HORRORS

The Progression of American Horror
(Or, why nobody does anything about anything)

I will not digress into writing vignettes of all the horrors that I have personally seen in the Elder Health Care Industry. Certainly, I could fill this manuscript with such horrors, and certainly, the manuscript would be a Best Seller because we, as a society, long for the “shock value” in anything; and like a street-drug, it takes more and more horror to shock us.

We are a society rendered indifferent by inundation in horror, both real and imagined.

The late ‘70s and early ‘80s gave rise to a new genre of horror in literature with the success of Stephen King, a truly excellent writer who possessed the gift of being able to reach into our guts and turn our stomachs around. Others followed him, cashing in on the success of well-written horror: Clive Barker, John Saul, Dean R. Koontz and Peter Straub, to name just a few. Housewives were no longer reading romance novels; we were eagerly awaiting the latest novel from the inexhaustible psyche of Mr. King, and reading the other authors between Castle Rock book releases.

Just when our taste for literary horror was about worn out, Anne Rice and the Vampire Chronicles appeared on the scene. Her style was eloquent and fresh, and her stories intriguing and well researched. America was off and reading again, riding a new wave
of beautifully presented horror.


We must, of course, give credit to the film industry for visual horror. By leaps and bounds, special effects artists have brought us way beyond the old “Karo Syrup, red food coloring and oatmeal ‘blood’ recipe” to the endless possibilities created by computer aided graphics. Unfortunately we, the edge-of-our-seat-popcorn-stuffing societal mass, possess little pea brains that can’t tell the difference between sophisticated “cartooning” and real blood, guts and body parts.

Westerns and musicals ruled in the 40s and very early 50s. Then came the post-depression era, followed by the affluence of the middle 50s and an entire generation of teenagers who wanted to see just how far they could push the envelope. Parental permissiveness had taken root, and teenagers ruled. By the time they reached the 10th grade, most boys had their own cars and their own steady girlfriends, making drive-In movies real hot spots on Friday and Saturday nights. From this hormonally fertilized field was spawned a new generation of horror films. “The Blob,” “Tarantula,” and a little later, “Godzilla,” “Mothra” and “Rodan.”

Today, we are not even a tiny bit terrified by “The Blob,” “Tarantula,” or any of the Japanese monsters. We can watch the old scary movies alone, at midnight and on Halloween, without a single tingle in our solar plexus. Giant Spiders, fifty-feet women, Godzillas and Mothras just don’t scare us anymore.

In 1968, Night of the Living Dead gave us something new to scare us – zombies. Nothing else could quite equal the hit-in-the-gut impact of Night of the Living Dead, so most of us were terrified by the undead in only that one particular movie. It was as if we had, with one film, overdosed on Zombie horror. The exception to this might be the no-big-star-screen adaptation of King’s “Pet Semetary,” a film which left many horror junkies a bit queasy again. In writing this novel, Stephen King trod on forbidden ground, using family members as zombies, merciless and irreverent in his quest for the ultimate in mind-bending horror. He was also very successful. Those of us who were uncomfortably and eerily spooked by Pet Semetary were left, in the afterglow of our horror ration, a bit more jaded.

“Nightmare on Elm Street,” “Friday the 13th, and “Halloween,” scared us silly for awhile, but we became bored as they sequelized and became predictable.

Of course, television has played a huge part in our horror over-saturation-to-the point-of- numbness. The Twilight Zone, Outer Limits and Alfred Hitchcock Presents whetted our appetite with rather bland-tasting (as compared to today’s fare) horror snacks. In the 90’s, TV programming made a giant jump which took us to the “outer limits” of the horrific and macabre with real crime shows, showing real dead bodies, real blood, real murder weapons and real crime scenes. The enormous numbers of viewers who were glued to their television sets during the O.J. Simpson trial probably generated “Cold case files,” “City Confidential,” and “Forensic Files”. Yes, indeed, in the ‘90s America’s taste for horror had come into full bloom.

After 911, a kind of numbness set into our entire country. We were absolutely incredulous that this kind of event had actually happened. We saw the planes crash into the Twin Towers on T.V., the same T.V. which brought us over-the-edge true crime shows, so for most of us, the question our subconscious minds are still asking is, “Did this really happen?” Of course it did, and consciously we know it did, but because of the horrific matter which our brains have been regularly assimilating for years, on some deep level, we, as a collective subconscious, do not believe it. We did not actually see the mangled corpses and the blood; therefore, for those of us who were not, in point of fact, at ground zero, there is an air of unreality to the greatest tragedy in American history. We feel deep sympathy, sorrow, grief, and remorse; but still, 911 invokes a dreamlike reality borne of our lost ability to be horrified.

The Tsunami dealt another blow to our overburdened collective subconscious. “So far away, a terrible, terrible tragedy, those poor people who were lost, I have a hairdresser’s appointment on Wednesday.”

Katrina probably did more to horrify us than 911 and the Tsunami, because we saw the bodies floating, our countrymen walking in feces-polluted water and babies lost and crying. We watched as family members, completely exhausted, searched alone, with no help, for loved ones. While the American People screamed “Do something! Help them!” the government presented a lazy face, perhaps momentarily detouring us from Lethargic Lane onto Anger Avenue. We had no idea that those two highways intersected at Right Back Where You Been Road, and so here we are again, trudging along with our senses dulled and our anger dissipated.

Yes, it takes a lot to scare us these days. Most Americans don’t even have a reverential fear of God. With one Mighty Breath, He could blow an entire city, state or country right off the planet. Yet no one fears Him doing that because He’s never done it before. (Or has He?)

As a people, we have become cold and indifferent, afraid of nothing not directly affecting our personal selves. We have been psychologically conditioned away from that divine spark that provides impetus for recognizing, then rectifying, that which is horribly wrong.

Like fat, engorged leeches, we are sated and have fallen away from our horror hosts. Our fullness produces laziness, boredom and a willingness to “let someone else” make changes. We need to realize that each and every member of this society is a “someone else.”

But, living at warp speed as we are, we find that we don’t have time to become involved in that which does not directly affect us, including injustice, governmental corruption and
the welfare of our brothers not personally known to us. “Not having time,” is a communal euphemism for not addressing that which we do not wish to confront.

That which we do not wish to confront - the one thing that truly horrifies us - is old age and our own mortality. Even to look upon an octogenarian is to look upon one’s self within a fleeting flash of time. Old people are “on their way out” we think. And we don’t want to go out. Being eighty frightens us. Being dead horrifies us.

Despite the human tragedies in the Elder Health Care Industry, we have heard the same old “Nursing Home Horror Stories” for so long that we are subconsciously tired of them, and because we are unwilling to face our own decline and mortality, these abominations continue on. And on. And on.

It is for these reasons that this manuscript will focus on the horrific only to illustrate and educate. Solutions to presenting problems will be offered; then perhaps, greater minds than this writer’s will have better solutions, and greater minds still will have the right solutions.