Freedom From Fear

Reading Phillip Roth’s latest novel, Nemesis, about the polio epidemic in 1944 Newark, sparked in me the image of Normal Rockwell’s oil paintings, The Four Freedoms.  These were based, I’ve recently come to learn, on Franklin D. Roosevelt’s 1941 State of the Union address, in which he professed four essential human freedoms required for a better future: freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom from want and freedom from fear.  While freedom of speech and religion are ingrained in our consciousness due to their inclusion in the amended U.S. Constitution, it’s the freedom from fear that resonates most with me, and it’s the one most easily taken for granted.  As if the rising body count and horrific happenings of World War II weren’t enough to instill terror in all citizens during the summer of 1944, the polio outbreak caused people to dread the very air they breathed, the water they drank, the hands they shook, the food they ate, the animals who prowled the streets, the neighbor who exhibited signs of illness – all were the possible source of an invisible virus that stole mobility, breath, innocence and the lives of so many people, young and old. 

This combination of war and illness must have terrorized even the most composed person at that time, and I wonder how we’d respond to such threats today.  I recall the aftermath of 9/11, when a tinge of uncertainty even entered the consciousness of those hundreds of miles away from New York and DC.  I took my kids to the Field Museum in downtown Chicago the weekend following the tragedy, and though not crippled with fear, I had a more heightened awareness that morning in the sparsely attended halls of natural history.  And I wondered how much more palpable my fear would have been had the attacks been on a less grand scale.  What if, instead of large buildings, the terrorists had attacked busses, movie theaters and cafes?  How would we have responded then?  Imagine those living today in Bagdad, Ciudad Juarez or Mogadishu. 

Or imagine the fear of parents in Haiti, whose children’s only choice is to drink tainted water.  Imagine the toll that’s taken on those in our own country who live in neighborhoods that make travel by night impossible, whose children’s walks to school are accompanied by the real threat of violence.   Imagine the fear of the young citizens of war-torn countries, whose peaceful slumbers give way to earth-shattering explosions or the crack of gunfire.

I will go through my day today with a concern no greater than what to make for dinner.  It’s a blessing that’s almost impossible to grasp, a gift bestowed upon so few in the world, past or present.  It’s a gift I will work hard not to overlook.

How Many Words Do YOU Know? Sort Of.

I don’t need anyone to remind me of how little I know, least of all myself, yet that’s what I’ve been doing on a daily basis lately.  In an effort to reinvigorate my quest for knowledge that took a major detour about thirteen years ago (two daughters), I’ve reintroduced an old custom of mine of writing down words unknown to me while reading novels.    

Although I consider myself a relatively intelligent person, I fully admit that vocabulary has never been my strong suit.  Sure, I can string a bunch of words together to get my point across, but ask me to use a more obscure word in a sentence, and I start to panic.  I guess I take some solace in that the average educated English-speaking person knows an average of 17,200 base words, a mere percentage of the total number of entries in the Oxford American Dictionary (over 180,000) and the Unabridged Oxford English Dictionary (over 600,000).  (Base words are “word families.”  So the base word “love” might extend to words like lovely, lovable, lover, etc.)

There are words I clearly know, like the ones I’ve written thus far in this essay.  There are words I clearly do not know, like rehoboam.  This I can accept.  What kills me are the words I kinda sorta know but would be hard-pressed to define or use in conversation.  My kids have exposed this gaping hole in my chest of knowledge numerous times when asking me the meaning of a word that I thought I knew, but couldn’t for the life of me explain.  (“Well, capricious means…um…like unusual, right?  Um…why don’t you look it up?”)  And even when I sort of know a word, like bereft (meaning: void of), I would never use it in conversation for fear of making a fool of myself in case I used it incorrectly.  Just last weekend I used the word “indoctrinate” when I actually meant to say “inoculate,” which is sad an embarrassing, but I DO happen to know the word that describes the misuse of another word – malapropism.  I should have that word tattooed on my forehead.

Despite the odds, I’m determined to go to my grave with a better command of the English language than I have now, so I’ve created a list of words I’ve come across recently.  The latest book I read was Nick Hornby’s Juliet, Naked, a fine read and certainly not high-brow.  In fact, it’s really quite accessible, but that didn’t stop me from not knowing the meaning of the following words (how many of these could you use in conversation?):

Bathetic.  Opacity.  Perspicacity.  Torpid.  Detritus.  Phlegmatic.  Circumlocutory.  Feckless.  Pastiche.  Demur. 

And this is from a #1 New York Times bestseller!  Give me a copy of Ulysses and I’d be toast.  What’s worse is that even after looking up all these words and writing down their meanings, I still don’t remember them well enough to use them, so all my efforts have basically resulted in increasing the number of words I’ve heard before, but couldn’t use in a sentence to save my life. 

Luckily over the years, a few words have managed to squeeze into my lexicon (so if I’m average, I now know 17,202 words).  I can now successfully use the word loquacious (talkative) in a sentence, and I’ve recently added misanthrope (someone who hates people).  I’m still waiting to come across the word that means, “Ineptitude in expanding one’s vocabulary.”

Tribune Editorial

Riveting, I know.  Here's my editorial in October 30th's Chicago Tribune (or you can click here)

Waste of money

Imagine if all the money spent this year on campaigns was instead invested in those who have lost a job and who struggle to purchase basic necessities. How much better off would our country be? How many people could be fed, clothed or housed in lieu of one mass mailing or one TV commercial in a coveted time slot?

— Paul Heinz, Elmhurst

The Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup of Collaboration?

LONELY AVENUE, by Ben Folds and Nick Horby

Never mind that Jim DeRogatis and Greg Kot on their radio show Sound Opinions recently gave “Lonely Avenue,” the new collaboration by musician Ben Folds and author Nick Hornby, a “trash it” on their “trash it, burn it or buy it” scale.  Jim even called the album “one of the worst albums of the year” and a particular song, “Levi Johnston’s Blues,” as perhaps the worst song of the decade.  Whenever critics lean that heavily on hyperbole, I can’t help but shake my head.  After all, Jim and Greg are the same guys that praised Lady Gaga not so long ago, so they can’t be taken too seriously. 

For those unfamiliar with Folds and Hornby, the former is a successful singer-songwriter who gained popularity in the 90s with his band, Ben Folds Five, and has maintained a prolific output during the last decade (of both songs and wives).  Nick Hornby is the English author of “High Fidelity,” “About A Boy,” “A Long Way Down,” and “Juliet, Naked.”  Both artists are among my favorites in the medium they most often represent.

So the question is, does the collaboration lead to Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup perfection, or is the outcome more akin to chocolate-covered bacon?  Goodness knows that many highly anticipated collaborations end up not working particularly well.  Remember bands like “The Firm” and “Bad English?”  Sometimes supergroups aren’t so super. 

Ben Folds has always been an insightful and clever lyricist in his own right, so I was curious to see what Nick Hornby would bring to the table, and I even wondered if the lyrics would be less vulgar and therefore more kid friendly (they’re not – my son has been given strict instructions NOT to play this album for his friends).  Truth be told, Nick Hornby could have spent a little more time offering lyrics that were, well…more lyrical, and on this one point I have to agree with critic Jim DeRogatis.  On many of Hornby’s lyrics, he seems to have started with a fine idea, and then slapped down the first words that came to mind with no consideration of meter, hook or rhyme.  There’s no rule of course that all lyrics need to fit nicely into a pop song format, but “Lonely Avenue” is, in fact, an album of pop songs, and outside of “Picture Window” and the addictive “Levi Johnston’s Blues,” a listener would be hard pressed to remember and sing along to any of Hornby’s lyrics.  Sometimes this is okay, but since I offer this same criticism of a well-schooled musician like Elvis Costello, I can’t let Nick off the hook.

Say it with me: sometimes less is more.

Musically, Ben continues to mix straight-ahead piano arrangements with more electronic embellishments that were also prevalent on his previous release, “Way To Normal.”  His vocal layering is back with a vengeance in songs like “Your Dogs,” the Moog synth returns with hypnotic effect on “From Above,” and Ben’s mastery of production is evident throughout.

But to me the most meaningful collaboration on “Lonely Avenue” isn’t that of musician and author, but of musician and arranger.  On this album, Folds summoned the services of arranger/conductor Paul Buckmaster, the man responsible for creating so much of the musical landscape on Elton John’s early material.  Remember the frantic percussive strings on “Madman Across the Water?”  They’re back on “Levi Johnston’s Blues,” and Buckmaster adds a touch of brilliance to four other tracks, even elevating “Picture Window” to a modern day masterpiece.

Yes, I can use hyperbole too, if only to cancel out the comments of overzealous critics.

Living in the Moment vs. Recording the Moment

Two years ago I attended a concert with a friend who texted his way through most of it - he apparently had some very urgent message that simply couldn't wait.  This is in sharp contrast to the days my wife and I go without communicating with each other when she's on the road, as the most riveting text I could probably come up with would be: "Just completed my fourth load of laundry. Love you!"  My friend's interest in (euphemism for "addiction to") his backlit companion irked me for several reasons during the show, not the least of which was, "Can't you for two hours manage to enjoy the moment?" 

Of course, one needn't have a cellphone (I don't) to fall victim to an electronic obsession.  Cameras have often served as security blankets, as their owners worry more about documenting an occasion and less about actually participating in the occasion.  And I'm not necessarily busting the chops of the photo enthusiast.  I too have had spurts during which I was hell-bent on capturing a moment on film, but far too often these efforts resulted in a memory that exists only within the confines of the .jpeg files that seem to have obliterated my own capacity to remember.  When I imagine a party I attended two summer's ago in Milwaukee, I don't imagine the party - I imagine the photo of the party that's saved on my computer. 

With the advent of Youtube, Facebook and Twitter (not to mention self-indulgent blogs) our ability and desire to document that which is meaningless has never been stronger, and the results at live concerts haven't gone unnoticed.  This week, the Wall Street Journal has a great article about differing sides of the video-taking coin.  Some musical acts, like Radiohead, not only except fans taking concert videos, they encourage it and, in one case, even supplied the master recording for a fan's video project.  Others groups attempt to limit those who take videos of their concerts, not so much because of the monetary ramifications, but because they believe that the concert-going experience should be sacrosanct, and hundreds of glowing cell-phones undermine the thrill of The Moment.

I've benefitted from those who've worked to capture a moment on film, and I've suffered for it as well.  It isn't the no-brainer that some might make claim.  When I see a parent texting at a park while a child begs for attention, I can't help but think that something's wrong with this picture.  When I see a fan recording a concert, I can't help but wonder if it'll be posted on Youtube by morning.