It’s a F_ _ _ _ _ _ Shame! 

By Patrick F. Cannon

There was a time when the word fuck was rarely used in print, or in polite society for that matter. While some newspapers and magazines still print it as “f _ _ _ “, the venerable New York Times now permits the actual word in some cases. Years ago, its use was limited to male only areas like the golf course, the army barracks or the corner bar. I can’t remember the first time I heard it used in mixed company, but I remember being shocked the first time I heard an educated women say the word. I can’t imagine anyone being shocked by that today.

I have a history with it myself. I must have used it as a teenager, but it was the army that taught me that it was a word for all occasions. The most common form was “fuckin” as in “fuckin’ army” and “fuckin’ sergeant” and of course “fuckin’ chow!” Its pervasive use reminds me of a story I’ve often told. I had a friend in basic training named Jim. He was from downstate Illinois (for those of you not from Illinois, “downstate” is essentially any place in the state outside of Chicago).

Jim’s father was a blacksmith. Before you get the wrong idea, a blacksmith in his case was really someone who repaired farm machinery, although they (it was a large concern) did shoe the odd horse or pony. Jim was a graduate of Bradley University and intended to carry on the family business when he got out of the army. He was the only one of my basic training buddies who also went to Signal School at Ft. Gordon, Georgia, so we spent nearly four months together.

When we finished school, we flew into Chicago together. My sister Kathleen picked us up and took us to her house for breakfast, where Jim’s parents were going to pick him up later in the morning. It was quite a breakfast; bacon, sausage, eggs and pancakes. At the table were my sister and brother-in-law and my three young nieces. When the pancakes were passed, Jim took a couple, and then innocently asked: “would someone please pass the fuckin’ butter?” Stunned silence. Realizing what he had said, Jim’s face turned bright red. No one said anything, but my sister did pass him the fuckin’ butter.

One more story before I start preaching. When my children were small, we lived for a couple of years in Glenview. One day my then wife and I took them to the Sears at Golf Mill for a reason I have long since forgotten. As I recall, my wife was buying some nuts at the candy counter and the rest of us were loitering nearby. Beth – who was then maybe three – naturally thought we should buy some candy, which was arrayed in dizzying profusion before her admiring eyes. Her mother said something like “no, you’ll get candy at Easter {which was nigh} so you’ll just have to wait” All of a sudden, her little voice began chanting “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuck, fuuuck…”

As you might imagine, these words coming from the mouth of a cute little girl caused a few raised eyebrows. As it happens, she heard the word from her brother, who picked it up from an older neighbor boy. Although I believe that they later learned the actual meaning of the word, it’s unlikely they did then, but one never knows.

Nowadays, I almost never utter it out loud, but must admit I often mouth it silently, usually when some idiot cuts me off on the road, or when some particularly pompous politician utters one of the more obvious platitudes.

In recent years, the eff word (I’ll call it that from now on) has been joined in popularity by the em effer and cee sucker words. Now, English has some one million other words to choose from, but you would never know it from listening to today’s comedians and watching “premium” cable and online channels. I don’t frequent comedy clubs, but the premium channels give air time to popular stand-up comics, who seem unable to talk without using profanity. I even heard one comedian defend his use of the eff word by saying he thought the word itself was funny. Really?  Lewis Black is one comedian I actually admire, but wonder if it has ever occurred to him that he might be just as funny without effing everything in sight?

Somewhat related to the belief that profanity is fashionable, is the trend of comedians of both sexes to endlessly prattle on about their sex lives, which are usually dysfunctional in some way. The word “discretion” is one of those one million English words, but it may soon be dropped from the Oxford Dictionary for lack of use.

While even the broadcast channels are getting a bit more liberal, it is the dramas on the premium channels where one finds the blossoming of the eff word and its accomplices. A good case in point was the series “Deadwood,” which ran on HBO for a couple of years. I watched some episodes, and the dialog included a veritable blizzard of profanity (spoken, it must be said, by a very good cast); indeed so much that it was sometimes difficult to follow what was actually going on. For those of you who aren’t familiar with it, the series was set in Deadwood, South Dakota in the 1870s, and included historical figures like Wyatt Earp, Wild Bill Hickok, Calamity Jane and George Hearst, William Randolph  Hearst’s father.

