By Patrick F. Cannon

The late Canadian songwriter Leonard Cohen was a truly awful singer. I have long admired many of his songs as interpreted by others, but until recently had not actually heard him perform them.

            A little history. My car still has a CD player, and I rotate disks from my collection to provide a suitable soundtrack to my travels. The last time I did this, I came across a CD of Cohen singing his own works. It was a surprise discovery, since I frankly didn’t know I had it. My late wife Jeanette might have bought it, or it could have been a gift. “What’s this?,” I thought, and duly added it to the pile.

            After the fourth song – I think it was “Bird on a Wire” – I had had enough and rejected the disk. I had long thought that Bob Dylan was the least talented singer among the songwriters; but compared to Cohen, he’s a veritable Pavarotti. As it happens, I also own, and often play, a CD of Cohen songs sung by real singers. Called “Tower of Song,” it includes renditions by such as Elton John, Bono, Billy Joel, Trisha Yearwood, Sting and Willie Nelson (whose classic version of “Bird on a Wire” is a highlight). Not included, but also notable interpreters of Cohen’s songs, are Judy Collins and Joan Baez.

            Of course, not all songwriters are terrible singers. Depending on your taste, one could list John Denver, Neil Diamond (whose songs are now featured in a Broadway “Jukebox” musical), Joni Mitchell, Paul Simon, Prince, Elton John, Stevie Wonder,  the late Harry Chapin, Taylor Swift, and of course the Beatles as a group. Folk singers are a special breed. Although you can’t imagine them belting out an Irving Berlin classic, Woody Guthrie, and Pete Segar sound about right with their own stuff.

            I started wondering about great songwriters of the past. We’ll never know if Franz Shubert or Steven Foster ever sang their own songs. Irving Berlin had a decent tenor voice, but he left it to the greats to interpret his work. I came across Cole Porter singing “Anything Goes.” Not bad. He had been a member of the famous Yale University acapella group, the Wiffenpoofs. If they sang at all, greats like Gershwin, Kern, and Rogers must have limited their efforts to the shower.

            I’ve been known to belt out a song or two in the shower, or when no one’s around. Of course, one always sounds like Bing Crosby to oneself. I don’t ever recall my mother singing. My sister – who was 10 years older than my brother and I – often sang the hit songs of the day for us. My recollection is positive. But my father and brother – both Pete’s – conspired to give music a bad name. Although their actual speaking voices were pleasant enough, neither could sing on key. Of course, they loved to serenade me.

            We lived in Chicago’s South Shore neighborhood, at 67^th and Merrill Avenue. As it happened, our school, St. Phillip Neri, was at 72^nd and Merrill, and my father’s office at 75^th and – you guessed it – Merrill. So, most mornings, my father drove us to school. Those five blocks could be pure torture, as the Pete’s sang along with the radio. One song I remember vividly was “Little White Lies,” a 1948 hit for Dick Haymes. Poor Dick (and me) never had a chance.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

I started writing this before I knew the results of the presidential election. Depending on who you voted for, you may be feeling just a bit apprehensive today. In any event, the next four years should be interesting.

            As I’m writing this, in the background I hear one of Mozart’s 27 piano concertos. I own all of them, in versions played by Danial Barenboim and the English Chamber Orchestra. With a couple of exceptions, they are full of light and joy. Mozart died in 1791, aged only 35. But he managed to compose nearly 800 works in his short life. Many people know Mozart only through the 1984 Milos Foreman-directed movie, Amadeus, based on Peter Shaffer’s play. It’s quite entertaining, but mostly fictional.

            Think about it. 35 years. 800 works. Although he got minor church and court appointments, he mostly had to work for a living. He had a wife and six children to support. And we’re told he liked a bit of luxury, and a fun time. So, the grindstone was always waiting. He must have often been exhausted from his labor, but nevertheless he never lost the joy that his music expressed. He died young, but not from overwork, but from infections that could easily be treated today.

            When he died, he left the joy he felt in his music to us. Although there are other great German composers – Bach before and Beethoven after – none were able consistently to express the joy that Mozart did. When the sad state of our politics begins to get you down, turn to Mozart. His music is available in ways now that would have astonished him.  

            Listening to the overture to  the “Magic Flute” isn’t going to change the results of the election. But it might remind us that we can still find joy amongst the ruins. And that this country, as imperfect as it has sometimes been, has slowly but steadily made life better for most of its citizens (and millions of immigrants too). And that no matter who won, your neighbor is still your neighbor and deserves your understanding and respect.

