Thanks, Legislators! 

By Patrick F. Cannon

My regular readers will know of my support for term limits. I’ve signed petitions to get the question on the ballot in Illinois. I’ve even donated money to the cause.

Now, I find that I don’t have to make the argument yet again, as our legislators at all levels are doing just fine on their own. Their multi-term “experience” has led to the most serious crisis our country currently faces. The threat of bogeyman President Trump pales in comparison. The State of Illinois is bankrupt by any true definition of the word, thanks to “Speaker for Life” Madigan and his minions in both houses. At the Federal level, the same old faces fail to solve the same old problems.

For Democrats with selective memories, let me remind them that the current health care mess started when the then Democrat Congress forced through a bill of more than 2,000 pages – which most of their own members did not bother to read – without a single Republican vote. It came to be called Obamacare, and it’s deeply flawed to say the least. Now, in a spirit of “tit for tat,” the Republicans are trying to get even, with no success thus far.

Thus, the current crisis, which will persist so long as the best interests of the public come a poor third to the need to be reelected, and the pandering to special interests, whether they be corporate or unions and other “progressive” interests. The needs of the country will not be met by ideologues, but by pragmatists.

Universal health care is only one example of a problem that is eminently solvable. You start with the premise that everyone is entitled to adequate health care. With no reference to ideology, you ask and then answer this question: what is the cheapest and most efficient way to deliver it? We actually have people who have studied this and would be ready – indeed anxious – to advise our legislators. The same pragmatic approach could be taken to tax reform, another dream of long standing that will not survive the extreme wings of both parties.

Although there are other possibilities, I would limit members of the lower houses of both state and Federal legislatures to eight years in office. Senators could serve two terms only. Members of the lower houses could run for the senate after their eight years were up. Thus, it would be possible for a particularly popular politician to serve for 24 years at the Federal level.

In the interests of bipartisanship, let me note that Democrat Michael Madigan has been in the Illinois House for 46 years; and Republican Mitch McConnell has represented Kentucky in the US Senate for 33.  They are arguably two of the most hated men by members of their opposing parties. And while McConnell has been in close races over the years, no one believes Madigan would ever lose in his gerrymandered district.

I have heard the argument that it takes many years of experience for a legislator to become effective, and term limits would snatch them from us just at the wrong time. Nonsense. Although I’m a bit too old to run, I would feel perfectly qualified to serve, and I know many people who would be more highly qualified than many who now adorn our legislatures. Really, if you can’t learn enough in four years in office to assume a leadership role, you may have chosen the wrong profession. I think we’re in the mess we’re in because our politicians have been around too long and worry more about being reelected than serving their constituents.

There are some glimmers of hope. 15 states have term limits of some kind, and citizens in others, including Illinois, are trying or have tried to establish them. And it has to be the citizens because politicians are unlikely to do it on their own. In Illinois, ballot initiatives have a hard row to hoe. For example, in a purely partisan vote, the Democrat majority state Supreme Court prevented a redistricting amendment from being placed on the ballot last year.

Finally, a national poll last year found that 74 percent of Americans favored term limits for Congress. Only 13 percent were opposed (the rest had no opinion).  It takes abundant chutzpah for our elected representatives to resist the public will, but it’s a quality they have in spades.

Copyright 2107, Patrick F. Cannon

My Only Cabinet Meeting 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Although not much shocks me at my age, I confess I was taken aback a bit when I got the call from the White House. In retrospect, I now see they had little choice, since President Trump always expects to have the “best” of everything.

Let me explain. It seems he was watching a feature on the hated CNN called “The Pets of the Presidents.” He was particularly struck by scenes of former occupants being followed to and from their Marine helicopters by their tail-wagging canines. Even Franklin Roosevelt, who didn’t have a helicopter and didn’t do much walking, was often photographed with his Scotty Fala. It occurred to Trump that he didn’t have any kind of pet, much less a dog trotting adoringly along behind him.

He thus ordered his loyal staff to find him the “greatest” dog in the world. Their researches uncovered the Border Collie as the smartest of all dogs, but noted that these fine dogs were given to running instead of trotting and were almighty shedders. Next on the list was the noble Poodle, which not only didn’t shed, but was content to run or trot as the occasion demanded. After several staff meetings, the decision was made and Reince Priebus picked up his phone.

