By Patrick F. Cannon

All you progressives out there should prepare yourself for the strong possibility of Donald Trump being elected president for a second time. Because of the unwillingness of President Biden to admit he’s too old to serve another  term, Trump’s lead in the polls is increasing. And now, because he survived an assassination attempt – which many of his supporters say was through God’s intervention! – that lead will only increase.

            Now I see there’s a plot afoot from the Biden campaign to do the delegate vote in advance of the convention to forestall any attempt to get him off the ticket. If you are truly frightened of Trump’s return, you should be writing, calling, emailing, faxing, or even visiting your elected representatives in DC, to tell them to do more than fret and fume about Biden, but band together to insist he withdraw. Of course, since they already know most Democrats think he should retire, that may be a vain hope.

            At the same time, it might be well to admit that the country isn’t “progressive.” If Biden were to drop out – he won’t do it willingly – the worse thing the Democrats could do would be to replace him with a member of the party’s far, or even near, left. Here’s something to remember – most American are moderate. They may be awake, but they’re not “woke.”

            A good example of Democratic foolishness took place recently when the legislature of California passed a law forbidding schools in the state from informing parents when their child chooses to change pronouns. Think about it. Little Charlie decides he’s a girl, or maybe both sexes. He (or she or they now) tells the teacher and everyone goes along, but the California legislature tells the school that Charlie’s parents can’t be told. While so far this only applies to California, voters in the rest of the country see Big Brother looming over their lives.          

            Of course, if Trump triumphs (I couldn’t resist), you could always leave the country. For example, I could apply for Irish citizenship, as my father was born there. But I like it here. I survived Trump once, and besides, I never did like Guinness.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

If you look up lists of the world’s top universities, including lists compiled by other countries, on average seven of the top ten are likely to be in the United States. In the Chicago area, the University of Chicago falls just outside the top ten; my alma mater, Northwestern, ranks in the low thirties. The quality of these schools draws students from around the world.

            For much of the 19^th Century, in contrast, Americans seeking higher education in engineering, architecture, the sciences, medicine and the visual arts had to travel to Europe to complete their education, with Paris the preferred destination. The story of these pilgrims is recounted in David McCullough’s 2011 book, The Greater Journey, which I recently re-read for my book group.

            While Americans had access to a more than adequate education in the liberal arts – literature, history, languages, philosophy, etc. – the only engineering school in America until M.I.T. was founded in 1861, was the military academy at West Point. M.I.T. was also the home of the country’s first architectural school, founded in 1868.

            Since I write about architecture, let me concentrate on the architects who attended the Ecole des Beaux Arts in Paris. As was true with the fledgling painters and sculptors who also attended, they would have had to be fluent in French, as all the instruction was in that language; and would have had to pass a stringent competitive entrance examination, also in Franch. For example, only 30 places were available for budding architects in 1874, the year Louis Sullivan took  and passed the test.

            (As you’ll find out if you read my new book with photographer Jim Caulfield, Louis Sullivan: An American Architect – published by Glessner House and distributed by the University of Minnesota Press – Sullivan left the Ecole after only a year. He felt he had learned all he needed, which was the process of designing a building, not its style. He would emphatically reject the dominant European models for a more purely American style.)

            In 1846, Richard Morris Hunt was the first American architect to attend the Ecole. He would become America’s leading architect, responsible for New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art; the base of the Statue of Liberty; and two homes for the Vanderbilts – the famous Breakers in Newport, Rhode Island for Cornelius, and the country’s largest private home, Biltmore in Asheville, North Carolina for George

            America’s most admired architect when he died at only age 48 in 1886, Henry Hobson Richardson attended the Ecole from 1860-62. My Pittsburgh area relatives will know his Allegany County Courthouse and Jail; here in Chicago we have his Glessner House, a Chicago landmark and museum. Sanford White and his later partner William McKim attended – they designed the famous Penn Station in Manhattan – as did White’s close friend, the sculptor Augustus Saint Gaudens.

            These architects and those in other disciplines who studied in Paris brought their knowledge back and helped educate new generations that would move the centers of knowledge to their own country. At the same time, Americans like Thomas Edison were proving you didn’t need a Paris education to change the world; self-education could do just fine!

