Helen H. Moore's Blog, page 844
March 5, 2016
Homework is wrecking our kids: The research is clear, let’s ban elementary homework
“Lying to make life bearable”: Cheryl Strayed interviews memoirist Rob Roberge
“Idiocracy’s” curdled politics: The beloved dystopian comedy is really a celebration of eugenics
Last week the screenwriter for the 2006 satirical science fiction comedy "Idiocracy" came out and said his film’s nightmare vision of a country run by improperly bred morons had indeed come true: 
This was predictably followed by a series of editorials, think pieces and takes that seem to confirm this theory: Trump was a product of an indefinable “dumbing down” of our political environment: It’s no surprise Cohen’s comments would go viral. They fit neatly into a superficially appealing notion that Trump, and the GOP at large, are animated by toothless rednecks and science-denying idiots. While there certainly are both of those, as well as outright white supremacists, in Trump’s constituency, wielding "Idiocracy" as a kind of political shorthand for a new, and therefore meaningful, shift in our political climate is both inaccurate and politically toxic for the left.Is Donald Trump the Herald of ‘Idiocracy’?
The Many Signs That Mike Judge’s ‘Idiocracy’ Is Upon Us
Idiocracy’ at 10: Mike Judge’s Cult Film Saw America Run by Imbeciles. Well…
The idiaccuracy of Idiocracy: When life imitates art for better or for the actual worst
First of all, there’s the issue of the film’s pro-eugenic premise: The idea that some future world would be populated by dumb people, while inherently smug, isn't necessarily right-wing. What makes the movie reactionary is the reason for this stupidity: that dumb people are breeding too much, a concept steeped in eugenics, one of the nastiest strains of elitism ever invented by humanity. This is the idea that society incentivizes the wrong people—"idiots"—to have more children, and by the laws of “evolution” this results in more idiots and fewer smart people. This is defined in the opening sequence by the pseudoscience of IQ and given a distinctly classist framing:
While the movie is savvy enough to avoid overt racism, it dives head first into gross classism. The problematic breeders all have hillbilly accents and live in trailers, while those whose eggs we presumably want fertilized epitomize WASP-y stereotypes.
The film's legions of defenders call it satire. Well, the overt argument of the film is that good breeding prevents social problems. The so-called satire proceeds from there, presenting the ridiculous consequences of what will happen if we don't rethink how society breeds. Satire isn’t a get-out-of-jail-free card for all vulgar and illiberal ideas; it has to be pointed and targeting the powerful, not targeting vague notions of idiocy illustrated by Appalachia accents and trailer parks without consideration for what caused the idiocy in the first place.
The message is cheap and easy and doesn’t require us to meaningfully challenge power, much less ourselves. Instead, we direct our disdain at the pseudo-problem of not being adequately intelligent, as if such a problem operates independent of material factors.
This sentiment is a common thread in left discourse. While nowhere near as reactionary or meanspirited, being smarter than the other guy was a feature of the Jon Stewart era of political comedy. Snark was more important than ideology, hypocrisy the only unforgivable sin and throwing clips together to make right wingers look like morons, rather than people with sinister politics, was the point of "The Daily Show" fan base's political enterprise.
This was also seen in the left’s mockery of the Tea Party, often painted as illiterate boobs, despite the fact that those identifying as Tea Party members have, on average, higher income and education levels than the population in general. While education certainly doesn’t equate to intelligence, to say nothing of worldliness or wisdom, the fact that the Tea Party—and Trump’s voting base—are actually more educated than the general voting base affirms, once again, the problem isn’t "intelligence" but rather toxic ideology that operates independent of people’s IQ. As Michael Tracy notes, Trump actually won voters with post-graduate degrees in the state of Massachusetts, the "crown jewel of American higher education." How many Nazis had anthropology or psychology degrees? How many were renowned physicists and musicians? Stupidity is not what created the rise of Trump, a deliberate poisoning of the discourse by the wealthy over decades combined with the left’s inability offer a clear class-based alternative has.
Smugness and irony are the intellectual run-off of a left incapable or unwilling to speak clearly in the language of class and class conflict. When we can’t, or won’t, direct our ire at those responsible for the vast majority of the world’s problems, namely the superwealthy and the capitalist system that props them up, we are left with nowhere to aim. Instead, we highlight the problem—in this case political ignorance—without addressing its primary culprit: the consolidation of media into large corporations, a PR-fueled think tank industry fed by billionaires designed to promote toxic right-wing canards, a sprawling Islamophobia industry, a corrupt campaign financing system, and a decades-long corporate assault on K-12 and postsecondary education.
The idea that a corrosive intellectual and political climate (for which Trump is the current avatar) can be chalked up to too many dumb people having kids or some vague, guiltless notion of "dumbing down," rather than deliberate policy directives of the wealthy and their far-right media machinery--to say nothing of the inability of the left to adequately combat this machinery--is one of the more reductionist and politically useless ideas to populate our discourse. We are not living in an idiocracy, we are living in an oligarchy, for which political stupidity is one of many symptom caused by the large, malignant cancer of inequality and runaway capitalism.
Last week the screenwriter for the 2006 satirical science fiction comedy "Idiocracy" came out and said his film’s nightmare vision of a country run by improperly bred morons had indeed come true: This was predictably followed by a series of editorials, think pieces and takes that seem to confirm this theory: Trump was a product of an indefinable “dumbing down” of our political environment: It’s no surprise Cohen’s comments would go viral. They fit neatly into a superficially appealing notion that Trump, and the GOP at large, are animated by toothless rednecks and science-denying idiots. While there certainly are both of those, as well as outright white supremacists, in Trump’s constituency, wielding "Idiocracy" as a kind of political shorthand for a new, and therefore meaningful, shift in our political climate is both inaccurate and politically toxic for the left.Is Donald Trump the Herald of ‘Idiocracy’?
The Many Signs That Mike Judge’s ‘Idiocracy’ Is Upon Us
Idiocracy’ at 10: Mike Judge’s Cult Film Saw America Run by Imbeciles. Well…
The idiaccuracy of Idiocracy: When life imitates art for better or for the actual worst
First of all, there’s the issue of the film’s pro-eugenic premise: The idea that some future world would be populated by dumb people, while inherently smug, isn't necessarily right-wing. What makes the movie reactionary is the reason for this stupidity: that dumb people are breeding too much, a concept steeped in eugenics, one of the nastiest strains of elitism ever invented by humanity. This is the idea that society incentivizes the wrong people—"idiots"—to have more children, and by the laws of “evolution” this results in more idiots and fewer smart people. This is defined in the opening sequence by the pseudoscience of IQ and given a distinctly classist framing:
While the movie is savvy enough to avoid overt racism, it dives head first into gross classism. The problematic breeders all have hillbilly accents and live in trailers, while those whose eggs we presumably want fertilized epitomize WASP-y stereotypes.