(Let me interject here that I think the claim that the Border collie is the smartest breed is dubious at best. Who indeed is smarter: the dog that spends his or her days chasing around after smelly sheep in all weathers, or the dog that whiles away the day either playing or lounging on a soft bed?)

My bona fides as a pet expert are widely known, but let me remind you. I have owned eight dogs, four of them poodles. In addition, little fishies have swum in bubbling aquariums in my house from time to time. Rodents I have owned include hamsters, rats and rabbits. Mice have also lived with me, but not by my choice. I recall owning three birds, one of which, a small and colorful parrot, had a squawk of a volume that belied its size.

Obviously, my fame had reached the White House, thus the phone call. Priebus sounded desperate when I answered the phone. “The boss wants a poodle and he wants it yesterday. Can you help? We’ll pay any price!”

“Calm down,” says I. “Give me few hours and I’ll get back to you.”

I immediately spread my poodle net wide, and soon located a rescue standard poodle who seemed to fit the bill. When I saw him, he was a bit shaggy, but nothing a quick $100 grooming wouldn’t fix. Late the next day, I was on the road to our nation’s capital, the now spiffy black dog happily beside me.

When I drove up to the White House gate, I was rushed through security, and soon found myself in the chief of staff’s office. “Thank God you’re here,” says the sweating Priebus, “how long to you think it’ll take to train him?”

“He’s pretty well trained already. Will the president be available to get the dog used to trailing along behind him?”

“No, but we have a double with a wig. By the way, we’re going to call him Tower! Get it? Trump’s Tower? Ha Ha! Anyway, the president doesn’t much like dogs, but the White House dogs have always been taken care of by the permanent staff anyway, and only show up for photo ops. Believe me, this pooch will be living high on the hog.”

It only took a few days, and Tower got his first gig when Trump took the Marine helicopter for a weekend at one of his golf resorts. Tower dutifully tagged along behind him. Before boarding, Trump turned around and gave the dog a little pat. On cue, Tower wagged his tail. Needless to say, the president’s new dog made all the evening news shows, even the BBC!

Trump was delighted and came up with a brilliant idea. Vice President Pence was out of the country visiting the administration’s favorite strongman, Philippine president Duterte, so to double down on the great press coverage, the poodle would take Pence’s place next to the president at the cabinet meeting. Just in case Tower did something goofy, I was directed to attend and given a chair at the back of the room.

In addition to President Trump and his faithful pooch, at the table were the sixteen members of the cabinet, and a couple of staff members, including Priebus and the new press secretary, Otto Nowlbetter. After the photo op was completed and the purveyors of “fake” news were gone – and beginning by tradition with the secretary of state — each member of the cabinet in turn extolled the great things they were able to accomplish due entirely to the wisdom of the great boss.

It took quite a long time, since each seemed to want to out do the others in the fulsome praise department. Finally, the chief of staff was about to out do all the others, when he noticed that Nowlbetter seemed to be staring straight ahead, oblivious to what was happening. Priebus waved his hand in front of the press secretary’s face, but got no reaction. He then nudged him on the back, whereupon Otto pitched forward on his face. “Jesus,” says Priebus, “I think he’s dead!”

There was a corporate gasp, and then the president yelled “dead, what could he have died of?

“Wait,” says the loyal chief of staff, “he wrote something on his note pad.”

“What’s it say, for Christ’s sake,” a frantic president responds.

“It’s just one word, let’s see…it looks like s…h…a…m…e.”

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

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Let’s Settle this Damn Thing 

By Patrick F. Cannon

I am not an economist, nor really an expert on anything except perhaps Chicago architecture, the Thoroughbred horse and the history of everything. So, the economics of health care are beyond me. I do know, however, that we are currently in one hell of a mess and it looks to get even worse.