            Of course, if you want to put America first, you can substitute George Gershwin for Wolfgang. He also died young, age 38. In addition to about 500 popular songs, he became America’s finest classical music composer.  Most people have heard his “Rhapsody in Blue,” even if they didn’t know what it was. He did many others later in his  short life, most notably the opera “Porgy and Bess.”

            While you’re listening to their music – or the Rolling Stones if they suit you better – you might want to accept that Joe Biden was a mediocre president, who should have never run for a second term; and that whoever ran in his place would have had to carry his record around their neck.  It also didn’t help that the new candidate was chosen without proper competition.

            Political parties need to understand their constituents, not force them to go places they don’t want to go. Frankly, we need a new centrist party. Since that’s not likely to happen any time soon, the Democratic Party needs to clean the wax out of its ears.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

I’m very afraid I have shocking news to report today. Despite my longstanding efforts to prevent people from desecrating the bodies that evolution (or the Almighty if you prefer) has given them by splattering them with dubious “artwork,” the numbers are increasing!

            According to a recent issue of the Axios online newsletter: “For American women, tattoos are becoming powerful symbols of resilience, identity and joy.” What was once limited to drunken sailors on shore leave, now has a veneer of respectability. Some folks even – and I kid you not – call it “body art!” Now, and I shudder to think about it, 38% of American women have tattoos, compared to only 27% of men. Even more alarming – 56% of women between 18 and 29 have boldly entered tattoo parlors, along with 53% of their elders (30 to 49).  These once sleezy back-street emporiums now appear on grand boulevards and in tony shopping centers!

            Now, I don’t wish to suggest that tattoos are more acceptable on men. I no longer eat in restaurants with open kitchens because chefs and their minions are among the most tattooed of all. Seeing them would certainly put me off my feed. And artists of both sexes seem to feel having armfuls of flowers, squiggles and whirls sets them apart from the hoi polloi.

            I don’t argue against the reasons people get tattoos – dear old mom; a new love; a beloved pet; solidarity with flowers and trees; survival of some disease; even support for the local sports team. But why not wear a jaunty tee shirt or snappy cap instead? When love goes cold, or mom writes you out of the will, at least you can easily throw them away. Getting rid of a tattoo is both painful and expensive. And need I remind the adorned that they don’t look the same when you get old and withered?

            (By the way, tattoos can be expensive. Covering an arm with hearts and flowers could run you $5,000. And it will hurt. In contrast, I just bought a snappy Hawaiian shirt for less than $100. The design is based on 19^th Century Japanese artist Hokusai’s famous “Great Wave” woodblock print. It’s also a popular subject for tattoos, which could easily cost you $2,000 for one of modest size. My shirt will last for many years. If I get tired of it, I can donate it go Goodwill. If you get tired of your tattoo, it will hurt again and cost you serious dough.)

            On a related subject, the other day I was having breakfast with a friend, and the server had a nose ring. It was small, but I was tempted to ask her what she did if she had to blow her nose? Of course I didn’t, but it made me think. Why would anyone drill a hole in a part of their nose – of all places – and insert a ring? The internet, that junkshop of sometimes factual information, says that “a nose ring can denote marital status, beauty enhancement, rebellion against Western culture (or maybe parents?), and devotion to deities of various cultures.”

            As it happens, you don’t have to pierce your nose to have one. They have clip-on rings for the faint of heart, like clip-on earrings. Of course, we’re used to seeing pierced ears, even on men! Now we not only sport nose rings, but lip rings, cheek rings, navel rings (and no doubt “private” places) rings.

            Count me among the apparent minority who think we should be happy with the body we were born with. I prefer to see beautiful flowers in a garden, not on someone’s arm, back or (God forbid) face. But, not for the first or last time, I seem to be swimming against the tide.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

You can’t deny that politicians can influence the economy. Although now under control, the recent bout with inflation was certainly caused by Covid-related spending programs, and President Biden’s massive public works expenditures (Congress also played its role). And if Donald Trump is elected and gets his way, his tariff and tax programs are estimated to increase inflation beyond seven percent (it’s currently 2.4 percent). He’s a Republican? Really?