Interestingly, McCullough’s next book would be 2015s The Wright Brothers, about two young men with high school educations from Dayton, Ohio who would accomplish what highly-educated engineers had been unable to do – put a person in a flying machine that could take you to a defined destination. Although they weren’t yet able to fly to Paris, they eventually got there as the most famous brothers in the world. An even more famous American – a dropout at the University of Wisconsin – Charles Lindburgh managed to drop into Paris from the sky. By then, we were well into what would become known as “The American Century.”

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon   

By Patrick F. Cannon

I went to the Art Institute of Chicago the other day to see “My New Yorks,” which focused on painter Georgia O’Keefe’s cityscapes from her time living in a Manhattan high-rise building in the 1920s. While the exhibit includes work from other periods – including her more famous and typical work from her years in Taos, New Mexico – it focuses on views of the city seen from her apartment window.

            While “realistic” in the sense that you can recognize what you see, it’s obvious that the artist was more interested in the city’s shapes as abstractions than in precise realism. In some, the Sun (or Moon) provides dramatic lighting effects. In general, the colors are muted, and no people intrude. No people, in a city that would have a population of seven million by 1930. In fact, you can look at O’Keefe’s work as a whole and find only a few female nude sketches; even animals are represented only by desert-bleached bones and skulls.

              There are exceptions, but painters and sculptors went in the 20^th Century from an exclusively human-centered art to one where people are mostly absent. Indeed, figurative artists like Andrew Wyeth have often been criticized for being too concerned with realism. In fact, the word “figurative” is often used dismissively by critics. The only acceptable figurative art seems to be graffiti-influenced, or the kind of manipulation of photographs and everyday objects that made Andy Warhol famous.

            Yet, there are eight billion people in the world, each one unique. When Diego Valazquez (1599-1660) painted “Aesop” in 1640 – that’s a portion of it above – he didn’t imagine what the ancient Greek, reputed to be the author of the famous fables, looked like. Instead, as his model, he chose a local beggar, whose face showed the kind of world-weary humanity that Aesop must have had. Valazquez – who many consider the greatest of all painters – was the court painter in Spain, but in addition to doing portraits of the royals, was among the first to paint scenes of everyday life.  

            When we see the great paintings and sculptures of the Renaissance, we are meant to imagine they are famous saints, gods, and mythical creatures. But in most cases, the artists used their friends, relatives, and strangers as models – in other words, living human beings standing in for creatures from the heavens. And then, if you were notable and had the cash, a portrait became the ultimate status symbol. And the frugal Dutch favored a group portrait by the likes of Rembrandt and Hals, each of the subjects paying his share! Rembrandt’s “Night Watch” is a perfect example.

            The reaction against “academic” art in 19^th Century France was perfectly understandable. Anyone who has seen the massive canvases in the Louvre that show the ancient Romans in orgiastic complexity can understand where Corbet, Manet and the Impressionists came from. Their people inhabit a recognizable world. Their break with the past gave license to artists like Picasso, Matisse, Braque, Miro, and others to see people in new ways. Then, inevitably, came Mondrian and pure abstraction.

            I have no argument with abstract art, except it has now, I think, reached a dead end. Most if it is simply design. It is human only in its creation and our reaction to it. I’m reminded of a psychiatrist interviewed on Charlie Rose’s show who reported breaking into tears while looking at a Mark Rothko painting. While he did not admit it, his reaction was certainly related to his knowledge that Rothko had committed suicide. Absent this knowledge, when I first saw one of his color-field paintings, my only thought was that it must have been difficult to create those subtle shadings of the same color.

            I think there’s a reason people respond positively to the murals that are appearing on blank walls around the world. Although many are poorly pointed, they are full of people – some of the eight billion who should demand the artist’s attention.

(P.S. Happy 4^th!)

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Even though I am an announced candidate for president of the United States, you may notice that I will not be on the stage for tonight’s debate. I have complained vigorously to  the Committee to Hold What Are Supposed to Be Debates, but Are Shouting Matches With Memorized Talking Points, or CTHWASTBDBASMWTP, as it’s more commonly known.