What we’re faced with is this: a deeply flawed health care system is about the be replaced with another deeply flawed health care system, which – if the Republicans lose control of Congress as they surely will someday – will be replaced with yet another deeply flawed system, and so on and so on and…

So-called Obamacare was cobbled together to include insurance companies as the actual providers. Most of them soon found that they couldn’t afford to stay in the program without either raising premiums to unacceptable levels or losing money, so they began opting out (a significant number of counties have only one provider, and a growing number, none). Many of the young and healthy decided it was cheaper to pay the penalty than the high premiums, so they rolled the dice and sat out, thus sticking the insurers with both an older population and those with existing conditions. (Medicaid is another expensive piece of the program.)

Although anathema to most on the right, including me until recently, I see no way out of this mess without a single payer system based on the Medicare or similar model. Now, Medicare pays about 80 percent of health care costs, including annual physicals. For seniors with no income other than Social Security, it gives them immunity from catastrophic illness costs. My wife and I also have supplemental insurance that pays the balance, as well as prescription drug coverage. Our out of pocket costs for all of this runs about $10,000 a year.

Before we retired and no longer had to pay it, our Federal payroll tax included a 1.5 percent charge for Medicare, matched by the employer. What if this tax, which everyone pays regardless of income, were doubled? Would six percent of the total income of every working American pay for universal health care? I have no idea, but isn’t it worth exploring? If it could, we could eliminate Medicare and Medicaid and have one health care system for all Americans.

Many are going to immediately scream “socialized medicine!”  With their undoubted talent for euphemisms, I give Congress permission to instead call it “The People’s Incredible Medical Plan” with no credit to me required. By the way, if religious and other non-profits were taken out of the equation, then they wouldn’t have to agonize over paying for birth control and other services which they oppose. Let Congress decide whether the plan pays for birth control; for abortions; and so-called “gender reassignment” and cosmetic surgery. In my view, the answers would be “yes”, “maybe” in rare cases, “no” and “only” to repair the results of accidents and congenital disfigurements.

A little personal history. My parents never had health insurance. When someone got sick, they went to see the doc and he got paid directly, likely in cash. By the time I got my first real job (1956), employer-paid health insurance was more common. As it happens, until I retired from the daily grind in 2001, every one of my employers provided health insurance through Blue Cross/Blue Shield. Toward the end, however, increasing costs led them to charge me a portion of the premium as a payroll deduction. Now, of course, I have Medicare, with a supplement through – you guessed it – Blue Cross/Blue Shield.

The United States spends about $10,000 per person per year for health care, by far the highest in the world. For this, we get what many people will call the best health care system in the world (for those who can afford it). And it’s certainly true that most of the advances in health care, including miracle drugs, have originated here. But are these benefits shared by the entire population? Our life expectancy for both sexes is currently 79.6 years; in both Canada (82.2) and the UK (81.2), people live longer.

Finally, let me throw this into the mix. The average tax burden for all developed countries is about 34 percent. The Danes and French pay nearly 50 percent, and the Mexicans, 15 percent. The Canadians and Brits pay 32 percent. Our average – and that includes Federal, state and local taxes – is 26 percent. I get the argument that every dollar that goes to taxes is a dollar that is lost to the real economy. But I also think that getting rid of all the middle men that clutter our current health care system might not result in increasing our 26 percent much beyond what our neighbors to the north pay.

As I see it, the alternative to national Medicare is a patched together system that still won’t cover everyone, and whose costs will continue to skyrocket. Maybe someone has a better answer, but I haven’t seen or heard of it. Have you?

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

The Age of Discovery, Part 1

By Patrick F. Cannon

In fourteen hundred and ninety-two

Columbus sailed the ocean blue

It took so long, it must be said

That his crew would often wish him dead

He finally reached land, but found no gold

While others got rich, he just got old.

Anon. (understandably)

Because Christopher Columbus (or Cristiforo Columbo as he was known to his proud parents) “discovered” the Americas, he has become the best known of the explorers who changed the face of the world between 1450 and 1550 (more or less). This is particularly true in the United States, which would not exist were it not for Columbus. Of course, in China no one has ever heard of him.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. After all, Columbus just didn’t wake up one day and decide he’d like to discover new continents.