Unbeknownst to posterity, it appears that Tom Edison must have been there trying out one of his newfangled recording devices, else how could the drama’s producer and writers have had any idea how people actually talked in 1870s Deadwood? Or perhaps some Harvard linguist turned up to study the local denizens and his paper was found in a dusty corner of the university’s library? Or just maybe the producer decided that piling on the eff and other words would provide a veneer of “reality” that would provide a guilty pleasure to a gullible audience?

I had once harbored the hope that good taste would ultimately prevail, but the evidence now seems to indicate otherwise. How else can you explain the primacy of vulgarity over wit, and the Kardashians for that matter?

Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

 

Live and Let Live 

By Patrick F. Cannon

I served in the United States Army from March 1961 to late February 1963. I was drafted, and thank God got out before Vietnam became the festering sore it was to become. After trudging through the Georgia mud in basic training, and sweltering in its heat at Signal School, I was sent to France, where I worked in a communications center; first ate mussels; and learned that you could drink something other than beer.

Perhaps as punishment for my good fortune, I was to spend the last six months of my service in the middle of the Mojave Desert. At every stage of my brief military career, I served with homosexuals. This was before “don’t ask, don’t tell” and the ultimate lifting of any ban on their service. Then and for many years to come, there was an outright ban on gays in the military. Those who did enlist or were drafted were forced to be discrete and stay very much in the closet. The only case of a gay soldier being discharged that I was personally aware of was an outgrowth of the double agent spy scandal in Britain, where two of the famous “Cambridge Five” (Guy Burgess and Anthony Blunt) were gay and therefore thought to particularly vulnerable to Soviet blandishments. As it turned out, their gayness was irrelevant to their treason.

(By the way, anti-homosexual laws in Britain were only repealed in 1967. I recently saw the film “The Imitation Game” for the second time. If you saw it, you will know that Alan Turing, the mathematician largely responsible for breaking German secret codes during World War II, was later convicted for “lewd acts” and was forced to undergo chemical castration to avoid prison. He subsequently committed suicide. He was only in his 40s and we’ll never know what other contributions he might have made.)

In my case, a top secret clearance was required for my army specialty. To get it, we were required to undergo a lie-detector test. One of my fellow students, a young lady, failed the “gay” questions and was subsequently discharged. She was a nice and intelligent girl and would almost certainly have done a good job, but such were the times.

Now, President Trump, he of the “leap before you look” cast of mind, has threatened to ban transgender people from serving in the military. It is thought he did this because a congresswoman had offered an amendment that would have banned the services from providing so-called gender reassignment surgery because of the expense. Note that the amendment would not have banned them from serving, only that the cost of surgery would not be born by the government. I have seen varying estimates of the possible cost, all somewhere in the low billions, a mere pittance for our profligate politicians.

In looking into this, I found that the surgery is covered by insurance in some states, but not others. Not everyone is aware of this, but insurance companies are largely regulated by the states. If they so decide, they can require health insurers to cover gender reassignment surgery, just as they can require them to cover the cost of abortions or other medical  procedures that some might oppose on religious or other grounds. What they can’t do, as we’re discovering under the Affordable Care Act, is require them to provide coverage at all.

There is a difference, however, between gender reassignment and other surgeries. For example, as a surgical procedure, abortion is designed to terminate a pregnancy, so the intention and result match. At another level, if your heart is failing, you might undergo a heart transplant. Bad heart is replaced with a good heart, just as a bum kidney or liver might also be replaced. In other words, surgery is meant to affect a cure. But what does gender reassignment surgery cure?

Gender dysphoria, which is the name given to the condition of people who believe they were assigned the wrong sex at birth, is nothing new. While the numbers are always open to dispute, many researchers believe that 0.3 percent of the population might have this condition. If accurate, it’s likely that a similar number of Romans and Egyptians and Assyrians had it as well. The difference is, there was little they could do about it other than cross-dressing and trying to live as the other sex.

Now, with a referral from their physician, they can undergo hormone and other therapies to change their appearance, followed in some cases by gender reassignment surgery. For a man who believes he is a woman (three times as many men as women undergo the surgery), this involves castration and removal of the penis, followed by the creation of something that looks like a labia and vagina. Women who believe they should have been male have their uterus and ovaries removed and clitoral and other tissues used to create something like a penis. They also often have breast tissue removed.

