Keep calm and carry on

I know King Charles is a busy man. Between his royal duties and, most recently, feigning enthusiasm  and grace while spending 4 days with the most insufferable basket-cockle on Earth, it has to have taken its toll. However I am happy to announce in three weeks the king, I should say delegates of his majesty, will bestow upon me, my rightful and legally binding citizenship of the realm.

Some R17 readers know, but most don't, as readership here has dropped in concurrence with my retirement, that close to two years ago I began a journey to claim my dual citizenship. You see I am first generation American and me mum was born in wee bonnie Scotland.

Seeing how this country is falling apart at the seams and could be one or two pogroms away from scapegoating anyone from my father's Hebraic family tree or for that matter anyone taking photographs of seashells on a beach, I thought it be a good idea to have an escape hatch. Hence my pursuit of official recognition with all its attendant benefits, of British citizenry.

Between gathering proper documentation, filling out online applications which are steeped in a bureaucratic language that does not resemble the Queen's tongue, email mishaps, and a local consulate that has no sense of urgency, it has not been easy. 

Nor inexpensive. 

Months ago I was shown an official certificate of acceptance. However, and perhaps due to their unfamiliarity with semitic surnames, they misspelled my last name as S I E G A L. It cost me $600 to have that re-issued. Which I still have not received. 

Three weeks from now I will don my Sunday Best, my one-suit-fits-all formal ceremonies and make way to the British Consulate in the Larchmont area near Mid Wilshire. I was not given any advance warning of a test or any requirements of knowledge pertaining to the Magna Carta, General Montgomery or proper etiquette at a formal tea. Nevertheless...

"I'll take 17th Century British Bluebood for 1000, Alex."

Once completed, I will re-engage my contacts with the UK office of Citizenship and embark on my pursuit of a British Passport. 

In light of all this and in recognition of the wit and wisdom of my ex-Team One mates, I will thereafter take a pronoun and suggest I be addressed as Sir Richard of Culvershire. 

Cheerio.

A short stroll

Spotted this photo on my Facebook feed. It sparked a vivid memory. I know exactly where this photo was taken because I had passed it so many times in my youth.

I apologize in advance for this fit of nostalgia. 

Memories have been flooding my mind as of late and will continue to as I move through the next month. I'm moving. Downsizing but not downgrading. From the house I raised a family in, to a smaller more manageable abode in the Foothills/Pasadena area. If you watch the TV show Shrinking, you'll know why. More on that at a later date.

For now let's concentrate on the Route 17 (pictured above) and the many, many bungalow colonies in the Monticello area.

We stayed at a place called Kolomer's Korner, which later became Freed's Bungalow Colony. Don't bother looking for it listed among the signs, because it isn't up there. Indicating the very low position it had amongst the plethora of ritzier shacks held together with rubber bands and rusty nails recycled from the 19th century.

My parents could not afford the one bedroom abode we rented for the summer, so they went in on it together with my uncle Sam and his two kids. Three adults --although the men stayed in the city to work midweek -- and 5 kids, ages 2-10. 

Did I mention the one tiny shared bathroom? 

Sounds miserable, right? But as a kid who had known nothing but cement, honking horns, fatal hot dog water, low level mafioso characters/neighbors, and 8 million ornery New York City dwellers, it was heaven. A Swiss mountain enclave just 100 miles north of Manhattan.

There was a pool. There was an ice cream truck that came around late afternoon. There was a pack of bratty but-too-poor-to-be-spoiled kids. 

And there was a camp. 

My pirate-imitating ginger brother is easy to spot. The rest of us, not so much.

There's no point to this hazy walk down memory lane. But then again, as Buddha teaches us, what's the point of anything? Oh wait, that's Nietzsche. 

I think the Nietzsches' were in Bungalow 24A.

Questions abound

Finished a book last week. I know that shouldn't seem newsworthy -- and it's not -- but you'd be surprised how many half read books I have laying about. And because a friend and former colleague mistakenly believes I have an opinion worth listening to, I also have his new screenplay on my computer.

You might have noticed that I've taken the time to photograph Christoper Hitchen's Mortality booklette right next to an old Andy Award. I found it during my most recent round of Döstädning, Swedish Death Cleaning.

The connection may be too on the nose, but after I showed the award to my daughters, now employed in the current dismal industry of Advertising, its headed right for the Culver City recycle bin. 

