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Now on with the show.

This episode was originally broadcast on December fifteenth, twenty twenty three.

Luck is one of those strange things that we all want but have a hard time defining.

Take for example, Jeffrey Dampierre.

He won a twenty million dollar lottery jackpot, then his sister in law murdered him trying to get to his cash.

That doesn't sound like luck.

Then there's Benjamin Guggenheim.

He hit the gene lottery by being born into wealth, and he used it to board the most opulent ship of his time, the Titanic.

We all know how that turned out.

And then there's Joseph P.

Kennedy Senior, who inherited money, power, and influence that he could pass on to his four sons, but two were assassinated, one died in a plane crash, and his fourth son killed a woman.

What looks like luck is often the opposite, which has got to make you wonder what is luck.

I'm Patrick Carelci and I'm Adrianna Quortez.

And this is Red Pilled America, a storytelling show.

This is not another talk show covering the day's news.

We're all about telling stories.

Stories.

Hollywood doesn't want you to hear stories.

The media mocks stories about everyday Americans at the globalist ignore.

You can think of Red Pilled America as audio documentaries, and we promise only one thing, the truth.

Welcome to Red Pilled America.

What is luck?

To find the answer, Adriana is going to tell a story of a time that she was on the verge of becoming a rich and globally famous model until a stroke of bad luck changed everything.

The year was nineteen ninety two, and it was a beautiful southern California morning when I woke up for what was the biggest day of my life.

Young Life, one of the world's largest skincare brands, was picking a new model to represent their brand.

They were down to two women, and I was one of them.

As I got out of bed, yawned and stumbled my way, half asleep to the kitchen to make breakfast, I couldn't help but think that I wouldn't be doing this for much longer.

With all the coin I'll be making after I get this gig, I'm gonna hire a chef soon, I'll never have to cook again.

I made a light breakfast eight and then I made my way to the bathroom to get ready for my big day.

And that's when I saw them.

As I looked in the mirror, I noticed something strange on my face, actually two strange somethings.

I wiped the mirror with a towel.

Maybe it's a smudge on the glass, I thought, But they didn't wipe away, and that's when I realized what had happened.

Oh no, God, no, no, no, I yelled as I looked at myself in the mirror and I saw two gin enormous red spots.

I thought my mourning eyes must have been playing tricks on me, so I furiously rubbed them with my knuckles.

After the stars dissipated and I regained my eyesight, I looked again and the two spots were still there.

Oh, this can't be happening.

On the biggest day of my life, when I was one of two girls competing to become the Nouxema Girl, I woke up with two of the biggest zits my face had ever hosted.

In an instant, all of my dreams were shattered, and I was a big dreamer ever since I was a young child.

I envisioned a big, full life.

A husband who adored me, a big, beautiful home with the white picket fence, kids who'd attend the best private schools, a fancy car, all the things fame and fortune had to offer.

It would be a life that was free from the financial burden I'd grown up with.

And now those dreams had popped like a whitehead.

That morning, Lady Luck looked me dead in the eyes and slapped me right across the face.

Now, when I first graduated from high school, I wasn't entirely sure how I would fulfill my big dreams.

But what I did now was that I was willing to work harder than everyone around me to get there, and I was gained to try just about anything.

I was working thirty hours a week at a local beauty supply and carrying eighteen units in college when I decided to add one more thing to my arsenal.

I got an agent, the kind that sends you on auditions for parts and commercials, TV shows, movies, things of that sort.

I know that sounds very la and largely because it is, but truth be told, when you grow up in the shadow of Tinseltown and around people who regularly make a living in the entertainment industry, it doesn't seem so far fetched to throw your hat into the ring.

And I knew I was going to be a star.

In fact, by the time I'd graduated from Westcovina High School, I've already perfected my Oscar acceptance speech in the bathroom mirror.

I'd like to thank the Academy.

This is quite unexpected.

Clearly, fame and fortune were always nipping at my imagination, so why not give it a go.

With hard work and a little luck, entertainment could be my ticket out of poverty and into the good life.

Now, the fame part of acting wasn't the thing that really captured my attention.

I figured that part was just part of the deal.

What I needed was to get some money, and quickly.

I was sick and tired of being broke.

The expense of putting myself through college was proving to be difficult.

After tuition, books, gas, and food, my budget left zero dollars for fun.

