Donors Sayings And Quotes

One thing I do know about intimacy is that there are certain natural laws which govern the sexual experience of two people, and that these laws cannot be budged any more than gravity can be negotiated with. To feel physically comfortable with someone else's body is not a decision you can make. It has very little to do with how two people think or act or talk or even look. The mysterious magnet is either there, buried somewhere deep behind the sternum, or it is not. When it isn't there (as I have learned in the past, with heartbreaking clarity) you can no more force it to exist than a surgeon can force a patient's body to accept a kidney from the wrong donor. My friend Annie says it all comes down to one simple question: "Do you want your belly pressed against this person's belly forever --or not?

On my license, it says I'm an organ donor, but the truth is I'd consider being an organ martyr. I'm sure I'm worth a lot more dead than alive - the sum of the parts equal more than the whole. I wonder who might wind up walking around with my liver, my lungs, even my eyeballs. I wonder what poor asshole would get stuck with whatever it is in me that passes for a heart.

I’m your walking talking organ donor. I’d better make myself available.” “You’ve got one heart, you idiot.” “I know,” Jamie says. “I’m keeping it warm for you.” My idiot twin still loves me.

Joan spoke kindly, explaining patiently, as he always patiently explained things to her. “It’s like in that book you gave me, Jane Eyre. Jane says she isn’t a bird caught in a net. Instead she’s a human being with an independent will and that she has a treasure inside her that will keep her alive, no matter if anything bad happens.

Ultimately the judge threw Moore’s suit out of court, saying he had no case. Ironically, in his decision, the judge cited the HeLa cell line as a precedent for what happened with the Mo cell line. The fact that no one had sued over the growth or ownership of the HeLa cell line, he said, illustrated that patients didn’t mind when doctors took their cells and turned them into commercial products. The judge believed Moore was unusual in his objections. But in fact, he was simply the first to realize there was something potentially objectionable going on.

Rousseau already observed that this form of government is more accurately an ‘elective aristocracy’ because in practice the people are not in power at all. Instead we’re allowed to decide who holds power over us. It’s also important to realise this model was originally designed to exclude society’s rank and file. Take the American Constitution: historians agree it ‘was intrinsically an aristocratic document designed to check the democratic tendencies of the period’. It was never the American Founding Fathers’ intention for the general populace to play an active role in politics. Even now, though any citizen can run for public office, it’s tough to win an election without access to an aristocratic network of donors and lobbyists. It’s not surprising that American ‘democracy’ exhibits dynastic tendencies—think of the Kennedys, the Clintons, the Bushes. Time and again we hope for better leaders, but all too often those hopes are dashed. The reason, says Professor Keltner, is that power causes people to lose the kindness and modesty that got them elected, or they never possessed those sterling qualities in the first place. In a hierarchically organised society, the Machiavellis are one step ahead. They have the ultimate secret weapon to defeat their competition. They’re shameless.

Until it only gets weirder when Gus walks in the room and says, “The sperm donor returns. How goes it, maestro? How was the journey from bean town?

Fuck them all. I ought to have that tattooed on my forehead, for all the times I've thought it. Usually I am in transit, speeding in my Jeep until my lungs give out. Today, I'm driving ninety-five down 95. I weave in and out of traffic, sewing up a scar. People yell at me behind their closed windows. I give them the finger. It would solve a thousand problems if I rolled the Jeep over an embankment. It's not like I haven't thought about it, you know. On my license, it says I'm an organ donor, but the truth is I'd consider being an organ martyr. I'm sure I'm worth a lot more dead than alive--the sum of the parts equals more than the whole. I wonder who might wind up walking around with my liver, my lungs, even my eyeballs. I wonder what poor asshole would get stuck with whatever it is in me that passes for a heart.