For thousands of years, people had looked at the heavens and wondered who and where they were. After language was discovered, they pretty much knew who they were, as names became quite common. The smarter among them, Aristotle for example, noticed that the Sun and Moon seemed to be round, and that when the Earth got between the two of them (what we now call an eclipse), it cast a curved shadow. He thus supposed that the earth was round too.

While everyone considered Aristotle a smart fellow for figuring this out, it didn’t seem to make much difference in their daily lives. While rich Greeks might take a boat ride across the Mediterranean to see the pyramids,that was about as far as they wanted to go. Frankly, while they might agree with Aristotle in public (even now, Greeks stick together), they had a nagging suspicion that if they traveled too far they might fall off and end up in Hades or some such place.

We now know this was nonsense. They actually would have ended up in the Sudan, which was bad enough and has often been called a “hell on earth.”

Some Greeks, Alexander the Great for example, were more adventuresome. He went as far as modern Kashmir before turning back. Because he had been a student of Aristotle, he probably was aware that if he just kept going east he would eventually end up back in Greece. While he admired his former teacher, he probably thought: why take the chance? And who can blame him? He had already met his share of Pakistanis and Indians and might have wondered what else might be in store.

Several hundred years later, Claudius Ptolemy was born to a mixed marriage. Because he was half-Roman and half-Egyptian, he was shunned by his schoolmates so had plenty of time for reflection. One of the first “geeks,” he became proficient in astronomy and mathematics and soon had the earth pretty much figured out. Not only did he know it was a sphere, but he knew where all the continents were. He also decided that the place he lived was on the top half of the sphere (human nature at work), which he called North.

Even a lot of knowledge can be a dangerous thing, for it turns out Ptolemy was a little deficient in geometry. He calculated that the earth’s circumference was 18,000 miles, when we now know that it’s almost twice that. As we’ll see, this was to cause a good deal of trouble.

Long before the Portuguese and Spanish began their explorations, legend tells us that the Vikings and the Irish may well have discovered North America. We know that Eric the Red and his relatives and friends settled what are now Iceland and Greenland and may well have pushed further on to Nova Scotia. While their homelands were pretty cold, Iceland and Greenland were even colder, so Eric might well have concluded these new areas weren’t really an improvement, especially considering the voracious Polar Bears wandering around. The evidence of their explorations is fairly convincing, but as they didn’t leave any signs behind saying “Eric the Red was here,” some historians have been skeptical.

Ancient Irish sagas tell stories of similar explorations, but are a bit vague, much as your typical Irishman is after a long night at the pub. While they apparently didn’t leave any convincing evidence, no one has ever adequately explained why there are so many Irish in Boston.

(Next – Henry begins navigating!)

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Copyright 2107, Patrick F. Cannon

 

Mentioning the Unmentionable 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Hard upon the recent decision by the Supreme Court in Jockey, et al vs. the National Council of Purity in American Life, I am at last free to add underwear to my ongoing history of apparel. I can only regret that the American Society of Apparel Historians chose not to submit an Amicus Curiae brief in this landmark matter. I can tell you that my resulting resignation shook that august organization to its very foundations (no pun intended).

My many years of undercover investigations into this heretofore taboo subject may now bear fruit. A full exploration of the subject must await publication of my forthcoming book, Beneath the Surface: Underwear Through the Ages.  In this space, I can only hint at the riches to come.

As we now know, the human species (humanous ridiculous) first appeared in what is now known as Africa (named after Scipio Africanus, the Roman Consul who was responsible for introducing Lions to the arenas of the Empire, thus providing the gladiators with more sporting opponents). Early humans didn’t know where they were, but it was generally hottish, so they didn’t need clothing of any kind, much less the layered look. When nature called, they answered it wherever they happened to be without the need to pull their Jockeys down. When the area became too malodorous, they moved on; thus, the beginning of nomadism.

It was only when their wanderings took them out of Africa to colder climes did they begin to consider covering themselves against the cruel winds. We do not know the name of the first human to cover himself with leftover animal skins, but his name if ever discovered should be enshrined in the costume galleries of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, along with Christian Dior and Robert Hall.

You can just imagine the glee that greeted the slaying of a Mastodon, thus insuring warm winter clothing for the entire tribe. Alas, diligent digging by generations of archeologists have failed to discover any evidence that these early humans wore underwear. It is only with the Egyptians that we begin to see something that appears to be underwear. I must, however, demur. Here we must differentiate between shorts and scanties. Bas reliefs and other temple scratchings from 2,000 BCE show men wearing what appears to be fabric wrapped about their privates and bums. To show how fashion trends come and go, no less a notable than Mohandas Gandhi sported similar apparel 4,000 years later!  In neither case, did the subjects wear anything under these wraps, so no underwear yet.

Once again, it was the Romans who were the innovators. As you are surely aware, it was they who invented the arch, water and sewer systems, tenements, and the thumb screw and rack. You will also have noticed that even Roman men wore something very like a dress. Now, for most of the year, this was sufficient, but when the winter winds came down from the Apennines, it tended to find its way under their skirts, causing them to become crotchety. Roman Legionnaires, with their far shorter leather skirts (early kilts?), had another reason for wearing undies – free swinging manhood was an attractive target for bloodthirsty barbarians.

You must await my multi-volume history to learn what happened between Rome and our own day. Let me just say that first it was a process of creating ever more layers of underwear, culminating in the Victorian age. Ever since, just the opposite has happened. Nowadays, underwear is so tiny that it can barely be seen. There are many theories about why this has happened, but I suspect it must have something to do with global warming.

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

 

 

 

R.I.P., Myron Cohen 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Myron Cohen (1902-1986) was a well known comedian from the 1950s until his death. He was best known for his dialect jokes, primarily done in a Yiddish accent, but with a sprinkling in Italian and Irish dialects too. They were done affectionately, and were really short stories rather than the typical one-liners of the time. Before becoming a full time entertainer, he had sold fabrics to the New York garment industry, and said his story telling set him apart from his competitors. (Only Billy Crystal today reminds me of him.)

He appeared fairly regularly on Ed Sullivan’s variety show, and later on both Jack Paar’s and Johnny Carson’s Tonight shows. I remember three of his short stories in particular, and I’ll try to do them justice here, but of course his delivery and accents added much to them. (By the way, I don’t recall that he thought his sex life was so fascinating that anyone would want to spend an hour listening to its gory details. Why this has become the norm with comedians today escapes me.)

Stage Delicatessen

Sam was a waiter at New York’s legendary Stage Delicatessen. His boss, the manager (maître de is perhaps too fancy a word for that place), was named Max. They had both been there for some 25 years, and had never said a kind word to each other. Their feuds were legendary, and indeed the customers thought their constant bickering was part of the delicatessen’s essential ambiance.

Then one day at closing, Max took Sam aside and said: “Sam, I know we haven’t always gotten along {a massive understatement}, but I know you’re a hard worker with loyal customers, so effective immediately, I’m giving you a raise.” To say that Sam was thunderstruck would be an understatement. He was actually almost struck dumb and could only reply with a very weak “thank you.”

When he got home and told his wife, she was amazed and said maybe Max wasn’t such a bad guy after all. Anyway, Sam had a spring in his step the next morning when he arrived at work. He went to the back room to put on his white jacket and apron. Max entered, walked over to him and said “Sam, you’re fired!” “Fired,” the stunned Sam replied, “yesterday you praised me and gave me a raise. How can you fire me?”

Max smilingly replied: “You should lose a better job!”

Watch Out!

O’Hara was a motorman on New York streetcars when such things still existed. He had been assigned to a route in Queens for many years, but then got transferred to a route in lower Manhattan. Being a bachelor, he decided to move to an apartment in the lower east side, so he could be within walking distance of the street car barn.

One day, he noticed his watch seemed to be losing a couple of minutes a day. Since an accurate watch was important in his job, and he had a day off, he decided to have it fixed. As it happened, he had noticed a shop down the street with a large watch in the window. Assuming it was a watch repair shop, he entered and went up to the counter. Behind it was an elderly man with a beard.

“My watch is losing time,” says O’Hara, “and I wonder if you could adjust it?”

“I don’t fix watches, I’m a mohel,” replies the bearded one.

“What’s a mohel, for God’s sake?”

“I circumcise little Jewish boys.”

“But why do you have that big watch in the window if you don’t fix watches?

“So, what do you want me to have in the window?”

Goldberg and the Pope

We’re back at the Stage Delicatessen. One table has for many years been set aside for a group of garment industry men who gather every week day for lunch. Not everyone comes every day; but on a typical day seven or eight show up. Two of them, Goldberg and Pearlstein, show up most days. They are both competitors and old friends. Over the years, Goldberg had become known as a name dropper. If you mentioned Frank Sinatra, for example, he would claim that he helped Frank get his first job singing in a club in Hoboken.  In fact, almost every time a lunch mate mentioned a famous person, it turned out that Goldberg knew him or her from somewhere.

So one day his pal Pearlstein says to him that he knows someone he can’t possibly know. “I bet you don’t know the Pope!” Now, at the time, John XXIII was pope. Without batting an eyelash, Goldberg replies “Of course, I know the Pope. We’re pals from a long time ago.” A hush came over the table. After a pause, Perlstein challenges his old friend: “I’ll tell you what. Let’s take the wives to Rome on vacation. If you can prove you know the Pope, I’ll spring for the whole trip, but if you don’t, you pay!”

To everyone’s amazement, Goldberg agrees. Two weeks later, the couples are in Rome, seeing the sites and eating lots of pasta. Goldberg tells his friend that in two days the Pope will appear on his balcony in St. Peters Square to bless the multitude. “I’ll give you a pair of binoculars and when he appears, you’ll see me come out behind him.”

On the given day, Pearlstein joins the huge crowd waiting for the Pope to appear. He trains his binoculars on the balcony. The double doors open and the portly Pope steps out. Then, just behind him, who should appear but Goldberg. Pearlstein’s jaw drops in disbelief. He is transfixed, but he feels someone pulling on his sleeve. Next to him is an elderly man, who says to him: “I can’t see too well anymore. Could you please tell me who is that man standing on the balcony with Goldberg?”

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Copyright (sort of) 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

 

 

 

Temples of Ego

By Patrick F. Cannon

I find it amusing that former President Obama is going to put part of his Chicago presidential library (or center, or whatever they call them these days) on actual park land, when George Lukas was prevented from building his museum on land that has long been a paved parking lot, and was never part of the park system.

As a child, I lived across the street from Jackson Park and still know it well. Until recently, I went regularly to Hyde Park and drove on Cornell Drive, which President Obama would like to close and make part of his “campus.” As a former resident of Hyde Park himself, he must be aware of how this closing will affect local traffic, especially during rush hours. But the needs of presidential ego must be served, right?

The proponents of the center tout its positive effects on the neighborhoods adjacent to it. Economic development and jobs for locals must inevitably follow, they claim. But are there not other areas of the city even needier? As someone who knows the city better than most, I can tell you that there are vast empty areas on the west and south sides once filled with homes and factories that need economic development just as much and perhaps more than Hyde Park and Woodlawn.

Simply put, I believe the former President doesn’t find them as visually attractive as Jackson Park, designed as it was by Frederick Law Olmstead, creator of New York’s Central Park. Nor does it hurt that the Museum of Science and Industry will be right down the street, providing the basis for another Chicago “museum campus.”  (As a matter of interest, I note that Metra is already planning to increase service to its Hyde Park stations, at the expense of other south side lines.)

I don’t mean to pick on President Obama. He is just the latest in a long line of United States’ presidents who have sought to put the best possible light on their terms of office by telling the story themselves. From relatively modest beginnings with Franklin Roosevelt, Harry Truman and Dwight Eisenhower, the “centers” have become increasingly more elaborate and expensive. To be fair, they have largely been built with private funds; but to be honest, most of the money for them was raised before the subject left office. You may read into that what you will (see the Clintons especially).

Because they have become repositories of the President’s official papers, they are technically the property of the citizens of the United States, so most of the cost of their operation is paid by us through the National Archives. This amounts to about $80 million per year, not a huge amount by current standards, but as the legendary Senator Everett Dirksen once said “a billion here and a billion there and pretty soon you’re talking about real money.”

In my opinion, presidential papers should all be in the same place, where their cataloging and availability would be consistent and more available to scholars. If the former presidents then want to build temples to their ego, let them have at it. To be honest, I can’t wait to see what the current occupant might have in mind.

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

 

The Immortals 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Within view of Notre Dame Cathedral on the Ile de la Cite in Paris stands an ancient building, one of whose stately rooms overlooking the River Seine serves as the meeting place for the Academie Francaise, protector of the sacred French language. Members of the Academie are called the “immortals” because of their eminence in the countries public and cultural life. Established by Cardinal Richelieu in the 17^th Century, no word may enter the language without their approval (they are at particular pains to root out “Americanisms”).

At a regular meeting not long ago, as they ran through the alphabet, they paused to reconsider the term “savoir faire.” While they knew it as a quality only the French have, they decided to seek specific examples. One of the newer members, a novelist whose own work even he didn’t understand, decided to give an example.

“Here we have a young married couple, Pierre and Marie. They live in a charming cottage in a small village just outside of Paris. Pierre, a junior executive at the Ministry of the Interior, goes into Paris every morning by train. He leaves his office at promptly 1700 hours to take the 1730 train to his village and walks through his front door at 1815, where Marie awaits him with an aperitif. One day, however, the Ministry had a power failure, which could not be remedied until the late evening. The Minister decided to bow to the inevitable and let the staff go home at 1230.

Pierre thus is able to catch the 1330 train and is delighted that he will be able to surprise Marie by coming home early. He arrives at the village station at 1400 and strolls home, whistling happily as he goes. When he enters his cottage, he calls out “Marie!’ but there is no response. Ah, he thinks, she has gone shopping. He decides to change into country clothes and climbs the stairs to the bedroom. When he opens the door, he is surprised to see his Marie in bed with another man. He stares open mouthed for a moment, then says “excuse me” and closes the door.

“There,” exclaims the noted novelist, “that man has savior faire!”

“No, no,” responds an older man further up the table. He is in the uniform of a Marshal of France, which he earned by once almost winning a battle. “That’s fine as far as it goes, but there must be more. Let us take the same situation. Pierre returns early, only to find his dear wife Marie missing. As you suggest, he climbs the stairs to change his clothes. He opens the door to find Marie in bed with another man. And yes, he says “excuse me,” but before closing the door he adds “please continue.”

“Now that is savoir faire!”

Everyone now looks satisfied, but at head of the table, a weak and reedy voice intrudes, emanating from the oldest member of the Academie, a 99-year-old former president of the Republic. “We have not yet arrived at the essence, which requires further refinement. To continue the narrative, young Pierre arrives home early, hoping to pleasantly surprise his darling Marie. And not finding her, yes he decides to change into his country clothes, perhaps thinking to stroll in the nearby countryside. So, he climbs the stairs and opens the bedroom door, only to find dear Marie in the arms of another man. “Excuse me,” he says, “please continue. And the man in bed with Marie does continue. Now, that man has savior faire!”

Exhausted by their labors, the Immortals adjourned for the day.

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

Fake News 

By Patrick F. Cannon

I think we can define “fake news” as news we don’t want to hear. President Trump hears a lot of it, which makes me wonder why he just doesn’t turn off his television sets and cancel his subscriptions to the New York Times, Washington Post and National Enquirer.

I should have thought – like most of his dwindling list of supporters – he would limit himself to Fox News and the more reliable right wing commentators like Sean Hannity, Rush Limbaugh, Glen Beck and the reliably annoying Ann Coulter (although some of them have begun to wonder what they have wrought). But he seems to revel in wallowing in every news report about himself as a means of seizing many more opportunities to yell “fake news!”

In a way, I suppose you have to give him credit for watching and listening to news outlets that cover him closely (I doubt if he himself actually reads anything). Most of his supporters don’t want to read or hear anything that might cast doubt on their beliefs and opinions. One hears endless complaints about the New York Times and Washington Post being biased in their coverage of the President; this from people who probably have never read either of them.