            Not even a courtesy of a reply, which I understand the unhinged vaccine denier RFK, Jr. did get. Must be his name. The only famous Cannon these days – save yours truly – is that judge down in Florida who’s paying Trump back in spades for nominating her to the bench. Of course there was Earl “Mad Dog” Cannon, the famous Chicago drug dealer who was buried in his Cadillac. We always were a classy bunch.

            Why have I been excluded? I think it’s because I’m older than both of those “official” candidates, and thus wiser. And I’ve actually worked for a living. Trumpy inherited his dough; and Biden has spent most of his life in the fantasy world of elected office. I’ve bussed tables; cooked bad food; stocked grocery shelves; worked on the railroad and in a steel mill; even set pins in a bowling alley (if Trump ever bowled, he would have found a way to cheat).  Now, it’s true that both candidates have published books, but I actually wrote mine.

            I suspect another reason I wasn’t invited was my threat to wear a brown suit and green tie, instead of the usual politician uniform of navy-blue suit and red tie. Or I might point out that those great patriots had never served in uniform by hauling out my Army duds, including my Sharpshooter badge and Good Conduct Medal. (Of course, the uniform might need a bit of subtle enlarging.)

            But, since I have been unfairly excluded from being on the stage with those young whippersnappers, as a public service I’m providing these generic questions for moderators Jake Tapper and Dana Bash of CNN. I won’t even ask them to credit me, although it would be nice to be at least mentioned as a candidate.

• When you first awaken in the morning, do you sometimes wonder where you are and what your name is?
• Since you both will have added about $7 trillion to the national debt in your respective administrations, how much more do you plan to add in your next term, if elected?
• Do you ever wonder what will happen when people stop lending us money?
• This is for you, former President Trump: how many felons – not including your self – do you plan to pardon and appoint to your cabinet?
• This is for you, President Biden: if you’re re-elected and can’t run again anyway, would there be any downside in pardoning your son?
• Since 65 percent of the country thinks we’re headed in the wrong direction – and you two will have run the country for the last eight years – do you ever wonder if it’s your fault?
• President Biden, since you’re so busy forgiving debts; and former President Trump, you’re famous for not paying yours; could you see your ways clear to paying off my mortgage?

Good luck to Tapper and Bash. They’ll need it.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

The picture up there is of the 1951 Farnsworth House in Plano, Illinois, designed by the German American architect, Ludvig mies van der Rohe. The image was taken by my collaborator on eight books on Chicago area architects and architecture, James Caulfield. The Farnsworth is unquestionably one of the most famous houses of the 20^th Century. It was designed as a weekend getaway for Chicago physician Edith Farnsworth.

            As you can see, the house is surrounded by trees on three sides: the fourth faces the Fox River. The opening to the river was originally narrow, so you would be unlikely to get much of a view as you went floating by. One can imagine Edith and her friends cavorting in the nude, with no one the wiser (I’m not suggesting that they did, but who knows?). The point is: if you’re going to have a glass house, this is the place to have one.

            (By the way, as you can see, the house is elevated on stilts to protect it from occasional flooding of the Fox. As it happens, it wasn’t high enough and has been seriously damaged on at least two occasions.)

            Now imagine if you can that the Farnsworth House has been magically raised from its bucolic site and set down in the middle of a block of charming older homes in Chicago’s Lincoln Park, Old Town, or Wicker Park neighborhoods. Impossible, you say. No one in their right mind would put a glass house in a charming neighborhood of period houses. Guess again. Chicago – and other cities – are suffering from what I would call the “Cubist Invasion.”

            As it happens, young architects are taught and presumably believe that their designs should consider the building sites “context,” which simply means its location and what may already be there. I’m sure they wholeheartedly agree that context is important, right up to the point they are given an empty lot and an owner who wants a “modern” statement house. These days, what that means are variations of the cube and rectangle, with really big windows. Exterior materials are usually some kind of concrete, or metal panels. Colors run the gamut from white to off white to sometimes beige, but the bolder might throw in an accent in a primary color to make the invasion complete.

            Just the other day, I passed a cubist exercise with a vast two-story window exposing a truly impressive glass-treaded staircase, seemingly supported by some hidden power. Could you descend such a miracle in your jammies? Or do you need a white tie and tails? Presumably, back stairs are provided for the slovenly?

