I grew up in suburban Arizona, but traveled a lot throughout my life by USer standards. I never saw poverty until I was 13, in Hong Kong, where my parents and I took a tourist boat that somehow went through a floating trailer park of houseboats. They were crap, just watertight enough to float. Televisions, dead animals and food scraps floated in the dun gray opaque water. For the first time in my travels I felt guilty taking pictures. Scrawny children waved nets on poles three times their height at the boat, begging for money.

When work enabled me to travel again, I enjoyed the business-class flights and five-star hotels that were the only perk of my magazine job. I didn’t have enough money to eat in the hotel restaurants, so I went to kebab carts in Berlin and street vendors in Singapore. But soon I started to see things like I had seen in Hong Kong, and found myself only taking pictures of them—because not since Hoovervilles in America have we had that. But we have it now. If I drove across again, as I have six times, I would see enough of it to break my heart. Images of Detroit alone are excruciating.

I started to feel nauseous at my privilege. Privilege should be a hairshirt. I only cared about that, not the press junkets I went on. People said to me, “Oh, you have the best job,” and I felt ill. In the USA we don’t have grinding poverty directly beside revolting opulence. It’s the juxtaposition that is the most perverse visual of our legacy to the world. Edward Bernays, who invented marketing and PR in part by channeling his uncle Freud, knew that “the optics” are what really matters. Watching other countries flail through their development without the benefit of such counseling is painful market realpolitik, but it’s just our own transformation laid bare.

Ask the USer girl who never left Pennsylvania, a press person (not to say journalist) who joined me on the trip to Mumbai. After our first day out, she sat and stared blankly in the lobby. I asked her what was wrong. She said she had never seen poverty like that. Her horror had been so evident that people stared at her in Mumbai streets, making her more uncomfortable. It had indeed been hideous and raw. But I was obsessed with it, not numb against it.

What had she seen? Beggars whose arms had been chopped off to garner the pity and pocketchange of tourists. People living in huts made of scrap lumber and cloth, powering the televisions glowing behind rags with stolen electricity. A runway at the airport so full of entrenched humanity that planes couldn’t use it. Gurus standing amid pigeons covered with birdshit, almost theatrically beatific. Filth and sewage and generations of grime being washed away and around with monsoon rains. Hotels that smelled of bugspray so that you realized everywhere was life, especially desperate human life, and everything must be done to keep it away from those who found life and its struggles distasteful. I realized USers can’t face this, we are swaddled in things that obscure the brute reality of industrialization, and have forgotten the humangrinder that was ours.

Maybe my class consciousness was awakening. I was an underclassman, paid just enough to live with a roommate in a gutted industrial area that ultimately gentrified me out as I have been half a dozen times in my 15 years in NYC. Staying in the best hotels and flying in parts of planes I didn’t know existed, I was supposed to be thrilled. But I worked very hard on the sarariman magazine whenever I wasn’t traveling, went home to my cubicle loft in a former knitting factory, and was finally too drained to appreciate it. My clearest memories of Rio de Janeiro were the feijoada, because our guide told us its roots in slavery, and the favelas burning unchecked while the sun set over them. It seems fire crews are too skittish to go into some of them. I fell asleep on a jeep ride up to see Christo Redentor and other press folks took pics of me, laughing. I only woke up to shoot favelas and graffiti. My friend Danielle, a filmmaker who sometimes did freelance travel journalism, understood my preoccupation though I’m not sure she shared it.

In Paris, our PR guide told me gypsies would steal my wallet, so I had to keep it in my front pocket. We were all from NYC. (But NYC has been purged, is no longer like that of Taxi Driver or Downtown 81!) I hated her because she had never even tried to transcend her privilege, as I do daily. Maybe our guide had suffered, but not like the displaced peasants and lumpen of the earth, and not with the poetry of suffering born from centuries of exile, enslavement, oppression. It takes generations to make beautiful things like the blues, jazz or hip-hop out of unending torment. By comparison her suffering was banal and even contrived. The things she said on this trip led me and another person “of color” on the trip to request her discipline from her agency. She was pulled from travel, which is ironic because that’s the only thing that could have dropped the scales from her eyes.

