The Morality of Disgust

This past Sunday, in the Dallas Morning News Points section, Drake Bennett wrote an insightful and intriguing article about human nature and disgust: is it present from birth? or do we learn to abhor certain people, places, and things? is it based on our moral values? or are we too judgmental?

Try this: Would you rather drink a glass of water into which a sterilized cockroach has been dropped, eat a piece of chocolate fudge shaped like a dog turd, or wear a freshly-washed sweater which was previously worn by Adolf Hitler?

None of the above? You're normal.

Nothing is innately wrong with any of the above three situations. None of them are morally wrong. None of them carry any danger. And yet most people would reject every single one.

Of course, there are the oft-quoted observations - people who wash their hands feel less guilt, judging in an ugly or smelly room make judges harsher, stronger verbs or adjectives turn people off (take vs. borrow, always vs. sometimes), and more.

There is no escape from chronic gullibility. We are all subject to it. But be encouraged. In the article, Bennett brings up a situation of 50 years ago, when many white people were 'disgusted' if they thought of drinking from a water fountain reserved for black people. Today, you will be hard-pressed to find half as many, or even a quarter as many people who would even care.

So, the next time you feel superior or stick out your tongue or hold your nose for a harmless situation, think about why. Good luck finding a reason.

A Boycott of Facebook a.k.a. Redefining My Life in One Week

From Monday to Monday, August 30-September 6, I have vowed not to let my fingers type in my username and password to enter that cyberworld of social interaction, instant chat, and awful surveys, known more commonly as Facebook.

I am a bit of an addict. I usually update my status once a day and have officially liked 305 different topics (musicians, hobbies, movies, books, etc. so I guess I could simply be considered more cultured with more diverse interests than anyone else...). Especially during the school year, much of my social interaction outside of school consists of having conversations through Facebook chat or posting on other people's walls. So, for me to spend a week away from Facebook definitely impacts some undefined part of my life.

I have stayed away from Facebook for longer than a week before. This summer, there were two different ten day periods where I simply did not have access to a computer. This is different, though. I'm on a computer now, but I cannot scroll up and select the bookmarked Facebook. I have to resist the temptation, and with my addictive personality, an added element - psychological, in fact - is in play.

So, why am I doing this? Does it matter that I'm not checking Facebook for a week? Really, it should not be this big of a deal.

But...I'm applying to eleven colleges right now, I'm taking multiple AP classes, I'm in a bajillion clubs, choirs, not to mention the 29 page piano concerto I have to learn within the next several months. So this is an experiment. If my life drastically improves, if my time-management skills improve, if any of my grades go up, if I get more sleep, etc., then this will be a success. Maybe I'll give up Facebook for two weeks next time, or a month, or even more.

This is a chronicle of my seven days...

DAY ONE:

Not too bad. I actually had my little brother check my Facebook page just to make sure that nobody had anything pressing to tell me. That's not cheating, is it? Well, too late now. I finished my college application schedule, which means all I have to do is actually...apply.
For the next several hours, though, I will be distracted by calculus, European history, and 1984, so don't count on me giving up today!

DAY TWO, THREE, and FOUR :

Thursday now. I'm alive and very well. Giving up Facebook is kind of like giving up chocolate for Lent. The first couple days are hard, but then you realize that you actually only ate chocolate once or twice a week anyways. No big deal. But this experiment has inspired me to maybe change the subject of this blog. Instead of a mix of music, film, literature, politics, etc., I might decide to concentrate instead on giving up some common item for a week...cell phone, ice cream, homework... the options are endless! Stay tuned!

DAY FIVE, SIX :

Yeah. Ditto the above post.

Eat Pray Love. repeat.

As a celebration/mourning exercise commemorating the first day of my last year of high school, I went to see Eat Pray Love at that rip-off wonder known as 'Northpark'. ($10.50 for a ticket? Seriously?)

