songs for sea lovers

"the night, i think, is darker than we can really say

and god’s been living in that ocean, sending us all the big waves

and i wish i was a sailor so i could know just how to trust,

maybe i could bring some grace back home to the dry land for each of us"

-Gregory Alan Isakov, 3 a.m.

I think it's fair to say that despite my best efforts, this year hasn't been going spectacularly for me so far. This week, in particular, seems to be out to get me. Last Thursday, after having finally recovered about 96% of my former glory after the Cold From Hell, I seem to have promptly picked up a whole new strain of Misery, my second illness already this year. But wait, it gets better. Round up the scientists and call the press, it appears I may need to be studied as the first known case of a human passing on a virus to a computer. And thus I found myself heading home early today after giving up on fixing my horribly fucked-every-which-way dinosaur of a PC without professional help.

Is it just me, or there something wholly unsatisfying about heading home from work early due to technical difficulties? I feel like I can only really get enjoyment from a shortened workday when it's because I managed to accomplish all my of my tasks & projects in an especially efficient and speedy manner, or maybe because it happened to be a particularly slow day. But having to call it day because your computer (or brain, for that matter) is just too completely fucked up to work on (or with), well that just leaves me with a frustrated, nagging sensation in the back of my mind that my day was useless and there will be a terrifying pile of backlogged work waiting to mock me in the 'morrow.

Anyway. There I was, dodging my way through the annoyingly crowded financial district sidewalks (who are all these people who get to leave work by 5:30 pm on a regular basis, anyway?), mumbling crankily to myself because now I have to come in early tomorrow to meet the IT guy and my boss thinks I'm downloading porn at work and god, this week blows, when it strikes me that now might be an ideal time for some Gregory Alan Isokov. My new boyfriend, you ask? Er, no (not that I would mind terribly...teehee). But he does happen to be one of my favorite new artists. And so in popped the earphones and in seconds... ahhh, instant musical balm for my frayed nerves and stuffy nose. Like Burt's Bees for chapped lips or hot cocoa for the rainy day blues.

Album reviews were never something I intended to do on this blog. After all, I don't exactly consider myself a music critic or any expert of any sort... more of a purely civilian fan and appreciator... But every now and then I guess I make a personal discovery that I feel needs to be shared. I first fell in love with the song "That Sea, the Gambler" and it's unique neo-folk sort of sound after hearing it on Pandora, and subsequently sought out the album of the same name.

It's not really surprising that many of the songs and lyrics on That Sea, the Gambler seem to deal with the lore and lure of the ocean. In fact the album as a whole seems to evoke the same feeling of peace, the same sense of deep, soul-soothing well-being mixed with a strange sort of inexplicable, beautifully sad and mysterious longing that the sea represents to me. From the lulling vocals often edged with poignant plaintiveness to the beautiful string harmonies and lilting banjo, it's almost as if you can smell the salty air while listening.

On the title track,the beginning riff recalls the feel of an old sea shanty while the soft, repeating cymbal that cues the bittersweet melody seems to evoke the crashing waves of the ocean. The fiddle interludes in "John Brown's Body" lend the song a subtle Celtic flavor and the cadence of "Black and Blue" calls to mind the rhythm of a gently rolling surf, while the beautiful melancholy sigh of the cello in "San Francisco" speaks to the soul of the depth and the ancient mystery of the sea itself.

"Raising Cain" picks up the pace a little (though still in a laid back way) with it's bluegrass-y flavor. I must admit I was immediately drawn to this song for the Cain reference, having recently read and become slightly obsessed with East of Eden and fascinated with the biblical mythology it alludes to. The lyrics here also evoke to me the age old story of a fall from grace and perhaps, ultimately, of choice and redemption. The song itself reminds me a little of Bob Dylan, although to be honest, it may just be the harmonica. I have to say, I'm a bit of a sucker for a harmonica solo. And a banjo of course, always a banjo.

Even the apparent outlier track, "Salt and the Sea", doesn't seem terribly out of place despite its quite different musical style. The lyrics stay true to the general theme of the album both in their ocean imagery and wistfulness. I can definitely relate when he sings: "i’m going back where i belong, with the salt and the sea and the stones, save them all for me". And the jazzy instrumentation and slightly muted vocals easily conjure in my imagination the nostalgia of a lazy vintage seascape with frolicking waves and revelers.