In contrast to all other surgeries, the result is only an illusion of a cure, as it’s currently impossible to actually change ones sex. It would seem, then, that there is a legitimate question about whether such surgery should be paid for by those of us who pay health care premiums, or through the taxes we pay to the various levels of government. Until some clarity and uniformity comes to this legitimate issue, I suspect that those with gender dysphoria will seek to join organizations or live in states that will pay for their surgery, which can cost up to $50,000. What they should not have to seek are the civil rights they are guaranteed by the Constitution, which the president might try reading when he’s not drafting misleading statements for his children.

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

The Age of Discovery, Part Two

By Patrick F. Cannon

(Those of you who read Part One of my unique history of discovery were no doubt disappointed that Part Two was somewhat delayed by other matters. Now, I also find I must apologize for the somewhat longer length of this conclusion. I can only blame the Portuguese, who took their own sweet time!)

The record of discovery becomes clearer in the 15^th Century, when the remarkable Prince Henry the Navigator appears on the stage. He was the son of King John of Good Memory of Portugal. His father got this name because he never forgot who owed him money, thus making Portugal one of the most prosperous countries in Europe.

If you get your atlas out, you’ll see that Portugal is a long, skinny country. Its coast faces both west and south. Being at the very edge of Europe, its people were forced to look either out to sea or towards Spain. Since mountains obscured the view to a country they didn’t much like anyway, the average citizen preferred the ocean view.

Since his father took care of the money, Prince Henry was at leisure to dream of what lay beyond his narrow domain. To make things easier, he built a castle right at the bottom corner of his country so he could, on alternate nights, dream west then south.

Everyone, of course, knew that Africa existed to the south, but didn’t have a clue how far south it might extend. It did seem a better bet for exploration, since one could hug the coast rather than sailing off into the unknown (except for the Vikings, but they had lost the wanderlust by then). Somewhat complicating Henry’s ambition was the indisputable fact that the further south you sailed, the hotter it got.

The timid felt that if you got too far south, the water would start to boil. While this might permit mariners to catch already-cooked fish, it could also melt their ships caulking, putting the crew “in the soup” as it were.

They also thought, with some logic, that you might turn black. Because the natives were sometimes spotted gawking from the shore, the Portuguese knew that the peoples who lived in what came to be called the “dark” continent were black or at least dark brown. The Portuguese had long done a lively trade in wine with the English, who were very fair skinned. Since they knew that the Sun rarely if ever shone there, and that they were darker than the English because it often did in Portugal, it just seemed sensible to assume that the further south they went, the darker they would become. Would their friends and relatives even recognize them when they returned?

But as he stood on his lofty battlements, it occurred to Henry that these were risks worth taking, particularly since he could afford to send someone else. As it happened, two young worthies named John Concalves and Tristan Vaz came looking for work.

Being careful not to mention the boiling water and black skin theories, Henry convinced them that riches awaited them along the African coast. So off they went, only to be blown west by a storm, ending up in what is now known as Madeira. Deciding to leave well enough alone, they returned. Henry, it must be said, was a trifle disappointed, but decided to make a virtue out of necessity. He sent them back to colonize, thinking to make the island a way station for future explorations.

They took various seeds along, including grapes. Had they not, the now famous phrase “Have some Madeira, my deara” would not have entered the lexicon.

Henry might well have been known as the “Persistent” as well as the “Navigator” (had not the rules been so strict about such things) for he didn’t give up his dream of exploring the African coast.

Each year, his minions set forth, slowly advancing along the African coast. When they reached the farthest west point of the continent, they discovered that the currents met there and created the turbulence that the ignorant had thought was boiling water. This could easily be avoided. Nor did they turn black, although some of them got nasty sunburns.

When they landed along the coast, they found many of the natives trusting and welcoming. As so often happens in history, they turned this trust to their advantage. Luring the natives on board their ships with the promise of an afternoon’s sail, they promptly put them in chains and brought them back to Portugal as slaves. Needless to say, they didn’t turn white.

While Henry was pleased with this new source of income, what he really wanted to find out was whether, if he finally got around Africa, he could go east and find the Indies.

