Tuition? French Requirement? Sacre Bleu! - New Chimes Article 1/29/09

Considering that the new semester had just begun, I finally decided it was about time to start registering for classes. Although it was spring and I only had enough money in my bank account to make a minimal down-payment on a beef flavored Cup of Noodles, I still knew I could cherish the knowledge that I still had another full year and a half to cherish my status as a senior in college. This meant I finally got to sign up for all those special classes I had been setting aside until now, such as Nature of Math and Ideas Involving Biology. My dreams of taking core curriculum requirements were shattered, however, when I was told that I still had a semester left of French.

The French language and I have a troubled history. My grades within the subject began to slip when the only vocabulary I could recall were the terms "Grey Poupon," and the phrase "Do you have any Grey Poupon?" Apparently naming food toppings does not necessarily count as a valid essay writing technique. Speaking the language for class presentations came with a whole host of new complications, which I managed to cover up by use of a heavy accent, lisp, and carefully placed belly laughs. "Oh, ho, ho!" I would cheerfully chuckle from the back of my throat, "Ooh la la! Escargot Grey Poupon!" It was the most satisfying C- I had ever earned.



I myself am not gifted when it comes to speaking a foreign language. It took me 21 years to learn English and even then my grammar will does stuff not good. At the same time, I am an esteemed graduate of Biola’s Excel program and have since been promptly labeled “special” by both my mother and close friends. Also, I can jump without moving my arms.

I worried about taking my learning disability to the language department.
“Nah, ah, ah!” They would say in response to my question, as they twirled their mustaches in a haze of smoke. “En Francais!”
“Non parlare Francais!” I’d exclaim. “Je ne can’t learn los French!”
"Sacre bleu!" They would gasp, with their berets flying off their heads in shock.
Memories would rush back to me about my past torment in high school French class when I was too afraid to ask if I could go to the bathroom because my teacher would insist on using her native language. Realizing that there was only one way I could escape, I would revert back to the only phrase I could still recall.
“Où est la bibliothèque?!” I would cry out.
There would be no escape. No offering of baguettes, crepes or Nutella could ever quell Biola’s insatiable desire for me to learn French. I feared I was doomed to take a 300 level foreign language course.

With my head cast down in shame, I meandered towards the registrar’s office to sign up for the educational experience I dreaded most. It was then that destiny intervened. For upon my arrival at the office I was told that my obligation to fulfill a language credit was no longer applicable! I was done with French! As a matter of fact, I was told I didn’t have to go to classes at all ever again! There was much celebrating on my part.

After being informed that not being allowed to attend classes didn’t mean I had actually graduated from college, I ceased my triumphant, stiff-arm jumping fest and returned to casting my head down in shame. Apparently I don’t have any money left in my account to pay for next semester. It appears that although my delayed Stafford loan means I don't have to take French, it also means I can't sign up for any classes in general. It seems I have more problems now than before, the kind of problems you can only solve by selling oranges at intersections or selling illegal pets out of your coat pockets down a dark alley. Speaking of which, if you happen to want an albino ferret just give me the word.

Thanks a lot, French.

And no, I didn’t actually mean that. I only just learned what sarcasm is.

Good Morning

Suddenly it becomes really awesome.



I kind of wake up swimming with socks, but most of them aren't as clean looking.

This One Time While I Was In The Desert

Beth almost got eaten by a cactus.



Meanwhile, I found myself in a very confusing situation without any rational explanation I could use to defend my dignity.



The situation was made all the scarier by massive ant holes and numerous branches I mistook for rattle snakes.

But it was all made better when we visited my favorite dinosaurs.



It was very windy there.

Making Up For Lost Time

If you're wondering where I've been for the past couple days, the answer is quite complicated. On Friday I had my last interterm class. On Saturday I actually drove to Arizona, and then drove back the next day. Then I started new classes on Monday.

Today I was faced with the dilemma of coming up with $4,120.20 by four o'clock this afternoon so that Biola doesn't kick me out of my classes.
I had hoped it would escalate into some type of "Run Lola Run" situation, but considering that I'm not capable of running half a block without wheezing, and that I don't have bright neon red hair, it wasn't nearly as exciting of an experience. Instead I just went to the accounting office and pleaded my case.
Oh money.

If you'd like, feel free to check out a little site I had to make for my Faith Film and Philosophy class over interterm (it's about zombies).
http://sites.google.com/site/braindeadphilosophy/

All this action has made me miss out on this year's oscar nominations. Considering what my last bad movie review was, let's see what Benjamin Button's up for...

Benjamin Button:
Best Actor- Brad Pitt
Best Supporting Actress - Taraji P. Henson
Art Direction
Cinematography
Costume Design
Directing
FIlm Editing
Makeup
Music
Best Picture
Sound Mixing
Visual Effects
Best Writing

Yikes.

I must admit, I can't say I had much confidence in the Academy. After all, need I remind you that the hit song "It's Hard Out Here For A Pimp" was deemed artistic enough to receive an Oscar.

In Bruges managed to get a nod with a best writing nomination as well, which is great, if not a little overshadowed by Benjamin Button's 13 nominations.

Oh well.

Dancing Japanese Cat's make everything better.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button - Movie Review

View Trailer
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
(first ten minutes) *****
(the following three hours) **---

The first ten minutes of the Curious Case of Benjamin Button elicits the exact feelings that the film's title suggests. There is a curious wonderment as we are told the story of a forlorn father who constructs a clock in the memory of his slain son. His final creation is a stunning masterpiece, accompanied by a sense of reasoning so powerful it demands a response. The story quite literally flickers to life.

This flame of inspiration however is abruptly smothered by the rest of the film, which oddly enough focuses on the individual we came to see. Benjamin Button is first presented to us as an infant, but not quite. His new-born body is meant to be reminiscent of a 90 year old man. In reality it is more reminiscent of the elephant man crossed with a giant peanut. Kind of like the mole-man from the Simpsons.

For twenty minutes we are treated to watching this old baby grow up by growing down in age, and then twenty minutes later we are treated to an elderly version of Brad Pitt at a coffee table give his testimony of what we just witnessed. Twenty minutes after this we are treated to this exposition again. Something here should have been cut, or readjusted in the narrative. Wouldn't it be more interesting to see the old man who lived across the street from you to appear to be growing younger as you aged? There is no mystery here in showing Benjamin's origin. There is too much explanation and not enough events naturally unfolding.

By buying a ticket to watch a film about a boy born old and dying young, the film assumes that we have already bought into this concept. In doing so, the film treats it's material with a perplexing anchor in reality. The first fantastical ten minutes are completely out of place in a film which insists on realistically portraying one historical period to the next. There are occasional divergences, such as a rather exciting submarine battle, but for the most part the film settles on odd relationships between the central character and his love interest.

What the Curious Case of Benjamin Button wants to be is Meet Joe Black. What I wanted to see is Big Fish. The concept is so unusual and unique that it could have been a truly memorable experience, however there is something entirely forgettable about most of the film. It's first person perspective has narrative qualms, at times straying from reality for the sake of a set-piece. Take for example the existential scene in which tragedy strikes due to a taxi driver who took an extra sip of coffee. All this is narrated from the main character's diary. The scene works for the sake of entertainment, but it fails due to the fact that a first-person perspective would never allow this type of God-like perception. It's nit-picking, I know, but in a film which demands to be taken seriously, enchanting moments can't help but fall flat.

Oh boy, I've written all this but haven't even mentioned the narrative dead-end of the mother-daughter relationship in the midst of hurricane Katrina. Then again, there isn't much there to elaborate on. I will say that there is a lightning strike victim who may very likely have earned this film an extra star all on his own.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is a film I liked less and less as it continued. The film is too long, too serious, and too expected for a subject matter that is so completely unique. For the very reason that it is mundane, the film fails to authenticate it's thesis. Even normal lives, and by normal I mean ones that run from young to old, are more magical than this.

Watch the first ten minutes when it shows up on HBO, then feel free to turn the channel.

It's A Needle Thing

I went to the doctor's again today to get up to date with all the injections Biola requires me to take.

The last time I went it was to let them take a few vials of my blood.
I don't have a problem with this as much as I probably should. If somebody really needs a few vials of my blood that badly I'm generally willing to go along with it. My rules concerning my blood pretty much draw the line right before anything Angelina Jolie and Billy-bob Thornton are willing to do with theirs. Testing? Okay. Wearing around the neck? Not cool.
I'd probably be willing to give blood if not for one little problem.
Apparently I pass out rather easily.

When I had my blood taken a few weeks ago everything was going along just fine, although admittedly my nurse worried me a bit. As I watched her insert a needle into my skin and witnessed a stream of my blood enter the vial, she looked me in the eyes and said with an accent, "You like to watch your blood, no?"
How exactly she expected me to respond to this, I'm not sure. But as I looked at her I began to realize how grainy my eye-sight had become. It was as if the world had gone from high-definition to 8-millimeter film. Exposure began to go, and suddenly a darkness swirled around me until it seemed as though I was looking through a straw.
"Drink this," I heard. I swallowed, and as vision returned I saw three new nurses staring back at me with concerned expressions.

This time I was given three shots on my arms. It all seemed to be going well until my right hand started aching while the nurse injected me with an Hepatitis B immunization. The familiar black haze started returning, and once she finished I asked to lay down for a moment.

This nurse was one of the three who saw me when I last blacked out.
I couldn't understand. I had seen no blood this time, nothing to make me queasy, but it still happened.
She gave me a cup of water and told me, "It's a needle thing."
Apparently so, but why needles? It seems like knives are something to be more nervous around, but maybe that's just how I am.

One Man Back in Black

I watched this a while ago and just remembered how awesome it is.
It's a one-man band version of ACDC's Back in Black. He likes to sneak in a cuss word or two here and there, so you might want to turn down the volume. Or stick it to the man and not. Either way, don't act like you're not impressed.



I'm just going to say he's done better than the original.