            Some architects are respectful of the neighborhood context. It may be just a choice of materials – warm brick or stone instead of grey concrete or white stucco. And what happened to the sloped roof? After all, it does snow here. And don’t get me started on the tall buildings that turned the charming North Michigan Avenue into just another high-rise canyon. Thank God for Paris, where the center of the city retains its height limits and charm; and where steel and glass are banished to the outskirts.

            I’m not opposed to modern architecture. Far from it. But everything has its proper place. Edith Farnsworth found it for her weekend getaway. But how would it look on Astor Street?

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

In 1955, after the post World War II occupation was over and the new Federal Republic Germany came into being, it became a member of NATO, not without some controversy. However, the need for another bulwark against the looming threat of the USSR overcame these misgivings in many minds, including President Eisenhower’s, whose endorsement tilted the balance.

            Nevertheless, they mounted a public relations program to allay any remaining qualms. Part of the program was to send members of the new German armed forces on speaking tours of the United States as a way of proving they had put the bad old days behind them. One of the officers sent to the Chicago area was the young Luftwaffe general Werner von Klingler. He had been an ace in the war, but only on the Russian front, so had not shot down any Americans.

            His main Chicago speech was at the Council on Foreign Relations, but he was also booked to speak at Oak Park’s 19^th Century Women’s Club, whose members were at the social top of that prosperous and conservative suburb. Owning their own impressive building, among their former members had been both the mother and wife of Frank Lloyd Wright, and Ernest Hemingway’s mother. (It survives today as the 19^th Century Charitable Association, and now includes men among its members.)

             After a fine lunch of Iceberg Lettuce salad, Chicken a la King, and Banana Cream pie, the general was introduced. Although his English was adequate, he spoke from a prepared script, emphasizing how West Germany had abandoned its formerly wicked ways and had embraced democracy and would help us stand firm against the Russian hordes. When he was finished, his aide, a young German officer, joined him at the podium. “The general,” he said, “will have time to take some of your questions. Please raise your hand if you have one.” Several did, and the office recognized one of them, a formidable matron in a flower-bedecked chapeau.

            “General,” she asked, “is it true that during the war you were shot down by your own men?”

            “Ya, das is true,” replied the general.

            “Could you give us details?”

            “Vell, I vas flying along looking for Russians to shoot down, ven out of da blue come dis fokker…” At that, the room erupted in screams, cries and even moans, such a word never having been uttered in these genteel precincts. The young officer quickly sought to quiet the ladies. “Ladies, please, you have misunderstood the general. We can explain! Please calm down and let us provide an explanation!” Eventually, the crowd grew quiet enough for the young man to address the general.

            “General, isn’t it true that during the war the Luftwaffe had a fighter plane called the Focke-Wolf 190?”

            “Ya, das is true. We had such a plane.”

            “And isn’t it true that the pilots of these planes were sometimes call  “Fokkers”

            “Ya, das is also true, but this Fokker was flying a Messerschmitt!”

            At this, the room erupted again, some of the ladies even fainting. Nowadays, of course, Oak Park having changed socially and politically to the point it is often fondly called the Socialist Republic of Oak Park, one can hardly walk a block without hearing the F word, even from the mouths of babes.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

It’s putting it mildly to say I wasn’t a fan of Bill Clinton. It seems long ago now, but it was only about 25 years ago on December 19, 1998, that he was impeached, charged with lying under oath and obstruction of justice in the notorious Monica Lowinski sex scandal. Despite being clearly guilty, he was acquitted by the Senate on the following February 12. You won’t be surprised that it was on a party-line vote.

            Donald Trump was given two tits for Clinton’s one tat. Again, he was guilty, but also acquitted on party-line votes. Conviction and removal from office is clearly impossible in a closely divided and partisan Senate. But that hasn’t stopped the Republicans from trying to find some (any!) evidence that would let them impeach President Biden. So far, no dice, but who knows?

            I clearly recall Hillary Clinton railing on about a “vast right-wing conspiracy” during Bill’s tenure, as she learned painfully that being smart wasn’t the same as being wise. By the way, the conspirators didn’t stop him from serving two terms.

              Now, of course, we have the “vast left-wing conspiracy” out to get Trump. So far, they seem as ineffective as the righties since Trump is leading in the polls. I’ll be interested in seeing whether his lead holds up after his conviction last week in New York. I’m not sure if he should have been charged with felonies or charged at all. On the other hand, there’s no question that he was guilty.

