Elder Abuse: An Unspeakable Crime

I've always had a thing for elderly people. As I write that, I see that it is a sweeping, somewhat immature statement and, now that I am myself middle-aged, I feel comfortable saying that not all elders are good or kind or wise--and not all warrant love and admiration.

But generally speaking, I've always felt a kinship with my elders and I feel that elders should be afforded respect, the type of respect and dignified care they are given in countries far older than the United States. I think it is the duty of younger people to take care of their elders--it is, in my opinion, the natural order of things. But perhaps I'm old-fashioned, or maybe I have a special appreciation because my parents and grandparents are no longer here to give me the kind of love, support, advice, and comfort only an elder can give.

In any case, I read the other day of two young women--a term I use loosely, as "degenerates" seems more apt--who abused vulnerable Alzheimers' patients, elders they were supposed to be caring for as nursing home aides, in the meanest, most despicable ways: by spitting at them, hitting them, taunting them just for fun, touching them inappropriately, and poking them. It made my heart ache. And it made me really mad.

What will these horrible creatures tell their children, if and when they find men who are willing to bring kids into the world with such vile, cold-hearted excuses for human beings? What will they say when their daughtersask, "Mommy, what did you do when you were a teenger?" I can only imagine the pain and anger of the families of the victims, but thank God no one was hurt or killed. How could anyone do something so cruel? And why? What possible reason could anyone have to be so ruthless?

I hope these two women are punished in a way that will keep this from ever happening to another vulnerable person, but I'm sure they'll receive a slap on the wrist, because today's morals and values are very screwed up. How do they look at their hateful reflections in the mirror, knowing what they did to somebody else's parents and grandparents? I hope they never have to go through the agony of watching an aging parent or grandparent suffer from Alzheimers or any other disease. And I hope that they turn their lives around and develop compassion. It is never too late. Maybe, at some point, they will do some good in the world. If not, Karma will take care of them.

For more about this unspeakable crime, click here:How Can Anyone Be So Cruel?

Caravaggio: Bad Boy of Baroque

I'm starting to see a pattern here. Actually, I've been seeing this pattern for years, but it always amuses me when I get further confirmation of it: virtually every artist, musician, or painter I admire has, shall we say, issues of some sort. (Of course, most of the human race has issues of some sort, but that's another matter.)

Caravaggio, the Baroque genius and one of the most innovative, talented, technically and artistically proficient painters--and definitely one of my top three or four--of all time, was a rogue, a misfit, a rebel, and a criminal; the bad boy of Baroque.

Unlike many great artists, whose work was not appreciated until years, if not centuries, after their deaths, Caravaggio was much in demand and considered a genius during his lifetime. Like lots of spoiled celebrities of today, he did not handle success or fame well: he spent lavishly, bragged relentlessly, and was conceited, arrogant, and difficult to get along with. He lived hard and died young. But that's where the similarities between him and today's "bad boy" celebrities ends. Caravaggio was immensely gifted, and incredibly influential. His skill, particularly with light and shadows is, in my opinion, unequaled.
He took chances in ways no other artist would have dared. His Death of the Virgin, for instance, which was completed in 1603 (also the year Queen Elizabeth I of England died) and is housed in the Louvre (reason enough to visit France), portrayed the Virgin Mary barefoot, bloated, in rigor mortis, and supposedly modeled after a prostitute with whom Caravaggio was involved--much too realistic (and too vulgar) for the time and for the commission (it was, after all, commissioned by the Church). Still, it is a riveting, disturbing, and emotionally moving painting--and is, of course, infused with dramatic light and shadows.

Even if art is not your thing, Caravaggio is an artist whose subjects--not to mention his techniques, his shadows, light, folds, pleats, creases, and textures--you can look at for ages and never see them the same way twice. He's changed the way I look at art of all kinds.

Fake by Any Other Name

Disingenuous. Phony. Fake. Shallow. Affected. Artificial. Feigned. Put on. Spurious. Call it what you will, but people pretending to be something or someone else—whether that pretending takes the form of relentless name-dropping, keeping up with (or, better yet, one-upping) the Joneses, affecting the accent or dialect of a social class seen as “higher” than one’s own, hobnobbing with a social class or other group in order to raise one’s own “status” in the eyes of others, taking up hobbies or interests in order to impress others, or doing anything to make someone else think of or respond to you in a way that “srtokes” you—has been part of the human condition since the beginning of time.

It’s a ubiquitous part of American life and culture, and though it's often cause for scorn, it looks like it's here to stay. Phoniness is not always about social climbing--sometimes it's about mock social descending, as in the wealthy Harvard Blue Blood who goes about channeling Woody Guthrie or Jack Kerouac in a futile attempt to mimic the life of a creative vagabond; we all know one of those. BoBos in Paradise is a pretty good (if utterly nauseating) account of well-to-do suburbanites who drive Hummers, send their kids—Schyler and Barack--to Montessori schools and tai kwon do lessons, and live in McMansions adorned with “distressed” furniture (oh, that’s right—that was the 90s—now the BoBos have all “gone green,” eschewing fine mahogany and cherry for reclaimed woods, lumber from sustainable forests, and nasty stuff like bamboo, which they wouldn't have given a passing glance to before it was fashionable.)

Pretending isn’t necessarily a bad thing; sometimes, it's even necessary. It has its place in life and, in its broadest sense, it is the basis for art, music, and literature. Fiction, after all, is, by its nature, pretend. Acting is—acting. All art, at its core, is an imitation of life. And, in other ways, there is a point at which affectation becomes something else: fashion or design, for instance. The entire “BoHo chic” concept revolves around the pretend—and very temporary and compartmentalized--lowering of one’s social status or station—but that’s an example of where the lines begin to be blurred. BoHo chic is, after all, fashion. And fashion and style are, at their best, wonderful means of self-expression.

But that's not "fake"--not in the way I mean it. Fake is those who act as a replacement for living, who pretend for the sole purpose of impressing or eliciting envy or jealousy or admiration in or from others—whether friends, relatives, co-workers, or even strangers—to make themselves feel superior.

It's gotten worse. And the media is no help. It takes the very worst aspects of human nature and magnifies them. Isn’t it bad enough that we have to deal with this crap in our own lives, every day? I mean, we all have a friend who’s affected a new accent after “marrying up” (think of Detroit-born Madonna’s British accent, which she “acquired” within five minutes of marrying Guy Ritchie), begun using new lingo after hanging out with a new social group, or moved to an "upwardly mobile" neighborhood, pretending that it was an inadvertent move, yet constantly dropping the hoity-toity name of the town in casual conversation where it’s not pertinent. And who doesn't know someone who hates liver (doesn't everyone?) but ordered foie gras when it was "in," and now that it is "out" is secretly relieved, yet protests the maltreatment of geese as the reason for the change in taste?

I’ve always had very keen radar for that shit, and I avoid it like The Plague—or try to. Sadly, sometimes it’s just not possible, and I can’t keep up with all the new shades of fake, so sometimes I actually fall for it. I feel as if I am drowning in it sometimes. It’s starting to come from places and people I’d never expect. People I thought I knew, places I thought were real. Or am I just out of touch?

I talk about this stuff with my friends sometimes, and most of them hate it too, but they think I take too much to heart. Or else they think I’m just nuts. I see it everywhere, and was prepared to see lots of it at my son’s football games this year, but I was pleasantly surprised—there were very few football moms with baseball caps and diamond earrings trying to look cute in their husbands’ oversized jerseys or their husbands' oversized jackets, with the sleeves dangling (intentionally) a couple inches past their hands. Though I was clueless about what was going on on the field, I actually got to know some really nice people whose lives are all about their kids, not their interior decorators and their dinner parties and their husbands' impossibly demanding careers.

Still, I feel that the phoniness seeps in anyway. I have a friend who was talking recently about friends of hers who are “cougars”—I thought she was talking about a female football team until I found out that the term is FakeSpeak for older women who are on the prowl for younger men and dress and act accordingly. “Why can’t you just call them older women looking for younger guys?” I asked. “If we keep using catch-phrases, pretty soon we’ll have no vocabulary at all.” She rolled her eyes and snorted. “Whatever,” she said. “Okay—now, that one I know!” I said, and we both laughed.

Maybe we’re all just insecure. I know I am sometimes. I try not to be, but I can't help it. And why is that wrong? Or bad? Or weak? Wouldn’t it be better to be able to just say “You know, I really want people to like me, because I like people” than to feign “Oh, this old thing?” while dressed in Gucci and dripping with diamonds? This posturing--no matter how you cut it, it is all about insecurity. And fear. And a desire to be liked. And to be loved. Loving is what it means to be human—so why can’t we all just admit it and stop putting on airs?