But she would never have seen. Most of us never see, and that’s what makes our atrocities on the world stage possible. We are a compassionate people, generous, and probably more tolerant of differences than any other nation on earth. Yet at the same time our derelict leaders exploit those differences, and it’s becoming too obvious to ignore at home and abroad. We’ve become unparalleled at mining these inequalities for profit. And worse, we are leading the rest of the world by example to do the same.

From my travels, I could list a pornography of displacement and destitution like the best desolation around our country now. But what’s the point, one can’t see it, smell it, flee from it into an airconditioned car. Anyway you can look out your window if you want to experience it, or drive if you can afford gas. And think of when you lost a job, when your office closed, when there was nothing but “To Rent” signs in your business district or suburbs because sales were long out of the question, when you drove through an area you hadn’t seen for six months and found all the businesses closed, quietly decaying, and maybe some new construction frozen, the rebar already rusting. Think of how far we came from that, and why we are returning. Why should it be different anywhere else?

What made me think of all this? A dear friend of mine who has traveled extensively, seen unbelievable things and can tell the stories convincingly in any frame of mind, spoke tonight of something he saw in the Philippines. Churches replete with gold and gems, old things of centuries in splendid upkeep, within incense-smoke distance of the most astonishing poverty, poverty so ingrained it was hard to tell whether it had preceded the churches. When he spoke he was suddenly very angry, and I was impressed at this anger. I recognized it. People who have traveled enough to know and consider these conditions, and who don’t work for NGOs or humanitarian imperialist enterprises that hope to “remedy” them like Taft, US Governor General of the Philippines, did “our little brown brothers” there, are very rare. I might contend that most US travelers are part of the problem, because anyone here who can afford to travel so is not doing so to spread democracy or fight for equality. Hell, we can’t even do that here! And it’s easier to fix your own backyard than to pretend you can make a difference in someone else’s.

I’m not saying people shouldn’t do such things. But those who do must acknowledge that the model has failed, and not before encircling the entire earth and entangling all its vitals, like a tapeworm so big it couldn’t be extracted without tearing out key organs. Their little battles will never, by nature, be big enough to stop the leviathan. They can only conduct a pathetic crippled triage in an emergency room carpeted with the dead and dying.

Resistance gets less organized over time, even accounting for technology. A significant economist said that every failed revolution perfects the state mechanism that prevents further revolution. Look at past uprisings. Could you do that? Even if you succeed, as in Egypt, what will take its place? Don’t ask them, answer Zarathustra: “Ask not free from what, but rather, free for what?” Even the rebellion in Turkey is scrambling to do that now, but Occupy, which I left in despair, couldn’t do it before the clubs and zipcuffs left it bagged and tagged, with even books destroyed wantonly like at Freiburg University while one of Germany’s greatest philosophers presided. Fortunately we don’t need that kind of drama anymore, we have more engrossing distractions.

Because it’s going to be harder for us than it was for them; institutional memory neither forgives nor forgets. A smug asshole who had protested during the 60s told me today that Occupy were “loafers moaning about a handout, looking for something free.” Ironic considering that looking at the present political landscape, the 60s “revolution” with all its precious music, childlike fashion and convulsions of naivete that continue to torment us today as marketing tools exploited by the very people who believed them once, failed. He claimed it had succeeded, but I think the hydra grew some new heads, this time that breathe drones and sing siren songs to the tortured chained to the floor. Sixties “change” didn’t last beyond a generation, it’s being rolled back now, maybe because its former agents are comfortable and complacent as they settle into a well-deserved retirement that will bankrupt what’s left of this overleveraged country.

I worked in a retirement home for two years, with a gay man who had been in the closet his whole life telling me of his torment while hitting on me and giving me gifts. With a man who used to be a train conductor, obsessed with punctuality and always arriving for dinner like a train running on time. Sometimes he left traintracks of his own feces as he left the dining room. With women who’d outlived their husbands who were strong and independent (where was that solemn menhir “feminism”?), and a woman who lived through Nazi Germany crying after her son who’d forgotten her in that retirement “community.” To me, these people were greater than any boomer who became an ad exec to pimp for the USA in the cynicism left from his “revolution.” What will he be like at the age of today’s “greatest generation”? More of a righteously entitled pain in the ass, I’d bet.

Boomer ad exec thought he could play the system, “change it from the inside,” but that’s clearly impossible now, ask President Hope & Change. Reformism, from what I can tell, does not have a good track record. Just a little bit better than violent putsch and expropriation. In either case the problem is always what follows.

The system has become self-perpetuating, has gone viral. No other model of economic development exists. 

Actually, there are other models, but I don’t know if we have the stomach for them…having distended it so terribly with gluttony, the only thing is the kill/cure of austerity.

I was thinking about Socrates at Potidaea and Nietzsche’s famous nervous breakdown while walking a Pomeranian today. In college I had been taught Nietzsche saw a carriage horse being brutally beaten in the street from his window, and rushed out to the carriage driver beating him. He’s said to have thrown his arms around the horse (to protect it? in sympathy?) before sinking to the ground, being led away and then institutionalized, dying years later.

I believed that story most of my adult life, but it appears it’s untrue. And who is to believe Plato’s account of Socrates? Most of what we know about Socrates, who philosophized en plein air, comes from Plato. Weak. We want to believe these things though, like (all?) religious stories, so they persist.

Why?

Пoхoждения зубногo врача

☭:  7/10

This movie is a dark comedy with abstract musical elements and an occasional drifting quality. Director Klimov describes it as “”The story of a man who reveals an extraordinary talent, and whom everyone tramples in the most friendly Soviet way.” The titular dentist Chesnokov (“garlic”) is played by Andrey Myagkov in his first role on the big screen: a dentist who can pull teeth without inflicting pain. He was the actor from the subsequent Soviet New Year classic Ironiya Sudbiy (The Irony of Fate, or Enjoy Your Bath!) and the still later adorable Sluzhebnyy roman (Office Romance). In these three films he specializes in endearing haplessness.

The Soviet musical tendency, which East Side Story contends comes from an aping of Hollywood and Broadway, makes an appearance through the rather abstract folk guitar and singing of Masha. I thought the songs less interesting than her facial expressions and quirky smoldering intensity.

“Get used to the fact that everyone knows everything in our town,” Chesnokov is told when he starts, and the story that unfolds seems like a cautionary illustration of Janteloven (Jante Law), the Scandinavian group tendency to belittle, criticize or discourage individual success—particularly in a small town milieu. ”Janteloven” was coined by Dano-Norwegian author Aksel Sandemose, and though I know of no equivalent in Russian culture, it’s interesting that neighboring countries with distinct cultures have a concept of it, and you’d think it would obtain in the collectivism of the Soviet Union. Functionaries’ justice and masses’ wisdom alike are muddied by Klimov’s portrayal, so the world is lucky this is on YouTube. Thanks to censors’ damning evaluation, it’s almost certain more will see it today than did in its time.

I was given a ROK manual espressomaker for Christmas, and have used it daily since to give an accurate characterization. One of the small amenities I sorely missed during the 13 days of cold blackout after Hurricane Sandy was morning espresso. (We made Turkish coffee on the gas stove.) With the ROK, as long as we still have natural gas and running municipal water, I will be able to drink espresso.

I have a solid background with consumer espresso machines. I broke a Saeco trying to clean the group head (the retaining screw stripped – the end) after 3 years; I burnt out the thermostat on a Francis! Francis! after 5 years and swapped its boiler parts into a 1980s Espresso Cialda after finding the latter in a basement with the filter basket missing.  All those machines developed thermostat problems: after a couple of years they couldn’t regulate boiler temperature, overheating the water until the espresso was a thin, scorching brew.

Overall, the ROK makes an excellent espresso. It is a little more work than an electric pump-driven machine, but the quality and kinetic experience is worth it. But there are a couple of qualifications to my praise.

Materials
I used Doulton-filtered water and grounds from a Braun burr grinder. I had to use Starbucks espresso beans because that’s all I could get locally after trying illy (disgusting, thin, sour) and Gevalia (sour, thin, revolting) and Fairway’s bulk beans (artificial flavor fumes lingering). For years I bought the darkest roast I could get in bulk at Costco, but they stopped carrying anything above a medium Colombian Supremo. I must start ordering online.

Tamping the grounds
You will note that the included spoon has an ergonomic divot for pressing with your thumb while tamping the grounds. This is because a firmer pack than used with electric machines yields better taste and crema.

Water temperature
The ROK, into which you must pour boiling water and then press it out with an action like that of a wing corkscrew, won’t suffer thermostat failure. But its body is an alloy that loses heat quickly, and requires preheating of everything to get a passable brew. You must fill it to top with boiling water, let it sit a moment, then flush it through the empty basket, preheat the cup with kettle water (not the flush water which has already gotten much cooler), then half-fill the ROK with water for your espresso all in a short period of time. If you do that the espresso will come through warm, but never quite hot. Given the predictable failures of machines that cost up to twice as much, that’s not a big deal.

Crema
A review I found complained about the ROK’s crema, and it’s true: crema’s not easy to get. I found it works best when you make the cup, then add ~tablespoon more of boiling water from the kettle and press it through the grounds. The higher ratio of air to water in that second press almost always lends itself to a ready froth.

Galvanic corrosion around the joint.

Construction
Generally, the construction of the ROK is solid and ingenious. But its finish will not stay perfect. This is because steam rises from the chamber where you pour the boiling water. The steam acts on the joint where the aluminum wings are pinned by a bolt that is probably stainless steel, causing galvanic corrosion. The finish of the ROK is highly polished and probably anodized, so where this corrosion happens the anodized layer cracks and aluminum oxidation (rust) happens in the cracks. It won’t affect its function but as you can see, aesthetic fetishists will be bummed.

Another flaw, this one more serious, is the choice of ridiculous rubber feet that stick to the bottom.  As a metalworker, I can tell you that anodized aluminum is an amazing material. Almost anything (paint, adhesives etc.) will stick to it, much better than it would to raw aluminum. After anodizing and painting aluminum, it can be sealed to prevent anything sticking. So if the base were aluminum, I would have anodized it, stuck the feet on, then sealed it.

But the base must be corrosion-resistant because standing water and coffee residues will sit on it. You can see a seam where it is bolted to the main body. As such it is almost certainly a chrome-plated zinc alloy (which makes me wonder if the entire body is not that, maybe that zinc-aluminum-magnesium-copper alloy I’ve seen used in jewelry…but the finish-cracking around the joint mentioned above suggests aluminum). The very chroming that strengthened the base’s finish made it too sheer a surface for sticker-feet to cling to, and one popped off this morning. Since the user presses down with equal force on the two arms, effective use requires that the unit be skid-proof. Eventually all four feet will come off and you’ll need to apply a full-bottom adhesive rubber base, covering the “designed in London, made in P.R.C.” language—nothing lost.

Zagreb became an international center for arms shipments to the Syrian rebels

In the period from the beginning of November last year [2012] until February of this year [2013], a total of 75 civilian cargo planes took off from the Zagreb airport, carrying weapons to Syrian rebels, diplomatic sources told Jutarnji list. The planes were carrying, aside from Croatian weapons, weapons supplied by other European countries, the collection of which was organized by the United States.

According to our sources, the first two to three shipments had been carried out by a Turkish airline, Turkish Cargo, owned by Turkish Airlines, [the subsequent shipments] were then taken over by a Jordanian company, Jordanian International Air Cargo.

Until recently, it was believed—and The New York Times reported– that a Croatian high official had been negotiating, with his U.S. colleagues, to transport Croatia’s excess weapons and arms to the Syrian rebels. However, according to reliable diplomatic sources, the arming of Syrian rebels was part of a much broader plan.

[According to the same sources], the American officials enlisted their partners – Croatia, Saudi Arabia, Jordan and Turkey, in the operation of arming the resistance of the Syrian regime. The United States organized the collection of arms, Saudi Arabia was financing it, and Jordan and Turkey were transporting arms from the Jordanian territory into Syria.

Croatia’s role was twofold. It collected the excess of its own weapons—M79 grenade launchers, RPG-22 grenade launchers, RBG-6 multiple grenade launchers and M-60 no-recoil canons– from [Croatian] army warehouses. An unknown quantity of those arms left from Zagreb airport Pleso for Syria, in Turkish A310 aircraft, in early November of last year. However, the United States also organized transport of arms to the Zagreb airport Pleso from several other European countries—Great Britain among them—which was then transported in Jordanian International Cargo planes first to Jordan and then to Syria.

We could say that Zagreb airport Pleso served as an international hub for transport of arms to Syrian rebels. The aircraft used for this transport were A310 and Iljušin 76MF, which leads us to conclude that the 75 flights transported about 3000 tons of various types of weapons and ammunition.

YouTube videos confirm that weapons are being delivered to the Syrian rebels in great quantities. In the videos, rebels show off the new types of weapons they now possess. According to Western media, the transport of those weapons [to Syria] was organized by the United States and Turkey.

Our sources claim that the security of the whole operation of weapons transport from Zagreb’s Pleso became compromised when the air traffic control of Bosnia and Herzegovina started inquiring about the sudden increase of Jordanian airline’s flights from Zagreb. The sudden increase in frequency of incoming Jordanian cargo planes did not go unnoticed in Pleso either. According to our sources, it is unknown how many of the weapons that were shipped ended up in the hands of the Free Syrian Army, backed by the West, and how many in the hands of various militant jihadist movements. According to some estimates, there are several dozen militant jihadist groups also fighting the Syrian regime.

Judging by the videos recently posted on YouTube, a portion of the arms, believed to have originated in Croatian army warehouses, ended up in the hands of the jihadist movement Ahram al-Sham. This was confirmed by their spokesperson when he said that they [Ahram al-Sham] share their weapons with the Free Syrian Army.

According to some information, the weapons that arrived to Syria through Zagreb, ended up in the hands of the Martyrs of Yarmouk, who, two days ago, kidnapped 20 Filipino members of the U.S. peacekeeping force in Golan Heights. The fact that weapons might end up in the hands of militant groups is what frightens Western politicians the most; which is why the majority of the countries insists that the weapons embargo on Syria remain in force. Croatia supported that embargo; and formally it never broke it by engaging in this operation, because it sold the weapons to Jordan.

Croatia proved itself a reliable partner of the U.S. in this whole story. Washington played a crucial role in Croatia’s accession, first to NATO, and now to the European Union. Furthermore, the U.S. Department of Defense has been greatly aiding the Croatian Army in Afghanistan and securing free transport of our soldiers to the ISAF mission. Therefore, it is perfectly clear that Croatia, as a faithful ally, accepted the American request to participate in the operation of weapons transport to Syria.

The album version of this tune does not include audio of these creepy vids that only enhance the impact of this colonial critique. I’ll appreciate help with lyrics I couldn’t decipher in the comments.

Sese’s flow is breakneck, choppy and freely accordions between languid and deep-sea compressed. Yet he chuckles in this interview with True Skool Radio that on TA’s new album Amierdaca, he has better control of his flow than in previous efforts. Yao.

My city never sleeps
In the distance do I hear soprano sax or drone attacks?
My distance sensor beeps
Target pipelines for profits, phosphorus bombs, carnage is common
Helicopters like I’m walking in ‘Nam
New widows every week
In the mirror it’s civilian casualty collateral damage or enemy combatant
No choice but carry munitions (I’m forced to) Yankee resistance
There’s bullets spraying on less-than-extraordinary-rendition
In prison Guantanamo Bay sensory deprivation swimming and waterboarding
Innocents slaughtered all with minimum media coverage
Pillage and rape the people B-52 bombers foreplay
Dreams relative skeletons weapons discharge their stomachs
Open my eyes Obama increased Defense Department budget
They said freedom democracy that’s when the nightmares came
Shock & awe the Iraq version of Disney’s Electric Light Parade

Lullaby, lullabomb hear the cry of the young new insurgent tossin turnin Kabul burnin
Insomnia is certain, shoot first mom Uncle Tom wants two surges

Babies born deformed experiments gone wrong
Accordin to warlords their cause is right
Lethal chemicals breathed by fetal specimens
Each and every pregnancy be goin wrong tonight
Bodies twisted like penmanships calligraphy
Voiceless victims of violence cos limbs are where they lips should be
Oil rigs become proper mercenaries’ majority
Torture prisons are taking pictures of inmate stripper teams
Your country tis of thee FT
Liberty let’s see
If my missile heat headrush feels like your M-16
You left it on an uninvolved civilian: moustache, brown skin, terror-causing children
Yellow stream is real terrorist evil equals intent to kill
But like the CEO elites that you’ll never meet at the grill
Feral cats and poor people ain’t seen a meal
Since your last Congressional seal, bullets are sleeping pills!

Lullaby, lullabomb…

I see the black & brown soldiers how they treat em awful
Gang raped and mutilated, like LaVena Johnson
The Spanish speakers fight for citizenship
While the black folks think that whitefolks is interested they enlist
Poverty get recruit, laugh at blacks in armor
Brown is bulletproof, Afro-cannonfodder
How they make it to the front line of gun deployments
Same way they make it to the front lines of the unemployments
Sergeant cutting corners think we won’t take POWs
Recruit among the colors like the Viet Cong or _______
To convince them we got common cause and Uncle Sam’s inaudible
We allies in this struggle, suffocate commanding officers
Our war memorials need a poet laureate to write its freedom fightin ____ daughter son
Cause it’s notorious empire strikes are goryless
The red white and blue’s in the sights of new Afghani warriors

Divide and conquer won’t work this time.
This is a language that they can’t understand
Divide and conquer won’t work this time.
Tell peaceful protests keep the terrorists off my land!

This is a terror story from occupied territories
_________ homicide _________________
This is a terror story from occupied territories
Hamas and Lebanon surprise America and Israel a genocide w/ single side only

At the scrapyard today, I found probably the only Leica I will ever own. It’s tripod that can stand as high as 10’. Made in Switzerland with incredible precision, it’s in heavily-used but still very functional condition. I knew from the color and design that it’s a geosurvey tripod, and it has a shoulder strap so it’s easy to carry even if you are a sluggish government worker glutted on wasteful union wages.* Not that it’s very heavy—engineered in fiberglass with aluminum hardware, it’s lighter than my camera tripod despite being over twice its size.

I couldn’t figure out why it was in the dumpster, and the scaleman gave it to me because the materials have no resale value by weight. It made my day, but I spent the car ride home puzzling over why it was binned. When I was unloading it at home, I saw that it has a hairline crack spiraling around one of its supports.

It’s possible that such a crack would impact its precision, throwing it off by a nanounit of a degree so that a road surveyor would annotate a map directing an interstate to pass through a mall, costing taxpayers thousands of man hours to correct. Or maybe it was just cheaper to throw out, since it probably left the Swiss factory untouched by human hands but perfect. If anyone alive could fix it, they would cost more per year than the machine that replaced them fourscore quarters ago. In all events it’s cheaper to buy another one, but you’d think it could find an aftermarket among clowns photographing children at birthday parties.

_________________________
*Not my actual opinion.

I recently found a well-preserved Spanish cavalry saber and scabbard, which I have seen variously described as a 1907 pattern or 1917 pattern. The scabbard is marked “Toledo,” and I’ve wanted a blade from the city that armored the conquistadors since I was a kid. Overlooking my postcolonial fetishism, this was an interesting time in Spain’s history…of course the sword has seen service, and because every weapon to hand was used in the Spanish Revolution, I imagine this was too.

Displaying a sword is tricky: I didn’t want the bracketed katana and sheath you see in lads’ bedrooms and Hollywood corner offices. That’s usually the sword ensemble we see in my generation. This had to be understated, use upcycled materials, and practically vanish around the hardware and against the wall. It fit best beside the couch, below the staircase, in a disused space too oddly-angled to display anything else.

After some fiddling, I fabbed a mount using elements-rusted steel stock stick-welded together (so as not to disturb the rust patina) with a “modular podular” unit at the base to adjust height and assemble under the couch. The m-p unit uses the tension of two welded-on galvanized steel rods (salvaged from a rolldown security grate) forced into holes in the base to adjust the angle of the totality. The base assembly can also be put together under the couch, and then the stand-rod seated in a socket in the base.

Neodymium button-magnets hold the sword and scabbard in place, yet allow them to be removed easily for inspection. As the photos show, the details of the work are such that no one display angle can feature them all.

The final irony is the seller’s location in Las Vegas. My copy has not been retouched like this one at left, and was folded and scribbled on, but one could argue that makes it more authentic. I’m reproducing mine here because if/when these are sold out, the image may disappear when the cache is cleared.

Maybe it’s performing a public service to get these posters back in circulation for a mere $9.95 USD + shipping. Still the watermarking galls me, as much as my wrath is tilting at windmills in a world where Christ is already a night light (but on the other hand, Y_hw_h’s name cannot be spoken and portrayals of Muhammad invite ire and fire). Some periods and some defeats shouldn’t be dragged back into daylight without sober reflection on their course, which is likely beyond the opportunist spraying on this exhumed shroud like a graveyard tomcat.

So fuck you “Artscape Galleries.” I put nazar on your poster printer.