            So, folks, we’re faced with the same dismal choice we’ve been facing since the 2016 election. Two old men. One is thoroughly corrupt, and increasingly deranged. The other is trying and failing to appear strong and smart enough to lead our great country for another four years; and is desperately trying to buy votes by forgiving student loans and standing in picket lines. These are the best our political parties can give us? Are you depressed too?

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

It’s rare to find someone who shares my taste and ear for music; rarer still when he’s 30 years younger than me and has a column in the New York Times. His name is John H. McWhorter. When not writing for the Times and other publications, he’s a linguistics professor at Columbia University in New York.

            He’s black, and much better known for his opposition to quota systems, and for holding the belief that African Americans should abandon victimology and separatism, and that affirmative action should be based on class, not race. You can see why these views may not be universally admired , but it’s his views on music that caught my attention.

            Like me, his ear isn’t attuned to today’s popular music, although he concedes that doesn’t make our shared taste in music superior (he’s more forgiving than I am). Coincident to reading his column on how people hear music differently, I started listening to a CD that I’d had for some time, but somehow overlooked. It was still in that plastic wrap that’s so difficult to get off. The title? Stephane Grappelli Plays Jerome Kern.

            Grappelli (1908-1997), born in Paris, was that rare bird, a jazz violinist. He is often associated with the Roma (Gypsy) guitarist Django Reinhardt, his co-leader in the famous Quintette du Hot Club de France. You can find their recordings together and separately on the internet. You can also discover or rediscover Jerome Kern (1885-1945).

            Along with  George Gershwin, Irving Berlin, Cole Porter, Duke Ellington, Richard Rogers, Leonard Bernstein, Frank Loesser, Stephen Sondheim, and (add your favorite), he was one of the composers who defined American song for much of the 20^th Century.

            He is credited with composing about seven hundred, mostly for Broadway shows and movie musicals. Unlike Berlin, Porter, and Sondheim, he didn’t write his own lyrics. They were supplied by luminaries like P.G. Woodhouse, Dorathy Fields, and Ira Gershwin. Of the dozens of Broadway shows he did, only Show Boat is still occasionally performed. And you Fred Astaire/ Ginger Rogers fans will remember Swing Time, one of the best of their ten movies.

            Grappelli plays “Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man” and “Old Man River” from Show Boat, and “The Way You Look Tonight” from Swing Time (for which he got the Academy Award). Other songs on the album include “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” “A Fine Romance,” “All the Things You Are,” and a special favorite of mine, “Long Ago and Far Away.” It was sung by Gene Kelley and Rita Heyworth (maybe dubbed in her case) in 1944s Cover Girl. If you look online, you can find that version, and Jo Stafford’s, which was a big hit for her.

            These are the kind of songs that fit my ear, along with the works of Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert. The thing all these great composers had in common was that they had to write music to eat and pay the rent. They had to please the public, not some foundation or university. In this regard, although their music might not fit my ear, performers like Taylor Swift and Beyonce earn my respect, because they work hard to know and please their fans. Of course, I can’t lend them my ears.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Fellows of a certain age will know that sleeping through the night is the province of the young. I can still vaguely recall groggily arising at around noon on a Saturday (or any day when school was out for that matter). As we get older, however, nature begins to send urgent messages that a trip to the bathroom might be prudent about halfway through our journey through the land of nod.

            I soon decided that walking into walls and stumbling over impediments in the pitch dark on my way to the bathroom was annoying, so I installed a night light in my bathroom (which is directly connected to my bedroom, or “en suite” as the French might say, but rarely do). It used one of those same little bulbs that one finds on Christmas trees. It worked with a switch that I turned on just before I headed for my bed. If I had to get up during the night, it provided sufficient light to permit safe passage.

             As with all old-fashioned bulbs, it would eventually burn out. Being prudent, I always had a supply of replacement bulbs. Recently, however, the bulbs began to burn out with more frequency. When one burned out within a week, I surmised that the culprit wasn’t the bulb, but the fixture. Apparently, the little wires inside had gotten jiggled about in some unfortunate way. Now, instead of calling an electrician, I decided a new light would be more economical, so went online to find a replacement.