He knew that the Indies existed and were a source of the spices that Europe craved. Had not Marco Polo traveled over land as far as China?  Had not others retraced his steps and set up the famous Spice Roads that permitted him to have his favorite breakfast, cinnamon toast?  But had not the crafty Turks closed the roads to Europeans, creating a monopoly for themselves?

In 1488, Bartholomew Dias actually reached the tip of Africa, which he called the Cape of Storms; later changed to the Cape of Good Hope by later tourism authorities. He wanted to press forward, but his crew had had enough and convinced him to turn back. The fits and starts method of exploration continued until 1498, when Vasco de Gama (bloody leg in English) finally got to India. The place he landed was later called Goa, since he left a few men behind to create a settlement, saying: “We goa back, you stay.”

Now that we have established a route to India, we can return to Christopher Columbus, who thought he had a better way. Looking at Ptolemy’s map as he often did, he decided it was foolish to go all the way around Africa, when it would be much faster to simply sail west and arrive at the same place.

Being a proud Italian, he tried selling the idea to the local princes first, but most were short of money as they were continually fighting among themselves and having their portraits painted. He then went to France, but soon discovered that the French felt they had already found heaven and couldn’t imagine why anyone would wish to go anywhere else. Columbus pressed on to Spain, where King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella were just about to toss the last Moors out of their country. With the booty they had taken from their retreating enemies, they were flush with cash and looking for new worlds to conquer. Timing is everything and Columbus rang the castle bell just when the monarchs were in a good mood.

They provided cash for three ships and crews, with the understanding that any lands discovered would be theirs, along with most of the gold, jewels and spices. Columbus figured that his share would be more than enough to greatly improve his standard of living, so he was content.

He set sail on August 3, 1492, full of confidence. “If we just keep going west,” he told his crews, “we’re bound to bump into something, most likely Japan.” “OK,” they responded prudently, “just as long as we get paid.”

We have to remember that in those days people who got on ships generally expected them to arrive somewhere other than their port of departure. Nowadays, of course, we’re perfectly content to sail around aimlessly for a week or two and arrive back where we started, just so long as we’re fed five times a day.

As the weeks went by with no sight of land, the crews became understandably concerned, particularly since the late night buffet consisted mainly of hard biscuits and even harder salt pork, washed down with water that was, to put it nicely, a bit cloudy.

When they expressed their misgivings to Columbus, he invariably replied: “Sail on.” This soon became tiresome, and mutinous mutterings became the order of the day. In the event, Columbus was saved, when on October 11 land was sighted. It was an island Columbus called San Salvador. He planted the flag of Spain on the beach, watched warily by a group of naked natives, who wondered why anyone would wear heavy clothes in such a climate.

Columbus himself was somewhat confused at the nakedness of his greeters, having assumed that the Japanese wore clothes just like everyone he had met heretofore. Perhaps Marco Polo had failed to mention it? He asked the natives if he could look around for gold. They didn’t seem to mind, although one must assume that their Spanish was minimal.

No gold was found, so Columbus began wandering around the area. He planted so many flags that the crew was soon busy making new ones. Before he ran out of fabric, he has discovered what is now Cuba (which he thought was China) and Hispaniola. The natives there actually had a few bits of gold, and told Columbus (using sign language?) that the gold was found up in the hills, where it has largely been found ever since.

But fate intervened (as it almost always does) and the Santa Maria was wrecked before they reached the gold. Columbus decided they would need a lot more people and shovels if they were to get at the gold, so he decided to return to Spain, leaving behind 39 men to hold the fort (which they first had to build).

When he returned with many more ships, some empty to hold the expected gold, he discovered that the natives had wised up and killed his men. Setting a precedent that held true for hundreds of years, he enslaved the natives and set them to work digging for gold. They didn’t find much, but did discover that the Europeans returned with a variety of diseases, both venereal and funereal.

The hapless Columbus never gave up; traveling back and forth from Spain to what he continued to think was the Indies. He finally died in 1506, still claiming that he had found the Indies. By then, sadly, he was commonly known as Crazy Chris. Although he never set foot in what is now called the United States, in recognition of his dogged determination, that country established October 11 as Columbus Day. While many are happy to celebrate it as a welcome day off, others believe Columbus should be condemned at a gold-happy native killer. So far, the day off has prevailed.

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Copyright 2017, Patrick F. Cannon

 

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