I can only assume the heavy head (probably made from a melted down chassis strut of a 1962 Pontiac) is worth something on the scrap metal market. Certainly more than it means to me now. 

Back to Mortality. 

As readers of this blog know I'm a big fan of the Hitch. His eloquent debunking of religion, all religion but particularly the pugilistic Abrahamic ones, has always resonated with me. Perhaps that has spurred my new interest in Buddhism.

Or perhaps the testament to his battle with esophagal cancer struck a chord in this 68 year old man who can literally count the grains of sand left in my timer. Not to get all morbid on you or to infer my health is anything but excellent, however, if I'm going to embrace the Eastern notion of impermanence, I have to be brutally honest about my own.

If you're familiar with Hitchens (and you should be) or have seen him in speaking engagements on YouTube, you know he can be combative. And self deprecating. And funny. Surprisingly funny for a man seated at that great saloon of Life and seconds away from Last Call.

In one telling passage, he recalls the failing of his voice. An unmistakable voice with its own cadence and its hammer-like impact. He curses the disease that has robbed him of his stage. But takes refuge in his lasting ability to put words on the written page. In essence, that is his identity.

He fights to the very end. It's admirable and inspiring. And I don't inspire easily.

When the time comes, I plan to put up my dukes as well. I just need to find a way to square that with the Buddhist image of myself being a leaf floating down a river. 

How do leaves fight?

  

Auto Focus

It's time for the Thursday Photo Funnies, brought to you prematurely because, well, I'm retired and have no sense whatsoever about this new older person time continuum.

Unlike the past, this week's edition also contains photos that were found on my desktop computer. In other words not necessarily from my daily walks around Culver City and soon East Pasadena (more on that at a later date.)

Without further ado, let's get to it. There are lots of pics and I have a dentist's appointment today with Dr.  Sadistberg.

This was snapped at the Montrose Shopping Mart. 

A quaint little area near Glendale

that features a self-admitted Dive Bar.

On particularly clear days I will walk to the local Trader Joes and

ascend to the roof for incomparable views of the local mountains.

The elevator has a glass wall and I love watching

my dog try to make sense of the movement. 

It should be noted that I lack some tech savvy with my iPhone,

which will often take pictures on its own.

Most of them suck, this one I liked.

Ms. Muse and I worked together 38 years ago (another lifetime) 

at Bozell Advertising. 

This was curmudgeonly Creative Director/Mensch/Ad Legend

who hired me -- Hy Yablonka. 

From a stunning wedding at a Catholic School right at the Foothills.

Two things I want to live long enough for: the demise of the Orange One 

and walking down the aisle with one of my beautiful daughters. 🤞

Speaking of the Foothills, I spotted this at a local off ramp.

Zoom in for the full unwelcome effect.

The Culver City Transportation Department could use an editor.

The word Parking and the diagram would have sufficed.

This Fat Fuck picked up where Warren Jeffs, the FLDS Pedophile, not to

be confused with our POTUS Pedophile, left off. God, I hate cultists.

Watch Trust Me, The False Prophet. #Netflix

This picture was taken at 10 PM, well past sunset.

I accidentally left the aperture open too long.

I mentioned I was not iPhone savvy, right?

My photojournalistic tour of locales used in the show Shrinking, continues.

This is a screen grab of Gabby coming out of T. Boyles, 

a hole in the wall sports bar that appeals to my dormant Eastern sensibilities.

I don't remember why this is in my photo collection. Suffice it say,

it bears a remarkable resemblance to my very first motorcycle that I drove in 1982.

You can read more about it at: https://roundseventeen.blogspot.com/2010/03/rain-on-me.html

Ooooommmmmmm

I don't take my doctor's advice lightly. 

At 68 years old, I don't have that luxury. Fortunately I'm in good health. But if he tells me to cut out red meat, I'm heading straight for the seafood section at my local grocery store. If he says, take one of these muscle relaxants, I'm taking one. Maybe two because if one is good, two has to be better. And if he says to stop imbibing on the smooth, easy drinking Bulleit Rye Whiskey, I'm asking him to check my vitals again, cause that's just not gonna work.

The point is, I was recently told I need to find a way to calm my nervous system, which since 2016 has been in synapse overload. For a thousand reasons. And one Orange one. 

Nevertheless, not to diddle daddle, I contacted my good friends at Amazon and ordered up this primer on Buddhism. 

And within 12 hours I was supine on my couch learning about Siddhartha Gautama, the universal truth of impermanence and the Noble Eightfold Path. Mind you, pardon the play on words, I never thought this book or the woo-woo, crunchy type of thinking would ever cross the threshold of my house. I was raised in a Jewish household, sort of, and taught to embrace suffering, pain, persecution, all topped with a heaping helping of guilt.

And of course, self evidentiary self effacement.

So this is all new to me. Not to mention quite a bit off-brand. In the same way I wondered if I could still be funny if I'm not fat, I'm looking at you Jonah Hill, Melissa McCarthy, John Goodman and Drew Carey, I have to wonder if I can still work up a chuckle-worthy head of steam if I lose my inner curmudgeon. I suppose time will tell. And I thank you for taking this journey with me.

Having completed this 121 page primer in record time, I went to the Google and fired up some videos on meditation. And then remembered there was a whole section available on my Peloton app. 

The first minute was torture. I was told to close my eyes and concentrate on my breath.

"Did I pay the gardener?"

"Did I yell at my daughter for leaving a dirty dish in the sink?"

"Did Lucy (my dog) poop this morning?"

Shit, I thought, I'm never going to make it to the 5 minute mark. But before I knew it the instructor told me to slowly open my eyes and compose myself. The second 5 minute meditation was even better. And the third put me to sleep. Not sure that was part of the program.

Now if you'll excuse me, it's time to write in my Gratitude Journal.

Also, look at this asshole!

Stay Unawoke

If only he'd stay that way. Forever.

In case you hadn't noticed, his second term as President of the United States of America, is exponentially worse than the first. For the life of me I cannot understand how millions of Americans put him behind the Resolute Desk, not once but twice. 

Mind you, this "man" once said, "You just go up to them and grab 'em by the pussy. When you're a celebrity they let you." As well as "Quiet, Piggy." And, "I moved on her like a bitch. She had those big false titties."

And he got away with all of it, because he is an alleged billionaire. I don't have billions of dollars or a $400 million jet gifted to me by a terrorist nation. I make one rude remark in 7th grade and it haunts me for a lifetime.

But I'm not here to catalogue the myriad shit of things this low life has said. I would however like to point out the epic fails of things he's had since moving back into the White House, which is now 34% less White House thanks to the mindless demolition of the East Wing.

How's that for starters?

I'd like to proceed with as little editorialization as humanly possible and keep this strictly clinical and factual, should any Trump cultists want to engage in discussion and revisit their critical thinking skills.

* Trump placed tariffs on almost every country that does business with the USA. When asked how he came up with these numbers, he told reporters the formula was based on common sense, deficits and how we've been treated over the years. In other words, the numbers came out of his unbearable-to- think-of ass.

The Supreme Court has nullified those illegal tariffs and ordered Trump to refund the billions of dollars taken in. Not to consumers who paid them, but to his buddies in America's C-suites.

* Trump enlisted the "help" of Elon Musk, the richest man in the world, and his DOGE boys including a man who calls himself Big Balls, to weed out waste, fraud and corruption. The savings were wildly inflated by the same man who said drug prices were coming down 600% (a mathematical impossibility) and Musk was given access to ALL of our collective private data.

Once again, via the Shadow Docket, the Supreme Court ruled that privacy records were violated and DOGE became DOA.

* Lastly, but hardly finally, on February 28 (my birthday) Trump launched war on Iran. In pursuit of "peace" we (because he's our Commander in Chief) dropped massive bombs on the country killing thousands of people including 175 schoolgirls. "When you're president, they let you."

The undeclared war, which we have apparently won, by a lot, is still dragging on. And the Strait of Hormuz is still subject to Iranian attacks, though their military capability has "been obliterated."

I haven't even touched on the nonstop inflation, the healthcare cut backs, the ICE murders of American citizens, the gerrymandering war, SignalGate, J. Edgar Boozer and the appointment of America's worst cabinet member including a former heroin addict/raccoon penis eating bozo, Cosplay Barbie, and Bottom of the Barrel Bondi.

Oh, and I almost forgot, the Epstein Files Coverup.

Now hear this

Had my annual physical earlier this week. And I'm happy to say the EKG technician did not yank out all my chest hair. I won't bore you with the results of the test. Mostly because my precious bodily fluid is still being examined at the lab, all twelve vials of it. But I did have an exceptionally revelatory conversation with my doctor.

As he was parting the excessive thick hair in my ear canal with that odd looking funnel thing, aka the Otoscope, he asked me if I'd been experiencing any hearing loss. 

"I wish. If anything my hearing has improved and I hear everything. Dogs barking, the ambient freeway noise, or my Meth Head neighbor running the table saw at 3 in the morning while listening to Zach Bryan at full blast."

This is when my doctor stepped back. And looked into my soul. And then it got interesting.

"Rich, your mind is on high alert. You are detecting threats, real and mostly not real, coming at you from all directions. It's your fight of flight response running on the red line. On steroids."

"What?" I replied.

"When you lost your wife you suffered a huge trauma. And you've done a great job turning that into positive change. Your resting heart rate is in the 40's. You're incredibly active. But just as you've reshaped your body you need to rewire your brain. And calm it down."

"Doc, I can't do that, I'm from New York City," and added, "Can you write me a prescription?"

"It's not going to be that simple."

At this point my doctor, who happens to be Asian and who I like immensely because he spends time talking with me is genuinely concerned with my health, went all Eastern on me.

"You have to develop a Zen attitude and let the small annoyances, setbacks and perceived threats, just roll off your back, like water in the pool. You can try meditation. Do some more yoga. Or even read up on Budha."

After I paid my $15 parking fee, left the tony medical offices in Century City and started driving home, I replayed his sage advice in my all-too-sensitive ears. It was making sense to me. I lightened up my grip on the steering wheel. Waved a woman through, at one of the many four way stops in Cheviot Hills. And came to the conclusion that my doctor was absolutely right.

If I wanted to lose the stress and add years to my life, I had some serious work to do.

Fuck Donald Trump.

Oh the Irany

As I write this, the clusterfuck in the Middle East seems to be winding down. 

According to the White House -- emphasis on White -- the Straits of Hormuz has been opened. The blockade is off. And there is a new regime in Tehran that is smarter, more reasonable and easier to deal with than the last bunch of hard line mullahs. 

Of course, one must consider the source. 

All this comes from a man who said Mexico would pay for the Wall. Put us through more than 200 weeks of fruitless Infrastructure Weeks. And told us that he'd be introducing a new healthcare plan for Americans that included free insulin and affordable heroin, in just two weeks. 

And then again in two weeks.

In two weeks.

In two weeks.

In two weeks.

In short, the narrative of the Straits has been anything but straight. It's changed more often than the lead did in that Syracuse vs. Connecticut 6 Overtime Classic at Madison Square Garden back in 2009, during the Obama years when we could go to sleep at night relatively sure that our President could identify a tiger, A rhino and a giraffe. 

Oh and because nothing good can currently be said about the Syracuse Orange Basketball team, it should be noted they won what could arguably be called the greatest college basketball game ever staged on the hardwood floors.

According to news reports, negotiations with the Persians (I think I can say that) include a stipulation that $20 billion in frozen assets must be put on a C -130 cargo plane and flown to Tehran. Moreover, like the last time we reached an agreement, the money must come in the form of cash, because our two warring nations have no official banking ties. And because despite all our digital tendencies, Cash is still king.

For those of you who don't follow the pathetic political tribulations of the day as attentively as I do, way back in 2015, President negotiated an agreement with Iran -- the JCPOA. In return for halting their nuclear aspirations, the US returned $1.7 billion to Iran. This was not US taxpayer money, these were frozen assets that belonged to the uncooperative Iranians. According to the International Atomic Commission and our own military brass, the JCPOA agreement had been working and in effect for years, until President I-Can-Do-Better-Than-The-Black-Guy came along.

Not only did he tear the agreement up, he endlessly shit on it and mocked Obama for giving them such a huge sum of money. HUUUUGE!!!

I know, Tucker Carlson knows, and hopefully you know, that Grandpa Ramblemouth is hardly a whiz at math. Let's not forget he claimed that condos at his fleabag tower on Fifth Ave were 30,000 square feet in size when in actuality they were, and are, only about 11,000 square feet. Or that Mara Hoggo was worth somewhere in the vicinity of 1.2 billion dollars. 

Nothing in Florida is worth $1.2 billion dollars. It's FLORIDA. 

But the best way to explain the hypocrisy here is the tiny infographic at the bottom of the chart above. What Obama returned to Iran weighed as much as 3 elephants. What President Shitgibbon is prepared to ship back weighs as much as 33 elephants.

Maybe Diaper Donny needs to take yet another Montreal Cognitive Assessment Test.

*Title credit for this post belongs to Ms. Muse. I was told I should mention that.

** The temporary agreement as of last Sunday is now off and the Straits are now being controlled by the Iranians. Ww need a scorecard to keep up with the mishigas.

My Mea Gulpa

As many of you know, I'm not a fan of Donald Trump. That might qualify as the understatement of 17 years worth of RoundSeventeen. 

In addition to the written words aimed at Captain Ouchie Foot, there have been hundreds of memes, like the one pictured above. Not all of them have been great. Or even good. Many, as I look back through my files have been awful. But then, who remembers Beethoven's 10th? 

Last week I was publicly called on the carpet by one of my old bosses. This is not the first time. Thankfully I have warm feelings for both these exes. Who are entitled to their opinions and shall remain unnamed. Because as readers of this blog know I am not incapable of defending my POV. With prejudice, if I may quote Harrison Ford from Apocalypse Now.

And while many came to my spirited defense, thank you, I feel compelled to speak on my behalf and my compulsion. 

You see even if I wanted to stop slinging mud and throwing jabs at the neo-Nazis who have and continue to take a sledgehammer to our democracy, I couldn't. I'm wired for this. Hardwired. 

When I hear the President of the United States of America, a man who has the fate of humanity at his tiny fingertips say, according to Dr. Oz, another charlatan, that he believes "cancer cells can be killed by Diet Sodas, the same way you can kill crab weed in your yards with few well placed sprays of Dr. Pepper," well, I cannot remain silent.

Nor can I look the other way at the 77 million astoundingly clueless voters put this slumping, schlubby octogenarian behind the Resolute Desk.  

Despite my early correspondence with Anne Beats at Saturday Night Live and my brief intermittent phone calls with Larry Charles (of Borat and Seinfeld fame) I never had the dreamed of opportunity to write satire for a living. 

The upside is that advertising paid much better. 

But now I have free time. I don't have a boss or a client looking over my shoulder, though as a recidivist offender of social media community standards who has spent considerable time in jail, I am acutely aware of the consequences. I have AI as my art director and is refreshingly fast. And furthermore, not whiny about mocking my ideas, though like any art director, with many misspellings.

And I have an obscenely target rich GOP administration that comically and dangerously stumbles and fumbles with the regularity of the atomic clock. 

How could I NOT do what I'm doing?

What's on Rich's Phone?

It's time for the Thursday Photo Funnies. 

I know it's Wednesday but as many readers know I got lazy and cut my posting down to three days a week. And I just like the way Thursday Photo Funnies rolls off the tongue. In my twisted mind, it's incrementally funnier. In the same way Cucumber is slightly funnier than Carrot. And exponentially funnier than Carrot Top.

But then, what isn't?

The photo above was snapped on a recent run to Costco with Ms. Muse. We love our trips to Costco, traffic, parking and the non-stop violation of our personal space by other bargain hunters who are perhaps not familiar with the oversized shopping cart etiquette, notwithstanding. 

I noticed this man on the box of depends, displayed prominently at the aisle cap and pondered the excitement this ambitious model/actor/entertainer must have experienced when his agent texted him, "You got the gig!" 

Only to discover at a later point time that he had inadvertently become the face of 100% Leak-Free, Breathable Protection for Male Incontinence. I probably shouldn't make jokes about that. As of this writing my bladder is in fine working condition, but at my age that could change any day. Or minute.

Let's get to the pictures I found on my phone.

I have a thing about signs. Particularly overly didactic signs that

serve to indicate the stupidity that has infected this nation.

That raging stupidity is mostly attributable to this assclown.

Speaking of assclowns, every time I go to the supermarket,

I push this coffee from NeoFascist Black Rifle 

to the back of the shelf where it can't be seen. Or purchased.

Here are some more signs that appeal to my dark sense of humor.

Here's another that makes my blood boil. 

You can take issue with the Israeli response to 

Hamas and the attacks of 10/7, as I do,

but you don't get to vent your ugly antisemitism.

Other than my expensive diploma, this old timey beer mug is

the only thing of value I have from Syracuse University.

It's almost 50 years old. And I'm happy to say it still works.

Finally there's this shot, 

taken from the new CV Link Bike Path in Palm Springs.

I didn't adjust the saturation, the contrast, the black point, 

the shadows or the vignetting. I didn't have to.

 

The clothes make the man

This is my great grandfather, Abraham Siegel. At least that's what I was told by late uncle Ronnie, who had a stash of very old photos tucked away, amongst the countless extension chords, drill bits and reams of unused copy paper, in his massive garage.

Abe, I don't think he'd mind the familiarity, was a stern looking Germanic man. And "lived" in what was known as The Pale of Settlement. If I'm going by 23andme, my best guess is he was from region near Poland and Belarus. 

When asked what he did for a living before emigrating to the states, I'm told he was a tailor. 

And judging from above, the one and only picture I have of him, he does appear to be quite a snappy dresser and no stranger to a fine Teutonic haberdashery. Which is quite unusual given that my grandfather was, well let's be kind and say, "not so snappy." Nor did he have to be, to drive a taxi, er, I'm sorry...cab, in New York City. That was his particular skill. Oh and he also had the ability to pick a losing horse with inordinate consistency at Belmont Park.

"Crackers and soup for dinner again?"

Now, I'm no fashionista. People generally don't approach me for sartorial advice. Though the man at the gas station did say he liked my shirt while filling up my propane tanks ( I have the video to prove it.) Nor should they since I am the owner of ONE multi purpose suit. Being hauled out of mothballs as we speak for an upcoming nuptual.

But I know what I know. And this, if I may quote a real estate agent I was talking to, is, "Wrong in all the wrong places."

With the non-stop insanity spewing from his pie hole and the rapid decay of cognition, no one -- save for Hannibal Lecter and Frederick Douglas -- seems to be talking about his god awful, shitty looking suits. 

You would think that the billionaire -- life is so unfair -- that sits in a chair while stylists carefully sculpt the 38 white hairs on his dome into something resembling the deck of an aircraft carrier, would take more than 10 minutes with a skilled tailor. 

Maybe he does. And therein lies the tell.

Because if he won't listen to a someone who knows a thing or two about suits, like my great grandfather, "we need to take in the waist, shorten the pants, and get you a new tie", what are the chances he'd listen to advisors and four star generals telling him not to bomb Iran and purposelessly kill 175 schoolgirls.

Fuck Trump. 

Every which way til Wednesday.

"turn it on"

At some point we crossed the political rubicon. 

We once lived in an era when yelling into a microphone with unbridled zeal, I'm looking at you Howard Dean, undid all your presidential bonafides. To an era when solid evidence of sex trafficking, palling around with the world's most notorious pedophile and actual accusations of rape, are shrugged off by an illiterate mass of Kool aid drinking Red Hats and comatose journalists.

In 2018, James Comey, the indicted and then unindicted former FBI director wrote that President Trump told him, "I'm not into Golden Showers." For those unfamiliar with the term, or its cousin the Cleveland Steamer or the Cincinatti Bowtie, a Golden Shower according to the Urban Dictionary...

This was widely reported by CNN. But before any doubters start shouting Fake News, here's a video clip of the President of the United States of America, a country that has produced some of the world's most iconic presidential orators ("Four score and seven years ago" and "Ask not what your country can do for you") telling the adoring crowds that he is not into women peeing on him (Skip to 1:45)

https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=375229315412394

You might be wondering why we're talking about Golden Showers. I was wondering the same thing when I stumbled across a folder on my 'highly organized' computer desktop this morning. And then I discovered this treasure trove of memes I did in 2018. 

For those who are counting, that was EIGHT years ago.

Considering the torrent of embarrassing shit this insufferable d-bag foists upon the American people, and the world, including a recent video of him piloting a plane and dumping fecal matter on the American people, or posting an image of himself as the Pope, or obscenely racist imagery of a real President, -- which he never apologized for -- it's increasingly difficult to recall or even fathom the depth of this man's dementia.

In fact, at least for me, the only way to deal with it is mockery. 

And so, because there is nothing else positive about this brain dead monster, I invite you to enjoy.