            Despite the best efforts of our politicians to screw things up, the Economist magazine in a recent issue called our economy “The Envy of the World.” According to them – and few magazines are more respected – our country “continues to rack up a stellar economic performance even as our politics gets more poisonous.” And why is this? “America’s dynamic private sector draws in immigrants, ideas and investments, begetting more dynamism.” Here are a few other highlights (and I quote):

• American is a big country, blessed with vast energy sources. The shale oil revolution has driven perhaps a tenth of its economic growth since the early 2000s.
• The enormous size of its consumer and capital markets means that a good idea dreamed up in Michigan can make it big across America’s other 49 states.
• America has long married light-touch regulation (editor’s note: compared to the rest of the world) with speedy and generous spending when crisis hits.
• It is home to the world’s biggest rocket-launch industry, but also its internet giants and best artificial intelligence startups.

Compared to our friends in Europe, our economy is still healthy and growing. And despite what you may think, our tax burden is among the world’s lowest. Our tax-to-GDP ratio is 27.7%, compared to the average of 42.8% in Europe. And the Economist reminds us that “China’s output per person remains less than a third of America’s; India’s is smaller still.”

Yet, Americans love to complain about the economy. Except for that inflation caused by Covid and infrastructure spending, the inflation rate was low for all the Obama and Trump years. I can attest to that because my Social Security payments barely increased, tied as they are to the cost of living. When Obama came into office in 2009, the unemployment rate was 9.9% (remember the fiscal crisis?); when he left, 4.7%. When Trump left, it was 6.7%; now it’s 4.1%.

Now, it’s true that grocery prices spiked in 2023. I remember paying about six bucks for a dozen eggs. The other day, those eggs were $2.79. Of course, A constant source of complaint is the cost of gasoline. In 1965, I paid about 35 cents a gallon for regular. The current cost of approximately $3.75 is about the same, adjusted for inflation. And should I mention that the stock exchanges are at all-time highs?

There is a cautionary note. Our national debt is now at $35 trillion, 124% of our GDP. The only time it came near to that percentage was at the end of World War II, when it reached 119%. By 1975, it was down to 32%. This year, the interest payments on our debt (I use “our” on purpose) will be nearly $1 trillion. Yet, as you may have noticed, neither candidate wants to talk about doing anything about it. Indeed, a non-partisan budget watchdog has estimated that programs proposed by Vice President Harris would increase the debt by $3.5 trillion over 10 years, while Trump’s would add $7.5 trillion.

So, while we have a dynamic economy, the “envy of the world,” it simply hasn’t kept pace with the profligate spending of our feckless politicians!

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Although he oozes insincerity from every pore, as a politician Donald Trump was right to criticize President Biden for his administration’s abrupt and poorly planned withdrawal from Afghanistan, even though his own administration had made the deal with the Taliban that made withdrawal inevitable.

            American soldiers needlessly lost their lives, and many of our Afghani friends were abandoned to their fate. Even though they signed up for it, the soldiers found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not for the first time, it made me think about how members of the armed services are hostages to fortune. For example, I was drafted early in 1961; if I had been drafted in 1963, I might well have been sent to Viet Nam.

            As it was, I was in the Army for both the Berlin Wall and Cuban Missile crises.  When the East Germans began construction of the Wall in August 1961, I had been stationed for only a couple of months in LaRochelle, France (lucky me; that’s it in the photo). While I worked as a cryptographer in the communications center in La Rochelle itself, we lived at an Army post outside of town. The main Army activity was at the Port of La Pallice, just south of La Rochelle, a main port supplying the Army in Europe. Most of our message traffic involved this activity.

            One of our country’s responses to the wall was to beef up our forces in Europe. As a result, there was a substantial increase in coded message traffic since much of the equipment and material came in through La Pallice. On our own post, several empty buildings were converted to barracks for a National Guard truck battalion that was activated to handle increased truck movements from the port.

            The irony of all this was that, while all this was going on, we were providing signal support for the crew of The Longest Day, which was partially filmed on an island off the coast which had a beach much like Omaha Beach in Normandy. The Army also provided soldiers as extras, during a period when the USSR armed forces in Europe were nearly three times as numerous as NATO! In the end, of course, the crisis subsided, but at least I got to have dinner at a local restaurant where Robert Mitchum was drinking too much wine with members of the movie crew. He amused himself by throwing snail shells at his fellow diners.

            October of 1962 found me stationed with a combat signal company at Godforsaken Fort Irwin, California, in the middle of the Mohave Desert. Our role in wartime would have been to support a corps headquarters. A corps usually consists of at least two divisions. As such, we were loaded onto cargo planes and shipped to Fort Hood, Texas to provide support during maneuvers that would pit one armored division against another.