What do you have to forget or overlook in order to desire that this dysfunctional clan once more occupies the White House and is again in a position to rent the Lincoln Bedroom to campaign donors and to employ the Oval Office as a massage parlor? You have to be able to forget, first, what happened to those who complained, or who told the truth, last time. It's often said, by people trying to show how grown-up and unshocked they are, that all Clinton did to get himself impeached was lie about sex. That's not really true. What he actually lied about, in the perjury that also got him disbarred, was the women. And what this involved was a steady campaign of defamation, backed up by private dicks (you should excuse the expression) and salaried government employees, against women who I believe were telling the truth. In my opinion, Gennifer Flowers was telling the truth; so was Monica Lewinsky, and so was Kathleen Willey, and so, lest we forget, was Juanita Broaddrick, the woman who says she was raped by Bill Clinton. (For the full background on this, see the chapter 'Is There a Rapist in the Oval Office?' in the paperback version of my book No One Left To Lie To. This essay, I may modestly say, has never been challenged by anybody in the fabled Clinton 'rapid response' team.) Yet one constantly reads that both Clintons, including the female who helped intensify the slanders against her mistreated sisters, are excellent on women's 'issues.

When we notice someone suffering and immediately decide to help them, it “says” to our associates, “See how easily I’m moved to help others? When people near me are suffering, I can’t help wanting to make their situation better; it’s just who I am.” This is a profoundly useful trait to advertise; it means you’ll make a great ally. The more time other people spend around you, the more they’ll get to partake of your spontaneous good will. It’s this function of charity that accounts for a lot of the puzzles we discussed earlier. For one, it explains why we donate so opportunistically. Most donors don’t sketch out a giving strategy and follow through as though it were a business plan.

Donating sperm was not the same as, say, donating a kidney. Or a retina. It was the passing along of an essence that was inseparable from personhood itself.

I should get one of those T-shirts that says ORGASM DONOR,” he said.

Hundreds of our old neighbors, friends, coworkers, and teachers are new insomniacs. They file for dream bankruptcy, appeal for Slumber Corps aid, wait to be approved for a sleep donor. It is a special kind of homelessness, says our mayor, to be evicted from your dreams. I believe our mayor is both genuinely concerned for his insomniac constituency, and also pandering to a powerfully desperate new voting block.

The life an infertile person seeks comes to her not by accident and not by fate but by hard-fought choices. How to put together the portfolio of photographs. How to answer at the home study. What clinic or doctor or procedure. Donor egg or donor sperm or donor embryo. Open or closed adoption. What country, what boxes to check or uncheck. What questions to ask, and ask again. When to start and when to stop. What to say when her child says, Tell me my story.

I impulsively dialed his number, but it didn't register that i'd actually talk to him after all these months. I mean what does one say to an estranged father? Hey sperm donor, how's it going in Ireland? Do they cash more for prostitutes?

The sick suffer alone, they undergo procedures and surgeries alone, and in the end, they die alone. Transplant is different. Transplant is all about having someone else join you in your illness. It may be in the form of an organ from a recently deceased donor, a selfless gift given by someone has never met you, or a kidney or liver from a relative, friend or acquaintance. In every case, someone is saying, in effect, “Let me join you in the recovery, your suffering, your fear of the unknown, your desire to become healthy, to get your life back. Let me bear some of your risk with you.

The human species is an animal species without very much variation within it, and it is idle and futile to imagine that a voyage to Tibet, say, will discover an entirely different harmony with nature or eternity. The Dalai Lama, for example, is entirely and easily recognizable to a secularist. In exactly the same way as a medieval princeling, he makes the claim not just that Tibet should be independent of Chinese hegemony—a “perfectly good” demand, if I may render it into everyday English—but that he himself is a hereditary king appointed by heaven itself. How convenient! Dissenting sects within his faith are persecuted; his one-man rule in an Indian enclave is absolute; he makes absurd pronouncements about sex and diet and, when on his trips to Hollywood fund-raisers, anoints major donors like Steven Segal and Richard Gere as holy. (Indeed, even Mr. Gere was moved to whine a bit when Mr. Segal was invested as a tulku, or person of high enlightenment. It must be annoying to be outbid at such a spiritual auction.) I will admit that the current “Dalai” or supreme lama is a man of some charm and presence, as I will admit that the present queen of England is a person of more integrity than most of her predecessors, but this does not invalidate the critique of hereditary monarchy, and the first foreign visitors to Tibet were downright appalled at the feudal domination, and hideous punishments, that kept the population in permanent serfdom to a parasitic monastic elite.

It would solve a thousand problems if I rolled the Jeep over an embankment. It's not like I haven't thought about it, you know. On my license, it says I'm an organ donor, but the truth is I'd consider being an organ martyr. I'm sure I'm worth a lot more dead than alive—the sum of the parts equals more than the whole. I wonder who might wind up walking around with my liver, my lungs, even my eyeballs. I wonder what poor asshole would get stuck with whatever it is in me that passes for a heart.

One day he was mugged in the hallway of his building. The muggers found $1.25 on him, but no watch or jewelry of any kind. When some donors tried to raise money for him, to enhance his lifestyle, he shut them down, saying, “I am sure you know that I have no money and, at the same time, don’t expect to get any. However, I would not think of having a movement started to raise money for me and my family. It is the lot of some people to be poor and it is my lot, which I do not have any remorse about.”6

I’m having a baby.” Cue the pregnant pause––pun intended. On the other side of the pond, my brother’s confused expression says it all. “With who?” “I don’t know.” “Jesus, you don’t know who the father is? How many people are you dating?” “Shut up. I’m not pregnant yet. I’m searching for a man to share parental responsibility.” “What?” “Co-parenting. We legally share a child.” “Like a sperm donor?” He looks unhappy with this turn of events. As much as I love my brother, and I do, he’s a total caveman when it suits him. “I’ll volunteer my sperm,” a deep voice shouts in the background. Alex turns in the direction of the voice. “Not if I stuff your nuts down your throat first, Hayes. That’s my baby sister you’re talking about.” “By a minute,” I feel the need to clarify. “You’re still my baby sister.” 

As tensions built in the increasingly calamitous debt ceiling stalemate, two sources say, Boehner traveled to New York to personally beseech David Koch’s help. One former adviser to the Koch family says that “Boehner begged David to ‘call off the dogs!’ He pointed out that if the country defaulted, David’s own investments would tank.” A spokeswoman for Boehner, Emily Schillinger, confirmed the visit but insisted, “Anyone who knows Speaker Boehner knows he doesn’t ‘beg.’ ” But the spectacle of the Speaker of the House, who was among the most powerful elected officials in the country, third in line in the order of presidential succession, traveling to the Manhattan office of a billionaire businessman to ask for his help in an internecine congressional fight captures just how far the Republican Party’s fulcrum of power had shifted toward the outside donors by 2011.

Megan resumes darting her eyes back and forth between me and my sperm donor. “So,” she says after several seconds pass in silence. “Is someone going to fill me in?” “There’s nothing to fill,” I say, then blush because I’m a bad liar and because Chase has been filling me quite well. Apparently, he’s also turned me into a pervert. Megan narrows her eyes. “Are the two of you…?” “No!” Chase and I say at once. Like that’s not obvious. “I’m helping Pop with his computer,” I say in a rush, eager to make this situation seem anything other than what it is. Though, at this point, I’m not sure what it is. This morning’s activities have had nothing at all to do with our contractual agreement. “Ah. I see.” Megan doesn’t seem convinced, but she turns to her grandfather anyway, and says, “I told you Phil would help you with that, Pop.” “She’s nicer than Phil,” Pop says, nodding in my direction. “She’s prettier than him, too.” He winks as though he knows he’s part of a cover-up. And because I’ve completely fallen for this old man, I wink back.

you have to understand something about presidential elections in general. The politicians devise strategies and court donors years in advance. At the same time, newspapers and networks carefully decide which reporter they’ll match with which candidate. Trump wasn’t part of anyone’s plan. For that matter, neither was I. Five days into my New York trip, while I was running an errand, I got a call from a friend at work. “Hey, Katy. Heads up,” the friend said. “Deborah Turness [my boss] is going to assign you to Trump full-time. [David, another boss] Verdi is going to call. If you don’t want to do this, you better figure out what you’re going to say to get out of it. Don’t let on that I told you, but get ready.” Anxiety. Indecision. Italy. My vacation with Benoît is in just over a week. On the other hand, as good as life can be in Europe, there’s also a lot of professional boredom. It would be nice to get some TV time. And New York is unbeatable in the summer. I hung up and paced the sidewalk. Then I called a friend from CBS. “They want me to cover Trump full-time,” I told him. My friend had covered Romney in 2012. “What do I do?

If you’re going to give me the third degree,” she tells him, “let’s get it over with. Best to withhold food or water; water is probably best. I’ll get thirsty before I get hungry.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Do you really think I’m like that? Why would you think that?” “I was taken by force, and you’re keeping me here against my will,” she says, leaning across the table toward him. She considers spitting in his face, but decides to save that gesture as punctuation for a more appropriate moment. “Imprisonment is still imprisonment, no matter how many layers of cotton you wrap it in.” That makes him lean farther away, and she knows she’s pushed a button. She remembers seeing those pictures of him back when he was all over the news, wrapped in cotton and kept in a bombproof cell. “I really don’t get you,” he says, a bit of anger in his voice this time. “We saved your life. You could at least be a little grateful.” “You have robbed me, and everyone here, of their purpose. That’s not salvation, that’s damnation.” “I’m sorry you feel that way.” Now it’s her turn to get angry. “Yes, you’re sorry I feel that way, everyone’s sorry I feel that way. Are you going to keep this up until I don’t feel that way anymore?” He stands up suddenly, pushing his chair back, and paces, fern leaves brushing his clothes. She knows she’s gotten to him. He seems like he’s about to storm out, but instead takes a deep breath and turns back to her. “I know what you’re going through,” he says. “I was brainwashed by my family to actually want to be unwound—and not just by my family, but by my friends, my church, everyone I looked up to. The only voice who spoke sense was my brother Marcus, but I was too blind to hear him until the day I got kidnapped.” “You mean see,” she says, putting a nice speed bump in his way. “Huh?” “Too blind to see him, too deaf to hear him. Get your senses straight. Or maybe you can’t, because you’re senseless.” He smiles. “You’re good.” “And anyway, I don’t need to hear your life story. I already know it. You got caught in a freeway pileup, and the Akron AWOL used you as a human shield—very noble. Then he turned you, like cheese gone bad.” “He didn’t turn me. It was getting away from my tithing, and seeing unwinding for what it is. That’s what turned me.” “Because being a murderer is better than being a tithe, isn’t that right, clapper?” He sits back down again, calmer, and it frustrates her that he is becoming immune to her snipes. “When you live a life without questions, you’re unprepared for the questions when they come,” he says. “You get angry and you totally lack the skills to deal with the anger. So yes, I became a clapper, but only because I was too innocent to know how guilty I was becoming.” ... “You think I’m like you, but I’m not,” Miracolina says. “I’m not part of a religious order that tithes. My parents did it in spite of our beliefs, not because of ii.” “But you were still raised to believe it was your purpose, weren’t you?” “My purpose was to save my brother’s life by being a marrow donor, so my purpose was served before I was six months old.” “And doesn’t that make you angry that the only reason you’re here was to help someone else?” “Not at all,” she says a little too quickly. She purses her lips and leans back in her chair, squirming a bit. The chair feels a little too hard beneath her. “All right, so maybe I do feel angry once in a while, but I understand why they did it. If I were them, I would have done the same thing.” “Agreed,” he says. “But once your purpose was served, shouldn’t your life be your own?” “Miracles are the property of God,” she answers. “No,” he says, “miracles are gifts from God. To calthem his property insults the spirit in which they are given.” She opens her mouth to reply but finds she has no response, because he’s right. Damn him for being right—nothing about him should be right! “We’ll talk again when you’re over yourself,” he says.

Thought is measured by a different rule, and puts us in mind, rather, of those souls whose number, according to certain ancient myths, is limited. There was in that time a limited contingent of souls or spiritual substance, redistributed from one living creature to the next as successive deaths occurred. With the result that some bodies were sometimes waiting for a soul (like present-day heart patients waiting for an organ donor). On this hypothesis, it is clear that the more human beings there are, the rarer will be those who have a soul. Not a very democratic situation and one which might be translated today into: the more intelligent beings there are (and, by the grace of information technology, they are virtually all intelligent), the rarer thought will be. Christianity was first to institute a kind of democracy and generalized right to a personal soul (it wavered for a long time where women were concerned). The production of souls increased substantially as a result, like the production of banknotes in an inflationary period, and the concept of soul was greatly devalued. It no longer really has any currency today and it has ceased to be traded on the exchanges. There are too many souls on the market today. That is to say, recycling the metaphor, there is too much information, too much meaning, too much immaterial data for the bodies that are left, too much grey matter for the living substance that remains. To the point where the situation is no longer that of bodies in search of a soul, as in the archaic liturgies, but of innumerable souls in search of a body. Or an incalculable knowledge in search of a knowing subject.

Months later, Time magazine would run its now infamous article bragging about how it had been done. Without irony or shame, the magazine reported that “[t]here was a conspiracy unfolding behind the scenes” creating “an extraordinary shadow effort” by a “well-funded cabal of powerful people” to oppose Trump.112 Corporate CEOs, organized labor, left-wing activists, and Democrats all worked together in secret to secure a Biden victory. For Trump, these groups represented a powerful Washington and Democratic establishment that saw an unremarkable career politician like Biden as merely a vessel for protecting their self-interests. Accordingly, when Trump was asked whom he blames for the rigging of the 2020 election, he quickly responded, “Least of all Biden.” Time would, of course, disingenuously frame this effort as an attempt to “oppose Trump’s assault on democracy,” even as Time reporter Molly Ball noted this shadow campaign “touched every aspect of the election. They got states to change voting systems and laws and helped secure hundreds of millions in public and private funding.” The funding enabled the country’s sudden rush to mail-in balloting, which Ball described as “a revolution in how people vote.”113 The funding from Democratic donors to public election administrators was revolutionary. The Democrats’ network of nonprofit activist groups embedded into the nation’s electoral structure through generous grants from Democratic donors. They helped accomplish the Democrats’ vote-by-mail strategy from the inside of the election process. It was as if the Dallas Cowboys were paying the National Football League’s referee staff and conducting all of their support operations. No one would feel confident in games won by the Cowboys in such a scenario. Ball also reported that this shadowy cabal “successfully pressured social media companies to take a harder line against disinformation and used data-driven strategies to fight viral smears.” And yet, Time magazine made this characterization months after it was revealed that the New York Post’s reporting on Hunter Biden’s corrupt deal-making with Chinese and other foreign officials—deals that alleged direct involvement from Joe Biden, resulting in the reporting’s being overtly censored by social media—was substantially true. Twitter CEO Jack Dorsey would eventually tell Congress that censoring the New York Post and locking it out of its Twitter account over the story was “a mistake.” And the Hunter Biden story was hardly the only egregious mistake, to say nothing of the media’s willful dishonesty, in the 2020 election. Republicans read the Time article with horror and as an admission of guilt. It confirmed many voters’ suspicions that the election wasn’t entirely fair. Trump knew the article helped his case, calling it “the only good article I’ve read in Time magazine in a long time—that was actually just a piece of the truth because it was much deeper than that.

The epidemic of HIV and AIDS, the largest in Eastern Europe and Eurasia, is even more worrisome. Registered cases in 2012 numbered more than seven hundred thousand, up from fewer than half a million as recently as 2008, but no such figure can be trusted in a country that blamed the Pentagon for AIDS during the Cold War. Experts say the real rate is at least double the official number—and growing, thanks largely to the use of heroin, which is also rapidly spreading. Although AIDS is the third leading cause of premature death—compared to the twenty-third in the United States—Moscow no longer accepts funding from the United Nations UNAIDS program or other international organizations because it sees itself as a donor country, not a recipient of help. However, the government doesn’t finance programs that had been until recently supported by foreign agencies.10 Insufficient funding for known cases of AIDS virtually guarantees that patients receive generally inferior treatment, and poor people get by far the worst from the badly fraying social services and healthcare system. The United Nations places Russia seventy-first in the world in human development, after Albania and just above Macedonia. (Norway is first; the United States thirteenth.)

Another possible solution would be to think about kidney exchange in a global way. There is virtually no kidney transplantation, and little or no access to dialysis, in places such as Nigeria, Bangladesh, and Vietnam, where kidney failure is a death sentence. Presumably, many kidney patients there have willing donors, but in a country such as Nigeria, for example, where fewer than 150 transplants occurred from 2000 to 2010, that willingness doesn’t do patients any good. But suppose we were to offer them access to American hospitals, at no cost? That may sound expensive, but it wouldn’t have to be—indeed, it could be self-financing. Remember that removing an American patient from dialysis saves Medicare a quarter of a million dollars. That’s more than enough to finance two kidney transplants, as well as postsurgical care and medicines. That money could pay for an exchange between an American patient-donor pair and, say, a Nigerian pair.

Democrats say "They want to fight corruption" but they fail to see it, they are the one who sold the Democracy. Philanthropist George Soros is the biggest donor of the Democratic party.

The average American is heard only if wealthy donors happen to be saying the same thing.

So that’s it for tonight then? I can go?” An expression of sadness passed over his face, there and gone so quickly I wondered if I had imagined it. “I had hoped you might want to stay the remainder of the night here with me. The bed is quite comfortable.” “So you’re inviting me to a vampire slumber party? I don’t think so,” I said flatly. “Sorry, Corbin, but I don’t want to be here if you get horny again.” “I would do nothing but hold you, Addison. I would never ask you to pay the Crimson Debt for me.” I frowned. “You said that earlier when you were talking about finding a willing donor for Taylor. What does that mean, exactly—the Crimson Debt?” He sighed. “It’s a euphemism for feeding and sex at the same time. There is a reason for it, you know—it heals all wounds. Those of the body and of the heart.” I snorted. “All but the ones the human in question incurs, you mean.” Corbin nodded. “Paying the Crimson Debt—giving blood while making love—is a lethal combination, as we know, when a human is involved. But it is possible between two vampires or a vampire and another paranormal creature, such as a were or other shapeshifter.” “But you guys hate each other—vamps and weres, I mean,” I protested. Corbin shrugged. “Interspecies flings are generally frowned on, true. I’m just saying what’s possible.” He got off the bed and came to stand in front of me. “Just as it is possible for you to spend the night in my arms and not fear for your life.” I wanted to look away but again his eyes held me. “Corbin,” I whispered. “I…” But I didn’t know how to go on. “Stay with me, Addison,” he murmured, stroking my cheek gently. “Sleep in my arms. I’m sorry if I frightened you. I swear it won’t happen again.” “No, it won’t,” I said firmly, forcing myself to ignore the fire his tender touch started inside me. “Because I’m not going to put myself in that position again. And that means I have to leave, now.

We are from a purely financial point of view greatly more generous than our ancestors ever were, surrendering up to half of our income for the communal good. But we do this almost without realizing it, through the anonymous agency of the taxation system; and if we think about it at all, it is likely to be with resentment that our money is being used to support unnecessary bureaucracies or to buy missiles. We seldom feel a connection to those less fortunate members of the polity for whom our taxes also buy clean sheets, soup, shelter or a daily dose of insulin. Neither recipient nor donor feels the need to say ‘Please’ or ‘Thank you’. Our donations are never framed – as they were in the Christian era – as the lifeblood of an intricate tangle of mutually interdependent relationships, with practical benefits for the recipient and spiritual ones for the donor.

In preparation for his New York Times Magazine story about one woman’s heart transplant experience, he had the opportunity to attend a Valentine’s Day party held for more than one hundred heart transplant recipients. Almost every recipient reported “spiritual memories,” or feelings of the energy of their donor. Siebert writes, “All the people I met at the party spoke in the same reverent tones about the angel in their chests, about this gift, this responsibility they now bear, and the little prayer they say to the other person inside them. It was as if they were part of some strange new cult, the tribe of the transplanted.”28 No one forgets that they have another person’s heart in their chest, and Siebert acknowledges that no matter how hard we try to see the heart as “just a pump,” every heart transplant recipient seemed to “re-inform themselves with a larger spiritual significance.

Well, when I was spiraling, I decided to donate money to make me feel better,” JP says. “I know of a great pigeon rescue that could use another donor.” I look him dead in the eyes and say, “I’m not feeding into your pigeon obsession. You can fuck off with that.

Removed. Three years ago, it says. Someone complained, probably. That it encouraged pro-PAO sentiment, or something. Some of our donors have—opinions. On China, or in this case, anything that vaguely resembles it.

I’ve been told again and again, at school after school, that career service offices have little or nothing to say to students who are interested in something other than the big four of law, medicine, finance, and consulting. At the recruitment fairs, the last two dominate the field. And some schools go even further. Stanford offers companies special access to its students for a fee of ten thousand dollars—and it is hard to believe that Stanford is the only one. Selling your students to the highest bidder: it doesn’t get more cynical than that. But though the process isn’t often that direct, that’s basically the way the system works. As a friend of mine, a third-generation Yalie, once remarked, the purpose of Yale College is to manufacture Yale alumni. David Foster Wallace (Amherst ’85), has a character put it like this: The college itself turned out to have a lot of moral hypocrisy about it, e.g., congratulating itself on its diversity and the leftist piety of its politics while in reality going about the business of preparing elite kids to enter elite professions and make a great deal of money, thus increasing the pool of prosperous alumni donors.

Most of the donors have a hundred-word vocabulary, including articles and prepositions. Under these conditions, it would be hard not to lapse into poetry. At least, Ledesma says, we won’t run into too much irony, which complicates interpretation. Gigena purses his lips and, after a little “hmm” that softens his disagreement, says that irony is not the exclusive purview of the educated, and that it can be seen outside small-town corner stores in the form of insulting nicknames. Oinking, for example, at a slim young woman.

Even in the absence of communication between the two entities, a campaign could ensure that a friendly super PAC was headed by someone who knew what the candidate’s organization thought the core message should be. For instance, Romney’s super PAC, Restore Our Future, was founded and run by several of the top aides from his previous campaign—a failed bid for the 2008 Republican presidential nomination (Eggen and Cillizza 2011). With the ability to leverage unlimited contributions into ads that could expressly say “Vote for Romney” or “Don’t Vote for Gingrich,” super PACs were therefore a powerful weapon for the Republican candidates as they fought it out on the airwaves in the early primary states. Although the Romney campaign itself was restricted to receiving contributions from individuals of no more than $2,500—and could receive no corporate money—Restore Our Future raised $18 million from about 200 donors (including corporations) in the last six months of 2011, just prior to the Iowa caucuses (ibid.). For comparison, the Romney campaign would have needed to collect the maximum donation of $2,500 from 7,200 individuals to raise that amount.

Nothing is more certain than that whatever has to court public favor for its support will sooner or later be prostituted to utilitarian ends. The educational institutions of the United States afford a striking demonstration of this truth. Virtually without exception, liberal education, that is to say, education centered about ideas and ideals, has fared best in those institutions which draw their income from private sources. They have been able, despite limitations which donors have sought to lay upon them, to insist that education be not entirely a means of breadwinning. This means that they have been relatively free to promote pure knowledge and the training of the mind; they have afforded a last stand for “antisocial” studies like Latin and Greek. In state institutions, always at the mercy of elected bodies and of the public generally, and under obligation to show practical fruits for their expenditure of money, the movement toward specialism and vocationalism has been irresistible. They have never been able to say that they will do what they will with their own because their own is not private. It seems fair to say that the opposite of the private is the prostitute. Not

Unlike other patients, there there was a higher ratio of donors, and it was likely that someone would be a match. The competition would be over who would be most suitable. Six brothers wanted the job and one of them would certainly win.

Reds! Communists!” they said to us; the hatred was so strong that many benefactors withdrew their contributions to the sick. “I’m scaring off your donors,” he would say, upset. He even said that he would leave. But how could we allow him to go?

