Helena Bonham Carter as the Red Queen.

Tim Burton’s new and improved, CGI-enhanced “Alice In Wonderland” opens with 19-year-old Alice thinking her previous Wonderland experiences only a disturbing dream.

About to be engaged to an obnoxious, wealthy lord that everyone expects her to marry, she again sees that infamous white rabbit. And down Alice tumbles, down, down back into Underland (she misheard the name during her first trip) where the world is turned upside down once again.

In Underland, Alice encounters the Mad Hatter and his companions who only want to see down with that “Bluddy Behg Hid,” the large-headed Red Queen. The worried residents of Underland who remain under the tyrannical rule of the ruthless queen consult the Oraculum, the Calendar of all the days of Ulnderland, which prophesize that on Frabjous day, Alice will slay the Jabberwocky and free the land from the oppression of the Red Queen.

And everyone will go home happy. That is, if Alice actually believes this isn’t all just another dream.

But because she believes it is just a dream – a weird, wild dream at that – she goes through the motions blithely, leaving the Hatter, the Cheshire cat, Absalom the caterpillar, and many other gallymoggers wondering and worrying if they lured the right Alice to their rescue.

The plot of Burton’s long-awaited visionary masterpiece is borrowed partially from the second tale by Lewis Carroll, “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland: Through the Looking Class,” and partially from his and screenplay writer Linda Woolverton’s minds.

Lewis’s book revels in its bizarre environs, absurd dialogue and whimsical characters. Burton’s film grounds them, drains them of their original mystery and leaves us with a colorful but forgettable reread.  While CGI has become standard for fairy-tales, I found myself missing Burton’s older visionary self, who created unique tales like “The Nightmare Before Christmas” and poignant character studies like “Edward Scissorhands.”

In “Wonderland,” the CGI is near flawless, allowing the reds and whites to pop brilliantly but giving the landscape and characters a powdery, perfected look.

Aside from the visual aspect of the film, the cast list remains impressive. Helena Bonham Carter lent her hauntingly exceptional acting chops to the stoically eccentric Red Queen. Between cries of, “Off with his head!” and the moat of blood with floating, severed heads, Bonham’s performance as the bulbous-headed queen was probably the funniest.

Her sister, the good-hearted White Queen, who lives up to her name very well, is played by Anne Hathaway. Lending their vocal talents, Alan Rickman as the wise and almost Taoist, hookah-smoking caterpillar, and Stephen Fry as the helpful, guiding Cheshire Cat easily stole the scenes they appeared in.

The previews portrayed Johnny Depp as the star of the film, which would be unsurprising since this is Depp and Burton’s seventh collaboration. But Depp’s usually remarkable physical grace was missing here.

His portrayal as the Mad Hatter was indeed mad; however, his attempt at a Scottish accent resembled Jack Sparrow a little too much, and his pale-faced madness echoed his performance as Willy Wonka. He left me wanting much more.

The Hatter has a brotherly relationship with Alice, helping her discover herself along the way. Alice, portrayed by 20-year-old Mia Wasikowska, quite possibly upstaged Depp in her charming performance as Alice. While she did get a bit tiring in her refusal to accept that Underland was no dream, there was a fresh whimsical feel to the film with her in it.

This movie should have been more than eye-candy. With it’s simple plot and half-and-half acting talents, I found the film overall to be a touch flat and somewhat full of itself.  The enchanted feel that should have been there, as It was in the splendid 1951 Disney classic, was lost amongst all the glimmer and glitz.

I prefer Burton at his best, with movies that attempt to engage the audience emotionally and thoughtfully, as did the beautiful character portrayal of “Ed Wood” and the hilarious, yet immensely clever “Beetlejuice.” Even “Big Fish” felt like a sincere effort at genuine story-telling.

This film, however, while amusing and fun in 3-D, seems to be geared more at engaging our wallets (it raked in over $10 million in its opening weekend) than our hearts. I sincerely hope that the beautiful collaboration of Burton and Depp has more to surprise us with in the future and that their best work isn’t behind them.

While “Wonderland” is worth the 3-D price to see its sharp animation and colorful design, I for one remain disenchanted.

Two months and done is my boyfriend curse. I can’t seem to get past it, over it, or through it. My friends and family always say, “Oh he was such a great guy!” and “He was perfect for you!” Yeah, right, those long dirty finger nails were far from perfect for me.

Some people say I’m too picky. Some people say I’ll be single forever. Some people say you can change the little things, but I feel like I’m pretty close to perfection so why settle for anything less?

Let me give you the play by play from month one to month two to “That’s it, we’re through.”

First we have Roger Dodger. He was the cute neighborhood kid that was below average at basketball. I sat next to him on the bus and we talked about our basketball trading cards, and how mine were way cooler than his. He usually didn’t argue with me, which I liked. He wore baggy pants, and had big fluffy hair, you know, all the important things you look for in a guy when you’re in middle school.

Then, it happened. Yeah, you guessed it. The five-second kiss. I know I was just a middle schooler, but I’ve seen enough movies to know how “perfect” kisses look. No, I didn’t have a special mirror to see if our lips connected like Rose and Jack’s did on Titanic, but I knew it was far from perfection when I felt his gigantic nose smother my entire face. Thank goodness I took swim lessons and was taught the proper techniques of holding my breath.

From that day on, Roger Dodger was known as just the cool boy down the street with bad basketball cards. I know what you’re thinking. “All because the poor guy’s nose was too big?” Believe me, there isn’t a word in the English dictionary to describe the size of this schnoz, and don’t even get me started on his breath. Next.

Then came Awkward Hairy. I almost don’t need to explain this one, but I will. Alright initial attraction is key: tall, blue eyes, athletic, kind of that shy mysterious feel about him — you know, something I could work with. Now that I was in college, I knew I needed to start getting a little more serious about this whole dating thing. Which meant I couldn’t wear sweats everyday like I used too, and if I did, they had to be the cute sweats, which meant tighter sweats.

But this guy was an athlete like me, so he didn’t care if every one of our dates consisted of watching basketball, playing basketball, or talking about basketball. The first month was pretty great; we didn’t talk on the phone much, but we sure did text a lot. Which was far more romantic and personable, right? I mean, I knew his middle name, his birthday, and his favorite color thanks to “the question text game” we played almost every night before bed. Life was good.

Then, it happened. Yeah, you guessed it. H-O-R-S-E. A simple game of horse ruined my life forever. He took his sweatshirt off and in mid yank, his shirt underneath also came up and all I saw was hair, hair, hair. And more hair. Lets just say if I thought Sasquatch really existed, I would have called the Discovery Channel right away.

Doesn’t that itch like crazy? I know, this is totally something he could fix with some hot wax, right? Wrong. We all know what happens when we shave our legs,ladies. After a couple days, our once silky soft legs turn into a prickly mess, and then we’re back to square one. Sorry, I just couldn’t handle it. Next.

Then came The One. I was older, wiser, and went to Corban, so “ring by spring” had to be in the cards right? Could he be the cure to my curse? He was witty, he was smart, he made me laugh, he did his own thing when I was doing mine, he wasn’t clingy, he was super cute, and he survived the biggest test of all: meeting my dad.

How could he not be it? Well, I’ll tell you how: a hair salon, some rollers, and what they call the activator. In other words, his hair went from the cool surfer wave look to the male Annie look. Or the Napoleon Dynamite look. Take your pick. I mean, it wasn’t just a cute curl here and there – it was like a white man’s afro.

I know what you’re thinking. “Really, does a guy’s hair matter that much?” Well, do his eye-brows matter that much? Does his breath matter that much? Does his body odor matter that much? His finger-nails? His acne? His shoes? His shoe laces? His jeans? His car? His job? His laugh? His personality? Yes, they most certainly do matter.

So when it comes down to it, it’s all about preference. And I happen to prefer perfection. So until Mr. Right Now becomes Mr. Right, I’ll give it a good two months.

One publicized example of assistance gone awry is Laura Silsby, an Idaho resident charged with child kidnapping and criminal association. Silsby and associate Charisa Coulter remain in a Haitian jail, while eight other Americans were released Feb. 17.

After the earthquake, Silsby sped up her plans to establish an orphanage in the Dominican Republic. She solicited volunteers from throughout the United States to help open her orphanage immediately. 

Corban junior Bianca Davis discovered that her friends Matt and Lora Crider had gone with the team to the Dominican Republic.

“You never really understand the seriousness of a situation until someone you know is involved,” she said. “I feared and worried for them every day they were over there.”

The Criders, along with others, responded to the call for volunteers, but Silsby did not inform them about paperwork or plans, Crider said, and she and her husband stayed in the Dominican Republic, renovating the hotel that was going to be the orphanage.

“It didn’t turn out the way we thought it would,” Crider said.

While the Criders worked on the orphanage, Silsby, Coulter and eight other Americans were arrested by Haitian officials as they attempted to leave for their makeshift orphanage with 33 children without proper documentation. A Dominican diplomat told the Associated Press that he warned Silsby that she could be arrested.

Silsby told the AP that the children were taken from orphanages and distant relatives; however at least 20 were taken from one village and have living parents. Parents testified that they willingly gave their children to the Americans, believing they would educate and care for them.

While volunteers such as the Criders were told the paperwork was taken care of, it wasn’t.  And according to the AP, court records show Silsby has a pattern of dishonesty.  A former employee in a company she founded successfully sued her for failing to pay tens of thousands of dollars in wages. The employee, Mark Salow, said, “She was always telling us, ‘We had this great meeting, and you’ll be paid soon.’”

While that court case is on the record, rumors about the Americans’ actions in Haiti range from the possible to the improbable.

“While we were in the Dominican Republic the people there were saying that we were going to harvest organs [from the children]” Crider said. “But I can speak to the fact that there was a need and these people went to help.” 

Silsby and Coulter are scheduled to appear in court today. The judge told the AP on Friday that he is investigating  the pair’s December visit to Haiti.

If you’re interested in helping hands-on, Corban will be sending a team to Haiti May 5-18. The team’s primary ministry will be to work with children and youth refugees form Port au Prince at a camp located about two hours north of the capital.

“Activities will include using sports, English, crafts, and possibly music to minister to these earthquake refugees. There may also be some construction related activities for one or two days in Port au Prince to assist a local church damaged in the earthquake,” advisor Paul Johnson said in an email.

The school is coordinating the trip through CrossWorld, and the estimated cost will be $1600 per student. 

Maximum number of students has yet to be determined, and because of the rigorous nature of this trip, advisors will be developing a criteria to determine qualifications for participation. Contact Paul Johnson at pjohnson@corban.edu for more information.

Maybe I should have worn different pants; these ones are too tight, but the other ones show my ankles. Or maybe the lout behind me is noticing the holes in my blue “Big Bear Lake” shirt. I tug it down.

I imagine throwing daggers at my roommate Libby, jogging on the treadmill next to mine. I blame her. She’s the one who made me get my membership to 24 Hour Fitness.

I hate her. I hate the gym. I hate my life.

I can hear Libby’s voice saying, “Just imagine how much better you will feel after we’re done working out.”

Oh, I can imagine. I’ve been imagining being here—sweating on the treadmill, smelling the people around me, hearing grunts from the man on my right—since the drive over.

I turn up my iPod and mouth the words to “I Want to be Sedated” by the Ramones.

I breathe, in and out, and look down at my magazine. I’m determined to finish the article, even though I can’t see the micro font and I’ve forgotten what it’s about.

I have twelve more minutes of torture before I can get off. I scan the gym. The free weights station is packed with roid users. The Neanderthal brows and acne-pocked faces give it away.

A group of trainers is lurking around two women, who are wearing more spandex than Richard Simmons. Not that I begrudge the attention they are getting. I would rather die than have one of those skivvy men stretch me out.

Libby nudges me. We’re done. “Thank you, Jesus,” escapes audibly through my lips.

The elliptical is next—Hurray!

After a couple of minutes, my iPod emits a loud beep and goes dead. I keep the ear buds in.

The empty machine next to mine is taken by a guy wearing a lovely cut-away t-shirt. I wonder what

would possess a man to cut the sleeves off and slice a gaping hole down each side.

I see nipple when he bends down to pick up a pen in between our machines. “Is this yours?” he asks.

I jerk my head from side to side, shrug, and grunt simultaneously. He smiles and puts the pen on the ledge in front of us.

I can feel my face burning; burning red with indignation.

I hop off the machine and walk towards the locker room. I can hear Libby screaming her protests behind me, but thanks to the ear buds, I can pretend like I don’t.

As I walk across the gym, the thirty sets of eyes bore into me. The urge to take a shower overpowers me until I remember where I am. I cross my arms in an attempt to close myself off from this place, and think happy, non-gym thoughts.

A bulky man in tiny shorts and a spaghetti-strap top blocks the entrance to the locker room. How convenient. Before I can protest, his female doppelganger—tiny shorts, spaghetti straps, and all—walks over and says, “For a second, I thought you were going in there.” He laughs and grabs a 50 pound dumbbell. “Yeah, I was just going to pop my head in there and check things out.” I utter an obscenity and pass over the threshold.

No, not again. I should have been prepared, but I wasn’t. Three feet from the entrance a woman in her late sixties is squatting—stark naked. The rolls and crevices and stretch-marks are like a car wreck: I want so badly to look away, but I can’t. She turns her back towards me, drops the towel in her hands, and bends down to pick it up. I dry heave. I totter forward and steady myself on my locker.

Libby strides in and halts. She shakes her head disapprovingly at the exhibitionist and opens our locker. She breaks the silence by asking why I left. I put my head in the locker and extract my bag. “I’m just tired,” I manage.

I am left to my own devices while she uses the bathroom. I focus on the opposite direction of the nudist, who by the noises emitting from her general direction is putting on clothes. I look at the sink area and see a woman curling her hair. Nice. She puts down the curling iron and picks up a roll of saran wrap. I’m intrigued. What could she possibly be doing with clear saran wrap? Why, wrapping it around her stomach and hips, of course!

I decide my best bet is to look at the floor. Libby comes out momentarily and I see her eye the plastic woman with rueful curiosity. We exchange smiles, and I bite my knuckle to keep from laughing.

We walk back through the gym, the same eyes staring. Libby looks back and makes eye contact with a ruddy man in basketball shorts. “Hey there, cutie,” he says and waves. “Oh my gosh.” Libby exclaims. She grabs my arm and drags me to the front door.

I push it open with unnecessary force and we start to run. We’re laughing as we reach the car and get in.

“Seriously, Libby. Did we have to go at night when everyone’s there?” I ask. She starts the car and pulls out. “Well, what time do you want to go tomorrow.”

I don’t want to go. I hate the gym. Why doesn’t she get that?

I sigh. “How about noon?”

Erin Kropf studies while waiting for Blazers tickets given away by ASB at midnight Feb. 16. Photos by Kate Schell.

At 8:00 p.m. Feb. 16, a dozen students slouch against the northern wall of Schimmel, outside the Manna Shop, wrapped in blankets, laughing, sipping hot chocolate, and pretending to read textbooks. At the front of the haphazard queue, a sign reads “FREE BLAZER TICKETS! LINE FORMS HERE.”

 The dozen die-hards, along with the 90 more students who will saunter down from the darkness of campus in the next four hours, are waiting for the midnight giveaway of 130 tickets to the Portland Trailblazers game against Utah Jazz Feb. 21, compliments of ASB.

 Last summer, a Blazers representative approached the school about doing promotions. After a successful email ticket giveaway by the alumni offices in the fall, ASB took over.

 “The tickets went so quickly last semester, so we knew it’d be something students would enjoy,” says Alyssa Teterud, ASB activities coordinator.

 ASB gets the tickets at a group discount, so “they’re not the best seats, but it’s still the Blazers,” Teterud says.

 First in line for those tickets, having arrived four and a half hours early, is junior Erin Kropf.

 “I like free things,” Kropf says, “and this is a good socializing time. Plus, waiting for something brings people together.”

 Senior Rick Saffeels sits beside her, typing on a laptop attached to an extension cord weeded through the sidewalk grate down into the ASB office.

 “I don’t have any of my homework with me and I shouldn’t be here and I probably won’t be able to make it to the game,” he says. “However, I am here to enjoy the fellowship of my fellow students – as well as Facebook.”

 By 9:00, 30 people have accumulated. ASB Vice President Jordan Lindsey pulls up.

Students wait for their tickets.

“Alright, Blazer tickets!” Lindsey says, kicking a leg awkwardly in the air.

 Freshman Emilee Lloyd, eighth in line, pulls out her camera. “Let’s take a picture every hour,” she suggests.

 “Let’s act like it’s really cold so we look like we worked hard for the tickets,” freshman Caleb Ringhand, number nine, says.

 Three hours in, Kropf pulls her cherry red Ford Focus up to the sidewalk and blasts some Jay-Z and Hannah Montana for the throng of over 100 students.

 “I kind of have to pee,” she says, “but I like being DJ for a crowd,” she says.

 Eight minutes before midnight, the students end their card games, close their textbooks, pack up their blankets, discard their empty coffee cups and form a single-file line.

 “Oh, oh my leg!” Saffeels says, hobbling on one leg, waiting for the other to wake up.

 ASB, dressed in its Blazer best, cheers as the line makes its way into the Manna Shop, where a projector plays game footage.

 Freshman commuter Kim Ecker smiles as she received her ticket.

 “I really love the Blazers and I want to marry one someday,” she says. “And I’m not kidding.”

When I was in junior high school, I took Latin because “I’m going to be a lawyer.” Perry Mason became my favorite TV show; he always outsmarted the “bad guy,” and usually they confessed of their “evil ways.”

Most of us had many ambitions when we were children: policeman, fireman, nurse, teacher, doctor, nurse… but did any of us want to be the author of the book “The Essential Guide – Research Writing Across the Disciplines”?

Did any of us dream about ellipses, in-text citations, works cited pages or annotated bibliographies – let alone how to use [sic]? We did not. We do not. We will not.

But for Mr. Lester and his son Mr. Lester, it was a different story. They had one goal: to write a new edition of this book every year of their lives. In fact, when Mr. Lester the younger was born, Mr. Lester senior began right away with the proper training. No baby books with funny rhymes; no Dr. Seuss with ridiculous unusable vocabulary; no Mother Goose. No, indeed.

For the younger Mr. Lester it was “A is for abstracts,” “B is for bibliography,” “C is for citations,” “D is for documentation” and on it went.

By the time the younger Mr. Lester reached kindergarten, he presented a serious dilemma for his teacher. When she led “story time,” Mr. Lester the younger set his laptop on his knees and began “googling” and “Snope”ing to verify such information as whether or not wolves really eat pigs. He continually checked the validity of the stories his teacher read, and at the end of the day, he would present her with a printout (duly organized in alphabetical order, with perfect in-text citations and a worthy Works Cited page) of the errors of the stories she read.

“Real bears do not eat porridge,” one printout read. “They do not sleep in beds, nor do they sit on chairs.”

And  — for this one he printed the title in all capital letters: “CATS DO NOT WEAR HATS!”

Mr. Lester the elder was so proud of Mr. Lester junior, but the same can’t be said for Mrs. Lester. She was tired of having to organize her kitchen pantry, her linen closet and her bedroom closet in alphabetical order. She was tired of having to verify the “source” for any comment she made to Mr. Lester the elder or their son. And she especially hated talking about something in more than four lines, because both Mr. Lesters insisted that she indent those lines 10 spaces.

Mrs. Lester finally could take it no longer. She took the other little Lesters and moved to a deserted island, where no one ever did anything in alphabetical order; no one ever had to verify a source; and no one had to concern himself or herself with the proper way to write in-text citations. They lived happily ever after.

But  Mr. Lester the elder and Mr. Lester the younger didn’t seem to mind being left on their own. They reveled in their work: creating new editions of their book every year, discussing prospective changes, and looking forward to the monumental income that would be theirs as pathetic college students spent bundles of money on the required “new edition.”

“What do you think?” Mr. Lester senior asked his son. “Should we continue to put spaces between the periods in ellipses – or should we dispense with that?”

Their discussion on that issue lasted several days, but neither noted the passage of time.

They spent their latter years seeking sources, drafting documents, manipulating manuscripts and rejoicing in the confusion their readers had trying to decide whether to use a thesis, an enthymeme or a hypothesis.

But all’s well that ends well, and as long as their followers double-spaced their Works Cited Pages, indented all but the first lines, and didn’t put commas between author’s names and page numbers in the in-text citations, Mr. Lester and his son Mr. Lester  lived happily.

Life was good! And it remained good right up until the end – when their final endnotes appeared on their tombstones:

Here lie the Lesters,
Father and son.
No more will they publish.
Their life’s work is done.
Their MLA guidebook will fade away soon,
And jubilant students will sing a glad tune.

The women lost to Eastern, 80-71, while the men fought for a tight 75-73 victory.

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