Of course the rest of the songs are great too, and filled with enough banjo, cello and violin to keep this girl more than happy (did I mention I'm also a sucker for cello and violin?). But I'll spare you more of my opinion. I guess what I've really been trying to say with all the rambling comparisons and music critic-posturing is that That Sea, The Gambler is a beautifully textured, richly evocative album that, like the ocean, is deep and seductively melancholy, oddly soothing. And like the ocean, it will haunt you , in a good way. It's the perfect CD to listen to alongside the rolling sea, strolling through the park on a lazy Sunday, on a long drive, or commuting home from a frustrating day at work. So do yourself a favor: go out and get it, and let the musical waves crash over you.

"give me darkness when i’m dreaming, give me moonlight when i’m leaving
give me mustang horse and muscle, cuz i wont be goin gentle"

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**UPDATE** It was touch and go for a while, but after numerous life-saving procedures (and approximately eleven endlessly clever "cut down on the porn, eh!" jokes from my comedian co-workers), my work computer managed to pull through and seems to be making a full recovery. Praise be and Hallelujah. And I believe this whole ordeal has sped up the process of me finally getting a mac and not being the sole employee relegated to outcast PC status. It would appear that maybe there is a silver lining to every stormy cloud and frustrating setback after all.

cure for a rainy day (or night)

San Francisco broke my umbrella today. My good umbrella (actually two umbrellas, although to be fair, the shitty plaid umbrella I bought from a street vendor in Venice was had already been semi-broken for quite a while). Specifically, it was the torrents of rain that did the breaking. And the wind, especially the wind, that unbelievable asshole.

I'm slightly amazed I even made it home, considering the homicidal gusts that seemed to be trying with all their might to blow me into the middle of a Van Ness Avenue full of crazy San Francisco drivers hurrying to get home and blast their space heaters. Because I just had to pick tonight to end my nearly two month forced exile from pilates due to my ridiculous back-crack strained-chest-cartilage injury followed by the Cold-From-Hell.

Anyhow. What I really mean to say is that it's been the kind of day that's left me with a craving for a hot, steaming cup of cocoa. And by that I do not mean the crappy, generic cup of watery brown liquid that tastes vaguely like something resembling chocolate that you can find at Starbucks, 7-Eleven, a wide variety of other cafes, coffee shops and diners, or from a little paper packet of powdery mix that comes in a cardboard box from the grocery store. No, the only thing that will truly do on a blustery evening such as this is the special kind of thick, decadent, liquid-melted-chocolate-so-rich-you-can-really-only-drink-half-a-mug cocoa.

So while my utterly-soaked-through sneakers are still drying, for a month probably, I am at the moment satisfactorily cozied-up and not at all concerned about the cruel cold wetness beyond my bay window, thanks to my own personal remedy. And I am now going to share my very top secret recipe with you, shhhh, just because I'm feeling generous and sufficiently chocolated-up.

Perfect Rainy Day Hot Cocoa

Ingredients:

-1 Mugful of Almond Breeze vanilla almond milk (can be substituted for soy milk, rice milk, cow milk or goat milk if you're not as cool and dietarily hip as moi)

-a Buttload of Ghirardellii unsweetened cocoa powder (if you're not comfortable using a Buttload, instead use a Ridiculously Generous Heaping)

-granulated sugar to taste

-1 Capful of vanilla extract

-a Generous Sprinkling of cinnamon powder

Instructions:

1. Heat almond milk in a saucepan until just below boiling, reduce heat to low/medium-low.

2. Add unsweetened cocoa powder and sugar, stir until well mixed and lump-free.

3. Pour in vanilla extract (try not to drink any straight, I'm sure there must be some real liquor in the house somewhere). Stir to mix.

4. Top off with a significant dash of cinnamon and continue to stir until smooth.

5. Pour into your favorite Alice in Wonderland mug (or something else if you are not fortunate enough to own such an amazing piece of ceramic drink ware). Try not to spill as much as I did.

6. Take a deep, comforting whiff and enjoy.

Now if only I had some marshmallows. Cheers!

toot toot the adult net room!

I don't check my comments very often. Well ok, I don't get very many comments to begin with... but when I do, I tend not to notice for a while. So the other day when I happened to look I was surprised to see that I had a comment in Chinese... or Japanese (and here I must apologize for my ignorance as I am not familiar enough with either to differentiate, especially in typed form)... anyway, some sort of foreign Asian language, and was somewhat touched that my post had apparently moved this stranger to comment, although they were not comfortable enough writing in our language to post in English.

Yes, ok, occasionally I can be a bit naive. Yahoo Babelfish was kind enough to inform me that apparently my post had moved someone to post an ad for an adult website. Who knew my writing would have quite that effect? My immediate reaction was to erase the comment, but just as my cursor was hovering ominously over the "delete" button, I decided I just couldn't do it. It was just too hilarious to send off into internet purgatory. It was like a slightly ridiculous little inside joke between me and... well, myself. Or another reader in the slim chance anyone else should see it and get curious (and/or bored) enough to make use of the the internet's wealth of online translators. Or else maybe people would see it and think that I'm just so cool that foreign people read my blog and feel compelled to comment lengthily.

And what do you know... it would seem my blog is actually prime advertising space for Asian adult websites, because--Booyah!--I got another one today. I don't feel it necessary to share the entirety of the translated text, after all, that might ruin the mystery. Suffice it to say that it promises a wealth of such variety as "the beautiful woman room", "free movie onlooking", "777 adults", "the adult article", my personal favorite "toot toot the adult net room"... and other such things of a "free" and "adult" nature. Well, that is if you're looking for the Chinese version. The Japanese version turns out to be much more exotic, with such attractions as the "heaven room", "lust shadow piece", and "exemption expense shadow one 觀 watching". Whatever that is. I couldn't really tell you, but it sounds intriguing.

Anyway, I've decided that sadly, I must delete these comments soon, before I become widely known as an online porn trafficker. So all of you with secret Asian porn fetishes out there, get your fill while you can. Unless of course I can manage to contact them and get them to pay me for advertising space. That's a whole 'nother story.

and I managed not to put my back out

I consider the occasional rearranging of a room, much like a life, absolutely essential. Which is why I now find my bed uprooted and perpendicular to where it originally resided, allowing for my newly acquired Tamara deLempicka "La Dormeuse" print to be hung above it and making room for my long awaited window seat to finally happen in the nook that looks out onto lovely Waller Street (so I can be serenaded by crazy Russian ladies and witness events like the drug bust that happened outside my house last night from the comfort of my very own window nook!) And all the while greatly increasing the chances of me NOT waking up shivering from being surrounded on three sides by poorly insulated window panes that let the icy San Francisco morning air in to torment me.

Ah, room rearranging. A purging, reorganization, enabling of new perspective. Yes, I suppose it's true that we humans are creatures of habit, but we are also incorrigibly restless beings who, whether actively or subconsciously, crave change. We may as a whole be creatures of habit, but habit also can breed contempt. Maybe that's why we seem to so often cling to habit, to the familiar: because we like to complain and bitch and play the victim, all while acting as if there's nothing we can do about it. Or maybe it's because we're lazy, or because we just don't know what else to do. Maybe we're too scared of change, or maybe we just don't know how.

I do know that change is seldom easy. But like most difficult things in life, it is inevitable, and essential to growth. And it's not always something we have to just passively accept; we can take the reigns and make positive change happen in our lives every day, if we choose. So even if it's a seemingly tiny, inconsequential thing like getting a haircut, picking up a new hobby, spending a Saturday volunteering, cleaning out your closet and giving old stuff away, or rearranging your furniture, I say: embrace change. Thrive in the new point of view it gives you, however subtle, however seemingly unimportant. And for the love of god, please change your socks and underwear every day. We all appreciate it. Really.

so this is the new year*

So here we find ourselves in 2010. A new year, a time of universal hopefulness and idealism, when anything seems possible in the shiny new 12 months lying before us like our own personal yellow brick road. What exactly is it about a New Year that seems to make zealous optimists out of even the most jaded and cynical of us? That has people going crazy with resolutions, making promises to themselves, many of which are sure to be forgotten in a few months, after the shine of glitter confetti and sound of noisemakers has faded into the distance?

I guess as a species we've always loved a blank slate. It's why wealthy folk paid the church for indulgences in the Middle Ages (sorry peasants, guess you're screwed!), why Catholics have Confession, why new jobs and new apartments and new relationships are so exciting. It's a fresh beginning. And so the New Year lays before us like a phoenix reborn in glorious feather regalia, a symbol of hope and renewal. A chance to leave behind all the mistakes, all the disappointment, frustration, half-assing and heartache of the past 12 months (after desperately attempting to squeeze in the greatest possible amount of champagne and debauchery into the one last night of the year, of course).

But the truth is that the turning of a calendar page to January 1st can't magically absolve us or erase the past. And it shouldn't, because the past is something to remember and learn from, both the good and the bad. Of course we all want the next year to be better than the last, but merely hoping it will be so doesn't do a damn thing. The only way to make sure that happens is to learn from the mistakes and wrong turns of the past and do our very best not to repeat them, and to continue with the positive steps made in the last year.

Personally, my new year began with something that felt vaguely like a kick in the gut, but I refuse to believe this can be indicative of what lays ahead for the year as a whole. The truth is that it will probably be like just about every year before it: some good and some bad, lots of frustration and lots of laughter, odd adventures, stressful times and perfect lazy days, triumphs and failures, some betrayal and hopefully more loyalty, a little heartache, a little love and a good amount of joy.

I don't know, perhaps the fact that 2010 was ushered in by a Blue Moon has some astrological or astronomical significance, maybe it means this year will be unique, one to remember above the rest. Or maybe not. But like everyone else, I have to believe that this year will be great, that it will be the best year yet. Not because of a lunar phenomenon, not because I think that all the mistakes and sorrows of the past have been erased, or because I think this year won't bring any. But rather because whatever life and circumstance have in store for me in the next 12 months, I know I have the ability to make this year great.

Because, like everyone else, I have the choice to be happy; the choice to learn from my missteps, to think positively, to make things happen and to accept the things that don't, to grab onto the good things that come my way and learn to let go of the things that drag my heart down. I've been thinking a lot about free will and choice lately, after reading East of Eden, and it has occurred to me that free will has to be either the greatest gift from God or the greatest invention of Humankind (depending, I guess, on where your theological predilections lie). Because it sets us free; it gives us that choice, and in choice there is power.

Sure, we often don't get a say in what happens to us, the things life throws at us. There are many things in life we have no control over. But we do get to choose how we react, and what we do with what we're given. We have the choice to take opportunities or dismiss them, to give up or persist, to hold grudges or forgive, to love or hate. It's pretty amazing if you think about it: the tremendous power we hold without even realizing it most of the time. And while at times the responsibility of having that choice may seem more like a curse, that is what puts us ultimately in control of our own destiny and gives us the ability to be happy, successful...whatever we want to be.

So I guess my most important New Year's resolution is this: to make the choice to take control of my life and exercise my free will to be happy. To not let anything or anyone take the joy out of me, not let anyone make the sun seem less bright or the world less beautiful through my eyes, whether by their negativity or stupidity or by their inability to love or appreciate or accept me. And reversely I resolve to the best of my ability not to do the same to others, to not be anyone's metaphorical anchor or fire extinguisher. While writing this I was reminded of the old song they used to have us sing in elementary school:

"This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine.
Hide it under a bush? O NO! I'm gonna let it shine."

Apparently it's actually an old children's gospel song, and if that's true than it must certainly be the best thing my Catholic school education left me with. Although I think the original meaning of the song had to do with spreading the "light" of God's word, whereas my personal interpretation is more about finding joy within yourself, staying true to who you are and letting your unique spirit shine through. So friends, I hope with all of my heart that this year you let your light shine (let it shine, let it shine, let it shine). And make it a good one. Because fuck circumstance, you have the choice and the power to make it happen.

As for me, I am throwing myself into 2010 head first, perhaps a little more disillusioned (and hopefully a little bit wiser), but no less convinced of the beauty and goodness in the world, and more determined than ever to fully embrace it.


*title borrowed from a Death Cab for Cutie song I vaguely remember

tell me a story

This post has been a long time coming, but busyness, laziness and other, pushier thoughts have continued to crowd it out until now. But how seems like a good time, it being Christmastime and a mere few weeks after my beloved grandfather's passing.

I guess it really started with a thin purple book, handed to me last Christmas Eve with apologies that it was not the customary check my grandparents had given over the past several Holidays. What it was turned out to be far more precious: a locally-published collection of my grandmother's poetry; a time capsule, a little piece of her story, and with that of my own history. Of course I've always known my grandmother wrote poetry, and I've read some of it over the years, but somehow it was as if that little volume opened up a whole new window for me, from the bio in which I learned new things about her life and career before my grandpa and my dad, to the pages of her poetry, words straight from the soul. It almost felt like a sort of trespassing or voyeurism, the intimacy of reading the thoughts and emotions of years past.

I don't know if this is just me or if it's a universal thing, but I seem to carry specific snapshots of my grandparents around in my head, as if I have a defining image of them frozen in a certain period of time. For instance, although in the end my maternal grandmother was very weak and unable to walk by herself, and though I saw her daily in her last years as she had come to live with us then, still when I think of her I see her in her mid-seventies, so opinionated in all her feisty French stubbornness, still riding her bicycle daily between her house and ours, in a skirt and sans helmet, of course. For my recently passed paternal Grandpa, the image is circa five to ten years ago, discount hearing aid squealing as he recounted an amusing anecdote just a little too loudly, twinkle in his eye, or hummed some old melody. Or wielded his trusty old pocket knife at the dinner table to cut his meat. He was a character, indeed.

So I guess but it's just kind of strange for me to think of my grandparents when they were young, to think that they were ever my age and what they must have been like and how the world must have looked like through their eyes. It's crazy the first time it really hits you that your grandparents and parents and aunts and uncles had this whole life before you were born, before you knew them, filled with triumphs and heartaches and adventures you know very little of. I think often we forget that, but the thing is that even though they came before us, these events are in a way a part of us as well, an extension of our history. And someday the people you took for granted to be there will be gone, and along with them the chance to hear their history from their own mouths.

It makes me sad to realize that, whether due to selfishness or simply not thinking about it, I've never bothered to find out a good part of these stories, to really learn about the lives led before I was a presence on this earth. I am grateful that a few years back I got to hear my Grandpa talk about his musical adventures in the navy in WWII, something I'd never really known about until then. And there was more to learn from reading his obituary, things I love to know now but wish I'd had made efforts to learn while he was alive. I guess that's how it goes, that you never think of some things until it's too late. But I guess I should also make a point to make that effort to know my elders and learn their history, learn from the hard and interesting and amazing lives they've led. And maybe even in the process understand myself better.

So I will say Merry Christmas everybody, hold your loved ones close and don't be afraid to ask for their stories. And for those who can no longer be with us, let us remember them fondly and celebrate their stories as well.

gratitude, happiness and the dangers of being content

Dear Pat,
You came upon me carving some kind of little figure out of wood and you said,
“Why don’t you make something for me?”
I asked you what you wanted and you said, “A box.”
“What For?”
“To put things in.”
“What things?”
“Whatever you have.” You said.
Well here’s your box. Nearly everything I have is in it, and it is not full. Pain and excitement are in it, and feeling good or bad and evil thoughts and good thoughts—the pleasure of design and some despair and the indescribable joy of creation.
And on top of these are all the gratitude and love I have for you.
And still the box is not full.
John

--a dedication from John Steinbeck to his friend and editor, Pascal Convici, published in the preface to East of Eden


I don't usually do the whole "what are you thankful for" thing on Thanksgiving. It's not that I'm ungrateful, it's just that I've always kind of felt like it was one of those traditions that has lost meaning over the years and become almost a mindless, perfunctory thing, much like New Years resolutions or Valentine's Day. I believe that being thankful, along with doing little things to be a better person and showing loved ones that we care about them, should be on the daily agenda, not something we need to set aside a holiday for. But let me cut that rant short. The point is that, in reflecting on the holiday of Thanksgiving the other week and looking back on my life in the last year, I realize there is a lot I have to express gratitude for. Yes, I know I'm a little late, but (see above) fuck it, why not today?

So here goes...

I am grateful for the people in my life, for the family I often take for granted but who are always there for me, always thinking of me, and who I've often had to push away to realize that I do actually need them and want them there, even if some of them still drive me insane at times. And for the friends life has seen fit to put in my life and keep there, those people who accept me and don't judge, who at times seem to be able to read my mind and know exactly when I need to talk, or when I just need a drink, who keep me grounded and keep me young.

And the people who've come into my life in the past year, I'm grateful for the new life they breathe into my routine and for the promise the future holds for whatever journeys we may take together. Even the people I've only met for a little while, and who I may never cross paths with again, I'm thankful for the short time we've been able to spend together, for the wisdom and insight they may have graced me with, and for the laughter we may have shared.

I am also very grateful to have steady employment, especially in this less-than-ideal economy, and especially after the incredibly humbling experience of being unemployed for a long period of time. I'm thankful for the challenge and the purpose my job brings to my life at the moment, for the financial security which gives me peace of mind and allows me to continue living in this beautiful city, and for having the time to enjoy it for the next year or two while I figure out what the next step will be and attempt to plan my future.

I think that maybe most of all, I'm thankful for my current state of mind, the place I'm at now in my life. Looking back at a year ago this time, I'm just grateful to be free of the chains of guilt and doubt and internal chaos that had held me as prisoner for a while, and the unmotivated rut I was in for some time preceding. I'm grateful to have found myself again, and, I think (or hope at least!), to have become a better version of myself.

And still, in spite of all this, despite the fact that I feel confident and happy and maybe the most grounded and centered I've ever been, I still feel a bit of malcontent stirring up in me at times. It seems that there has always been that restlessness just at the back of my mind. In the past I haven't always known what to make of it, sometimes it would make me feel guilty, as if I wasn't thankful for everything I have. As if I were greedy. But recently I've been thinking, maybe it's not such a bad thing to be greedy in this sense. Because when it comes to life, who ever really gets enough? Who ever really gets to do all they want to and see and be all they want to?

And that little feeling; it's not really an ungratefulness, or even taking things for granted (although I am certainly guilty of that sometimes). It's more of a reminder, I think, that as good as life is right now, there's more out there; there's more to see and do, more to be. And that doesn't mean I need to rush headlong into change just for the sake of it, it simply means I need to be aware, and to not allow myself to become too stationary or too comfortable , or ignore that little restless voice for the sake of security or comfort.

And I can’t help but think that this is part of the human condition. That there is a restlessness inherent in our nature that makes us never quite content. Maybe we are destined, for better or worse, to be always searching, always looking for something right around the corner or over the next horizon. Maybe we're all born to be wandering souls, to a greater or lesser extent. And to a certain extent anyway, who's to say that's a bad thing? Because that sense of restlessness, maybe that's what keeps us moving forward, always wanting to know more, to be more. Maybe that's what keeps us striving to be stronger, to be smarter, more productive, more successful. Because if we're completely satisfied with every aspect of our lives, what motivation is there to keep growing and learning? If you're content sitting at the bottom of the mountain, why climb it?

So I have to think that contentedness is not a natural state for a person. Because contentedness breeds complacency, and complacency is for cows in the field, chewing their cud, satisfied to remain the same, day after day, because they have no dreams, no vision. And maybe that's what really separates human beings as a species (well ok, besides opposable thumbs): that ambition, that longing for adventure and drive for change. That the grass is always greener, not just on the other side of the fence, but on the other side of the mountain, the other end of the ocean. It's what keeps us moving and exploring, inventing and discovering and building.

Of course it can also go too far, that drive can prove detrimental to one's health and happiness. After all, if you're constantly on the move and never standing still, it's hard to ever really enjoy anything, or to find any sort of peace. And when you're always looking for something bigger and better it is very easy not to see and appreciate what's right in front of you.

So how does one find that balance? At first glance it seems like such a blatent contradiction to say that discontentedness is congruent with well-being. In fact, I'm pretty sure that any English dictionary will tell you that "happiness" and "contentedness" are synonyms, but personally I see a glaring difference. And I don't know if it's the definitions of these two words which have been twisted and misinterpreted over the years or if I just have a freakishly slanted way of seeing things, but I can't help thinking the real key to happiness has to be this: to be at peace with yourself; to love yourself, flaws and all, and be present in the here and now, to be grateful for all you have and enjoy the good and the beauty around you, but to still retain that little bit of restlessness and discontent that keeps us always searching, always questioning and always striving to find a better life and the very best version of ourselves.

Because maybe the box is never full, and maybe that's how it's supposed to be; that deep down in our very DNA we were blessed and cursed with an insatiable appetite for life, a limitless capacity for joy, sorrow, curiosity, and everything in between. But just because the box can never be filled doesn't mean we'll stop trying. And it doesn't mean there can't be a whole lot of amazing stuff inside.