            I found a dizzying array of them online. If you fancy puppy dogs, you can find a night light that sits up and begs when it comes on; or looks like a stained-glass window; or a bowl of flowers. I chose a plain one, or rather, two, since it was almost impossible to buy just one of anything these days. In the end, I went for simple but elegant from General Electric. When they arrived, I was not surprised that they  were made in China. I installed one in my bathroom and the other in the second bath, which is used mostly by guests. It was then that I noticed something strange, even eerie, about them.

             They don’t have a switch. When you turn the regular light off, they come on. I can’t help but get the feeling they’re watching me. As I switch the regular light off, the night light comes on immediately. How can that be? Is there someone in an underground complex in Beijing who’s watching me? You may scoff. How, you ask, can a small night light beam a constant signal across thousands of miles of ether. I need only remind you that the cell phone in your hand can do what vast room-sized computers once did. Why is it not possible for one of the billions of Chinese not otherwise occupied in sewing your next shirt to spend his or her day keeping track of Americans like me through their night lights?

            I was once part of America’s vast security apparatus; perhaps that’s why I was chosen for monitoring. Whatever the reason, I try to enliven my watcher’s day by making funny faces or telling jokes in a phony Chinese accent. Of course, if I were on TikTok, they wouldn’t have to resort to the night light ploy. And were I you, I’d be checking to see where my night light was made.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

I know I’ve harped on this theme many times over the years, but now that I’m running for president, I want to yell it loud and clear: we owe too much money! we need to balance the budget!

            I am reminded of Wilkins Micawber’s famous statement in Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield: “Annual income, twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen and six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pound ought and six, result misery.” So why aren’t we and our politicians more miserable?

            Because we’re all numb, that’s why. How many times have we heard these lame excuses?

            “We need to stimulate the economy! We’ll cut back when things get better.”

            “Lower taxes mean more money to invest and thus more jobs.”

            “The American people won’t stand for any tax increases!”

            “Most of the budget is set in stone. We can’t cut Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid, can we? After all, they represent two-thirds of the budget!”

            Blah. Blah. Blah. Conceding that one can bend statistics to one’s will, the top income tax rate in the period 1945-1963 was 91 percent. In 1956 the GDP growth rate was 7.1 percent. In the period 2018-2022, the top rate was  37 percent. In 2019, GDP growth was 2.5 percent. The last years we had budget surpluses were 1998-2001. The most precipitate deficit increases came after the 2017 tax decreases. If this trend continues, it won’t be long until the annual cost of paying the interest on our debt will reach one trillion dollars! I remember when billions seemed scary.

            During my first one hundred days in the office, I would try to accomplish just a few things. I would increase the top income limit for the payroll tax from $168,600 to at least $500,000. As a reminder the payroll tax is supposed to fund Social Security and Medicare. For Social Security, it’s currently 6.2 percent each for employee and employer. The Medicare tax is 1.45 percent, but there is no income limit for it. In addition, I would do everything I could not to extend the 2017 tax decrease beyond its 2025 expiration date.

            Next, I would try to get my pet project of consolidating all anti-poverty programs adopted. As faithful readers may recall, this would provide a single payment to replace the earned income tax credit, food stamps, housing assistance (and any other programs that have slipped my mind). It would also get rid of busy-body bureaucrats who decide eligibility and what recipients can spend the money on.

            I would initiate a new energy program called “We’re stuck with fossil fuels for a long, long time, so  get used to it.” Electric cars need – wait for it – electricity! So do electric houses, electric lawnmowers, and all those phones and other gizmos we can’t seem to live without. If all  that stuff were to be powered by wind or sun, the wind turbines and solar panels would need so much space there would be no room left for the buffalo to roam. That doesn’t mean that we couldn’t do away with fossil fuels eventually, but saying we could do it by 2050 is a pipe dream.

            Finally, I would promote a balanced budget amendment to the Constitution. Some states have one, and some amazingly make it work. And once I get all this done, I’ll start teaching pigs how to fly.

            Oh, and one more thought. Last night I saw one of those commercials for a debt relief company – you know, the kind of outfit that tries to negotiate with your creditors to reduce your debt. If they can do it for John Doe, how about Uncle Sam?

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon