It's time to renew my drivers licence. I got a form in the mail to fill out and send back with a check so it will all be taken care of for another few years. There is a little box to check if I want to donate my organs. If I put a mark on it they will print a pink dot on my licence and register me as a donor. They used to just give you a little sticker to apply yourself.
I will have them put the dot on my licence. I would like for them to print on the card, "Organs donated under protest." See I strongly believe that the donor's family should get paid, if they wish, when a loved one's body parts are passed on to another.
Yes, I can hear you screaming, "That would lead to the SELLING of organs!" Guess what? Body parts are being sold every day. If you don't believe this trot on down to the local hospital and tell them you want a new heart but you don't want to pay any money for the operation cause you don't want your insurance premium to go up!
When organs are transplanted the doctor is usually paid to preform the operation. The nursers are compensated for their time. The hospital gets remuneration for providing the OR, the ICU, the lights, the bed, the bad food and the reams of paper used to keep track of every pill, band-aid and Kleenex the patient is given. The hospital staff, from the CEO at the top, down to the person who takes out the garbage, all get big salaries or small wages. The insurance company makes money on the deal, or there would not be a "deal". They write the policies to their own advantage. The local, state and federal governments always get a piece of the action whenever large amounts of money change hands. And we are talking about very large amounts of money.
Perhaps the greatest beneficiaries are the pharmaceutical companies. When ever a major organ is transplanted the drug suppliers are guaranteed a "preferred" customer for life. Transplant recipients are generally required to take expensive anti-rejection drugs for the rest of their lives. And because those drugs weaken the immune system they also often need other drugs to fight infection and disease. So the "sale" of organs is a big business.
Fortunately there is a system in place to insure that the allocating of donated organs is fair. Hopefully the system works. Sometimes it is abused.
Lets look at what often goes on now. On one end we have a young person who has taken care of their body with exercise and a good diet, no abuse of drugs or alcohol. They have a good healthily life style and a body that is physically fit. Then they suddenly die in an accident maybe caused by a drunk driver. On the other end there may be a wealthy businessman, athlete, actor or rock star that has abused substances for their entire adult life. Their liver's been pickled, their lungs resemble those of a coal miner and their heart needs servicing by Roto-Rooter. They get to go on living in their mansions with their illegal immigrant domestic staff. The donor's family gets a thank you note. Is that right?
Those recipients who are able to pay big money for their used parts should be made to pay. The money could go into a fund out of which donor's families are paid. There would be no direct link between donor and recipient. This might add motivation to abuse the system but their is plenty of motivation already. Either the system works or it doesn't. Paying for the organ will not change the fact that the system for preventing abuse needs to be monitored closely and set up in a way that insures fairness to all. There is a bigger issue here, that of who gets good medical care in the first place. Everyone or just those can pay the exorbitant cost for the "finest health care in the world."
As it is now everyone gets paid except those who may need it the most. A family that has lost a bread winner and is now deeply in debt because of medical and funeral expenses.
OWL
Oct. 24, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
bryan jones
Last night at the meeting a fellow came in from San Jose to tell us his story. D. related to us how his father started getting him drunk when he was seven years old. His father thought is was funny to watch him stumble around. The rest of his story followed a pattern. Boys school, getting busted for being drunk on duty in the navy, and repeated arrest for drunk driving. The judge told him, "Some day you are going to kill somebody." In 1982 coming home from Reno, Nevada someday came. He woke up in a hospital and was told that he had killed a young man and the young mans infant son in a head-on collision just outside of Carson City.
"Just outside of Carson City a young man and his son killed by a drunk driver in a head-on collision." This was twenty-five years ago but the story was hauntingly familiar. I tried to remember. In '82 I would have been twenty-six. Could it be the same story? There are things that stick in your memory and you never forget where you were and what you were doing when you heard the news. I remember that night clearly. The phone hanging on the kitchen wall rang and I answered it. The woman asked for Carla, the young lady I was living with at the time. It sounded like bad news. Women often seem to say "Oh, no!" and "Oh my god!", so I didn't think much about it. When Carla hung up she told me her brother Bryan Jones and his only son had been killed by a drunk driver in a head on collision just out side of Carson City."
Just a coincidence I told myself. Route 395 is a very busy highway. Lots of people have been killed there over the years. Just the same I planned to ask the speaker about it after the meeting. I didn't have to wait.
In AA they stress the importance of making amends for the harm you have caused. D. went on to tell us that the hardest thing he had to do was to face the young man's wife, Mrs. Jones, and tell her he was sorry. He was not able to do this until many years after the accident.
Bryan was just twenty-three, the youngest of six children. The product of a rough childhood he had a reputation for going out to bars and getting into fights. Then he met Rose. He settled down, straightened up and got a good job. He was commuting two hours to work and back everyday. He wanted to do the right thing for his wife and child. His family was very proud of him. His mother was overjoyed that she finally had a grandchild.
The memories flooded back. His death had devastated his family. The grief and anger and sadness of that time welled up within me. I started crying. Around the room other people were talking and laughing. I wanted to scream. I was shaking. They did not understand the terrible consequences of this man actions.
In AA we often hear about how people have ruined their lives and the lives of others. But it is hard grasp the reality of what is being said. The stories get repetitive and begin to seem like so many words, detached from any substance. We blanket ourselves in numbness to keep from facing the ugliness of our own lives.
When I got the chance to speak I let D. and the others in the room know how this man's life had affected mine. I was angry. I was sad. I was upset. Mostly I was ashamed of myself for ever getting behind the wheel drunk. After the meeting D. came up to me looking for forgiveness. I offered him my hand and he held on to it. There was a look of desperation in his eyes. Forgiveness is not mine to give.
I thanked him for telling his story.
OWL
Oct. 18, 2007
"Just outside of Carson City a young man and his son killed by a drunk driver in a head-on collision." This was twenty-five years ago but the story was hauntingly familiar. I tried to remember. In '82 I would have been twenty-six. Could it be the same story? There are things that stick in your memory and you never forget where you were and what you were doing when you heard the news. I remember that night clearly. The phone hanging on the kitchen wall rang and I answered it. The woman asked for Carla, the young lady I was living with at the time. It sounded like bad news. Women often seem to say "Oh, no!" and "Oh my god!", so I didn't think much about it. When Carla hung up she told me her brother Bryan Jones and his only son had been killed by a drunk driver in a head on collision just out side of Carson City."
Just a coincidence I told myself. Route 395 is a very busy highway. Lots of people have been killed there over the years. Just the same I planned to ask the speaker about it after the meeting. I didn't have to wait.
In AA they stress the importance of making amends for the harm you have caused. D. went on to tell us that the hardest thing he had to do was to face the young man's wife, Mrs. Jones, and tell her he was sorry. He was not able to do this until many years after the accident.
Bryan was just twenty-three, the youngest of six children. The product of a rough childhood he had a reputation for going out to bars and getting into fights. Then he met Rose. He settled down, straightened up and got a good job. He was commuting two hours to work and back everyday. He wanted to do the right thing for his wife and child. His family was very proud of him. His mother was overjoyed that she finally had a grandchild.
The memories flooded back. His death had devastated his family. The grief and anger and sadness of that time welled up within me. I started crying. Around the room other people were talking and laughing. I wanted to scream. I was shaking. They did not understand the terrible consequences of this man actions.
In AA we often hear about how people have ruined their lives and the lives of others. But it is hard grasp the reality of what is being said. The stories get repetitive and begin to seem like so many words, detached from any substance. We blanket ourselves in numbness to keep from facing the ugliness of our own lives.
When I got the chance to speak I let D. and the others in the room know how this man's life had affected mine. I was angry. I was sad. I was upset. Mostly I was ashamed of myself for ever getting behind the wheel drunk. After the meeting D. came up to me looking for forgiveness. I offered him my hand and he held on to it. There was a look of desperation in his eyes. Forgiveness is not mine to give.
I thanked him for telling his story.
OWL
Oct. 18, 2007
Friday, October 5, 2007
bullseye
Ricky Inouye is dead.
At the meeting C. said, "The Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals has ruled that forcing someone to participate in an AA program is unconstitutional." The word "unconstitutional" always gets my attention. It is very often misused. When I got home I did my research. Google listed several headlines that stated essentially the same thing as C. had.
Mr. Inouye who had an addiction to methamphetamine was on parole for drug related crimes. His parole officer Mark Nanamori ordered him to attend meetings of Narcotics Anonymous. Inouye, a Buddhist, objected to the religious nature of the program and refused to attend the meetings. Partly for that reason he was sent back to prison. He filed suit claiming that his constitution right to freedom of religion had been violated and naming the city and county of Honolulu, Mark Nanamori and others as defendants. Inouye died in custody and his son Zenn Inouye carried on the suit in his behalf.
Nanamori did not dispute that he had violated Inouye's constitutional rights but claimed he was immune to liability because he was acting as an agent of the state. Citing several previous cases the Court ruled that Nanamori should have known he was acting in violation of the plaintiffs rights and therefore could be held liable for his actions.
A quote from the opinion issued by the court, "In this case, it is essentially uncontested that requiring a parolee to attend religion-based treatment programs violates the First Amendment." This is an important point. The Ninth District Circuit Court of Appeals did not rule that forced attendance in AA/NA programs was unconstitutional, that was an established point of law. They ruled that Ricky Inouye could sue his parole officer for his actions.
At the meeting C. repeatedly said "This guy chose death rather than life!" I could not find anywhere the cause of death for Ricky Inouye. So whether or not his death was related to his refusal to participate in a program I don't know. I do know this, Ricky Inouye fought for the rights granted him by the Constitution of the United States of America and the Bill of Rights. It might have been wiser for him to stop fighting and attend the program as his parole officer had wanted. But this America! The rights many people have given their lives for are ours to do with as we wish. If Ricky Inouye chose death rather than life that was his right.
Ricky Inouye may not have needed protection from a government trying to impose religious beliefs on him, but it is because of people like him, demanding their damned right because it is their damned right, that you and I have the freedom to speak the truth, write blogs like this one, gather in groups, ask the government to do the right thing and worship when and where and whatever God we choose!
The opinion of the court:
http://www.ca9.uscourts.gov/ca9/newopinions.nsf/6FA63303852632AC8825734F0059D078/$file/0615474.pdf
and the first amendment:
http://www.law.cornell.edu/constitution/constitution.billofrights.html
OWL
Oct. 5, 2007
At the meeting C. said, "The Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals has ruled that forcing someone to participate in an AA program is unconstitutional." The word "unconstitutional" always gets my attention. It is very often misused. When I got home I did my research. Google listed several headlines that stated essentially the same thing as C. had.
Mr. Inouye who had an addiction to methamphetamine was on parole for drug related crimes. His parole officer Mark Nanamori ordered him to attend meetings of Narcotics Anonymous. Inouye, a Buddhist, objected to the religious nature of the program and refused to attend the meetings. Partly for that reason he was sent back to prison. He filed suit claiming that his constitution right to freedom of religion had been violated and naming the city and county of Honolulu, Mark Nanamori and others as defendants. Inouye died in custody and his son Zenn Inouye carried on the suit in his behalf.
Nanamori did not dispute that he had violated Inouye's constitutional rights but claimed he was immune to liability because he was acting as an agent of the state. Citing several previous cases the Court ruled that Nanamori should have known he was acting in violation of the plaintiffs rights and therefore could be held liable for his actions.
A quote from the opinion issued by the court, "In this case, it is essentially uncontested that requiring a parolee to attend religion-based treatment programs violates the First Amendment." This is an important point. The Ninth District Circuit Court of Appeals did not rule that forced attendance in AA/NA programs was unconstitutional, that was an established point of law. They ruled that Ricky Inouye could sue his parole officer for his actions.
At the meeting C. repeatedly said "This guy chose death rather than life!" I could not find anywhere the cause of death for Ricky Inouye. So whether or not his death was related to his refusal to participate in a program I don't know. I do know this, Ricky Inouye fought for the rights granted him by the Constitution of the United States of America and the Bill of Rights. It might have been wiser for him to stop fighting and attend the program as his parole officer had wanted. But this America! The rights many people have given their lives for are ours to do with as we wish. If Ricky Inouye chose death rather than life that was his right.
Ricky Inouye may not have needed protection from a government trying to impose religious beliefs on him, but it is because of people like him, demanding their damned right because it is their damned right, that you and I have the freedom to speak the truth, write blogs like this one, gather in groups, ask the government to do the right thing and worship when and where and whatever God we choose!
The opinion of the court:
http://www.ca9.uscourts.gov/ca9/newopinions.nsf/6FA63303852632AC8825734F0059D078/$file/0615474.pdf
and the first amendment:
http://www.law.cornell.edu/constitution/constitution.billofrights.html
OWL
Oct. 5, 2007
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Ursa Minor
I was driving up Geary St. when I saw a banner in front of the Weinstein Gallery. "Picasso, Dali, Miró".
It was the end of August and I was on vacation. Misses B. had already taken her vacation and had gone to Orange County to see the latest addition to her extended family, a grandson, named after her late husband Frank. I was on my own and for the first time in several years I had gone out of town by myself. Constant calls from clients needing immediate attention on my first day off had helped to convince my loving wife that leaving the area was the only way that I would get any real relaxation.
I had packed an overnight bag and drove off with only a vague idea of where I was going or what I was going to do when I got there. Joan Miró is my favorite artist. Parking in San Francisco is a nightmare. I went round the block and into one of the monstrously expensive parking garages. Walking back down the street I looked into the gallery window and saw "Women Encircled by the Flight of a Bird". During his long artistic career Joan Miró had painted in a variety of styles, the prints from around 1960 contain a symbolism that speaks to my soul. The colors of his palette at that time are the colors of my emotions. The nice young man at the counter asked me if I was interested in anything specific and pointed to where some of Miró's work was on display. He told me to go ahead and look around.
Nothing that I saw was as interesting as the print in the window that was roped off. Hesitantly I asked I the young lady who worked there if I could get a closer look. She took me into the window and explained the history of the piece and let me examine it closely. And she told me the gallery had other pieces from the same collection of prints "Constellations." She went and got the key to another section of the gallery while I used the rest room. We went up the street and into another display room. I saw wonderful art pieces while learning fascinating information about how they where created. Patricia took the time to show me all of the pieces by Miró they had on display and when I showed interest in and knowledge about the artist she put on her little white gloves and pulled out the entire set of prints of "Constellations". We spent about an hour going over them, discussing their symbolism, admiring the colors and pointing out to one another various subtle images in the prints.
The rest of the time I spent in San Francisco was fun, I went to Chinatown and ate dried squid, drove over to Haight-Ashbury and bought the Misses a tie-dyed t-shirt (she made me do it), picked up some old comics for DW and found a nice little motel in the wrong part of town. The Phoenix a couple blocks up from Market St. looks rather questionable from the outside, the blank cinderblock walls are a drab green and the parking lot faces a street that needs swept. But the courtyard is lush with exotic plants and full of abstract art. The rooms, though the paint is rather gaudy, are clean and comfortable. The next day I had trouble finding the museum and a great deal of difficulty getting onto the bay bridge. At the other art galleries I visited I politely was shown a few pieces and then shown the door.
And I saw things there that were quite disturbing. A man and woman about my age picking up every thing they owned and moving on after sleeping on the sidewalk all night. A reminder of where I could be if I just tried a little harder. I get put out when I come in the house and it is too chilly because someone left the air conditioning running. I don't get into the big city much; my little trip helped me put my life into perspective.
Because the Misses wasn’t with me I got to do the things I was interested in. Little D. would have drug me from shop to shop, carrying bags full of cheap Chinese imports and souvenirs of the free love movement. We would have dined on something less exotic (less fishy). And I never would have found the Phoenix with her in tow, we would have drove right by.
One day in the city was enough! The one way streets, the five dollars in quarters needed for an hours parking (if you can find a spot), the panhandlers who can spot a tourist six block away and the bicyclist who come out of nowhere when you are about to make a right turn all got on my nerves. But after a few hours of driving in competition with taxi drivers on a mission the "rush hour" traffic in our little town no longer seems at all frustrating.
I owe misses B. a trip to Baghdad-By-The-Bay.
It was the end of August and I was on vacation. Misses B. had already taken her vacation and had gone to Orange County to see the latest addition to her extended family, a grandson, named after her late husband Frank. I was on my own and for the first time in several years I had gone out of town by myself. Constant calls from clients needing immediate attention on my first day off had helped to convince my loving wife that leaving the area was the only way that I would get any real relaxation.
I had packed an overnight bag and drove off with only a vague idea of where I was going or what I was going to do when I got there. Joan Miró is my favorite artist. Parking in San Francisco is a nightmare. I went round the block and into one of the monstrously expensive parking garages. Walking back down the street I looked into the gallery window and saw "Women Encircled by the Flight of a Bird". During his long artistic career Joan Miró had painted in a variety of styles, the prints from around 1960 contain a symbolism that speaks to my soul. The colors of his palette at that time are the colors of my emotions. The nice young man at the counter asked me if I was interested in anything specific and pointed to where some of Miró's work was on display. He told me to go ahead and look around.
Nothing that I saw was as interesting as the print in the window that was roped off. Hesitantly I asked I the young lady who worked there if I could get a closer look. She took me into the window and explained the history of the piece and let me examine it closely. And she told me the gallery had other pieces from the same collection of prints "Constellations." She went and got the key to another section of the gallery while I used the rest room. We went up the street and into another display room. I saw wonderful art pieces while learning fascinating information about how they where created. Patricia took the time to show me all of the pieces by Miró they had on display and when I showed interest in and knowledge about the artist she put on her little white gloves and pulled out the entire set of prints of "Constellations". We spent about an hour going over them, discussing their symbolism, admiring the colors and pointing out to one another various subtle images in the prints.
The rest of the time I spent in San Francisco was fun, I went to Chinatown and ate dried squid, drove over to Haight-Ashbury and bought the Misses a tie-dyed t-shirt (she made me do it), picked up some old comics for DW and found a nice little motel in the wrong part of town. The Phoenix a couple blocks up from Market St. looks rather questionable from the outside, the blank cinderblock walls are a drab green and the parking lot faces a street that needs swept. But the courtyard is lush with exotic plants and full of abstract art. The rooms, though the paint is rather gaudy, are clean and comfortable. The next day I had trouble finding the museum and a great deal of difficulty getting onto the bay bridge. At the other art galleries I visited I politely was shown a few pieces and then shown the door.
And I saw things there that were quite disturbing. A man and woman about my age picking up every thing they owned and moving on after sleeping on the sidewalk all night. A reminder of where I could be if I just tried a little harder. I get put out when I come in the house and it is too chilly because someone left the air conditioning running. I don't get into the big city much; my little trip helped me put my life into perspective.
Because the Misses wasn’t with me I got to do the things I was interested in. Little D. would have drug me from shop to shop, carrying bags full of cheap Chinese imports and souvenirs of the free love movement. We would have dined on something less exotic (less fishy). And I never would have found the Phoenix with her in tow, we would have drove right by.
One day in the city was enough! The one way streets, the five dollars in quarters needed for an hours parking (if you can find a spot), the panhandlers who can spot a tourist six block away and the bicyclist who come out of nowhere when you are about to make a right turn all got on my nerves. But after a few hours of driving in competition with taxi drivers on a mission the "rush hour" traffic in our little town no longer seems at all frustrating.
I owe misses B. a trip to Baghdad-By-The-Bay.
Here boy!
Sigmund Freud chose the term "Oedipus complex" to denote a condition in which a boy loves his mother and hates his father. This gives a lot of people the mistaken impression that the play Oedipus Rex or Oedipus the King by the Greek playwright Sophocles is about a man who hated his father and loved his mother.
It was foretold that the son of King Laius would kill his father and marry his mother. So the young Oedipus was sent away by his mother Jocasta to be left for dead in the forest. Of course we learned from Snow White that unwanted children need to be dealt with directly, underlings cannot be trusted with such delicate tasks. Oedipus was handed off to King Polybus who with his wife Merope raised the boy as his own. When Oedipus became a man he to consulted an oracle. Bad move as they say. He was told that he would kill his father and defile his mothers bed. So he ran away from home. On the road one night he ran into a group of men, an argument ensued and one of them was killed. Arriving in Thebes soon afterward our hero marries the recently widowed queen Jocasta.
Twenty years later the truth comes out, the man he had killed beside the road was his real father. Jocasta hung herself and Oedipus poked his eyes out with the pin of her golden brooch.
Sophecles' play is about running away from fate. Or more importantly running away from yourself. The fruitless attempt to escape from who you are by changing the external world.
People often miss the point.
OWL
Oct. 4, 2007
It was foretold that the son of King Laius would kill his father and marry his mother. So the young Oedipus was sent away by his mother Jocasta to be left for dead in the forest. Of course we learned from Snow White that unwanted children need to be dealt with directly, underlings cannot be trusted with such delicate tasks. Oedipus was handed off to King Polybus who with his wife Merope raised the boy as his own. When Oedipus became a man he to consulted an oracle. Bad move as they say. He was told that he would kill his father and defile his mothers bed. So he ran away from home. On the road one night he ran into a group of men, an argument ensued and one of them was killed. Arriving in Thebes soon afterward our hero marries the recently widowed queen Jocasta.
Twenty years later the truth comes out, the man he had killed beside the road was his real father. Jocasta hung herself and Oedipus poked his eyes out with the pin of her golden brooch.
Sophecles' play is about running away from fate. Or more importantly running away from yourself. The fruitless attempt to escape from who you are by changing the external world.
People often miss the point.
OWL
Oct. 4, 2007
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