            Being in the field meant living in tents. One fine morning, after a violent storm, our area was flooded. As we surveyed the flooded tent city, a sergeant came along and said: “Is there a cryptographer who would like to help out at the post?” Feeling the mud under foot, and going against the “never volunteer” dictum, I immediately said “I’ll go!”

            Although it took me a day or so to figure it out, my temporary assignment with the Strategic Army Corps (STRAC) was related to the Cuban missile crisis. I watched President Kennedy’s October 22 television address in a Ft. Hood barracks. By then, the maneuvers had been cancelled and outside I could see tanks being loaded on railroad flat cars. The next day, we started loading our own vans and trucks.

            The main access road ran north to south to the main east-west highway. The Army never tells you what’s happening, so we figured if we turned left at the main gate, we would go to Florida; if right, back to Fort Irwin. We turned right and it took us three full days to get back. By the time we did, the crisis was over.            

            In 1965, when I was out of the Army for over two years and newly married, a bartender I knew who had also been a cryptographer was called back to service. Why him and not me remains a mystery. I confess I was apprehensive for the next couple of years as our troop levels in Viet Nam gradually increased. By the end of 1968, we had two children, and maybe that saved me. If so, thanks Patrick and Beth!

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

In his endless search for the meaning of life, young Andy Gump thought he might travel to the mountains of Nepal to find the cave wherein lived an ancient monk who was said to be the most recent of a lengthy line of wise men who held the elusive secret.

            After checking travel web sites, he discovered to his dismay that his funds would take him only as far as Honolulu, pleasant enough but hardly a font of wisdom. Plan B took him to the web again, to a site frequented by fellow seekers, where he discovered information about a wise man who was more accessible, indeed in the mountains of West Virginia, close to the small town of Dismal Seepage.

            The actual location could only be found with map coordinates. Through the miracle of modern science, Gump had merely to enter them on his trusty phone, which gave him directions through the woods to a creek, next to which stood a modest cabin. To get there, he had to cross the creek on a kind of bridge made of stones. As he approached the cabin, an old, bearded man emerged, clad in bibber overalls and a plaid shirt. He carried a kind of staff.

            “Are you the Grub Hub man?” he asked.

            “No,” Gump replied, “I’m seeking the meaning of life.”

            “Shit, I was hoping you were from Grub Hub. They’re always late…I’d like to get some hot food for a change!”

            Just then, the sound of a motor could be heard, and out of the woods emerged an all-terrain vehicle. It motored right through the creek and up to the cabin. The old man was given a container, and Gump was surprised to see him take out a phone to make the payment. It was then he noticed that one side of the roof was covered with solar panels.

            “Well, come ahead young feller. There’s plenty of food for both of us – I usually get enough for leftovers.”

            Gump followed him into the cabin. He put the food container on a small table and got two plates and utensils from a cabinet. While he was doing this, Gump noticed one wall was completely given over to bookcases, which were full of books of assorted sizes and colors. Out of the container came various cartons from the Olive Garden! There was pasta, and all the bread sticks and salad you could eat.

            “I’m a little surprised,” he said, “that you have an Olive Garden here.”

            “Well, if they made it to Dismal Seepage, I guess they’re just about everywhere now. Ran the Railroad Café right out of business. Let’s eat, then we can talk about why you came to visit.”

            After finishing the rigatoni with sauce bolognaise, he poured each a measure of a clear spirit out of a Mason jar. “I couldn’t help but notice your wall of books,” Gump said after taking a sip and regaining his ability to speak.

            “That there’s the accumulated knowledge of the ages,” he responded. “Those tomes contain the thoughts and ideas of all the great thinkers, philosophers, religious figures, and cranks from the dawn of time. I spent years learning Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Sanskrit, Sumerian, Babylonian, Egyptian – and all the modern languages – so I could read these great men and women in their original languages. My goal was to absorb all that wisdom and discover the true meaning of life.”

            “Did you succeed?” he asked with trepidation.

            “No, I’m afraid not. I found a lot of advice about how to live your life, but no one convinced me that really knew why we’re here, other than the same biological process that created that tree out there. Young fella, you’re on your own. The meaning of life is what you give it. You can let some religion tell you how to live your life, and you could do worse than follow one that preaches love and tolerance, even when most of its adherents seem to do the opposite. You could follow some political ideology. You could even be the one that finally makes it work. I do believe you should love your neighbor as you love yourself, but I prefer to do it at a distance. Anyway, have some more salad and breadsticks – you’ll need your strength.”

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon