadly, this needs to be done universally. Classroom doors should also be locked on the outside, a simple precaution that could have saved lives in some school shootings. Again, no legislation is needed, only common sense local action.

Don’t expect the National Rifle Association to change its attitude any time soon, unless there’s a mass exodus of its individual members. This has not happened, and we should also keep in mind that the NRA also represents gun manufacturers, who are not likely to voluntarily go out of business.

Even if they did, it’s estimated that Americans already own more than 300 million guns, and the courts have consistently upheld their right to “keep and bear” them. Unless through some miracle — that I can’t imagine ever happening – the Second Amendment is changed or repealed, the courts will continue to be wary of arbitrarily limiting the sale of firearms.

There is no question that weapons like the AR 15 make mass shootings more lethal, but we should keep in mind that the overall murder rate is half what it was in 1980. And for those of you who live in Chicago, there are 24 cities in the US with higher murder rates. Of course, none of this is going to console those who have lost loved ones to guns, but we should try to keep this emotional issue in some perspective.

Instead of picketing the NRA, we should be making sure that our schools have adequate security measures in place; that the FBI and other police agencies are doing their jobs; and that a national registry that is all inclusive is up and running. We can no longer count on our legislatures to do anything meaningful, much less the right thing. But as taxpayers we can demand that the people who work for us earn their pay.

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

 

 

 

I’m in Florida, and You’re Not 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Retired people with some money often flee places like Chicago during the winter to warmer climes like Florida or Arizona. As it happens, I have spent a week or so at a time in Florida for many years, so have become something of an expert on all things Sunshine State. As you read this, I am basking in that advertised sunshine.

I find people have many misconceptions about Florida. For example, that the state is actually owned by the Walt Disney Company. This is nonsense; just most of it. Quite near Disney World, however, is one of Florida’s most historic attractions, the deservedly famous Gatorland Zoo and Jumperoo.  Here you may find Gators aplenty, supplemented by a smattering of Crocs and Caymans. The entrance to the theme park is a state landmark – a giant Gator’s mouth. Inside, in addition to the park’s portal, is a museum shop with a riot of Gator-themed kitsch. But the real reason to visit is the amazing Jumperoo.

At stated times throughout the day, zoo attendants climb to perches over pools of Crocs and extend plucked raw chickens over their lair. The hungry reptiles oblige by leaping into the air to snatch the chickens, whereupon the admiring crowd cheers! As it happens, they don’t actually leap, but use their long tails to rise to the bait. In any event, a family of four can visit this historic attraction for only $100, instead of the minimum of $400 a day for Disney World. After all, which represents the real Florida?

Speaking of Crocs, there is a common misconception that the state is crawling with them. Nonsense! I drove up the center of Florida once and saw mostly citrus groves and cattle ranches. So, you have to go where there is abundant water to find them. As it happens, these are the same areas of the state that appeal to tourists. I have myself seen many of the monsters at their leisure, often when addressing a golf ball with my trusty three-wood. While they rarely attack people, it is well not to leave your dog unattended.

As you might expect, snakes can be seen from time to time. Most are not poisonous, but it would be prudent to familiarize yourself with those that are before tramping through one of the many nature preserves that are one of the glories of the state. By the way, the local snakes not only inhabit the terra firma, but can often be seen hanging from trees. And if you tour the Everglades, you will find that they are infested with Boa Constrictors. While not native to Florida, it appears that snake fanciers have carelessly let them loose, with predictable results. The dog warning also applies here. They can also be a nuisance on the roads through the Everglades, especially at night, when they lie across the pavement to cool off. Many a car’s suspension has come to grief as a result.

Finally, one should say something about hurricanes, or “huricanoes” as Shakespeare called them (see The Tempest). Tourists who come for the high season (November-April) generally need not be concerned, as most of the hurricanes lay waste to the state between July and October.  Even then, in some years they give Florida a miss. And really, the only people who travel to Florida in the summer months are parents, who couldn’t afford to bring the kids to Disney during the high season. You see, it’s very hot and humid in the summer, and the bugs – a problem all year really – are particularly active when the Sun is high and the monsoon arrives.

Many people of means own winter homes in Florida, and are called “snowbirds” by the locals, who loathe them because they clog the restaurants and attractions and drive up prices. They often stay long enough to claim residency, since taxes are much lower than are those in northern cities like Chicago, New York and Pittsburgh. Your tax attorney will advise.

On the other hand, you might prefer the desert, in which case…

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

 

Is the Emperor Naked Again? 

By Patrick F. Cannon

In 1837, Hans Christian Andersen published a little tale titled “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” In it, two tailors had been commissioned to sew up some new duds for the Emperor. They dithered and had done nothing when the day came to deliver the expected finery. They showed up at the palace anyway and somehow convinced the Emperor that his new outfit was invisible.

Proving as dimwitted as most royalty (and politicians for that matter) have been throughout history, the mighty one was soon parading around his domain with his magical invisible clothes. Fearing his wrath, his subjects wisely kept their mouths shut; some may even have thought that they were the only one who couldn’t see the product of the Emperor’s talented tailors.

Then one day, when the all highest was parading through his capital, a little boy, who had perhaps been away at summer camp when the invisible clothes had first made their appearance, looked aghast when his highness came into view, and was heard to yell rather loudly, as young boys will, “look, the Emperor has no clothes!”

Thus was the illusion shattered. Soon, others in the crowd took up the call. While the Emperor himself realized they were right, he just kept on going as if nothing had happened. In our own time, we might think of leaders who also double down even when proven wrong.

Anyway, I thought of Andersen’s classic tale when I read Steve Johnson’s piece in last Tuesday’s Chicago Tribune about the Art Institute of Chicago’s acquisition of Marcel Duchamp’s “Bottle Rack.” If you didn’t read Johnson’s article, I should tell you that a bottle rack – one is pictured above – is a kitchen appliance used to dry bottles. Nowadays, similar racks are sometimes used to dry infant formula bottles.  Duchamp’s bottle rack was once common in France, where they were used to dry wine bottles, after which they were brought back to the local wine shop to be refilled with “Vin Ordinaire,” (just like some folks now refill bottles of expensive vintages with Carlo Rossi’s best, recork it and foist it off on the unwary wine snob).

Duchamp (1887-1968) apparently bought his rack at a Paris department store. To move the story along, at some point he signed it and it ended up in the possession of American POP artist, Robert Rauschenberg (1925-2008), who was in a position to appreciate it, since two of his best known works are three panels painted white; and a drawing by fellow artist Willem De Kooning, which he erased and framed.

Before you get the idea that Marcel only bought stuff and signed them, you should know that one of his famous works is “Nude Descending a Staircase.” (1912), which hangs at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. If you’re unfamiliar with it, it is a cubist rendering of a presumably fetching lass doing what the title describes. While you might think it odd, you can’t deny that it’s not only complicated, but well executed. But it seems to have worn Duchamp out, since he soon took to taking utilitarian items like bottle racks and signing them.

His most famous work in this vein is, alas, lost. Called “Fountain”, it was in fact a urinal, which he signed “R. Mutt, 1917.” As Johnson’s article reminds us, it was declared the most influential work of art of the 20^th Century by a panel of 500 art critics and experts (one wonders what came in second). Copies do exist – the Tate Gallery in London has one – but it wouldn’t of course be worth what the original, if found someday, would fetch.

(Let me interject a question here. Duchamp’s urinal and bottle rack were appropriated; i.e., they were the work of someone else. Should not their original designers get some credit here? How about the designers responsible for the originals that Andy Warhol used as the basis for his famous Campbell’s soup can and Brillo box? I sense injustice here, but can art and justice co-exist?)

As a long time member of the Art Institute, I would love to know what they paid for the sadly second-best “Bottle Rack.” Someone estimated that it might be worth at least $12 million, but others thought the museum would have had to pay even more, since it was coveted by many others around the world. Be that as it may, it can now be seen in a third-floor gallery of the Modern Wing.

If you would like a similar work in your own home, I found a bottle rack for sale on the Internet for $16.99. While it only has three tiers to Duchamp’s five, you can of course buy a pair for $33.98 and still be ahead of the game! I would be happy to sign them for you for a small fee. Oh, and if your taste runs to urinals, the men’s bathrooms at the Art Institute are lavishly equipped.

In the meantime, I think I’ll contemplate the enduring wisdom of Hans Christian Andersen.

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

 

Goodbye, Democracy 

By Patrick F. Cannon

In case you’ve been busy and haven’t noticed, democracy is dead in Illinois and in many other states. With the primary election season here in full swing, you are very likely to have little choice of who to vote for, whether you take a Democratic or Republican ballot.  But “very little” choice in the primary turns into almost no choice in the general election come November.

Why is this? In Illinois, the district maps were drawn by the Democratic majority after the 2010 Census. Because they could, they drew the map to ensure that as many Democratic lawmakers as possible – both state and Federal – would have so-called safe seats. It’s called Gerrymandering, after Governor Eldridge Gerry of Massachusetts who signed a bill in 1812 that ensured that his party (the then Democratic-Republicans) would have as many safe seats as possible. One of the districts was said to resemble a salamander; thus “Gerry-mander.”

Now, I live in the Illinois 7^th Congressional District. Its shape rivals – indeed perhaps surpasses – Gerry’s salamander. It runs from the Chicago lakefront out to Hillside along a fairly narrow band. It includes downtown Chicago and a portion of the lakefront from North Avenue on the north to 47^th Street on the south. On its journey to Hillside, it passes through West side neighborhoods including Garfield Park and Austin; then the suburbs of Oak Park, River Forest, Maywood, etc.; and also manages to pick up bits of  Westchester and La Grange Park.

In drawing the district, the Democrats made sure it was majority African-American, with a sprinkling of liberal Democrats for good measure. For example, the folks in Oak Park – where I lived for more than 40 years – gave some 80 percent of their votes in the last Presidential election to Hillary Clinton.  The Congressman since 1997 has been Democrat Danny Davis (an African-American) who is now 77 and sees no reason to retire. He is essentially unopposed in the primary and will be unopposed in the general election come November. I’ve met him and he’s an amiable, grandfatherly type who has never voted counter to the wishes of the party, and the rest of the Illinois congressional delegation does precisely the same. Oh, and by the way, if the Illinois Republicans had been in power in 2010, they would have done exactly the same.

The only really fair way to redistrict a state would be entirely by contiguous districts of equal population, regardless of race or any other factor. To suggest this is to invite horror.  One man or woman, one vote, has been replaced by the notion that African-Americans or Hispanic-Americans must be represented by one of their own; if not, they have been disenfranchised! This supposes that only in this way would minorities be represented. In fact, if contiguous districts of equal population became the norm, there would still be majority minority districts in Illinois and many other states with significant minority populations.

Unfortunately, the state courts have long enshrined identity politics, and the Federal courts have traditionally shied away from becoming involved in what has historically been left to the states. There are some signs of life. Ohioans managed to pass a referendum reforming the redistricting process, joining a dozen or so states that have already established a non-partisan commission of some sort. In Illinois, over 600,000 signatures were collected to put the issue on the ballot, but the petition was rejected by the state courts as unconstitutional. I will only note that the Illinois Supreme Court is elected and is majority Democrat.  God bless them, a group called Change Illinois is trying again. I even gave them some money. I guess hope springs eternal!

Of course, even if redistricting is taken away from the majority party, the resulting commissions are likely to still indulge in tailoring their maps to ensure that some votes count more than others. Perhaps a less complicated issue is term limits. You either have them or you don’t. Some states have indeed established term limits at the state level; again, Illinois has always found a way to quash efforts to do so here. As it happens, polls have consistently shown that 75 percent of American voters want term limits at all levels.

By the way, to amend the Federal Constitution, both houses of Congress would have to approve the amendment by two-thirds vote, and then send it to the states for ratification. Three-quarters of the states would have to ratify within seven years for the amendment to become effective. Don’t hold your breath for members of Congress to vote to eventually lose their jobs.

So, when you go to the polls in November and discover you have no choice, please shed a tear for the slow but steady erosion of democracy in Illinois — and the country too.

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

 

 

 

This and That 

By Patrick F. Cannon

I was inclined to write something this week about the decline of political ethics in our Federal Republic, but then I thought: aren’t people just as tired about reading about it as I am? Instead of stating the obvious yet again, here are just some random thoughts about this and that.

On Monday, the Chicago Tribune devoted more than a half page of its sports section to an article from the Washington Post decrying the lack of diversity in the American team at the upcoming Winter Olympics. I guess its own short-handed sports staff was too busy covering the Super Bowl (or should I say the Big Game as advertisers who aren’t licensed by the NFL do) to express its own outrage. I can’t recall reading similar articles about the lack of diversity in the National Football League and National Basketball Association, but perhaps I missed them.

One of my pet peeves is the journalist who simply counts numbers, not what may be behind them. Could it be that African-Americans prefer to play basketball rather than hockey? Do they see football or track and field as a better entre into a college education than figure skating?  That doesn’t seem to matter. By golly, if African-Americans make up 13 percent of the population as a whole, then they should be 13 percent of any profession or pastime, regardless of their interest. Then, of course, we have our Hispanic neighbors, who now make up about 18 percent of the population. Why aren’t they on the ski slopes? Whether they want to be or not?

I see the Chicago Teachers Union, that paragon of virtue, is now attacking State Senator Daniel Biss, who is seeking the Democratic nomination for governor of Illinois. They’re running ads pointing out that he voted for a bill that would have changed pension laws to make them more sustainable. Now, as I recall, the bill was also supported by the Pope of Illinois politics, Speaker Madigan, and thus the Democratic leadership generally. At the time, I thought it was a cynical gesture, since Madigan fully expected the heavily Democratic court system to find it unconstitutional, which it duly did. The CTU has singled out poor Biss because they know he occasionally thinks for himself and has actually had the gall to support charter schools, and they’ve been told that J.B. Pritzker will do as he’s told. Is it any wonder I think public employee unions were a bad idea?

Back to the Tribune, also on Monday. Dahleen Glanton, who is African-American and from the South, had a column that rekindled a memory. She admits she has never lost her Southern accent, which occasionally causes some problems, in this case during a trip to Viet Nam and Thailand. It seems the folks there were used to hearing more typical American accents, and were confused by her regional twang. She got ice instead of rice, and room service delivered high tea instead of the extra room key she wanted.

In my case, my first trip to the South involved a train ride form Chicago to Miami. I was then working for the New York Central Railroad and going to Northwestern University part time. Because I could get a free pass, I decided to escape the winter and bask for a bit in the Florida sun. Now, the trip involved one train from Chicago to Atlanta on the Illinois Central; then on the Atlantic Coast Line from there to Miami. Seeking to while away the time between trains, I found a bar in the Atlanta depot and ordered a beer. I saw in a sign that the beer was 50 cents, which I duly gave to the young bartender when he returned with my Dixie and a glass. Then he said something that sounded to my Chicago ears like “that’ll be a peony.” Not having that particular flower right at hand, I said “what?”  He thereupon repeated something like his original plea. I still didn’t have the required flower, so was about to ask again for clarification, when a kindly stranger down the bar took pity and said to me: “It’s the sales tax; he needs a penny.”

Not too long after that trip, I was drafted and spent both basic training and signal school in Georgia – Fort Benning near Columbus and then Fort Gordon near Augusta. After five months, I got so I could almost always make out what the locals were saying. It was many years later that I was in Atlanta again, this time on business. Many of the locals I dealt with then seemed to be from somewhere else.

An exception was two upper middle-class ladies who worked conventions and trade shows to keep busy. They were true Southern Belles, who sounded much like Vivian Leigh as Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind. During a quiet time, they urged me to see a local diorama, which as I recall had something to do with Sherman’s march to the sea. To them, the good general’s depredations could have happened yesterday. The civil war would never be over in their minds. They reminded me of William Faulkner’s famous quote: “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” True for them, and for so many more, and not just in our South.

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon