I made a new friend recently. We met via the internet (shocking, I know), we got to know each other via plain old fashioned kindered spiritness and conversation, and we've made many plans to further our mutual appreciation. Drenched in a steady stream of friendship break-ups lately, I'm SO refreshed (or I guess dried off?) to have something that isn't clouded by the comfort of familiarity, isn't mangled in pre-tense or that "niceties" barrier we all are affixed to out of safety and time constraints. Comfortable, exciting connection to another human is a missing piece of the identity puzzle, and I feel very fortunate to have snapped it into it's long dormant place.
I watched Atonement this weekend (I know it's old news, but movies like that they happen when they are most useful), awed once again by the tender nuance of James McAvoy and a bit haunted by the loneliness a tragic love story ushers in. After I listened to my "Mopin' It" mix a few dozen more times and let the saddies out, I realized there's no need to feel that way. Having someone you are fond of to write letters to (or in my case text movie quotes to) when in doubt of the world or just in daily strife and struggle...that's what romance is, no matter who it's with. The feeling that the world isn't a heavy burden, but a boundless playground. The eager anticipation of seeing that person again. With any luck you won't suffer the fate of Robbie and Cecelia (torn apart by juvenile vindictiveness and war), but even if you do, at least you had moments of levity and love. Platonic or otherwise. We could all due with more, don't fight it with neurosis if it happens along.
I don't know what's in the cards for myself and the caped crusader of nerd-dom I happily consider my newest Bro Montana...but I'm super stoked to find out. I have a feeling this one will be McConaughey/Armstrong/Gyllenhaal good.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
The SMD: Dreadtime
I can remember being really excited to hit the hay, as a kid. That love hasn’t left me as an adult (we are sleep deprived as a race), Logan on the other hand, hates it. HATE. Like, she will stay up until she collapses mid Spongebob belly laugh, hate. It’s her sassy little way of giving me the middle finger, and I hate how effective it is. When she has been denied something she feels she’s entitled to, seen a show that scared her (after insisting upon watching it) or the "not tired" skitzoids. To our credit, the meltdowns in public, breaking of important personal effects, and the Wolverine berserker freak outs are employed less and less. I let the cat out of the bedtime bag a while ago though, I showed how exasperating it really is to me that she won’ t just submit and let me have the few hours of no kid time I get. Time used to work, write, clean or just vegetate depending. It's mandatory and always one of the sure highlights of my day, in all honesty.
She’s four and we’ve gone rounds since she was first asked to go it alone. She’ll go for a week or two without a hitch, lulling me into a false sense of pride in her big-girl progression. Then she makes with the stubborn with glorious fury and we battle. Not in an I’m-trying-to-be-good-don’t-be-mad-please way. She full on saunters out with an impish gleam of delight in her eyes, or struts out with a hey-hows-it-going-what’s-the-good-word nonchalance that’s almost worse.
You’re not supposed to show anger (or bile filled rage) as it fuels the fire, so I effed it all up in the first place, I know. Can't blame her for that, but I refuse to excuse her completely. She's smarter and better than that. Since I realized how pivotal my reactions are, I’ve walked away from the scene of spoiled brat whinefest many a time uttering “Faussssting FFFSSSHHHineballer….assk-erfuuuudge ewwwwww!” I could be paraphrasing. She reduces me to a disgruntled network non-swearing employee and she could care less. I’ve created an asshole.
We’ve tried a good many angles on this drain of sanity and swear words, as any parent does. Recently though, she’s grounded the day following a relapse (in excess of three times out of bed, grounded means no computer, fun snacks or communal areas), gentle coaxing if she gets shaky and I see the impish glint before lights out. It works the best so far, yet in the first few seconds of a breakdown, I instantly want to throat chop her to save her from herself. Instead I non-swear more and try again.
The heartstrings get worked a lot at bedtime, but after she finally wises up and takes my advice…I walk by her room and see that curly little head on her pillow, such a peaceful lamb of adorable serenity…I take a mental picture so I can recall it tomorrow night when I need it most. Then I haul ass to the no-kid time, and I enjoy the shit out of it.
She’s four and we’ve gone rounds since she was first asked to go it alone. She’ll go for a week or two without a hitch, lulling me into a false sense of pride in her big-girl progression. Then she makes with the stubborn with glorious fury and we battle. Not in an I’m-trying-to-be-good-don’t-be-mad-please way. She full on saunters out with an impish gleam of delight in her eyes, or struts out with a hey-hows-it-going-what’s-the-good-word nonchalance that’s almost worse.
You’re not supposed to show anger (or bile filled rage) as it fuels the fire, so I effed it all up in the first place, I know. Can't blame her for that, but I refuse to excuse her completely. She's smarter and better than that. Since I realized how pivotal my reactions are, I’ve walked away from the scene of spoiled brat whinefest many a time uttering “Faussssting FFFSSSHHHineballer….assk-erfuuuudge ewwwwww!” I could be paraphrasing. She reduces me to a disgruntled network non-swearing employee and she could care less. I’ve created an asshole.
We’ve tried a good many angles on this drain of sanity and swear words, as any parent does. Recently though, she’s grounded the day following a relapse (in excess of three times out of bed, grounded means no computer, fun snacks or communal areas), gentle coaxing if she gets shaky and I see the impish glint before lights out. It works the best so far, yet in the first few seconds of a breakdown, I instantly want to throat chop her to save her from herself. Instead I non-swear more and try again.
The heartstrings get worked a lot at bedtime, but after she finally wises up and takes my advice…I walk by her room and see that curly little head on her pillow, such a peaceful lamb of adorable serenity…I take a mental picture so I can recall it tomorrow night when I need it most. Then I haul ass to the no-kid time, and I enjoy the shit out of it.
Monday, September 7, 2009
The SMD
Writing is my first love, but acting is my hot torrid mistress. If I'm Archie, writing is Betty and acting is Veronica, if you catch my breeze. I love them both dearly in different similar ways. I ventured out into the refreshing languid California sunshine to pursue what I love, what seems like ages and millenniums ago.
Then I met a charming man on a movie set (I was an illustrious extra for a year) and got a permanent souvenir of what love was to me at the time...I'm a single mama now, which is a far cry from any vision I had of my life. Like, Bangkok to Antarctica cry. But it's what I know to be better, in many ways. Let me count them.
The Single Mama Drama.
I don't offer this information freely. I don't post "proud parent" on Facebook or MySpace (to those that still use that 'dinosaur'), if there's a potential gentleman caller that I happen upon I don't mention it within initial conversation. I shy away from other mommies at the playground that sport the rock, I weened my kiddo on The Simpsons and Happy Meals. By all conventional standards, sounds whack, doesn't it?
There's a stigma and a cliche that goes along with "single mom" I have to fight against every day ('cause it's my nature to rebel against cloistered oppression), so to be out and proud has been uncomfortable, four years running. People dismiss/pity you almost instantly when you're lugging a little one and no ring yourself, so on rare occasion I'm alone in a social setting, I prefer to present myself as a person first, a mama second. It allows them to check themselves without me slapping a bitch (male or female) which is the usual gut reaction. I have plenty of other necessities to manage.
It's a little manipulative one could argue, but so is pretending to care about someones unique life circumstances just to liken them to the decay of western society internally. I can see it in their eyes, despite any progress we've had as a culture. It's still there, even if just a flicker. And a flicker is enough.
When that (imaginary sounding yet very real) person (I encounter all the time btw) realizes that you can be single, young, attractive, intelligent, have a sense of style and self and still be pursuing what you want out of life AND be a decent mom, it's like a light bulb of appreciation pops on. One that otherwise would be misused to cast an eerie glow of hurtful ignorance.
As an incognito member of the Mommy Club, I get to be a fly on the wall. The term single mom is often associated with such judgemental gems as: desperate for a man, down on her luck, liberal and indiscriminate libido, battered wife, or my personal loathsome fave, used goods.
The daily romance you have with your child/children, dispels those uninformed labels if you are brave enough to own it, I'm learning. Women feel like any/all of those things at one point or another. The fact that a kid is in the picture shouldn't be any ones business but your own, and those you choose to let into that world. It's sacred and it's a whole other person to consider. It's a thankless, dirty, lonely, heartwarming and heart wrenching job. It's a lifetime commitment.
Logan Scarlett, my daughter, is a dizzying blend of sugary, whip smart kewpie-doll and fearless, ferocious gladiator. In the same breath, she'll say, "I love you mama, you're berry beautiful" and as I bend down with tears in my eyes to hug her, "you're smelly, can you stand over there?". Her bright blue eyes pierce me and praise me.
She's not an Oscar, indie film cred, or a visual medium of self expression, but she's a truth serum and the biggest influence on both my Betty and Veronica I've ever had. A catalyst that keeps stirring my soul and challenging my comfort zone, inspiring growth and weeding out the negative. What a precious thing it is. Even if it makes me want to run screaming to Aruba on daily occasion. All is as it should to be, between a lioness and her cub. It's my job to make sure that's true everyday.
So for all those like me without a Dr. Spock to consult on being a modern single mama, and for the kiddos that all deserve the best mama they can get (a happy mama is a happy household, that ain't no joke), any comfort I can afford, I gladly do so. Symbiosis.
Unleash your own personal Riverdale of an outlet (whatever that may be) and hold your head high. Fight the good fight, and don't ever let the drama win.
Then I met a charming man on a movie set (I was an illustrious extra for a year) and got a permanent souvenir of what love was to me at the time...I'm a single mama now, which is a far cry from any vision I had of my life. Like, Bangkok to Antarctica cry. But it's what I know to be better, in many ways. Let me count them.
The Single Mama Drama.
I don't offer this information freely. I don't post "proud parent" on Facebook or MySpace (to those that still use that 'dinosaur'), if there's a potential gentleman caller that I happen upon I don't mention it within initial conversation. I shy away from other mommies at the playground that sport the rock, I weened my kiddo on The Simpsons and Happy Meals. By all conventional standards, sounds whack, doesn't it?
There's a stigma and a cliche that goes along with "single mom" I have to fight against every day ('cause it's my nature to rebel against cloistered oppression), so to be out and proud has been uncomfortable, four years running. People dismiss/pity you almost instantly when you're lugging a little one and no ring yourself, so on rare occasion I'm alone in a social setting, I prefer to present myself as a person first, a mama second. It allows them to check themselves without me slapping a bitch (male or female) which is the usual gut reaction. I have plenty of other necessities to manage.
It's a little manipulative one could argue, but so is pretending to care about someones unique life circumstances just to liken them to the decay of western society internally. I can see it in their eyes, despite any progress we've had as a culture. It's still there, even if just a flicker. And a flicker is enough.
When that (imaginary sounding yet very real) person (I encounter all the time btw) realizes that you can be single, young, attractive, intelligent, have a sense of style and self and still be pursuing what you want out of life AND be a decent mom, it's like a light bulb of appreciation pops on. One that otherwise would be misused to cast an eerie glow of hurtful ignorance.
As an incognito member of the Mommy Club, I get to be a fly on the wall. The term single mom is often associated with such judgemental gems as: desperate for a man, down on her luck, liberal and indiscriminate libido, battered wife, or my personal loathsome fave, used goods.
The daily romance you have with your child/children, dispels those uninformed labels if you are brave enough to own it, I'm learning. Women feel like any/all of those things at one point or another. The fact that a kid is in the picture shouldn't be any ones business but your own, and those you choose to let into that world. It's sacred and it's a whole other person to consider. It's a thankless, dirty, lonely, heartwarming and heart wrenching job. It's a lifetime commitment.
Logan Scarlett, my daughter, is a dizzying blend of sugary, whip smart kewpie-doll and fearless, ferocious gladiator. In the same breath, she'll say, "I love you mama, you're berry beautiful" and as I bend down with tears in my eyes to hug her, "you're smelly, can you stand over there?". Her bright blue eyes pierce me and praise me.
She's not an Oscar, indie film cred, or a visual medium of self expression, but she's a truth serum and the biggest influence on both my Betty and Veronica I've ever had. A catalyst that keeps stirring my soul and challenging my comfort zone, inspiring growth and weeding out the negative. What a precious thing it is. Even if it makes me want to run screaming to Aruba on daily occasion. All is as it should to be, between a lioness and her cub. It's my job to make sure that's true everyday.
So for all those like me without a Dr. Spock to consult on being a modern single mama, and for the kiddos that all deserve the best mama they can get (a happy mama is a happy household, that ain't no joke), any comfort I can afford, I gladly do so. Symbiosis.
Unleash your own personal Riverdale of an outlet (whatever that may be) and hold your head high. Fight the good fight, and don't ever let the drama win.
Case By Case Cases
The well has been very dry, my friends. A couple months and a couple weeks dry. Any creative person can attest, sometimes you have to back off and live life. In blog terms locutionl has died and is now climbing back from time lapse purgatory...thank you to any who follow, and I hope the hiatus can be repaired.
I started to write on a couple things over the last month and a couple weeks...but alas, it was shit, and ultimately a mechanical response to the urgency a blog can incite, and that's bad. I don't ever want to go through the motions when it comes to writing, but I don't want to disappoint either. So here we are.
Part of the problem has been that I am not writing what I know completely...therefore I'm going to start a demi-blog (part journal part blog) to give a release to my real day job...more on that in the next entry.
The title of my comeback blog as it were, refers to my life in general. Well, the lack there of in generalities. There are so many loose ends right now...where's my next rent money coming from, where's the writing going, who's really in my corner, am a a gas bag or a valid voice of my generation? Is all the sacrifice effing worth it?
If I dare lumping all my experiences into a manageable stress wad of anecdote, there's generally (there's that word again) a consistent exception to the rule. "One day at a time" they say. Yeah, but what do you do for said 24 hours when there's nothing to do but wonder what your doing? "I get by with a little help from my friends" but if you have none in close proximity, how do they get you by and vice versa? "Believe and you shall receive" but when results are few and far between, how do you keep vigilant enough to change the tide?
I'm a positive person and I stand by all of those phrases I just listed...but not when it's in a blanket that covers all the telling details. "Case by case basis" is the new anecdote I adhere to the most. Especially in matters of the heart and all the crazy mess that comes along with it, you have to examine what it REALLY is and honestly try to fix it. Don't toss out a quick fix quote that really doesn't touch the real problem...use them if you've wrangled with the real issues and have no other avenue. They're most effective that way.
And when all else fails...Don't worry, be happy because, like attracts like. All's well that ends well.
I started to write on a couple things over the last month and a couple weeks...but alas, it was shit, and ultimately a mechanical response to the urgency a blog can incite, and that's bad. I don't ever want to go through the motions when it comes to writing, but I don't want to disappoint either. So here we are.
Part of the problem has been that I am not writing what I know completely...therefore I'm going to start a demi-blog (part journal part blog) to give a release to my real day job...more on that in the next entry.
The title of my comeback blog as it were, refers to my life in general. Well, the lack there of in generalities. There are so many loose ends right now...where's my next rent money coming from, where's the writing going, who's really in my corner, am a a gas bag or a valid voice of my generation? Is all the sacrifice effing worth it?
If I dare lumping all my experiences into a manageable stress wad of anecdote, there's generally (there's that word again) a consistent exception to the rule. "One day at a time" they say. Yeah, but what do you do for said 24 hours when there's nothing to do but wonder what your doing? "I get by with a little help from my friends" but if you have none in close proximity, how do they get you by and vice versa? "Believe and you shall receive" but when results are few and far between, how do you keep vigilant enough to change the tide?
I'm a positive person and I stand by all of those phrases I just listed...but not when it's in a blanket that covers all the telling details. "Case by case basis" is the new anecdote I adhere to the most. Especially in matters of the heart and all the crazy mess that comes along with it, you have to examine what it REALLY is and honestly try to fix it. Don't toss out a quick fix quote that really doesn't touch the real problem...use them if you've wrangled with the real issues and have no other avenue. They're most effective that way.
And when all else fails...Don't worry, be happy because, like attracts like. All's well that ends well.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Rom-ComDiculous
I've been on a chick flick binge lately, and with 70 percent of them, I'm sedately underwhelmed. I've thrown in oldies with newies (to me) and it's almost insulting how "number one movie in the country" romantic comedies present themselves these days. I watch to tread water when swimming for the medal wipes me out. It's comforting to have a happy ending that doesn't involve bumptious emotion or thought or technical assessment. Unfortunately, that's what I end up with. Musing, scrutinizing and emotions for other genres.
Men are obnoxious and clueless, and women are hyper-sensitive and clumsy, apparently. Like, ALL men and ALL women are that way, and they're not ashamed nor trying to bridge gaps to better the deals to be forged in the future. The leads in these movies are happy to be bumbling around re-heating old jokes to tepid and straining to have odd-defying chemistry with one another. Haven't we moved past that being an inside joke we chuckle at?
I can side step awkward dialogue or crappy plot if the couple at the core are plausible. I usually back up my opinion by citing examples, but I won't do that here (maybe the mush IS rubbing off). It's not really about trashing other people's work, I'm just blase about what's churned out. That's bad enough.
If I see one more pairing of a 25 year old ingenue and a 46 year old player that "inspires life changing revelation and growth" to the backdrop of played out Top 40 jams, I might spew into something bigger than a Dixie cup, Garth.
I'd love to see a gay couple that's strong and real and not dealing with "being gay" at the helm for a change. An interesting off beat single mom (that isn't beat down or quaintly out of touch) meet a guy that has issues with the whole kid thing but loves her enough to really try to learn. A married couple in their twilight years, rekindling their honeymoon days. No bullshittery or pandering cliches. REAL chemistry and emotional connection. Then again, that might go against the nature of these little binges...I'd respect myself more in the morning though.
In times of dark chocolate truffle souffle a little Moon Pie ain't a bad thing. Even if the taste in your mouth is less than romantic afterward.
Men are obnoxious and clueless, and women are hyper-sensitive and clumsy, apparently. Like, ALL men and ALL women are that way, and they're not ashamed nor trying to bridge gaps to better the deals to be forged in the future. The leads in these movies are happy to be bumbling around re-heating old jokes to tepid and straining to have odd-defying chemistry with one another. Haven't we moved past that being an inside joke we chuckle at?
I can side step awkward dialogue or crappy plot if the couple at the core are plausible. I usually back up my opinion by citing examples, but I won't do that here (maybe the mush IS rubbing off). It's not really about trashing other people's work, I'm just blase about what's churned out. That's bad enough.
If I see one more pairing of a 25 year old ingenue and a 46 year old player that "inspires life changing revelation and growth" to the backdrop of played out Top 40 jams, I might spew into something bigger than a Dixie cup, Garth.
I'd love to see a gay couple that's strong and real and not dealing with "being gay" at the helm for a change. An interesting off beat single mom (that isn't beat down or quaintly out of touch) meet a guy that has issues with the whole kid thing but loves her enough to really try to learn. A married couple in their twilight years, rekindling their honeymoon days. No bullshittery or pandering cliches. REAL chemistry and emotional connection. Then again, that might go against the nature of these little binges...I'd respect myself more in the morning though.
In times of dark chocolate truffle souffle a little Moon Pie ain't a bad thing. Even if the taste in your mouth is less than romantic afterward.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
The Seven Year Niche
I can remember a time in my life when I longed for what I now have. Living near the beach, doing what I love to do, feeling intrinsically myself. About seven years ago, I embarked upon a journey that I envisioned being a hell of a lot different. But here I am, right where I'm supposed to be.
As I sit sipping Bud Light, enjoying the few hours lull before the week day starts again, I happen upon The Devil Wears Prada on FX. I've seen it before and Emily Blunt was the best part. Don't get me started on Anne Hathaway. Anyway, the premise is what clicked in my brain. The message this time around being: no matter how many hoops one tells you to jump through, the hoops you set for yourself are the hardest, and so why jump for anyone else?
No matter how hard the days get pursuing my own ever evolving dream...feeling disconnected from friends and family scattered throughout the country, scraping by on whatever money there is at the moment, trying to pick my tear and snot stained face off the floor and keep pushing on...the day it all breaks into prosperous fruition is what I do it for. Well, that and seeing how it unfolds...I love a good drama, it's true.
I'm truly thankful for my life, and I'm proud of all the effed up crazy I deal with all the time. It could always be worse...I could be working a job that I hate, waking up to mediocrity and falling asleep to the same. I've said it many times before, I'll say it many times again, no doubt. It's taken me years to realize fully, but I'm so glad to be right here, in this moment. In California, writing what's in my heart, feeling like I'm part of the world. And an important part at that, because there's no other Lola like me out there.
If it takes another seven years for me to see the crescendo to all this, so be it. It's been said that in these dramatic times economically, mentally, emotionally....one has a great opportunity to carve out a niche. Boy am I glad I have a leg up on that shit. And cheers to those of you in the same boat or plotting a course to be in said boat...Let's carve this bad boy like a Thanksgiving Day bird.
Oh, and P.S...for all of you Daisy of Love-ers...my money is on Dave-er-12 Pack. My heart is with Flex though. That accent kills me and the guy liner is working for me. Rrrawr with a side of bawm chicka bawmbawm.
As I sit sipping Bud Light, enjoying the few hours lull before the week day starts again, I happen upon The Devil Wears Prada on FX. I've seen it before and Emily Blunt was the best part. Don't get me started on Anne Hathaway. Anyway, the premise is what clicked in my brain. The message this time around being: no matter how many hoops one tells you to jump through, the hoops you set for yourself are the hardest, and so why jump for anyone else?
No matter how hard the days get pursuing my own ever evolving dream...feeling disconnected from friends and family scattered throughout the country, scraping by on whatever money there is at the moment, trying to pick my tear and snot stained face off the floor and keep pushing on...the day it all breaks into prosperous fruition is what I do it for. Well, that and seeing how it unfolds...I love a good drama, it's true.
I'm truly thankful for my life, and I'm proud of all the effed up crazy I deal with all the time. It could always be worse...I could be working a job that I hate, waking up to mediocrity and falling asleep to the same. I've said it many times before, I'll say it many times again, no doubt. It's taken me years to realize fully, but I'm so glad to be right here, in this moment. In California, writing what's in my heart, feeling like I'm part of the world. And an important part at that, because there's no other Lola like me out there.
If it takes another seven years for me to see the crescendo to all this, so be it. It's been said that in these dramatic times economically, mentally, emotionally....one has a great opportunity to carve out a niche. Boy am I glad I have a leg up on that shit. And cheers to those of you in the same boat or plotting a course to be in said boat...Let's carve this bad boy like a Thanksgiving Day bird.
Oh, and P.S...for all of you Daisy of Love-ers...my money is on Dave-er-12 Pack. My heart is with Flex though. That accent kills me and the guy liner is working for me. Rrrawr with a side of bawm chicka bawmbawm.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Imagineering and Filmisizing
The battle between books and books on film rages on. I don't know if others take the debate as much to heart as I do, but I do know that I've heard the phrase "The book was SO much better" a lot more than the inverse. Sensual experience versus a quiet personal retreat.
In the last couple years a few of my favorite books/stories have made their way to the visual mediums and my initial reactions are always less than excited, honestly.
I'm a long time fan of the Charlene Harris novels that are now the series True Blood on HBO. Even if the show is well made and the supporting cast is well worth the watch, the two leads are not (and that's kind of the whole crux of the story). The dirty southern atmosphere is well mimicked but not as lush and enchanting as the one in my mind. The forthcoming movie based on Patricia Cornwell's Kay Scarpetta character is cringe worthy, even with Angelina Jolie attached. And that's tough to say. Dr. Scarpetta is a unique bad ass/basket case hybrid and I know Angie can do it well, but my inner tuning rod is already set for another lady. One that exists for me exclusively. One that I (as juvenile as it sounds) look up to. Big pretend shoes to fill.
The beauty of a book is that your perspective changes as you grow, mature, age. Every re-read is a testament to your life experience, the story speaking to you accordingly. Film is not the the re-examination but rather the reminiscing of what, who and how life was when you saw it in an exquisite nostalgic way. But it's not a boundless entity like your mind...it has parameters and lighting and structures that are fathomable. Still beautiful heralded art. But static.
It's almost impossible to try and blend the two, no matter how close the race is. Fight Club, The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, and Trainspotting are among my favorite movies, but I've yet to read the books behind them. As is the way of the world, all things happen for a reason-maybe those moving, entertaining films wouldn't have had such an impact if my mental multi-plex had gotten a hold first, and vice versa. Perhaps that's the key. Keep the two realms separate and you won't have to try and meld one into the other, get disappointed or confused when they won't. If a book has a lot of meaning for you, don't venture out of that for curiosity sake. Let those who want that version have it their way. Make like Burger King.
Internally or externally...a good story is a good story. In our infinite technological capabilities, one day we will be able to capture the thoughts and characters in our heads as we read and be able to trade/compare them with one another in a giant orgy of telepathic projecting,...now THAT would be the perfect marriage of page and screen. And well worth the price of admission.
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