I am a total SUCKER for romances (unless they were written by Sparks, Nicholas or Steele, Danielle or Meyer, Stephanie). And this was a romance, but without an overabundance of Romance. In fact, Liz Gilbert makes an effort to NOT be romantically involved during her year of world travel. This memoir movie, starring Julia Roberts (who, despite her unpopularity with critics nowadays, still captures the true spirit of her characters while allowing other actors to shine), starts with a woman, newly divorced and affair-ed, who FALLS IN LOVE WITH HER LIFE! She realizes that it is not her marriage that she needs to save, nor her relationship with her boyfriend, but for her own life! Call it selfish, call it unrealistic, call it idealistic, but call it courage. We all need a shot glass of courage every day.
Here are my top five favorite things about this end of the summer flick:

5. The scenery. Especially Bali. Oceans. Mountains. Paradise.

And Italy. The scene in Naples [seems] to capture the city (and pizza!) perfectly. Even the girl who flashed Liz the finger.

And India. Even the scene with the poor children reaching through the windows was completely breathtaking. The architecture is so different from America's straight up and down buildings.

4. The actresses. I adore Julia Roberts. She grows on you a bit. But just watching her versatility, from Pretty Woman to Mona Lisa Smile to Notting Hill to Ocean's to this! She creates the character, but lets everyone else do their stuff too.

Viola Davis as the best friend. A small part, but one that really stood out. Her marriage, unlike Liz's, is perfect. She is married to a fat, balding white guy. She's a gorgeous and curvy black woman. They have a beautiful baby.

The wife of the fortune teller in Bali. Dear LORD. The whole audience laughed every time she appeared, because she always had some smartass remark about Liz finding a man at any cost. Why was it funny? I have no idea.

3. The FOOD. Italy, here I come! Pasta, pizza, gelato. Thre three major food groups!

2. The clothes! Perfect wardrobe for Ms. Roberts, alternating from posh Euro-touristy to saris in India and long, flowing dresses and cute straw hats in Bali.

1. THE ACTORS! Richard Jenkins (Richard the stereotypical Texan) STOLE the movie. That is the ONE thing I am on par with the critics for. His name for Liz was 'Groceries' because she ate so much. He always wore the same funky pair of glasses. And he's a Texan in an Indian ashram. There IS a story behind that.

Billy Crudup is hilarious as Liz's ex. Even in divorce proceedings, he 'made up' a song to convince her to stay with him. At their wedding, he switched out their song for a disco one, then promptly danced along.

James Franco is hot.

Javier Bardem is not hot. But he is alluring. And I envy Julia Roberts and Javier's new wife, Penelope Cruz. And he is probably one of the best actors alive today. Just sayin'.

Go see this movie. It's not overly deep. It's not special-effects stunning. But it will make you aim higher, especially for those of us heading off to college soon. When you consider studying abroad, maybe don't go to a normal place like London or Paris, but somewhere with a non-tourist dominated culture. When you are thinking of marriage, maybe consider whether that person will let you change at all. When you are getting a job, maybe consider if you WANT the job. Not need. WANT. Why waste half your life making money that you will eventually be too old to spend and enjoy anyways? Think about it. Eat Pray Love. That's all you really need, my friends.

Bob, The Column

This was not written by me. But I found it in the latest Writer's Digest (a very good investment, if I may say so myself), and thought that by typing it up, some of the wittiness and allusionary skill might sink into my own cranium. Enjoy!

Hey, you. Yeah, you, Mr. or Ms. Aspiring Professional Arranger of Words in an Interesting and/or Informative Manner Person. Are you fearless? Resilient? Tough? I don't mean recumbent bicycler tough or brow-pierced barista tough or clove cigarette-smoking competitive ballroom dancer tough, I'm talking bring-it-on, hard-as-nails, I-eat-esoteric-synonyms-for-petit-dejuener writer tough. (Think Hemingway, right up till the instant he pulled the trigger. Or Isaac Bashevis Singer on days he was tweaking on crystal meth.)You better be. Because if you plan to make your living by putting some part of yourself (brain, heart, spleen, colon, meniscus, et al.) on the page, you need to be a rock. If you aren't, or if you've chosen, unwisely, to be a softish, non-igneous rock, like sandstone or shale, the criticism that will inevitably come your way could crush and shatter you, something rarely covered by health insurance.

Allow me to illustrate with some reactions to my first book: "Wretchedly execrable." "Wholly deficient." "Delusional." "Mumbo jumbo." Those reviews, thought the kindest I received, still hurt. That they came from, respectively, my biological mom; my adoptive mom; my imaginary friend, Cliff; and Cliff's mom, hurt even more. That the book in question was my personal diary ratcheted the pain up to the stubbing-one's-pinky-toe-while-passing-a-kidney-stone-during-childbirth level. Still, I survived. Literally! And you can, too. (Not a guarantee.)

How? By being psychologically and emotionally prepared for the withering condemnation of your work by the cruel, malicious, heartless, damnable bastards who are kind enough to read it.

Easier said than done, I know. An artistic nature is necessarily one of heightened sensitivity and lowered self-worth. For most of us, a diurnal life of tears and a nocturnal life of night terrors are the price we pay for our talent, though some muses now take Discover Card. But I can help. Before your next (or first) bad review(s), consider these strategies.

1. BE READY TO RESPOND IN KIND...TO THE EXTREME!
Believe me, if more writers answered their critics with, say, a waterboarding, unfavorable reviews would be rarer than undisgraced televangelists.

2. WEAR A CALLUS ON YOUR PSYCHE
Incessantly debase yourself and your abilities; insistently deem your writing "pathetic tripe." It's easy to ignore the slings and arrows of others if you've already gun-shot yourself.

3. WRITE FLAWLESSLY
Elevate every element of your work from excellent to perfect. Remember: The only problem with perfectionism is your imperfect approach to it.

4. SWITCH TO WRITING POETRY
Ain't nobody reads that.

L'eau and Lotti

This week I want to talk about a musician who's a bit...different.
But first, a tale from the land of chiggers and sunburns.
On the second day of our trip, June 11, we went to visit the worksites. It was strictly supposed to be a visit, just to see what all had to be done, so we had permission to wear flip-flops. So, the majority of us wore flip-flops!
FAIL FAIL FAIL etc.
First site. All good. Walked into the church, complimented the architecture, visited the school, complimented the computers.
Second site. All appeared to be good. Saw the church, met the people.
Then we were invited to go see the waterfall which is the water source for the surrounding area! Sounded like fun. Waterfall. Only a short hike.
FAIL FAIL FAIL etc.
Three blisters, five stops under Honduran 'shade', three wet wipies, a whole bottle of Gatorade, climbing, almost falling to my death. Two hours later.
WATER. AGUA. L'EAU. LIFE.
Hawaiian Falls has nothing on this baby.

It was worth the two-hour uphill hike. And even worth the waterless (I drank all the Gatorade, remember?) downhill stroll. But maybe not worth the three blisters, which made shoes uncomfortable for the next eight days. All in the name of sacrifice.

Now for my musician. He's pretty famous. In Europe, at least. Helmut Lotti started out as a Belgian Elvis impersonator.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DfXSvO8nwhs&feature=related

Then he had a stint where African and Latino hits were his thing. THEN he became 'classical'. But though he speaks with an obviously European accent, his singing reminds the listener vaguely of a Southern twang. Andrea Bocelli, country style. Not pleasant, you think?

My favorite sappy Helmut love song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DlxZxSGZw9g

From Wikipedia: Helmut Lotti sings fluently in Dutch and Afrikaans, English, French, German, Russian, Hebrew, Italian, Latin, and Spanish.
Not from Wikipedia: DUDE. SWEET.
His Kind of voice doesn't appeal to me. But his Voice does. Just like Johnny Cash, Helmut is able to appeal to those who aren't originally fans of his genre. Of course, for the best listening experience, watch a live performance on youtube. This 40 year-old singer fails to age. Watch his brown eyes and melt. And a name like Helmut (pronounced hell-moot)? Definitely ranks on my favorite name list.

Compulsory listening: (not the complete song, sadly, but this is my favorite duet on the world wide web.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IIgRle6GMrc&feature=related
By no means am I a Lotti expert quite yet. I can't say I like all of his recordings. His Bohemian Rhapsody was a fail. But, then again, aren't all Bohemian Rhapsodies fails? Barring, of course, Queen's original genius, the Muppets version, and the Ten Tenors masterpiece. And sometimes Helmut goes overboard with the arrangement, or chooses those songs that only work for real opera singers. Caruso is not meant to be sung by romantic swingers.
And to close, my favorite gory Big Band Bobby Darin classic.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7N5A_AL9zZc&feature=related

The Ping-Pong Song

Right now I have an ice-pack around my head, am listening to Shakira and Enrique alternately, and trying not to let the oxycontin I took a few minutes ago get the best of me. Yes, I got my wisdom teeth out today, all four of them, two of which had grown around the nerve of my bottom teeth (don't worry, though! the only side effect of that is possibly having a numb bottom lip for the rest of my life!). Today, I've pretty much been watching movies or sleeping or pretending to sleep. The Darjeeling Limited, with the wonderful Adrien Brody, was the first I watched. It lacks a point, but has that strange factor that makes it enjoyable in a strange way, ya know? Now I'm starting on Bottle Shock, with the actor otherwise known as Snape, another actor otherwise known as Captain Kirk, and finally the actor otherwise known as Meg Ryan's ex-fiance in Sleepless in Seattle. So far I am bored out of my mind. But it's only been 20 minutes or so, so hopefully the movie will improve.
(And for all of you wondering just how bad I'm feeling, I actually have felt no pain except for a nasty caffeine-withdrawal headache...)

Last night, while eating my last chewy food - blueberry pie - I had a moment where I really missed Honduras. Like, seriously close to tears. I missed the ridiculous heat, the not-feeling-guilty for anything, the physical work-out, and the kids, of course.

This post has absolutely no objective. But so many people were curious to see how much pain-killers affect me (and yet none of those said people expressed much sympathy-thanks for the support, guys), that I decided to take a break from my chair and show that I can actually handle the experience.

Or, at least, I think I have...

Honduras. Part Dos.

After an extremely uncomfortable week of mouth ickiness, I am glad to say that I am completely back to normal! (or, at least, whatever passes as normal for me)

First: a blurb from Honduras. Kim, you asked for this. Even though I find this the most amusing episode of probably the whole trip, some may be disturbed (boca burger lovers beware). One morning, while driving to our work sites in a rickety, torn apart (literally) old bus, feeling every bump, smelling every smell, and watching the gorgeous mountains roll by, we passed by a little settlement of houses, a store, you know, the kind of town you are most likely to find in the middle of Kansas. Well, there was a giant pig (GIANT) that we had seen for the last several days just kind of hanging out. (Animals, whenever they weren't scrounging for food, getting kicked, or procreating, liked to stroll across the highway or just sit dangerously close and watch us pass). But, on this singular day, the pig was being dragged around on a rope by its owners. There were a few pieces of equipment around that seemed to harken back to the French Revolution and other violent occurrences, if you catch my drift.
We were returning that afternoon, and guess what! Mr. Pig was on a table. On the bus, we all started laughing, cheering, crying, etc... His owners/murderers looked up and, with their super-sharp machetes and knifes, waved and smiled! It was amusing, in a rather sadistic, anti-PETA, pro-PETA (People who Eat Tasty Animals) sort of way, and re-reading this, you really had to be there to appreciate the humor...


Second: Bastille Day is coming up. Get out your toy guillotines, Edith Piaf records, and crepes. (And maybe stop by and bring me a present, cause like a true Frenchie-ophile, my birthday falls on their Independence Day.)

Honduras. Part Uno.

So, I spent the last ten days in Honduras, on a mission trip organized by the Diocese of Dallas and three of the major Catholic high schools. Instead of writing an extraordinarily long blog post, which nobody would ever finish reading, I decided to break this experience up, so that the "high" I'm on now will last for the whole summer. To start, I will tell you about the iconic moment of the trip (for me).

Keep in mind that I'm not usually this sentimental. But this trip really touched me in a way I have never been touched before.

On June 18, 2010, a twelve or thirteen year old boy changed my life. Or, at least, the next few weeks will show how successful he was. I don't know what his name is. I don't know who his parents are. I don't know anything about him. But, as we (the missionary group) were playing soccer with the Honduran kids in the trashy street right outside the church we were helping to build and improve, this boy started poking me. It was a favorite pastime of the Honduran kids. They would come up behind us and start poking. (I have bruises from that. Those little kids were ridiculously strong. They would mess with the barbed wire and come away with nary a scratch.) Then, suddenly, he stopped. He started talking to me. Well, I take French, so I had no idea what he was saying. So I had trusty Vanessa, our unofficial translator, mediate between this boy and me. He was asking where I was from. Of course, I said Dallas, Texas, and showed him my ID bracelet, where it was written out. He tried pronouncing it several times (Dollah Tejas!) and then he asked me if he could come back with me to Texas. Not as a joke. Not trying to get my guard down so he could tickle me again. But with a completely serious face.

What was I supposed to say?! I shrugged my shoulders, said no, and Vanessa kind of explained to him why he couldn't come. But that occurrence stuck with me. I used it during our reflection circle time, I wrote about it in my essay for the bishop, I told my parents. Those kids, in fact, all of the Honduran people, viewed us as guardian angels. We came from a land of electronics, clean water, fancy clothes, unpopped soccer balls, and red 'juice' (gatorade). I mean, we did plenty of manual labor. But we could have volunteered for Habitat for Humanity and done the same exact things. The difference was the people and what we learned from them. That kid restored all the confidence in myself that I had lost over the course of junior year. He was willing to come with me, a complete stranger, to a different country, for reasons which should be pretty obvious. I learned so much on a simple ten day trip, that I was almost appalled when I got home and saw how many break-ups, hook-ups, movie going, complaining about life, etc. had been going on while I was away. I saw how superficial it all is, and how I had broken free of the superficiality for a while. I'm afraid of going back to the person I was before the trip, but I can feel it creeping up already.

So, I'm going to go pray a rosary. I'm going to finish my geography. I'm going to watch a movie, read a book, listen to music. But, all the while, that little kid will haunt me until I finally do more to help him. God handed me the opportunity this first time. Now, I will go pray. I will do my geography, watch a movie, read a book, listen to my music (which I missed so much!). But that little boy will haunt me until I do more to help him and my brothers and sisters around the world. God has already handed me an opportunity to do something. Now it's my turn to become an independent individual and do even more.

Adios Dallas, Hola Honduras!

On Thursday I depart on the most exciting trip of my life thus far. (I also get to wake up earlier than I ever have in my life...but whatever)
This. is. Honduras.

Yeah, I'm really nervous. No hot water, washing machines, electronics, air conditioning (100 plus degree weather all the time! and we have to wear pants!), fresh produce, movies, etc. But, guess what? We do get to blog! Check out this site to keep up with your favorite person http://geotechexplorers.ning.com/.
I'm looking forward to getting away from home, a bit of a taste of what college life will be like, especially if I get to leave the state as I wish. (I also get to miss the tumultuous process of house renovations, thank the Lord.)

This past school year has undoubtedly been the most stressful, long, ridiculously pointless, and most humbling one yet. Because of that, I definitely need a bit of spiritual, physical, and emotional renewal. Sort of like a St. Ives apricot scrub for the soul. I am also excited to meet and bond with the Bishop Dunne and John Paul II missionaries, not to mention my fellow Lynchies.

However, what I'm most afraid of is not being changed as much as I expect to be. I'm afraid that once I get back to a very comfortable, lazy life in Dallas, I will return to my slothful, selfish, taking-everything-for-granted self. Pray it ain't so.

And I am seriously in need of a bit of spiritual renewal, after being scarred by a year of nonchalance. I quite honestly despise the non-caring Catholic-in-name-only person that I have become, since I had promised myself at every camp, retreat, confession session that I would certainly not become that. Which shows the true weakness of the human spirit. Sigh.

But a bit of optimism is called for. I was looking through the pictures from last on the blog site, and I swear I was almost crying. Seeing the little Honduran kids and the American high school students so obviously bonding really encouraged me.

And, you know, I'll probably be in pretty amazing shape when I get back.
A mission trip to Honduras? A wonderful resume builder, not to mention a great essay topic.
My French-speaking self might actually pick up a bit of Spanish too.

June 10-20. Then I'll be back. Please pray bunches.
See ya.

Summah List o' Literature

Now that summer has arrived, I will have plenty of time to do my favorite thing: read!
To spark your own desire to start a summer booklist(which you might actually use!) I thought I would share mine (or the beginnings of it, at least).


1) A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole: Funnily enough, this book was submitted to a publisher after the author died (suicide). His mother submitted it. And, in keeping with the spirit of do-it-all mothers, this satirical/comedic drama is about a 30 year old obese man who makes his mother do everything. Yes, he has a master's degree, but instead of getting a job, he sits at home and writes history from his point of view. For example, he is a TV addict, yet he blames TV for all of society's problems, wishing that Hroswitha (whoever that is) would come back to life and guide society away from the media. Then he goes and watches some stupid show. Lots of belching, not PG (or even PG-13...) and yet it won a Pulitzer Prize. My brain is excited! (394 pages)


2) A Room with a View by E.M. Forster: A little-known 1908 "Edwardian social comedy" (my favorite genre!) which explores the life of a English woman who falls in love with a possible Socialist in Italy. However, she is promised to a stifling young chap back home in jolly old Surrey. This modern Pocahontas must choose between convention and passion. The great thing about this era of literature is that you never really know which the heroine will choose (or whether she'll commit suicide in a House of Mirth-ish fashion...)(204 pages)


3)A Life Full of Holes by Driss Ben Hamed Charhadi- translated by Paul Bowles: This book doesn't even have a Wikipedia article written about it yet (always check the new book section at your public library!), so I have no idea what to expect. It's a day to day account of the life of Driss - a Moroccan shepherd and trafficker who tries to keep hope. This is also the first novel written in the Arabic dialect Moghrebi. Awful? Probably. Uplifting (at the end,at least)? Hopefully. (295 pages)


4) Sophie's Choice by William Styron: I had heard about this book before, and when I saw it on the library shelf, how could I resist? This is a thriller about a writer who gets to know his neighbors: a brilliant Jew named Nathan and his Polish lover, Sophie, a survivor of the Holocaust. The back cover scared me quite a bit, for it closes with, "And finally Sophie's Choice leads to an unblinking confrontation with what can only be called pure evil." Hmmm...(562 pages)


5) The Turn of the Screw by Henry James: I started reading this in September I believe. I got through about a third of it before the clock struck midnight and the protagonist came face to face with a ghost of a dead person. Scared out of my wits (of course it was thundering outside as well), I gave it up, but, fascinated, I promised myself that I would read it eventually. Eventually has arrived. I will finish it. (113 pages)I adore Henry James even though Paul Johnson (fellow APUSHers) hates him for some reason. Something having to do with James writing about British people even though he is American...and yet dear Paul is the one who wrote the history of America even though he is British...which leads me to my last book[s]!


6) Either The History of the Jews or Intellectuals: From Marx and Tolstoy to Sartre and Chomsky by the aforementioned Paul Johnson: I loved his book on America. It made me laugh...a lot. (He wasn't even trying to be funny, but with phrases like 'regurgitating knowledge', his CONSTANT badmouthing of Henry James, and his beliefs that the pro-life movement is based on violence and that the feminist movement did NOTHING to liberate women, how could I help it?). I want to read more. And what better way to get a laugh than reading about Paul's views on the Holocaust and modern smart people? Yesh, I will have to make a half-price run to get one of these :)

P.S. I am addicted to making lists, so if you would like one of my pre-made booklists, ask and ye shall receive...

Happyyy reading!