Anybody who thinks that Baz Luhrmann’s “The Great Gatsby” is gonna tank is FAR, FAR off the mark, muthafuckas.

In MY house, for the past six weeks or so, it has been NOTHING but Gatsby, Gatsby, Gatsby. I, myself, am OBSESSED with the book (THANK YOU, Waynie Cole. I LOVE YOU!) and when the three of them each had to read it in high school, I read it with them…TO THEM, in fact, and glammed it up and broke it down and revealed to them the UNIMAGINABLE beauty and UNIMAGINABLE tragedy with which Fitzgerald powdered and gilded every page. The dreams, the reach, the glitter, the imagery, THE UTTER END OF ALL THINGS.

This story is AMERICA. It comes from a place of dreams and fearlessness and reinvention and possibility — a place that holds the very best of what we are…and the very worst. I could talk about it ALL FUCKING DAY.

Consequently, around here, it has been adorable babies re-reading the book in bed at night, lively discussions over the kitchen island about Tom, Gatsby, and Daisy, the ruthless hunting down of blackmarket copies of the soundtrack ahead of its actual release, listening to said soundtrack on a NEVERENDING REPEAT LOOP OF HELL, breathlessly counting down the minutes until the first preview showing at 10 last night — which they flocked to IN DROVES. Trust me, it was a LONG-anticipated EVENT — and, as is their wont in such cinematic love-affairs, they will gather, go back, and see it again.

And again.

And again.

Trust me, this movie is going to make a GODDAMNED FORTUNE.

Jay Gatsby would be so proud.