If you get your news exclusively from either Fox or MSNBC, supplemented on the radio by the loudhailers of the right and left, your view of the world will be narrow and incomplete. Unfortunately, the numbers of people who regularly read a daily newspaper continues to decline. A common complaint posits that newspapers can’t be trusted because all journalists have a liberal bias. Certainly, more journalists tend to be politically liberal than conservative.

I have been reading newspapers for more than 60 years. The only one I now read every day is the Chicago Tribune, but over the years I have also regularly read the New York Times and Wall Street Journal.  All of these venerable institutions have made mistakes in their coverage, some grievous. But each generally strives to get the facts straight and publish them in a coherent manner in their hard news columns. The editorial and opinion pages are just that and readers understand that the publisher may use them to express one view or another. As it happens, both the Tribune and Journal have conservative bents, while the Times is reliably liberal. All of them, however, give opinion space to alternative views.

Publishing a daily newspaper is an expensive business. Dwindling advertising and circulation revenue have put many out of business and caused almost all to tighten their belts. As they go away, there is no one left to do the digging that other media depend upon for their own coverage. Do you really think the network news programs do all of their own reporting? In any event, how much news can you possibly cover in 20 minutes once a day? And local television news is mostly a joke. By the time they cover the weather and promote their network’s entertainment shows, they have very little time left to cover real news, even if they actually know what it is.

So, people need to ask themselves this question when they complain about the media – just exactly who is the biased one here?

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

 

 

 

Just Askin’ 

By Patrick F. Cannon

In his short career as the president’s press secretary, Sean Spicer has been required to defend the indefensible. I have never seen him less than uncomfortable doing it. I suspect he knows his boss is incapable of telling the honest truth about even the simplest thing. Yet he continues his fruitless efforts to explain the unexplainable. To his credit, it must be almost unbearable to face a White House press corps that has lost all respect for both his boss and him.

In my career as a publicist, I was never asked to lie for my employers. With one exception, my job was to explain their activities to various constituencies, including members, customers and the public. That one exception was a short stint as director of public information for the City of Chicago’s Department of Public Works. My superior was the legendary Earl Bush, the first Mayor Daley’s press secretary. His City Hall office was unmarked, and looked like the lair of a chronic hoarder. On the few occasions I submitted news releases for his approval (mandatory), I never heard of them again. It took me a few weeks to figure out that his job was to prevent the press from getting stories. I then understood what all those piles of paper were.

In a long life, almost everyone is occasionally faced with a moral choice. Should I take the expedient but morally dubious choice, or simply do the right thing? In looking at his biography, I see that Spicer has spent most of his career working for political campaigns, for members of the House or Senate, and for the Republican National Committee. In that last job, he even spent some time denigrating the candidacy of none other than Donald Trump.

His turnabout reminds me of a story I’ve told many times.  Early in my career, I worked in general management and marketing for a small institutional beverage company. Although the office was located in the Chicago area when I started, they decided to move it to the plant location in Lake Mills, Iowa, a farm community of some 2,500 folks. The business was seasonal to an extent, and during the winter we hired farmer’s wives for the packing lines. The plant manager, a local man, fired one of them for reasons I can’t now recall.

The aggrieved woman consulted a local lawyer. Now, he was an older man and had been one of the last lawyers in the state to pass the bar before you had to graduate from law school. Anyway, lawyer Larry (as I’ll call him) showed up one day and asked to meet with the plant and personnel managers, who worked under me. I attended the meeting, along with the comptroller. Larry then proceeded to list all the horrible and unfair things the plant manager had done to his client, suggesting that a law suit might well be her only recourse unless we paid her a handsome sum instead.

Having heard him out, the plant manager and then the personnel manager went through long lists of her sins and omissions. It took awhile and when they were done, lawyer Larry sat in stunned silence for a moment. Then, recovering his aplomb, he said: “Well, I’ll tell you what. If you want, I’ll slap a suit on that cookie!”

Sean Spicer has spent too long working for politicians. His moral compass has been skewed by the magnet of being close to the center of power. When his boss lies, he seems able to swear to it. Will he ever reach the point when even he gags on his own words?

Just askin’

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon