LEGOLAND

Not Just For The Kids! 

(Though Eric dominated the score column, Georgia won the intense-blackout-stare-down contest)

For the first time, maybe in my entire working career, I skipped work (legally, debiting 8 PTO hours, of course) in the month of March for something that wasn't related to college basketball: joining my nieces and brother at LEGOLAND. Not only was it thoroughly enjoyable, I was able to return to work the following day with neither horse voice, mood swings nor hangover. 

(So much energy, those girls)

Not living in the same city as the girls, this sort of arrangement just doesn't happen. When I do see them, it's usually around my loving yet uber-busy family, with events to attend, meals to cook, dolls to play with (why the hell do I know what Winx are?) and a constant rolodex of cheek-pinching fingers of all shapes and sizes pinching their four tiny, reddened, elastic cheeks. So it was nice to spend a day with them and Eric, just the four of us, without adult supervision. 

When Eric was planning his Kansas City Spring Break 2013 vacation, I told him I'd take one day off, so he gave me the choice of tagging along for LEGOLAND or the SEA LIFE Aquarium, two attractions that share a space together in Crown Center, and that also, emphatically, love all-caps. The choice was relatively easy for two reasons: 1) I'm a dude, and 2) I'm terrified of aquariums. OK, it's not exactly terror, but it unnerves me to witness fish, seals, cute penguins, dolphins, bears - especially the bears at the zoo, those cocky, free-swimming mitt-pawed bears - from below. It's not natural, and what if the glass breaks? Whoever invented the subterranean walkways with transparent aquarium walls is a jerk!

LEGOLAND it was. After coffee in the hotel room with Eric, watching the girls watch Pocahontas for only the third time in the previous twelve hours (great gift, aunt Jess, uncle David, cousin Reagan), we packed up and headed to Crown Center. We passed the time in line warming up under heat lamps, watching Georgia almost not to throw the freebee Legos that seemingly fell from the sky, and tried not to singe Sydney's hair on said heat lamp while sitting atop my giant brothers' shoulders. And we talked about how it could be interpreted for two dudes to take two girls to LEGOLAND. 

As if she read our thoughts, on cue, the lady guiding us from the outside line to the inside line greeted the girls with, "Are your daddies going to sing karaoke today? Maybe the new Justin Bieber song?" Well isn't that special? Luckily the girls didn't know what karaoke was, who Justin Bieber is or why it was hilarious that we'd been mistaken for a couple. We just nodded, laughed, fake-talked about manly stuff; then I went to wrangle the girls, who, oblivious to the humor around us, were fogging up a kid's-eye-view aquarium with their nostrils. 

To say that LEGOLAND exceeded expectations is putting it mildly - it definitely falls into the category of "fun for adults too". Maybe it's because I haven't been to a hundred different kids-themed attractions as an adult, or maybe, likely, it's because I miss playing with Legos; but I was intrigued from the moment we entered. I should also point out that the girls were captivated from the moment they entered, so no one leaves this post with the impression that it was all about me. 

(I witnessed Sydney and this Knight exchange email addresses)

We split kid-wrassling duties using the near/far method, as in, Sydney always went to the furthest reaches of the room and Georgia fled in the opposite direction, so we split up and met in the middle. Still a bit young to stand patiently and listen any Lego-logo'ed adult imparting wisdom on the group, the girls instead opted to create their own private tour, allowing Eric and I to make up a bunch of stuff about Legos, pretending as if we actually knew what we were talking about. 

(These are the faces you make after waiting in line for twenty minutes)

LEGOLAND is not short on attractions. After a brief non-listened-to tour telling us how Legos are created (spoiler alert: science), we mounted a shuttlecraft and were told to shoot spiders, witches and bad guys with lazer-tag ray guns, visible in the picture at the top. Direct hits resulted in points, however those were not made available to us. OK, Eric smoked us while simultaneously instructing Georgia and Sydney on where to point their guns. Early on, I realized the girls would have fun regardless of point score, so I engaged in a futile attempt to one-up my younger brother. Georgia was super-serious and Sydney would have out-scored us all if there were targets on the ceiling. Proving it was a successful ride, both girls ended the ride with chest-bumps and hi-fives. Just kidding, they asked if we could do it again. 

(Great Lego work, but they could have done without the shadow on his tights..)

Immediately after exiting the ride, I was passive-aggressively pressured into buying photos of our exploits (see above, again), and threw in a few keychains, because after all, that's what uncles do. Keeping up the theme of fun-in-motion, we went to a Merlin's Apprentice-themed merry-go-round that made me wish I had an anti-nausea potion. Those rides never sit right with me, and though I hadn't been on one in years, the uneasiness returned. The girls enjoyed it, even though I suspect they didn't realize that the machine worked regardless of how fast they were pedaling. In fact I know this, because when I stopped pedaling, opting instead to focus on everything but the blurry landscape, Georgia scalded me for, "not trying hard enough". I assured her that my heart was in the game, and that I wouldn't slip up again. She was gracious. 

(Eric and Sydney in their chariot. My phone camera is terrible)

Opting to enjoy the next phase sitting down, the four of us collected plastic glasses and were treated to our very first 4-D movie. A touching story about a charming blonde slacker engaging in an off-road car race against a team of angry, uniformed, presumably bad guys. As the cars cranked up the RPM's, massive fans blew wind in our direction, prompting the girls to laugh, ooh, and adorably, aah. They just loved it. And Eric and I loved not chasing them around. It was the calmest fifteen minutes of the day. 

(Patiently, quietly waiting in line)

We were let out into an area that had giant Lego creations, constructed as mini-monuments to favorite animals, cities and fantasy lands. Sydney was mesmerized by the gigantic (her perspective) Emerald City, and thrilled to have the power to spin Dorothy's house with the push of a button. Eric looked a giraffe directly in the eyes from a standing position, which, at six-foot-alot, is still quite impressive.  The Kansas City skyline was interesting to look at, though due to my inability to read maps, I cannot verify it's authenticity. 

(Looking for the man behind the curtain)

(Kansas City landmark)

(Eric trying not to let on to how awesome this moment is)

Needing to fuel up, Eric waited in line for no less than forty minutes to purchase one hot dog, two slices of pizza, nachos, a drink and two fruit cups. Apparently this is how people with kids eat - buy an assortment of random items, see what they'll throw down their gullets then pick at the rest. Eric had at minimum one bite of everything save the fruit cup, which Georgia declined, much to his delight. 

Before we ate, with Eric waiting in line - must have been an unpredictable day at LEGOLAND, with only one worker staffed during the lunch rush - the girls and I sidled up to one of the many Lego pits inviting customers to play. Georgia created a masterpiece all on her own. Sydney let me assist her with the foundation of the house, but shooed me away for the interior decorating phase. Tellingly, this provided the second chance of the day for the girls to focus on something other than running in opposite directions. I hope to one day apply the same focus and attention to any daily or work-related task as they did to building their Lego huts. Or to ever have as much fun. 

(Not satisfied with one house, Georgia created an empire)

After lunch came the only double-daddy fail of the day. Neither Eric nor I could figure out the Race-car section. In our defense...it was pretty damn difficult. Large containers of Legos, tiny axels and wheels of all sizes lay in front of us. Reaching over pre-teens having much more success than us, we fiddled and Mr. Potato-headed the various pieces into unrecognizable pieces of non-transporting junk. And understandably our poor effort wasn't good enough for the girls. Finally, Eric managed to connect two sets of two wheels (different sizes, naturally) using the absolute minimal amount of Legos and axels possible. The monstrosity made it approximately thirty-six inches down the ramp before splintering apart like the plane in Con Air destroying the Las Vegas strip. We debated asking other kids for help, but when our pride kicked in, we solved the problem like any good American would: we fled to the gift shop. 

(If you look real hard, you'll see the piece of junk Eric and I passed off as a car)

Out of the hundreds of different Lego sets in the massive gift shop, Georgia and Sydney would up choosing, you guessed it, the exact same car. They both seemed cool with it (I'm not sure of parental protocol for this since us Brantner boys were terrible sharers as kids) so we forged ahead. The kids were extremely appreciative of the gift, the day and the experience. Georgia punctuated this by passing out in the car with her arms bear-hugging her new toy. 

(I never understood why parents took this photo until I saw it happen first-hand: the sign of a job well done)

Back in the hotel room, before an exhausting swim session, we pieced together the girls' new Lego sets. I helped Syd with hers while Eric supervised Georgia on the other side of the room. I forgot just how easy - and fun! - Legos were. I put Sydney on collection duty, which was fine with her. Georgia, with surprising patience and dexterity, was able to complete her girl/dog/car combo almost all by herself. Randomly, before finishing, and without talking to anyone in particular, she exclaimed, "I'm having so much fun today!" I can't imagine how that must have felt as a parent, since it filled me with extreme gratification as an uncle. Funny how the little moments can have such an impact. 

It was truly a day I will cherish. It was so nice to be with the girls, the whole day to ourselves with no agenda other than to enjoy ourselves and goof off. Heck, they even ate real Kansas City barbecue for dinner. Hopefully this is the first of many such visits - I'll be saving up my PTO just in case.

KC Nanobrew Winter Summit

Brewing for Beginners. And Experts. And Dudes. 

(This guy's beer will be in your belly in three months)

I’m not quite sure why they call it nanobrewing, since there was nothing inherently “nano” about the amount of beer that was brewed consumed brewed this past weekend with the dudes of KC Nanobrews, at the Stuck Truck Brewery. Or as I like to call it, Chad’s house.

Brewmasters and malted-novices alike gathered to witness the birthing of an All-Grain Irish Ale in preparation for St. Patrick’s Day, ensuring that, unlike in year's past, we'll have something to imbibe while watching the Celtics play. This meeting afforded brewers of all levels and experience the opportunity to meet one another, discuss beer-related plans for 2013, watch K-State get spanked, and drink copious amounts of, what else, beer.

Rob and Chad spearheaded the actual brewing process, though in this public forum I won’t divulge any of KC Nanobrews’ trade secrets. Really, I just didn’t pay attention. There was so much going on all at once - the pouring, measuring, filtering, smelling. The sanitizing, steaming, mixing and discussing. It made me dizzy, though ironically so did the beer.

(Chad controlling the steam with his iPhone)

Any brewer worth his hops has to read directions and follow them, know what goes where, and when - there’s a process and it can’t be interrupted or changed in any manner. Or maybe it can. I honestly don’t know. With each subsequent delicious home-brewed beer that went from cup to belly, I understood less and less about what was going on. Yet oddly, the less I understood, the more intrigued I became.

I tried to follow along and comprehend, though as I saturated my body and brain with liberal streams of homebrew, I became utterly unable to understand the magic and wonderment of the brewing process. I should be familiar with the basics by now, having lived with two different home-brewers, however it appears that this is one of those crafts in which expert status is not achieved through osmosis, simple observation or sampling. Even if its strenuous sampling.

(No idea what's in there. Could be beer?)

On a positive note, the goal of this shindig wasn't for me to learn how to brew beer - that would have been an amazing and improbably side consequence. This day's objective was simply a great excuse to spend some time outside on a randomly gorgeous January afternoon, drinking beers and goofing off (more on that later).

  

And though I haven’t mastered the craft and am flunking the entrance exam, I did pick up a few pointers. Brewstervations, if you will. (Holy crap that’s lame, but somehow I don’t want to delete it).

  

For starters, only guys can brew beer – I’m positive of this. Please don’t perceive this as a sexist remark. But there were no women there. At all. So I can only assume.

(Science at work)

Also, homebrew is better than milk - for spicy foods, that is. Screw you, Chad, for throwing an entire jalapeno bush into the chili. You know that that sort of hotness gives me the sweats. Still, the thick, dark, foamy porter did well to combat my imminent tongue swelling. And it made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. The last time milk did that, things didn’t turn out so great.

Because it takes so long to brew, there needs to be a planned non-dangerous distraction. What is this, you ask? Something to fill in the gaps between the brewing action items. College basketball provides a good distraction, but so does taking advantage of a fire pit. And while the KU game only took two hours, Chad’s yard had at least four good hours of crap to burn. We didn’t plan the bonfire ahead of time; it just sort of happened. I blame the boos, the lack of women, and of course, the fact that there was no pre-determined safe distraction.

  (This is what happens without adult supervision)

And most importantly, I learned that as long as you bring a six-pack of beer, you’re free to sample generously. That’s the best part about having friends who brew – free beer! For us non-brewers, at least. Seems obvious, but like any master craftsman, brewers not only love to create – they love to share. Yes, brewing is a costly and time-consuming hobby that can haunt your living soul as you tinker, tinker, tinker with your formula, striving for hoppy perfection. So if I can add to my buddies’ satisfaction by flashing a stout-stached smile and providing well thought out constructive notes such as, “tastes great!” then all the better. And if all it costs me is a sixer and mileage, well that’s pretty cool.

I plan to mooch off of KC Nanobrews for as long as they’re around, which I hope is forever, and always in my home city. I strive to understand even the most basic elements of the craft, so the next time I share these stories, they comes from a voice of confidence. Even if that means drinking less and taking more notes.

OK, that last part is completely unrealistic. Let’s start with this: I strive to drink less Miller Lite. That I think I can do.

Brew Away!

(I don’t know if brewers actually say this, but I’m pretty sure they do)

Check out this list of KC Nanobrews concoctions for Chad and Amy's wedding. To learn more about this incredible social club, follow them on Facebook.  

Bike MS 2.0: 0 for 2 - Part 2

The Stunning Conclusion to My Fateful Ride...

(AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!)

When you last heard from me, I was shuffling out of the hospital, clad in spandex and a woman's scarf and in search of medication. If this seems odd to you, you may want to revisit part one of this odyssey, found here...

Continuing on!

Part IV: Get Me Drugs

And fast!

Much like the last time she had to care for me (tonsillectomy), the first task at hand was drugs - I needed pain pills like I needed to get out of my spandex shorts: bad. I couldn’t expect to call the doctor until Monday morning at the earliest and my collarbone was broken so badly that I could quite literally see, feel and hear it – a nasty triumvirate of sensory bombardment.

Of course, as luck had it, this task would prove challenging as well. For starters, I still had no insurance card. As helpful as they were – and I must reiterate that they were extremely kind and helpful – the Bike MS volunteers weren’t yet able to track down my backpack, which contained my wallet and therefore my insurance card (as a side note, does this mean that I will need to add “insurance card” to my in-case-of-emergency stash when I ride?) It was in Lawrence, and I’d either have to have a friend bring it back with them or pick it up at the Bike MS headquarters on Monday. I called Walgreens and fortunately they found me in their system, so I could fill my script at the location close to my house. Minor success.

I resolved this dilemma while sitting in my dad’s truck – which I was luckily borrowing since my Saturn has a manual transmission – watching Melody chase after a stray dog that had just been hit by a motorist. Wearing her scarf because I was freezing (still no shirt, remember; spandex too), I was waiting in a parking lot, pathetically, I might add, while she inserted herself into one of those weird and uncommon situations that tested the true resolve of a Good Samaritan.

We saw a car stopped in the middle of an intersection close to our townhouse, a lady gesticulating awkwardly at something - a dog appeared; not just any dog, but a dog that had been violently struck by a car. Melody gave me puppy-dog eyes and I told her to pull into a parking lot so she could chase after it because no one else seemed to be doing anything but yelling or ignoring the situation entirely - as I secretly wanted to do, I’ll admit.

Off she went, across the street and, eventually, out of my sight. After the calls that fixed my pain pill situation, I grew agitated that, 1) she had yet to return and was no longer within visual contact, and 2) she had left the driver-side door open and the breeze was cutting through her lacy scarf (yes…I previously left out that the scarf was lacy), and 3) I was so cold that my teeth were chattering profusely. To move from one side of the truck to the other seem a monumental task, so I tried to fight the cold by attempting to fall asleep – keep in mind, the drugs were kicking in. No luck - terrible plan foiled - so I stepped outside, braved the chill, entered the driver’s seat, shut the door and turned the engine on. HEAT!

I was going to find her. Almost 30 minutes had passed by now and my mind – under the initial effects of the painkillers, mind you – was going to dark places. All I wanted to do was go home, pass out on the couch and forget about what happened. So I hopped into action. Of course after I used my left hand to awkwardly shift into drive and headed across the street, I immediately spotted her back where we had initially parked. That was my luck that day – I was a pawn in a shitty game of screw-that-guy-or-whatever.

While the accident (obviously) pushed the limits of the amount of physical pain my body could tolerate, the worst was yet to come. The you-stupid-idiot-what-the-hell-did-you-do’s were gnawing at my psyche as the day went on. I was home by 10:00 am, at which point I should have been roughly six hours from the finish line. In my mind, I knew exactly where I should have been at that exact moment pedaling and sweating and feeling the cold wind at my face; but instead I was drugged, bandaged, covered in a dinosaur blanket (yes, the one I’ve had since I was five), cuddling with my large-eyed and concerned dog. She always knows when I feel like crap.

(Nothing says consolation like an ice-pack, a slumbering dog and a 27-year old dinosaur comforter)

All day long, each hour that passed saw another mental pitchfork thrown at my brain, reminding me where I should have been at that time, what I should have been doing. Why only wearing boxers and a robe was taking the easy way out. I hated myself for not being able to let it go, and knew there was no point in trying. Today was going to suck, and nothing anyone could say would make it better.

(Day 1: Nice neck-tan) 

Then the calls came ringing in. I sent an email to Tommy and another rider – Jake – to let them know what had happened, and that in spite of the broken bone, I was okay (sounds funny to say, but it really could have been a lot worse). I felt obligated to get the word out there, knowing I’d receive a lot of attention about the accident, something I’m not comfortable with, and would prefer stay ahead of. Fatigued teammates and race finishers were all asking how I was and what had happened. Initially there was word – how, I have no idea – that I had recovered from a “minor” fall and continued on with the ride. I wanted to dispel any rumors early on, so that the weekend and my transition back to work went as easy as possible. Not that I’d be there anytime soon.

Once the calls subsided and the time I estimated my Lawrence arrival at had passed, a huge mental weight was lifted from me. I felt better now that I was no longer forced to dwell on the crap-pile that had been my day. I was drool-druggy with painkillers too, which helped, I imagine, and I had my dog and Netflix. What more could I ask for?

Part V: Recovery

Sleep was terrible! I awoke to a shooting pain in my, you guessed it – collarbone. I lay there on my back approximately three degrees rotated from the position in which I fell asleep, yet that was just enough for the bones to grind, alerting my brain once again to the fact that shit wasn’t right. My right hand carelessly attacked my nightstand in hope of a solution. I struggled, but eventually found and popped a few pills and lay there awake, waiting for them to kick in. I would drift in and out of if-you-can-call-it-sleep before ultimately resigning myself to getting out of bed. Even the transition from back-on-bed to feet-on-floor was laborious and painful. They don’t make pill strong enough…

And so it was that I would rise early with nothing to do, nowhere at all to go, feeling like crap and oh yeah, with bones grinding against each other. I was drooling from pain pills throughout the day, my dexterity went to hell and the only thing I had to look forward to was the next show on TV.

(Day 2: Lots of ice)

If you’ve never had a serious injury, you’re unaware of how much it affects the little things we all take for granted. Sure, I wouldn’t be able to throw a baseball for a few weeks. I accepted that - but that’s minor in comparison to how it really affected me. Try brushing your teeth with your off-hand. It sucks! What about getting dressed? Impossible without first bracing myself against a dresser, jumping up and down, twisting, rotating and using a bed for leverage. I challenge you to button a button with one hand – you’re off-hand. It also sucks! I convinced myself that if I went outside – which for the record I did not do often – I would carry a pen in my left hand, Bob Dole-style. Just makes things easier if people know that your hands are of no use.

(Day 3: Kind of feel like the bone wants to Aliens out of my body)

There are other, way more personal ways in which this injury affected - think anything hygienic. I will not go into detail, but will say this: you learn a lot about yourself when you have to do things one-handed, off-handed. You learn your limitations. You learn to prioritize. You learn that it’s okay to wear a robe, no shirt and gym shorts all the time, because there’s no reason not to. You learn more about yourself than should be legally possible.

And so the awkwardness went for four straight days until the orthopedic surgeon sliced my skin open, Humpty-Dumptied my collarbone back together and sealed them in place with a metal plate and screws he could very well have purchased from Ace Hardware. Though the pain was bad – intolerable at times – those first few days before the operation weren’t altogether terrible. At least I could shower normally. Sure, I had to hold my right arm in place with my left, splashing water and soap at random parts of my body, hoping to freshen up, but that was nothing compared to my bathing experience post-surgery.

Before Surgery: Welcome the Stache (for luck)

Just Before Surgery

Immediately After Surgery: Not really sure where I am

Recuperating

Scar-Bandage

Bathing after the operation involved a highly-complex system of carefully-placed towels, bowls and sponges. I had to “bucket-bathe” myself for the first time since my days in Nicaragua, however this time I had to do it one-handed (opposite-handed, to boot), in a small shower space and covering my massive wound with gauze. To say it was tricky was an understatement.

I had to be careful with the staples, though. That’s right, staples. Looks like they could have been purchased at Staples (lame joke, but whatever). When the doc sewed my skin back in place, he sealed the wound with staples. To understand what happened, take the stapler at your work desk and forcefully eject 15 of them into your shoulder. That’s the exact same thing that happened to me. Pretty sweet, huh?

Warning: Avoid this image if the previous paragraph made you uneasy!

(Once Again: AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!)

The good news was that the bone was healing properly. The surgery took two hours – one longer than expected, unfortunately for my dear, waiting mom – as the surgeon “fished” out bits of my bone and put them back in their normal place. It was a bad break, but not unusual enough to round up the medical interns. It just took a while. Upon shattering, the two main portions of my collarbone pushed past each other, criss-crossing and forcing my right side into a natural slouch (see the image below, for reference). The surgeon fixed that slouch and pieced the bone back together - the metal plate will do the rest.

(Before and After)

It was not a quick recovery process. The Cliff’s notes version goes something like this:

• Crash my bike/break collarbone/curse the cycling Gods
• Four days of swelling/uncomfortable is-my-bone-going-to-pop-out-of-my-skin line of self-doubt and questioning
• Two hours of surgery – Yay! Bone is back in place
• Fifteen days of “Don’t get the bandage wet or your arm will fall off!” Or thereabouts. Hello once again awkward bucket baths.
• Shave chest and armpits due to “stink factor”. Not sexy.
• Remove big bandage to reveal smaller bandage – can now feel staples with finger. For the record, they feel like staples.
• Three more days of bucket baths before removing second bandage
• Staples removed. First “real” shower since the surgery feels amazing. Skin around wound gritty from weeks of no cleaning.
• Two months of no biking, no running, no lifting, lots of annoying Melody. 

(The after-after)

And that was it. After two months, I began lifting light weights to start the physical recovery process. I wasn’t given any special physical therapy exercises – just told to take it slow and easy. After two months of absolute inactivity, I could definitely do that.

It was nice to have my mom up in KC for a few days after the surgery, helping me with minor chores and giving me someone to talk to. To prove that I could be productive, I watched every single episode of Twin Peaks and sometimes heated up leftover Chinese food all by myself. When I took the dog out, I wore gym shorts, a robe and no shirt – something I’m sure the neighbors appreciated.

I didn’t leave the house much, since anything I’d do would involve moving, walking, gesturing, saluting or some other movement of the arm that could potentially cause pain. I talked with my dad quite a bit, as well as with friends, but otherwise I became a temporary hermit. It wasn’t a terrible experience, just super-boring. Super-super boring. With a capital “B”!

Now three months out, my scar is massive and sexy. The pain is all but gone, only popping up if I sleep wrong (i.e. on it) or take direct contact. I can now run, bike (though no way I do that until next year) and lift weights, which I’m doing if for no other reason to build up the muscle by the bone. I will forever need to be scanned at airports and other security checkpoints, which is kind of a downer, since I’ll never be able to claim again that I’m being racially discriminated against.

I’m still reminded of the accident every time I see my shirtless body in the mirror. I suppose this will continue until I face my fears and begin biking again. Hopefully I learn from this. Too often I become distracted – whether it’s biking, driving, running, walking at work with my laptop – thinking ahead, instead of paying full attention to what’s happening right NOW…in the moment. This accident proves that shiny objects in my brain could be more damaging than they appear. So the question is, will I change?

Forget that, the better question is, will I finally complete a century ride? I’m sitting at zero for two, with the second outcome significantly worse than the first. Here’s what I think will happen. I’ll sign up for the race again, late of course. I’ll train just as poorly as I trained this year, or less. I’ll be nervous as hell when the gun goes off and the race begins. Pedaling past the starting line, I’ll tell myself to put last year’s race out of my mind. Then, when my GPS device hits the 4.0 mile mark, I’ll look over at the side of the road, nod my helmet in respect, search for the same discarded beer can, keep on pedaling, and…And…And?

Only time will tell.