The film's legions of defenders call it satire. Well, the overt argument of the film is that good breeding prevents social problems. The so-called satire proceeds from there, presenting the ridiculous consequences of what will happen if we don't rethink how society breeds. Satire isn’t a get-out-of-jail-free card for all vulgar and illiberal ideas; it has to be pointed and targeting the powerful, not targeting vague notions of idiocy illustrated by Appalachia accents and trailer parks without consideration for what caused the idiocy in the first place.
The message is cheap and easy and doesn’t require us to meaningfully challenge power, much less ourselves. Instead, we direct our disdain at the pseudo-problem of not being adequately intelligent, as if such a problem operates independent of material factors.
This sentiment is a common thread in left discourse. While nowhere near as reactionary or meanspirited, being smarter than the other guy was a feature of the Jon Stewart era of political comedy. Snark was more important than ideology, hypocrisy the only unforgivable sin and throwing clips together to make right wingers look like morons, rather than people with sinister politics, was the point of "The Daily Show" fan base's political enterprise.
This was also seen in the left’s mockery of the Tea Party, often painted as illiterate boobs, despite the fact that those identifying as Tea Party members have, on average, higher income and education levels than the population in general. While education certainly doesn’t equate to intelligence, to say nothing of worldliness or wisdom, the fact that the Tea Party—and Trump’s voting base—are actually more educated than the general voting base affirms, once again, the problem isn’t "intelligence" but rather toxic ideology that operates independent of people’s IQ. As Michael Tracy notes, Trump actually won voters with post-graduate degrees in the state of Massachusetts, the "crown jewel of American higher education." How many Nazis had anthropology or psychology degrees? How many were renowned physicists and musicians? Stupidity is not what created the rise of Trump, a deliberate poisoning of the discourse by the wealthy over decades combined with the left’s inability offer a clear class-based alternative has.
Smugness and irony are the intellectual run-off of a left incapable or unwilling to speak clearly in the language of class and class conflict. When we can’t, or won’t, direct our ire at those responsible for the vast majority of the world’s problems, namely the superwealthy and the capitalist system that props them up, we are left with nowhere to aim. Instead, we highlight the problem—in this case political ignorance—without addressing its primary culprit: the consolidation of media into large corporations, a PR-fueled think tank industry fed by billionaires designed to promote toxic right-wing canards, a sprawling Islamophobia industry, a corrupt campaign financing system, and a decades-long corporate assault on K-12 and postsecondary education.
The idea that a corrosive intellectual and political climate (for which Trump is the current avatar) can be chalked up to too many dumb people having kids or some vague, guiltless notion of "dumbing down," rather than deliberate policy directives of the wealthy and their far-right media machinery--to say nothing of the inability of the left to adequately combat this machinery--is one of the more reductionist and politically useless ideas to populate our discourse. We are not living in an idiocracy, we are living in an oligarchy, for which political stupidity is one of many symptom caused by the large, malignant cancer of inequality and runaway capitalism.
This is how religion fails: Why the biggest religions never live up to their ideals
“You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. You shall not ill-treat any widow or orphan. If you do mistreat them, I will heed their outcry as soon as they cry out to Me, and My anger shall blaze forth.” (Exodus 22:20–23) “It is not righteousness that you turn your faces towards the East or West (in prayer). But it is righteousness to believe in Allah and the Last Day and the Book and the Messengers. To spend of your substance out of love for Him, for your kin, for orphans, for the needy, for the wayfarer, for those who ask, and for the ransom of slaves.” (Quran 2:177)Against the backdrop of these sources, and thousands of similar others, the failure of religion to produce individuals and societies that champion the values advocated in them is both puzzling and deeply unsettling. Even more troubling is that often religious faith itself is the catalyst that emboldens individuals and governments to murder, maim, harm, and control others in the service of “their” God. While it is not credible to suggest that people of faith are definitively worse than those who do not believe, the fact that a life with God does not seem consistently to make people better is a failure of religion on its own terms, and ought to be a source of consternation for any serious believer. This problem is not new, nor does it reflect an outsider’s critique of religion. In fact, it has hovered around monotheistic traditions since their inception, formulated and addressed by the very first carriers of the one God’s word, the biblical prophets:
Cry with full throat, without restraint, raise your voice like a horn and declare unto My people their transgression, and to the house of Jacob their sins. Yet they seek Me daily, eager to learn My ways, as a nation that did righteousness and forsook not the ordinance of their God, they ask of Me righteous ordinances, they delight in drawing near to God. “Why have we fasted, and yet You do not see? Why have we afflicted our soul, and You pay no attention?” Behold, in the day of your fast you pursue your business, and perform all your labors. Behold, you fast for strife and contention, and to smite with the fist of wickedness. You fast not this day so as to make your voice to be heard on high; is this the fast I desire? The day for a man to afflict his soul? Is it to bow down his head as a bulrush, and to spread sackcloth and ashes under him? Will you call this a fast, and an acceptable day to the Lord? Is not this the fast that I have chosen: to loosen the fetters of wickedness, to undo the bands of the yoke, and to let the oppressed go free, and that you break every yoke? Is it not to distribute your bread to the hungry, and bring the poor that are cast out to your house? When you see the naked, that you cover him, and that thou hide not yourself from your own flesh? (Isaiah 58:1–7)Isaiah’s admonitions evoke a rare moment in Jewish antiquity. Idolatry is the prevalent deviance of the biblical era, culminating in divine rejection and the Babylonian Exile. Indeed, for most of biblical history Jews rejected God and opted for idolatry. The Bible can be effectively summarized as the history of a Creator yearning to create a holy people who seek the divine and commit themselves to walking in its ways, but who regularly choose instead to ignore it and walk in the way of the idolatrous Ba’al. Isaiah, however, addresses a scenario in which people actually seem to be turning to God, expressing the desire for relationship through ritual devotion. At first glance, this ought to be one of the great moments in the Bible. At long last, the Jewish people and God are on the same page: “They seek me daily, eager to learn my ways.” Is this not precisely the thing for which God has so long yearned? Yet it is at this very moment of rigorous ritual commitment that God must angrily intervene to let them know they have fallen far astray from the path; that they are lost. God tells them, in essence, that while claiming to be a people who want to follow the divine path, they have abandoned it by ignoring their moral responsibility to others. “Did you not hear Me,” God asks through the prophets, again and again. “There is something else that I want from you?” Hear the words of the Lord, you chieftains of Sodom. Give ear to your gods’ instructions, you folk of Gomorrah. What need have I of all your sacrifices? I am sated with burnt offerings of rams and suet of fatling and bloods of bulls. I have no delight in lambs and he-goats. That you come to appear before me, who asked this of you? Trample my courts no more. Bringing oblations is futile. Incense is offensive to me. New moon and Sabbath, proclaiming of solemnities, assemblies with inequity, I cannot abide. Your new moons and fixed seasons fill me with loathing. They have become a burden to me. I cannot endure them. And when you lift up your hands, I will turn my eyes away from you. Though you pray at length, I will not listen. Why? Because your hands are stained with crime. Wash yourselves clean. Put your evildoings away from my sight. Cease to do evil. Learn to do good. Devote yourselves to justice. Aid the wrong. Uphold the rights of the orphan. Defend the cause of the widow. (Isaiah 1:10–17) The people are eager for intimacy with God through the offering of sacrifices. They finally show up with passionate ritual devotion, and God’s response, in essence, is to say, Go away! Why is it that your religious life is completely defined by ritual, by devotion to me, to the exclusion of everything I said about how to treat others? Why are you ignoring the other part of what I have commanded? Why does a life with God—a God who so clearly commands “Love your neighbor as yourself, I am the Lord your God” (Leviticus 19:18)—so consistently fail to achieve its own stated goals? ASSIGNING BLAME: “THE DEVIL QUOTES SCRIPTURE” Advocates of religion tend to answer this question by ascribing religious failure exclusively to human weakness and ignorance. It is not a consequence of faith or tradition but of a flawed humanity consumed by a form of original sin. Contrary to the gospel of Woody Allen, who posited in his film Love and Death that God is an underachiever, defenders of the Almighty counter that people are the real underachievers, incapable of true commitment to perfect divine directives and to meeting the obligations that, if only followed correctly, would remake them, their families, and their communities. The Bible echoes this tradition when describing humanity in the aftermath of the Flood: “And the Lord said to Himself: Never again will I doom the earth because of man, since the devisings of man’s mind are evil from his youth.” (Genesis 8:21) God may charge us with a mission, to live a life of righteousness and justice . . . but the flesh is weak, and the bar perhaps unrealistically high. From this perspective, God is a romantic, perennially yearning for us to reach for standards of moral sensitivity that will require us to open our eyes and respond to the suffering surrounding us, but we cannot seem to muster the inner fortitude required to live up to those aspirations. Conversely, religion’s critics locate the primary blame for the moral failure of religious people in religion itself. For them, this failure is not the consequence of ignoring the divine command but of fulfilling it. For such critics, religion itself is the original sin that “poisons everything,” as per Christopher Hitchens in "God Is Not Great." They argue that surrounding the scriptures’ advocacy of moral sensitivity and compassion are a multitude of sources commanding holy war, religious discrimination and persecution, and triumphalism, to say nothing of gender inequality, racism, and homophobia. These, they claim, are in fact the dominant themes of these traditions, far outweighing the others, and history seems to bear this reading out. It is no wonder, they argue, that religion has been the driving force behind so much bloodshed and oppression. When the advocates of religion, on the one hand, and critics of God, on the other, make their claims and counterclaims, it is evident that they are reading completely different books. Confronting morally difficult or disturbing texts, advocates tend to rationalize, apologize, minimize, reinterpret, or otherwise divert attention away from them. Conversely, critics who claim that religion is inherently corrupt and corrupting either ignore these traditions’ powerful moral insights or marginalize them as insignificant, clearly outweighed by contradictory imperatives. The interpretive moves of the advocates help to assuage the cognitive dissonance of the enlightened believer, but they do nothing to relieve the profound impact these texts have on the great many others who take their messages at face value. As Shakespeare sharply observed, “The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose,” and it is important to emphasize that the devil does not misquote scripture. He has no need, for the tradition provides him with all the ammunition he requires. Where religion serves to fuel injustice, it comes armed with chapter and verse. On the other hand, the claims of the critics ignore the experienced reality of religious people, for whom these verses that enshrine positive ethics and values are a central, driving component of their religious consciousness, prompting intense moral striving and achievement. To trivialize or gloss over them is to overlook the positive impact that religion has on the lives of countless people and communities, inspiring and compelling them to compassion, charity, justice, and good deeds. The picture, ultimately, is more complex than either side tends to recognize. RELIGION’S AUTOIMMUNE DISEASE The truth is that monotheistic religion is neither perfectly good—and thus its failures the exclusive result of human weakness— nor perfectly evil, poisoning the character of all who adopt it with a crippling spiritual disease. The central argument of this book is that religion’s (and religions’) spotty moral track record cannot be written off to either a core corruption in human nature or an inherently corrupt scripture. Rather it is my contention that a life of faith, while obligating moral sensitivity, also very often activates a critical flaw that supports and encourages immoral impulses. These impulses, given free rein to flourish under the cloak of religious piety, undermine the ultimate moral agendas of religions and the types of communities and societies they aspire to build. The argument of this book is that this critical flaw, when recognized, can be overcome. This frequently overlooked phenomenon that accounts for the moral underachievement of our monotheistic traditions is what I term religion’s “autoimmune disease”—a disease in which the body’s immune system, which is designed to fight off external threats, instead attacks and destroys the body’s own healthy cells and tissues. This diagnosis is meant to help conceptualize the dynamics through which religions so often undermine their own deepest values and attack their professed goals. While God obligates the good and calls us into its service, God simultaneously and inadvertently makes us morally blind. The nature of monotheism’s autoimmune disease is that God’s presence, and the human religious desire to live in relationship with God, often distracts religion’s adherents from their traditions’ core moral truths. Such a presence can so consume our field of vision that we see nothing other than God (a recipe for ethical bankruptcy); can lead to claims of chosenness that encourage self-aggrandizing reflexivity (transforming us into people who see only ourselves); or can cause us to see scripture as morally perfect, despite the failures embedded within it (thereby sanctifying the morally profane). Ultimately, I believe that religion’s record of moral mediocrity will persist as long as communities of faith fail to recognize the ways in which our faith itself is working against us. In other words, only when we are able to discern, within ourselves and our traditions, the symptoms of religion’s autoimmune diseases, will we be able to begin developing remedies that enable religion to heal itself and reclaim its noble aspirations. Excerpted from "Putting God Second: How to Save Religion from Itself" by Rabbi Donniel Hartman (Beacon Press, 2016). Reprinted with permission from Beacon Press.
The American inferno behind our election obsessions: How we’re ignoring that millions of lives are in ruin
The latest Zika scare: Virus linked to rare neurological condition
LONDON - French scientists say they have proved a link between the Zika virus and a nerve syndrome called Guillain-Barré, suggesting countries hit by the Zika epidemic will see a rise in cases of the serious neurological condition. Guillain-Barré is a rare syndrome in which the body's immune system attacks part of the nervous system. It usually occurs a few days after exposure to a virus, bacteria or parasite. In a retrospective study analysing data from a Zika outbreak in French Polynesia during 2013 and 2014, researchers led by Arnaud Fontanet of France's Institut Pasteur calculated the estimated risk of developing Guillain-Barré syndrome at 2.4 for every 10,000 people infected by Zika. "This work is significant because it allows for the confirmation of the role of Zika virus infection in the occurrences of the severe neurological complications that constitute Guillain-Barré syndrome," said Fontanet, Pasteur's head of the emerging diseases epidemiology. "The regions which are affected by the Zika virus epidemic are likely to see a significant increase in the number of patients with serious neurological complications, and when possible, should increase the capacity of health-care facilities to receive patients needing intensive care." The World Health Organization (WHO) has declared an outbreak of the mosquito-borne Zika virus spreading from Brazil an international health emergency. This declaration was largely based on evidence linking Zika to a birth defect known as microcephaly, marked by a small head and underdeveloped brain, but the WHO is also concerned about rising reports of cases of Guillain-Barré syndrome in countries hit by Zika. It is not yet clear whether the Zika virus actually causes microcephaly in babies, but experts say the evidence of a link is growing. Fontanet's team analysed data from 42 patients who developed Guillain-Barré syndrome at the time of the French Polynesian epidemic and found that every one had evidence of a previous infection with Zika. Tests also showed 93 percent of them had been infected with Zika recently -- within three months prior to developing Guillain-Barré syndrome. Jeremy Farrar, an infectious disease specialist and director of the Wellcome Trust global health charity, said the study, published in The Lancet medical journal, "provides the most compelling evidence to date of a causative link" between Zika and Guillain-Barré syndrome. "The increase in reported cases of Guillain-Barré in Brazil and other South American countries seems to suggest that a similar situation may be occurring in the current outbreak, although the link here is yet to be proven definitively," he said in an emailed statement. According to WHO, even with the best healthcare services available, some 3 to 5 percent of Guillain-Barré syndrome patients die from complications, including blood infection, lung clots, cardiac arrest and paralysis of the muscles that control breathing.
LONDON - French scientists say they have proved a link between the Zika virus and a nerve syndrome called Guillain-Barré, suggesting countries hit by the Zika epidemic will see a rise in cases of the serious neurological condition. Guillain-Barré is a rare syndrome in which the body's immune system attacks part of the nervous system. It usually occurs a few days after exposure to a virus, bacteria or parasite. In a retrospective study analysing data from a Zika outbreak in French Polynesia during 2013 and 2014, researchers led by Arnaud Fontanet of France's Institut Pasteur calculated the estimated risk of developing Guillain-Barré syndrome at 2.4 for every 10,000 people infected by Zika. "This work is significant because it allows for the confirmation of the role of Zika virus infection in the occurrences of the severe neurological complications that constitute Guillain-Barré syndrome," said Fontanet, Pasteur's head of the emerging diseases epidemiology. "The regions which are affected by the Zika virus epidemic are likely to see a significant increase in the number of patients with serious neurological complications, and when possible, should increase the capacity of health-care facilities to receive patients needing intensive care." The World Health Organization (WHO) has declared an outbreak of the mosquito-borne Zika virus spreading from Brazil an international health emergency. This declaration was largely based on evidence linking Zika to a birth defect known as microcephaly, marked by a small head and underdeveloped brain, but the WHO is also concerned about rising reports of cases of Guillain-Barré syndrome in countries hit by Zika. It is not yet clear whether the Zika virus actually causes microcephaly in babies, but experts say the evidence of a link is growing. Fontanet's team analysed data from 42 patients who developed Guillain-Barré syndrome at the time of the French Polynesian epidemic and found that every one had evidence of a previous infection with Zika. Tests also showed 93 percent of them had been infected with Zika recently -- within three months prior to developing Guillain-Barré syndrome. Jeremy Farrar, an infectious disease specialist and director of the Wellcome Trust global health charity, said the study, published in The Lancet medical journal, "provides the most compelling evidence to date of a causative link" between Zika and Guillain-Barré syndrome. "The increase in reported cases of Guillain-Barré in Brazil and other South American countries seems to suggest that a similar situation may be occurring in the current outbreak, although the link here is yet to be proven definitively," he said in an emailed statement. According to WHO, even with the best healthcare services available, some 3 to 5 percent of Guillain-Barré syndrome patients die from complications, including blood infection, lung clots, cardiac arrest and paralysis of the muscles that control breathing.
LONDON - French scientists say they have proved a link between the Zika virus and a nerve syndrome called Guillain-Barré, suggesting countries hit by the Zika epidemic will see a rise in cases of the serious neurological condition. Guillain-Barré is a rare syndrome in which the body's immune system attacks part of the nervous system. It usually occurs a few days after exposure to a virus, bacteria or parasite. In a retrospective study analysing data from a Zika outbreak in French Polynesia during 2013 and 2014, researchers led by Arnaud Fontanet of France's Institut Pasteur calculated the estimated risk of developing Guillain-Barré syndrome at 2.4 for every 10,000 people infected by Zika. "This work is significant because it allows for the confirmation of the role of Zika virus infection in the occurrences of the severe neurological complications that constitute Guillain-Barré syndrome," said Fontanet, Pasteur's head of the emerging diseases epidemiology. "The regions which are affected by the Zika virus epidemic are likely to see a significant increase in the number of patients with serious neurological complications, and when possible, should increase the capacity of health-care facilities to receive patients needing intensive care." The World Health Organization (WHO) has declared an outbreak of the mosquito-borne Zika virus spreading from Brazil an international health emergency. This declaration was largely based on evidence linking Zika to a birth defect known as microcephaly, marked by a small head and underdeveloped brain, but the WHO is also concerned about rising reports of cases of Guillain-Barré syndrome in countries hit by Zika. It is not yet clear whether the Zika virus actually causes microcephaly in babies, but experts say the evidence of a link is growing. Fontanet's team analysed data from 42 patients who developed Guillain-Barré syndrome at the time of the French Polynesian epidemic and found that every one had evidence of a previous infection with Zika. Tests also showed 93 percent of them had been infected with Zika recently -- within three months prior to developing Guillain-Barré syndrome. Jeremy Farrar, an infectious disease specialist and director of the Wellcome Trust global health charity, said the study, published in The Lancet medical journal, "provides the most compelling evidence to date of a causative link" between Zika and Guillain-Barré syndrome. "The increase in reported cases of Guillain-Barré in Brazil and other South American countries seems to suggest that a similar situation may be occurring in the current outbreak, although the link here is yet to be proven definitively," he said in an emailed statement. According to WHO, even with the best healthcare services available, some 3 to 5 percent of Guillain-Barré syndrome patients die from complications, including blood infection, lung clots, cardiac arrest and paralysis of the muscles that control breathing.
LONDON - French scientists say they have proved a link between the Zika virus and a nerve syndrome called Guillain-Barré, suggesting countries hit by the Zika epidemic will see a rise in cases of the serious neurological condition. Guillain-Barré is a rare syndrome in which the body's immune system attacks part of the nervous system. It usually occurs a few days after exposure to a virus, bacteria or parasite. In a retrospective study analysing data from a Zika outbreak in French Polynesia during 2013 and 2014, researchers led by Arnaud Fontanet of France's Institut Pasteur calculated the estimated risk of developing Guillain-Barré syndrome at 2.4 for every 10,000 people infected by Zika. "This work is significant because it allows for the confirmation of the role of Zika virus infection in the occurrences of the severe neurological complications that constitute Guillain-Barré syndrome," said Fontanet, Pasteur's head of the emerging diseases epidemiology. "The regions which are affected by the Zika virus epidemic are likely to see a significant increase in the number of patients with serious neurological complications, and when possible, should increase the capacity of health-care facilities to receive patients needing intensive care." The World Health Organization (WHO) has declared an outbreak of the mosquito-borne Zika virus spreading from Brazil an international health emergency. This declaration was largely based on evidence linking Zika to a birth defect known as microcephaly, marked by a small head and underdeveloped brain, but the WHO is also concerned about rising reports of cases of Guillain-Barré syndrome in countries hit by Zika. It is not yet clear whether the Zika virus actually causes microcephaly in babies, but experts say the evidence of a link is growing. Fontanet's team analysed data from 42 patients who developed Guillain-Barré syndrome at the time of the French Polynesian epidemic and found that every one had evidence of a previous infection with Zika. Tests also showed 93 percent of them had been infected with Zika recently -- within three months prior to developing Guillain-Barré syndrome. Jeremy Farrar, an infectious disease specialist and director of the Wellcome Trust global health charity, said the study, published in The Lancet medical journal, "provides the most compelling evidence to date of a causative link" between Zika and Guillain-Barré syndrome. "The increase in reported cases of Guillain-Barré in Brazil and other South American countries seems to suggest that a similar situation may be occurring in the current outbreak, although the link here is yet to be proven definitively," he said in an emailed statement. According to WHO, even with the best healthcare services available, some 3 to 5 percent of Guillain-Barré syndrome patients die from complications, including blood infection, lung clots, cardiac arrest and paralysis of the muscles that control breathing.
March 4, 2016
My geriatric “catfishing” cautionary tale
OK. Let’s first agree on this: We’ll change names to protect the innocent. And the guilty, too. I’ll change his name just because I’m feeling generous, although I don’t know why.
We are all too conscious of the perils the Internet, particularly its social networks, pose for young people—inexperienced and vulnerable, teenagers and twenty-somethings can be gullible and prone to rushing enthusiastically into something they later regret. Parents are constantly reminded to monitor their children’s digital activities: Who are they talking to? What are they talking about? Is the person on the other side of the screen really who s/he claims to be on a Facebook profile?
Amid the hysteria, it’s easy to forget that any of us, no matter how old and “experienced,” no matter how savvy we like to think we are, can be vulnerable to digital dissembling. No longer shamed into the shadows, the online dating scene thrives, and more and more adults look to it to find love—and to find love again, after a divorce or the death of a spouse. These websites, many emphasizing romance and long-term commitment, hide lies aplenty—about height, weight, education, the real year a profile picture was taken—underneath their veneer of respectability. Your motives for signing up with Match.com might be honorable, but there’s no way to know if the same is true for everyone else. Yet just because the possibility exists, is it reasonable for you to assume that your divorced mother’s new boyfriend, or your widowed grandfather’s new companion, might not be who they seem? Even if something about a person doesn’t sit quite right, who are you to step into an older adult’s life and spoil their new chance at happiness? Surely they are capable of making their own decisions.
Having dismissed the melodrama of “catfishing” as a phenomenon of teenage pop culture, rather than an actual threat in the rational adult world, these are questions I never thought about. That is, until I found myself struggling for answers as I faced an elderly man whose story literally didn’t add up.
We begin in a picturesque English country village, where nary a car appears on the narrow road that snakes through it to disturb the peace. Thatched cottages, with roses climbing the walls. Quaint tea rooms serving scones and jam. Ramshackle pubs offering warm local ale. This is the village where Margaret lives.
She’s a second- or third-something, possibly a great-something? I’ve never really grasped exactly what those terms mean. But she is my relative, and I’m very fond of her.
When Margaret’s husband, Derek, died eight years ago, she was devastated. Though English by birth and upbringing, by then I’d moved to New Zealand, and I didn’t have a chance to visit her until I returned in 2011. Then in her mid-seventies, she seemed in reasonable spirits, all things considered; “on the up,” you might say. Margaret is resilient, full of positivity and warmth. As a child, back in the late 1960s and early 1970s, I remember her gathering as many family members as she could for long summer lunches, for which she would dress in vibrant, flowing robes and put the Rolling Stones or Led Zeppelin records on her oversize hi-fi stereo. We younger children played in the overgrown garden of the large house in which she and Derek lived while the adults boozed away the afternoon.
She didn’t mention to me that she was actively seeking companionship through the Internet. But why should she? It was none of my business. We walked a while around her charming village and chatted over a cup of tea before I set off on my journey back to Yorkshire.
It was a couple of months later when Margaret called me, sounding slightly sheepish.
“Well….” A pause. “I’ve, um, met someone.”
Why on earth not? I thought. “That’s great,” I said. “Wonderful!” Though, as I spoke, some uncertainty entered my head. Margaret is a smart cookie, but her beloved Derek’s death had hit her hard. Even though she was lonely, was this—starting all over again with someone new—really what she wanted?
“Who is this someone?” I asked cheerfully.
“Name of Roy,” said Margaret. “We met up in London the other day. I think you’d like him.”
“How did you meet him?”
“Through the Internet!” Imagine my surprise upon learning that Margaret is a first-league silver surfer, far more proficient online than I ever could be.
“I look forward to meeting him,” I said, sincerely.
With the demands of my own work and family, it was another five weeks before I could make it down to Margaret’s village. By that time, as I discovered to my surprise when I walked through her front door, Roy had moved in.
Margaret ushered me through her small, dark hallway into the main room of her cottage. Roy, sitting in what had been Margaret’s favorite armchair, stood unsteadily, his cold, wary blue eyes fixing upon me. He’s nervous, I thought. Understandable.
“Hello,” I said, full of artificial bonhomie, offering my hand. “I’m Nicholas.”
He examined my hand for a short moment, then he shook it.
“Roy,” he said.
Already, I didn’t like him. But I said, “Very pleased to meet you.” This, after all, is the English way.
We sat down to eat in Margaret’s cramped little kitchen. As she strove anxiously to keep our plates filled and our glasses topped up, Roy and I eyed each other beneath the veneer of polite conversation. Before moving into Margaret’s cottage, I learned, Roy had enjoyed a comfortable, well-heeled pensioner’s life in the Kent town where he’d spent most of his adulthood. He’d grown up in North London, and served his country in the Second World War. His career had taken several turns; at one point he had been a financial services consultant, and, later, he owned a market garden and sold vegetables to a major supermarket chain. I found him interesting, but when pressed on detail, Roy became vague.
The discomfort in the air was palpable, but we parted on amicable terms, promising to meet again shortly. On my drive back north, I felt oddly uneasy at leaving Margaret alone with Roy. I’d thought she’d said he was 79, but a quick calculation showed that, by the end of the war, he would have been 14 or 15 years old. Had I got it wrong? Or had Margaret made a mistake?
The following weekend I traveled down again to Margaret’s village. By now, Roy seemed to feel fully at home; having sized me up the previous week, he’d clearly decided I was no threat to him. He was more affable and voluble over lunch, offering anecdotes about his time in the Royal Air Force in 1944 and his Islington childhood. He told me about his son and his wife, who lived only a few miles from his flat in Kent. Later, he sombrely described his wife’s painful and protracted battle with cancer.
“Things weren’t so advanced back then,” Roy said. “I had to nurse her through the last few months more or less single-handed.”
Before I left that evening, I confirmed his age with Margaret. “Seventy-nine,” she repeated. I didn’t pursue the question of her arithmetic, but now I knew something about Roy literally didn’t add up. And I was concerned.
Margaret believes strongly in family. Even though we have all dispersed, making those glorious lunches of my childhood impossible, she is meticulous in remembering our birthdays, sending lavish gifts and cards that she illustrates herself. So, when it came to Roy, it was natural that she should want to meet his family.
She persuaded him to invite his son and daughter-in-law over for a weekend. I don’t know how she got him to agree. He must have understood the danger of her request, but I suppose he somehow thought he could contain it. My wife and I were also invited for dinner on the Saturday. We checked into a local hotel, where Graham and Janice were also staying, so we gave them a lift to Margaret’s cottage.
Graham and Janice were pleasant company, and dinner was congenial. We “youngsters” spent most of the time talking, with Margaret making several interjections to keep things moving nicely. Roy watched us, leaning his bulk back in his chair, slowly blinking like a lizard.
On the way back to the hotel, I decided to cross-check some of my facts with Graham and Janice.
“So you’re an only child, Graham,” I said by way of conversational opener.
“No. There’s my sister, of course,” he said.
“Sorry. Of course. Remind me about her.”
“He’s probably hardly ever mentioned her because she doesn’t get on with him. For a long while I didn’t, either.”
“Oh?”
“No. We didn’t speak for years after what he did to my mother.”
“Oh. I didn’t know about that.” I was beginning to feel very anxious for Margaret.
“No. He wouldn’t have said anything. When I was about 10, he left us in the lurch. My sister was only 7. We had no money. Mum had to rely on welfare. It was a struggle.”
“Where did Roy go?”
“He went off with his fancy woman. Nottingham, I think it was? They had two kids. Then, after five years or so, he came back. Mum accepted him, she was that desperate. I wouldn’t speak to him for a while afterwards. But, you know. Time and all that.”
“A great healer.” Had he told the truth about anything? “You must have all been so upset when your mother….”
“Pardon?”
“When your mother died. At least he tended to her in her final months. It must have brought you closer.”
“What’s he been telling you? He’s been at it again, hasn’t he?”
It seemed that Roy had once again left his wife after he retired. She’d had a number of “episodes” requiring psychiatric care, and he’d had enough. She remained in the family home, happier and better-adjusted than she ever was while she was with Roy.
And yet Graham still remained in contact with his father.
“Hard to explain. I’ve little to do with him really. Just the normal pleasantries. My sister doesn’t speak to him at all. But when Margaret invited us…. I suppose it was a chance to see whether he was up to his old tricks. This is what he does. He’ll be cruising the Internet just like he once would cruise bars and cafés. He can be very charming.”
Did Margaret suspect anything? Some of Roy’s lies she simply believed, that much was clear, but I wonder if some she simply accepted as the price she had to pay for companionship. I was paralyzed. What should I do? Margaret is, after all, many years my senior. It would have been impertinent for me to interfere, to tell her that she was wrong to trust the man who’d moved into her home. She seemed to be happy, and not in the path of any immediate harm.
I concentrated on being supportive, keeping in close touch with Margaret and visiting as often as I could. I took care not to appear judgmental of Roy in Margaret’s hearing, and was pleasantness personified with him directly. He was not difficult to catch out, but I was careful not to put him on the hook. I simply waited. It was for Margaret to make her choice. All I could do was to be ready if things changed.
About three months later, Margaret rang me, somewhat out of breath. My immediate thought was what has he done? But I didn’t need to be concerned. About that, at least.
Margaret had become wise to Roy. The accumulation of lies had grown so large that something between them had snapped. The old Margaret, sharp as a tack, was back—and annoyed at having been such an old fool. Angry at Roy for tricking her, but mainly at herself for letting him delude her. She wanted to end the relationship.
By this time, Roy had apparently sensed something was awry and was keeping close tabs on her. “I’m afraid of him,” she said. “Physically afraid. I don’t know what to do!”
Conflict avoidance is something of a way of life for me, often miring me in situations that could have been avoided had I been more direct from the start. I shun physical violence. I don’t get into “alpha male” one-upmanship. But a wimp’s gotta do what a wimp’s gotta do. Margaret needed my help.
She and I arranged covert meetings. She’d let herself out of the house for an hour or so on some pretext, and we’d meet in a local coffee shop to plan our next move in hushed tones. Margaret ran through the mental script of what she would say, and I tried out a couple of ideas about the part I would play. We talked timing and fallbacks. At home, I researched the legal position of the situation, and agonized over safety issues—for Roy’s sake as much as for Margaret’s.
Eventually, the day arrived. My wife and I turned up at Margaret’s cottage at a pre-appointed time, and she let us in. Roy looked at us suspiciously over the top of his newspaper.
Margaret delivered her short speech. It was over, she said. She’d enjoyed meeting Roy. It’d been fun getting to know him. But she’d grown tired. No, she’d become exhausted with worry, her blood pressure was sky high and she regularly had palpitations. She’d been foolish to let him come and live with her. If they’d had an arm's-length relationship, maybe they would still be friends. But suddenly she’d realized that almost everything he told her about himself was a lie, that he was sponging on her good nature, that he was idle and manipulative and cared nothing for her. There was no going back; this was the end of it.
I helped Roy pack, ordered a cab, paid the driver several hundred pounds, and Roy was on his way back home. All we had to do now, for Margaret’s peace of mind, was change the locks on the house and her telephone number.
Success, finally. I felt about as tired and down as I could possibly feel. Confronting an 86-year-old man and turning him out of his home is not an activity I’d recommend to anyone. But it had to be done, and it was.
I’ve no idea what’s become of Roy. If he’s still around, he’ll be well into his nineties. Despite everything, I honestly wish him no ill. I still wonder what his motive was. Very basic, I suspect: he simply wanted someone to look after him so that he could live out his final years comfortably. The easy life.
Margaret, meanwhile, is thriving. She regards Roy as a blip in her life, a temporary madness. I see her regularly and she remains as delightful as ever.
OK. Let’s first agree on this: We’ll change names to protect the innocent. And the guilty, too. I’ll change his name just because I’m feeling generous, although I don’t know why.
We are all too conscious of the perils the Internet, particularly its social networks, pose for young people—inexperienced and vulnerable, teenagers and twenty-somethings can be gullible and prone to rushing enthusiastically into something they later regret. Parents are constantly reminded to monitor their children’s digital activities: Who are they talking to? What are they talking about? Is the person on the other side of the screen really who s/he claims to be on a Facebook profile?
Amid the hysteria, it’s easy to forget that any of us, no matter how old and “experienced,” no matter how savvy we like to think we are, can be vulnerable to digital dissembling. No longer shamed into the shadows, the online dating scene thrives, and more and more adults look to it to find love—and to find love again, after a divorce or the death of a spouse. These websites, many emphasizing romance and long-term commitment, hide lies aplenty—about height, weight, education, the real year a profile picture was taken—underneath their veneer of respectability. Your motives for signing up with Match.com might be honorable, but there’s no way to know if the same is true for everyone else. Yet just because the possibility exists, is it reasonable for you to assume that your divorced mother’s new boyfriend, or your widowed grandfather’s new companion, might not be who they seem? Even if something about a person doesn’t sit quite right, who are you to step into an older adult’s life and spoil their new chance at happiness? Surely they are capable of making their own decisions.
Having dismissed the melodrama of “catfishing” as a phenomenon of teenage pop culture, rather than an actual threat in the rational adult world, these are questions I never thought about. That is, until I found myself struggling for answers as I faced an elderly man whose story literally didn’t add up.
We begin in a picturesque English country village, where nary a car appears on the narrow road that snakes through it to disturb the peace. Thatched cottages, with roses climbing the walls. Quaint tea rooms serving scones and jam. Ramshackle pubs offering warm local ale. This is the village where Margaret lives.
She’s a second- or third-something, possibly a great-something? I’ve never really grasped exactly what those terms mean. But she is my relative, and I’m very fond of her.
When Margaret’s husband, Derek, died eight years ago, she was devastated. Though English by birth and upbringing, by then I’d moved to New Zealand, and I didn’t have a chance to visit her until I returned in 2011. Then in her mid-seventies, she seemed in reasonable spirits, all things considered; “on the up,” you might say. Margaret is resilient, full of positivity and warmth. As a child, back in the late 1960s and early 1970s, I remember her gathering as many family members as she could for long summer lunches, for which she would dress in vibrant, flowing robes and put the Rolling Stones or Led Zeppelin records on her oversize hi-fi stereo. We younger children played in the overgrown garden of the large house in which she and Derek lived while the adults boozed away the afternoon.
She didn’t mention to me that she was actively seeking companionship through the Internet. But why should she? It was none of my business. We walked a while around her charming village and chatted over a cup of tea before I set off on my journey back to Yorkshire.
It was a couple of months later when Margaret called me, sounding slightly sheepish.
“Well….” A pause. “I’ve, um, met someone.”
Why on earth not? I thought. “That’s great,” I said. “Wonderful!” Though, as I spoke, some uncertainty entered my head. Margaret is a smart cookie, but her beloved Derek’s death had hit her hard. Even though she was lonely, was this—starting all over again with someone new—really what she wanted?
“Who is this someone?” I asked cheerfully.
“Name of Roy,” said Margaret. “We met up in London the other day. I think you’d like him.”
“How did you meet him?”
“Through the Internet!” Imagine my surprise upon learning that Margaret is a first-league silver surfer, far more proficient online than I ever could be.
“I look forward to meeting him,” I said, sincerely.
With the demands of my own work and family, it was another five weeks before I could make it down to Margaret’s village. By that time, as I discovered to my surprise when I walked through her front door, Roy had moved in.
Margaret ushered me through her small, dark hallway into the main room of her cottage. Roy, sitting in what had been Margaret’s favorite armchair, stood unsteadily, his cold, wary blue eyes fixing upon me. He’s nervous, I thought. Understandable.
“Hello,” I said, full of artificial bonhomie, offering my hand. “I’m Nicholas.”
He examined my hand for a short moment, then he shook it.
“Roy,” he said.
Already, I didn’t like him. But I said, “Very pleased to meet you.” This, after all, is the English way.
We sat down to eat in Margaret’s cramped little kitchen. As she strove anxiously to keep our plates filled and our glasses topped up, Roy and I eyed each other beneath the veneer of polite conversation. Before moving into Margaret’s cottage, I learned, Roy had enjoyed a comfortable, well-heeled pensioner’s life in the Kent town where he’d spent most of his adulthood. He’d grown up in North London, and served his country in the Second World War. His career had taken several turns; at one point he had been a financial services consultant, and, later, he owned a market garden and sold vegetables to a major supermarket chain. I found him interesting, but when pressed on detail, Roy became vague.
The discomfort in the air was palpable, but we parted on amicable terms, promising to meet again shortly. On my drive back north, I felt oddly uneasy at leaving Margaret alone with Roy. I’d thought she’d said he was 79, but a quick calculation showed that, by the end of the war, he would have been 14 or 15 years old. Had I got it wrong? Or had Margaret made a mistake?
The following weekend I traveled down again to Margaret’s village. By now, Roy seemed to feel fully at home; having sized me up the previous week, he’d clearly decided I was no threat to him. He was more affable and voluble over lunch, offering anecdotes about his time in the Royal Air Force in 1944 and his Islington childhood. He told me about his son and his wife, who lived only a few miles from his flat in Kent. Later, he sombrely described his wife’s painful and protracted battle with cancer.
“Things weren’t so advanced back then,” Roy said. “I had to nurse her through the last few months more or less single-handed.”
Before I left that evening, I confirmed his age with Margaret. “Seventy-nine,” she repeated. I didn’t pursue the question of her arithmetic, but now I knew something about Roy literally didn’t add up. And I was concerned.
Margaret believes strongly in family. Even though we have all dispersed, making those glorious lunches of my childhood impossible, she is meticulous in remembering our birthdays, sending lavish gifts and cards that she illustrates herself. So, when it came to Roy, it was natural that she should want to meet his family.
She persuaded him to invite his son and daughter-in-law over for a weekend. I don’t know how she got him to agree. He must have understood the danger of her request, but I suppose he somehow thought he could contain it. My wife and I were also invited for dinner on the Saturday. We checked into a local hotel, where Graham and Janice were also staying, so we gave them a lift to Margaret’s cottage.
Graham and Janice were pleasant company, and dinner was congenial. We “youngsters” spent most of the time talking, with Margaret making several interjections to keep things moving nicely. Roy watched us, leaning his bulk back in his chair, slowly blinking like a lizard.
On the way back to the hotel, I decided to cross-check some of my facts with Graham and Janice.
“So you’re an only child, Graham,” I said by way of conversational opener.
“No. There’s my sister, of course,” he said.
“Sorry. Of course. Remind me about her.”
“He’s probably hardly ever mentioned her because she doesn’t get on with him. For a long while I didn’t, either.”