I wanted a better life, one that wasn't riddled with financial stress.

Booking a commercial gig here and there would make my financial situation a lot less dire.

I'd seen firsthand how booking just one national commercial spot could take you from Grace Guys to blue in a hot second.

Two of my best girlfriends, Jenny and Dina, were actively working in the business and doing quite well.

Jenny had dropped dead.

Gorgeous Argentinian model with Betty Boo eyes and legs for days was one of the youngest models to Grace the cover of American l She'd appeared in countless music videos and movies, and routinely walked to the Paris Catwalk for the best designers.

Dina, a talented Italian girl with movie star looks, had been a successful working actress since early childhood.

This girl was a triple threat.

She could act, dance, and sing.

This girl could sing.

From a very early age, she'd become the primary breadwinner for her family.

I thought, if both my friends could do it, then I could do it too.

Granted, they had some things I didn't have, namely jaw dropping beauty and talent, but I had spunk, genna, sequah, and a work ethic that could rival the best of them.

If I booked something, I could pay for my college tuition, rent and possibly get new car.

And boy did I need a new car.

Getting an agent in LA was easier than I anticipated.

I don't recall exactly how I got hooked up with an agency, but I do remember thinking I'd likely have to perform for them before they decided whether they'd like to sign me to their talent roster.

You know, maybe sing a song, read a monologue, dance.

I don't know something, but It turned out none of that was required, which was a good thing since I was categorically unprepared to deliver anything impressive.

The meeting was short, fifteen minutes tops I was nervous.

This was my big opportunity and I didn't want to blow it.

I met with one of the three main agents, a stylish man in his late forties.

He had a calm demeanor and he gave the kind of look that went right through you.

I felt naked in his presence, but it was okay since I was pretty sure he was gay.

There was some small talk between us that could be broken up into two distinct sections.

First, there was a lightning round of inappropriate personal questions.

How much do you weigh?

How old are you are?

Those your real boobs?

The second round consisted of perfectly strung together backhanded compliments.

Casting directors like abnormally short, people like you who look younger than they are, hmm, your teeth aren't great, but kind of cute in an imperfect way.

And my personal favorite.

You're a ted pudgy, but it might be just your big tits.

You're perky for their size.

I smiled, making sure to show no teeth, and thanked him.

I wanted him to know that I had a tough exterior, that I understood that criticism was part of the job and I could handle it.

He made it clear that there were two things he particularly liked about me, One that I looked young for my age, and two that I was a Latina who was fluent in Spanish.

He asked me to stand up, walk to the end of the room, turn around, and tirl.

He must have liked what he saw, because he signed me on the spot.

The deal was they'd send me on on auditions and if I booked anything, they would take fifteen percent off the top.

That was a deal I would happily take, and just like that, I signed on as talent for one of the most reputable agencies in Los Angeles.

On my drive home that day, I marveled at how easy the entire process was.

I have a talent agent.

I don't even have any talent.

I must be a natural.

But there was one glaring drawback, and that was having to drive into the city from the suburbs.

It wouldn't have been so bad if I had a decent car, but I figured as soon as the money started rolling in, I get myself a new whip, so driving into the city for auditions would be a piece of cake.

As I drove past the palatial homes on Sunset Boulevard that day, I began picking out which ones would be suitable for me now that I was going to be rich and famous.

That I was too small and it doesn't have a guard, so that won't work.

The first thing my agent instructed me to do was to get headshot.

A headshot is a tightly cropped image of your face printed on a card, along with your stats, high weight age, things like that.

It helps casting agents determine whether or not they want you to come in to read for a role.

My agency hooked me up with a photographer, and one week later I was back in the city having my pictures taken.

The process wasn't quite as glamorous as I'd imagined.

For starters.

There were two photographers, twin brothers, one bossier than the next, and both expecting me to take direction out nauseum.

I'm more of a collaborative type.

I've got some ideas, I asserted.

Don't worry, we're professionals.

You're in good hands, they assured me.

I didn't want to come off as difficult.

There was so much money to be made and I really needed a new car, so I went with it.

They are professionals, AJ be cool.

Just go with it.

Then came hair, makeup, and wardrobe, all designed to make me look like a fourteen year old high schooler, which was strange because I I had double d's.

It'll be fine.

They know what they're doing, I assured myself as I adjusted a velvet beret in the bathroom mirror.

In the end, I can report that they, in fact did not know what they were doing.

The pictures were not good.

I looked like a middle aged Latina that identified as a tween.

If they were looking to cast a Mexican serial killer, then I'd be a shoeing.

But the agency liked the pictures and I didn't have any more money to fork out for another photoshoot, so I was stuck with them.

Within a few weeks of getting my headshots printed, my agents started sending me out on casting calls.

He always reached out to me on the day of the audition, and I was expected to drop everything on a diamond go.

They never gave me any time to plan ahead.

It was like you weren't even human.

Just a piece of livestock to be paraded in front of an auctioneer at any given moment.

But this was stressful because I worked and I went to school full time.

But I knew that once I booked something, the big buckaroos would start pouring in.

So I told myself that calling in sick to work or missing a class here and there was well worth it.

My agent set me on a ton of Spanish speaking auditions and Latina specific roles.

I wasn't exactly thrilled about that.

You have to understand that the Latin celebrity invasion of the nineties think j Lo Shakira and Samahayak hadn't yet happened.

That didn't kick off until Ricky Martin sang at the nineteen ninety nine Grammys.

Sure there were some Latin artists that had crossed over, people like Gerardo who sang the hit song Rico Suave, the boy band Manudo Mellow man Ace a Lighter shade of Brown, but they were all widely considered cheesy.

They lacked the one thing most young people desperately want, cool factor.

I certainly didn't want to be lumped in with those dorks.

I had worked hard to assimilate, and this felt like a setback.

That summer.

I made the decision to stop dousing my skin with baby oil and then trying myself to a crisp in the sun less melanin not more was the goal.

Admittedly, I wasn't the best at auditioning.

How do you pronounce your name Adriana?

Well, that's pretty Can you turn around and bend over?

Uh?

Nowhere in the script does it say that you'll be shooting the scene from the vantage point of my ass, So no, I can't bend over.

It seemed to me that a lot of the people I was meeting on auditions were just well weird.

And I'm not just talking about the casting agents.

I'm talking about my competition as well.

So many of these people were willing to do anything to make it in Hollywood.

They'd sell their soul to the devil for fame and fortune.

They'd sleep with a fat slob who was a famous studio head and later call it rape if they had to anything to get the part.

The thirst was real.

People weren't just thirsty and weird, they were rude and ruthless as well, Like a pack of bloodthirsty vultures battling for one piece of meat.

Dangle fame and fortune in an actor's face and watch the knives come out.

Don't get me wrong, I'll shank someone no problem, but it's got to be a life and death situation.

I'm not bringing out the homemade shib for an IMDb credit.

That's just not me.

I'm a nice person.

Take for instance, this one time on an audition when I tried to do something nice for someone.

Oftentimes, when I went out for rolls, they'd pair me up with someone also known as my competition, to run lines together, which basically means we'd practice reading the script well.

On this occasion, I got paired up with a girl and immediately when I got close to her, I smelled shit.

Pee you.

Oh no, I think you stepped in shit, I told her.

She checked the bottom of her shoes.

No, I don't think so well, I can definitely smell it, I insisted, What can I say?

I tried fast forward to the two of us standing in front of the casting director reading our lines.

I'm sorry, but do you guys smell that?

Asked the casting director.

Yep, I can, I blurted out.

It's her.

She stepped and shit had no choice.

What was I supposed to do?

Take the fall for her?

COCKA drenched convers No, it's not me, it's her, my competition rebutted me.

I was stunned.

Dare she?

It is not me?

Look, I said, as I showed the casting director the bottom of my shoe.

Mmm, yeah it is you, Adriana.

Do you mind stipping outside and cleaning your shoe?

Thanks?

Suffice it to say I did not get the part that day.

Well, not surprisingly, one month turned into two and I hadn't booked a single gig.

Hmm, things are not going according to plan, I thought to myself.

I was still broke and getting to and from the auditions was taking a huge toll on me.

My grades were suffering, my wallet was even emptier from taking so many sick days, and something else was about to add to my troubles.

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Welcome back to Red Pilled America.

So after a few months of having a big time Hollywood agent, I hadn't booked a single job.

Things were not going according to plan.

I was still broke and getting to and from auditions was taking a huge toll on me.

My grades were suffering, my wallet was even emptier from taking sick days, and the drive to and from the city was killing me.

My car, a nineteen eighty two BMW three twenty I, or the Beamer as we called it, was the hooptiest car of all the hoopdies.

This car was on its deathbed.

The main source of its woes was a crack in the radiator, which made long distance driving a life threatening situation.

You see, the city was about a thirty mile drive from my house in the suburbs.

Auditions were typically held in the afternoon, which meant I'd hit traffic both going and coming.

La is notorious for its bad traffic.

The combination of the sweltering summer heat, bumper to bumper freeways, and the crack and the radiator meant that the car would, without question overheat.

Every single time I drove to an audition, The following would repeat without fail.

Step one, I'd have to turn on the heater and roll down the windows.

You heard me, right, in the boiling La heat, I had to pop on the heater.

It was one of the only things that would help pull down the car.

Step two, I'd have to pull the car over and give it time for the thermometer reading to lower.

This took ten to twenty minutes, depending on how hot it was outside.

Keep in mind La regularly sees triple digit temperatures in the summer.

Step three, without fail, When the car overheated, the hazard's fuse would blow.

The lights would start going berserk, blinking on enough, not enough, not enough, incessantly until the fuse was replaced.

As if that were enough, the red Hazard's button inside the car would in tandem shoot off at hypersonic velocity.

Pew.

It shot off with the force of a twenty two caliber pistol.

After I replaced the fuse, I had to screw the little red button back on, otherwise the hazard lights would not stop blinking.

On one of my drives out to LA, I lost the red Hazard's button when it caught a good bounce off the passenger seat and flew like a bullet into the freeway.

Abyss.

I tried lunging for it, but missed.

I couldn't help but think You're free, free and last, free from the shitty car.

You lucky little red Hazard's button go live, happy, And I cried a little that day.

One day, you're gonna look back and laugh at this, I thought, as I drove the rest of the way to the audition, with the hazard lights flashing on and off, a harsh reminder of my predicament.

But the final step in this overheating process was the most dangerous.

In order to reach my final destination, I had to find a way to put water in the radiator.

That was a risky endeavor and was the thing that added the most time to the trip.

I'd have to make sure the car was sufficiently cooled down before doing so, And as any poor soul that has had to deal with this problem knows, opening a hot radiator is dangerous business because blazing hot water or radiator fluid, if you can afford it, spits out and can inflict serious burns.

When you're on the balls of your ass and desperate for work, time is never your friend.

So I came dangerously close on several occasions to having my face my money maker, burned clean off.

This all made the entire audition process more than I could handle.

I began to contemplate the unthinkable, quitting It is not in my nature to give up, but making it in Tinseltown required the type of dedication that is made much easier when you have a support system in place or a trest fund.

It was then, but I began to fully grasp why nepotism flourished in Hollywood.

Those people have access to money, connections, and time.

I had none of that.

I was on my own, So I went against my nature and called my agent to tell him I couldn't do it anymore.

I'm so glad you called, said my agent.

You got a callback for the Whoopie Goldberg Nun movie.

They want to see you again this afternoon.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

The week prior, i'd auditioned for a movie called Sister Act.

They were casting for a group of young urban girls who could sing.

You'll need to sing for them, so be sure to bring.

Your music, bring my music.

Panic ensued.

On my first audition, I had only read for the part.

Singing could pose a bit of a problem, given that staying on pitch wasn't my strong suit.

Can I sing?

Yes?

And no.

I can sing really well with projection and power, but only for fifteen second stretches tops.

Then it all goes to hell.

I scoured through my cassette tapes to see what song I could pull off best.

I landed on one Until This Day makes Me a tat emotional, a song from the musical A chorus line called nothing.

In the musical, the song is sung by the character Diana Morales, a young Latina on the balls of her ass who is desperate to make it.

To say that I could relate to the song was an understatement.

Her song tells the story of the humiliation Morales suffered in her method acting class on account that she didn't know what she was doing.

It can be sung in a way that is jocular and fun, so it was perfect for me.

What I lacked in vocal ability, I could make.

Up and charm.

I went into my sister act callback and sang for the casting directors, Judy Taylor and Linda Gordon, two women who were hugely respected in the industry.

When I finished, Taylor and Gordon stood up and clapped.

They loved me, or perhaps they did it because they were nice ladies.

Nevertheless, it made me feel good.

I ended up getting a total of four callbacks for the role, each time reading and singing, but in the end the script was changed and my part was eliminated.

For about the next year or so, I continued going on auditions.

I booked a few small parts here and there, but nothing that allowed me to support myself with acting alone.

However, it was just enough to ease some of the financial burden.

Interestingly, voiceover work was my strong suit.

It was during this same time that I met a boy who quickly became my boyfriend.

You know him as my better half, Patrick Carelci that's me.

I remember how proud it made him feel letting his buddies know that his girlfriend was an almost working.

Actress, if you say so.

He insisted on coming with me to auditions too, because he didn't want me driving to the city alone in an unreliable car, so whenever he could, he drive me to auditions himself.

One of those occasions happened when I got a callback for Noxyma.

Noxma is an old school skin cleanser that's been around since nineteen fourteen, and they were looking for a young woman to represent their brand.

The job had been narrowed down to two girls, me and some other girl, and this was the final callback, so it was a big deal.

I had to participate in what's known as a screen test, where you test the models in front of both photography and video camera with hair, makeup, wardrobe.

The whole shipbang, I kept thinking that some mistake had been made.

Like being a professional basketball player at five two, I never pictured myself being a model.

The only thing I had going for myself was that I had flawless skin.

I've never had an acne phase my entire life.

But on the morning of the shoot, when I walked into the bathroom to get ready for my big Noxyma test shoot, I looked in the mirror at not one, but two enormous pimples.

Oh my god, no, no, no, no.

I couldn't believe what I was looking at.

I'm sure it was the nerves.

Talk about a stroke of bad luck.

When Patrick arrived to pick me up, he saw the despair in my eyes, so he tried to play it down.

Baby, can barely see them, I promise.

Besides, I'm sure they're going to cover them up with makeup, right, I mean, these guys are professionals.

When we arrived at the audition, I had Patrick walk me in the shoot.

Wasn't a part of downtown LA where you could get mugged while walking from the car to the building.

Also, I was always skeptical of every audition I went into.

My mind would always go to that scene in the movie Fame, you know, the one where Coco was coerced into taking off her top by a sleazy photographer.

Is this some elaborate ruse to see my tits?

I'd wonder at almost every shoot.

Patrick and I walked into the Nouxma studio and immediately spotted my competition.

And that's the first time I thought, what did I get myself into?

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Welcome back to Red Pilled America.

So it was the early nineteen nineties and Patrick drove me to downtown LA for a test shoot with Noxyma.

They were looking for a girl to represent their skincare line.

Out of what must have been hundreds, maybe even thousands of girls, Noxyma narrowed the competition down to two young ladies, and I was one of them.

Patrick walked me into the studio and I immediately spotted my competition.

The photographer introduced us him Adriana.

Hi, I'm Rebecca, she responded, Rebecca, gayheart.

We shook hands and I got a good look at her.

My god, she's studying, I thought through my nervous grin.

She had huge eyes that were the color of the ocean and a beautiful mane of perfect curly hair.

I had curls as well, but mine were more of the frizzy.

Stuck your finger in a light socket strain.

What am I doing here?

Rounding out my chances were Mount Everest and Mount Kilimanjaro.

On my cheek, her eyes are kind of far apart.

The hater and me whispered to.

Patrick, yeah, she looks like an alien.

Patrick assured me, but we both knew we were entirely full of shit.

She was adorable, and on the one day I couldn't, I had a pizza face.

I felt like a troll next to this girl.

Is your skin usually like this, the makeup artist asked me as she applied foundation to my face.

No, no, no, no, I never get sits, I swear.

I don't know what's going on, I responded.

She gave me the kind of look that says, sure you don't, sweetheart, Sure you don't.

After hair and makeup, it was time to get in front one of the camera for the photography portion of the test shoot, and the photographer had a piece of advice.

Just act natural.

Can't act natural.

All I can do is act unnatural and awkward.

As I stood there posing, I felt like the photographer was undressing me with his eyes, reading me like a book, a pimple faced prude who would never flash him her boobs.

After we were done with the pictures, it was time for the video portion of the day.

I stood in front of a makeshift bathroom sink, rubbed cream on my cheeks and forehead, splashed water on my face, splash splash, and patted my face gently with the towel, and then pretended to admire my beautiful skin in the mirror.

But Beth, there were maybe ten to fifteen people in the room and all eyes were on me.

You have to remember this was before the smartphone where everyone's faces are buried into their little screen.

Back then, we were all living in the moment.

My moment was their moment, and it was very uncomfortable.

Maybe being the center of attention is it my thing, after all, I couldn't wait to get out of there.

When it was finally over, I booked it outside and there was my trusty boyfriend waiting patiently for me.

I opened his car door, sat down, and exhaled, and that's when he leaned over and he gave me a big kiss.

And he said, I'm so proud of you for.

What I'm not going to get.

It, for being you.

In that moment, right there inside Patrick's car, on the other side of my unlucky break, I knew I was right where I needed to be.

Suffice to say, I didn't become the nouxyma girl Rebecca Gayheart did.

Not long after the test shoot, I stopped going on auditions.

I didn't feel defeated or like I was giving up.

It just wasn't for me.

Honestly, it was an ugly business and I didn't want to be a part of it.

My girlfriends, the two who'd largely inspired me to take a shot at it, were being destroyed by the industry.

Jenny was caught in a vice grip of addiction, one that took her many years to overcome, and Dina had lost her self worth.

Both these young women had everything going for them, but Hollywood was putting them through the ringer.

My dream of hitting it big in the world of acting was not worth losing myself.

But life has a strange way of working out.

Decades later, I'd find myself rubbing elbows with Rebecca Gayheart once again, when our girls ended up at the same prestigious private elementary school.

For years, I'd see Rebecca in action at morning drop off and at school events, and I couldn't help but feel grateful that she got the Noxyma job instead of me.

As fate would have it here, we both were again twenty years later, at the same place among the Hollywood elites, but the roads we'd each travel to get there looked very different.

After the bad luck of my two sits bumping me out of the running for the Noxyma Girl, my agent told me I had another big callback.

The movie's sister Act had hit the big screen and it did well, so well that they decided to do a sequel, and apparently my part was written back in.

They wanted me to audition again for that part and sister act too, but I declined I didn't want to be involved in that side of the business.

The part ended up going to a little known singer named Lauren Hill, who you may know is one third of the Fujis.

I'd made the decision to leave the world of Hollywood auditions behind and never looked back.

I'd eventually start a company with my fiance Patrick, and we'd go on to produce what Hollywood calls branded content, basically entertainment projects funded by big fortune ten brands.

That business became a major success.

Instead of being an actress, I hired them and it afforded me the type of lifestyle to enter the community of Hollywood elites on my terms as a businesswoman, where I eventually crossed paths with Rebecca Gayheart again.

Her path to this community was a much darker road, peppered with public drug abuse and even vehicular manslaughter.

In two thousand and one, Rebecca reportedly drove around cars waiting at a crosswalk and hit and killed a nine year old boy.

A few years later, she was caught on tape with her husband, actor Eric Dane, and a former miss Us teen.

They were reportedly all high on drugs and naked.

My path to success, albeit far from perfect, looked like a wholesome episode of the Brady bunch by comparison, and I wouldn't have it any other way, which leads us back to the question what is luck.

The textbook definition of luck is success or failure, apparently brought by chance rather than through one's own actions.

However, the truth is luck is hard to identify.

I thought that those two giants pimples I got on the day of my Noxyma shoot, or a stroke of bad luck.

But God sometimes likes to play the long game.

It turns out those pimples were two golden kisses.

I was the lucky one because I wasn't chosen to be the Noxyma girl then dragged through the Babylon known as the Hollywood casting couch that has led to the demise of so many women.

In the end, my dreams would come true.

I got myself exactly where I wanted to go, and I did it without sacrificing my morals, my values, or my body.

So don't ever count yourself out when you're struck with what appears to be bad luck.

The path to your dreams isn't necessarily over.

Maybe you just have to carve out a different path to get to where you want to go, like I did with Red Pilled America, You lucky sons of bitches.

Red Pilled America is n iHeartRadio original podcast.

It's owned and produced by me, Patrick Carelci and Adriana Cortez for Informed Ventures.

Now are in higher archive of episodes is only available to our backstage subscribers.

To subscribe, visit Redpilled America dot com and click join in the top menu.

That's red Pilled America dot com and click join in the top menu.

Thanks for listening.