“Oh?”
“No. We didn’t speak for years after what he did to my mother.”
“Oh. I didn’t know about that.” I was beginning to feel very anxious for Margaret.
“No. He wouldn’t have said anything. When I was about 10, he left us in the lurch. My sister was only 7. We had no money. Mum had to rely on welfare. It was a struggle.”
“Where did Roy go?”
“He went off with his fancy woman. Nottingham, I think it was? They had two kids. Then, after five years or so, he came back. Mum accepted him, she was that desperate. I wouldn’t speak to him for a while afterwards. But, you know. Time and all that.”
“A great healer.” Had he told the truth about anything? “You must have all been so upset when your mother….”
“Pardon?”
“When your mother died. At least he tended to her in her final months. It must have brought you closer.”
“What’s he been telling you? He’s been at it again, hasn’t he?”
It seemed that Roy had once again left his wife after he retired. She’d had a number of “episodes” requiring psychiatric care, and he’d had enough. She remained in the family home, happier and better-adjusted than she ever was while she was with Roy.
And yet Graham still remained in contact with his father.
“Hard to explain. I’ve little to do with him really. Just the normal pleasantries. My sister doesn’t speak to him at all. But when Margaret invited us…. I suppose it was a chance to see whether he was up to his old tricks. This is what he does. He’ll be cruising the Internet just like he once would cruise bars and cafés. He can be very charming.”
Did Margaret suspect anything? Some of Roy’s lies she simply believed, that much was clear, but I wonder if some she simply accepted as the price she had to pay for companionship. I was paralyzed. What should I do? Margaret is, after all, many years my senior. It would have been impertinent for me to interfere, to tell her that she was wrong to trust the man who’d moved into her home. She seemed to be happy, and not in the path of any immediate harm.
I concentrated on being supportive, keeping in close touch with Margaret and visiting as often as I could. I took care not to appear judgmental of Roy in Margaret’s hearing, and was pleasantness personified with him directly. He was not difficult to catch out, but I was careful not to put him on the hook. I simply waited. It was for Margaret to make her choice. All I could do was to be ready if things changed.
About three months later, Margaret rang me, somewhat out of breath. My immediate thought was what has he done? But I didn’t need to be concerned. About that, at least.
Margaret had become wise to Roy. The accumulation of lies had grown so large that something between them had snapped. The old Margaret, sharp as a tack, was back—and annoyed at having been such an old fool. Angry at Roy for tricking her, but mainly at herself for letting him delude her. She wanted to end the relationship.
By this time, Roy had apparently sensed something was awry and was keeping close tabs on her. “I’m afraid of him,” she said. “Physically afraid. I don’t know what to do!”
Conflict avoidance is something of a way of life for me, often miring me in situations that could have been avoided had I been more direct from the start. I shun physical violence. I don’t get into “alpha male” one-upmanship. But a wimp’s gotta do what a wimp’s gotta do. Margaret needed my help.
She and I arranged covert meetings. She’d let herself out of the house for an hour or so on some pretext, and we’d meet in a local coffee shop to plan our next move in hushed tones. Margaret ran through the mental script of what she would say, and I tried out a couple of ideas about the part I would play. We talked timing and fallbacks. At home, I researched the legal position of the situation, and agonized over safety issues—for Roy’s sake as much as for Margaret’s.
Eventually, the day arrived. My wife and I turned up at Margaret’s cottage at a pre-appointed time, and she let us in. Roy looked at us suspiciously over the top of his newspaper.
Margaret delivered her short speech. It was over, she said. She’d enjoyed meeting Roy. It’d been fun getting to know him. But she’d grown tired. No, she’d become exhausted with worry, her blood pressure was sky high and she regularly had palpitations. She’d been foolish to let him come and live with her. If they’d had an arm's-length relationship, maybe they would still be friends. But suddenly she’d realized that almost everything he told her about himself was a lie, that he was sponging on her good nature, that he was idle and manipulative and cared nothing for her. There was no going back; this was the end of it.
I helped Roy pack, ordered a cab, paid the driver several hundred pounds, and Roy was on his way back home. All we had to do now, for Margaret’s peace of mind, was change the locks on the house and her telephone number.
Success, finally. I felt about as tired and down as I could possibly feel. Confronting an 86-year-old man and turning him out of his home is not an activity I’d recommend to anyone. But it had to be done, and it was.
I’ve no idea what’s become of Roy. If he’s still around, he’ll be well into his nineties. Despite everything, I honestly wish him no ill. I still wonder what his motive was. Very basic, I suspect: he simply wanted someone to look after him so that he could live out his final years comfortably. The easy life.
Margaret, meanwhile, is thriving. She regards Roy as a blip in her life, a temporary madness. I see her regularly and she remains as delightful as ever.
Trump really does stand for B.S.: “Trumpery,” an old-fashioned word that’s proving useful today
“The Trumpery Before Trump” — Feb. 17, Huffington Post “It’s a non-evidence-based approach to politics, what you might call Trumpery. It’s terribly dangerous.” — Jan. 25, Evening Standard “‘Trumpery’ is defined as showy but worthless nonsense or trickery. On Tuesday in Iowa, trumpery was on display as Republican presidential front-runner Donald Trump was endorsed by former half-term Alaska governor and 2008 GOP vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin.” — Jan. 24, Online Athens “Trumpery is coming to Louisiana. Naming his state campaign team in Louisiana, The Donald says he will soon honor us with a visit.” — Jan. 23, The Advocate “People keep lauding Trump's business success. I don't find five bankruptcies business success. It is a terrible record. Someone who calls him a successful business man is just spouting trumpery.” — Jan. 22, PJ MediaWord evolution never stops, and it’ll be interesting to see if Trump gives an already disparaging word a whole new odor—and perhaps a revised origin. Sometimes, trumpery gets a new spelling as Trumpery—to emphasize that it’s not just any trumpery, but trademarked Trumpery from the orange blowhard himself. It would be fitting if some people began to wonder if Trumpery had been coined for Trump, as the capitalization implies. That wouldn’t be the first time a word evolved due to misunderstanding. Eggcorns—so named because of a misspelling of acorn—are spelling changes that are incorrect but logical, and sometimes they stick. That’s why chaise lounge is probably more common than the original chaise longue, and it’s why free reign may someday overtake free rein. Logical mistakes tend to multiply, and I can’t imagine a more logical whoopsie than that assuming Trump begat trumpery. If there’s ever a time to throw accurate etymology out the window and go with a good story, this is that time. But as scary (and racist and misogynistic and Islamophobic) as candidate Trump is, we should be thankful for the lexical synchronicity of his name. We may never see the like again, unless future elections feature candidates named Marla Malarkey, Ed Twaddle, Jennifer Gibberish and Bobby Bullshit.
Relic hunter: A missing Christian relic, the fall of Nazi Germany and a mystery that flummoxed historians for centuries