Jeremy’s T-Shirts by book: Hard As It Gets “ROUTE 69” “This guy loves BACON” with two hands with their thumbs pointing back at him “Orgasm Donor” with a red cross Big Johnson’s Tattoo Parlor, “You’re going to feel more than a Little Prick” “I’m not Santa but you can still sit on my lap” Hard As You Can Log-holding beaver that says, “Are you looking at my wood?” “I put the long in schlong” Hard to Hold On To "Blink if you're horny" Hard to Come By Hand pointing downward and the words, "May I suggest the sausage?" Charlie (who starts borrowing Jeremy's t-shirts): A smiling fire extinguished that says, "I put out" Charlie: Schnauzer wearing a saddle that says, "Weiner Rides, 25 cents" "HEAD Foundation. Please give generously" Charlie: Mr. T with the words "Mr. T Shirt" There's a party in my pants. You're invited.

He argued that conservatives should control the political debate at its source by demanding “balance” in textbooks, television shows, and news coverage. Donors, he argued, should demand a say in university hiring and curriculum and “press vigorously in all political arenas.” The key to victory, he predicted, was “careful long-range planning and implementation,” backed by a “scale of financing available only through joint effort.” Powell

You’re just the sperm donor, Norm,” he says, heading for the door. “That’s all you were ever good for. Fucking sperm.

Saudi Arabia, Yemen’s biggest donor, warned the US against putting cash into the country, saying it usually ended up in Swiss bank accounts.

Critics of the system say they want to get enough people involved to dilute the handful of wealthy donors and big-money groups who are essentially drowning out everybody else.

As assistant director of programs, Anne was struggling with how to get more food out where it was needed. "Donors love pictures of cute little kids having snacks at school," she said. "And they support meal programs for seniors. But nobody's lining up to say, Gee, I want to put food in the cupboard for really poor black mothers who use drugs; I want to buy groceries for everyone living in the projects. Very few donors trust poor people enough to just give away food without conditions." Anne held a dim view of charity kitchens that kept poor people waiting in line two or three times a day just to get a meal ladled out. "They're convenient for staff," she said, "but they take away people's dignity, and they reinforce dependency. They're about control." In addition, she said, institutional meal programs, such as those in school lunchrooms, tended to provide unhealthy food that was fast to make—bologna sandwiches on white bread, instant mashed potatoes, canned fruit cocktail.

Why in the world are you crying?” “I had a fight with Cam,” she said, tears running down her cheeks, her words caught on a sob. “Cam?” Paul asked, confused. “I was upset. He got all teary when he saw the ultrasound—one of them is for sure a boy. I hated that he got emotional in front of John Stone and I lost my temper.” “Oh, Abby…” “He got emotional?” Paul repeated, more confused. “Cameron?” “Vanni—I called him a sperm donor! I was so mean.” “Oh, Abby!” “Sperm donor?” Paul said, totally lost. “He laid it out for me, very seriously. Angrily. He’s not getting out of my way on this. He’s going to be a problem—as if I don’t have enough problems.” She leaned toward Vanni and wept on her shoulder. “He said he can’t make me like him, but he won’t let me take the babies away from him!” “Like him?” Paul said. “Babies? What the hell’s going on here?” Vanni looked over her shoulder at Paul. “Cameron’s the father—don’t tell anyone.” “Please don’t tell anyone,” Abby stressed tearfully. Paul was quiet for a long moment while Vanni just held Abby, comforting her. Finally he found his voice. “Are you fucking kidding me?” “I didn’t mean to be so hostile,” Abby wept. “Maybe it’s pregnancy.” “Sure it is, honey,” Vanni comforted. “Wait a minute,” Paul attempted. “Wait a minute here.” “Long story, Paul,” Vanni said. “Just don’t tell anyone. I’ll explain later, okay?” “But I thought they just met!” Paul said. “Obviously they didn’t just meet. Don’t be a dimwit. I’ll tell you about it later, after Abby gets calmed down.” Paul turned away from them and went to pick little Matt up from the floor where he played. “Must be a long story,” he muttered. “Very, very long. Say, about five months long?” “Abby,

Is that so?” Cameron said. “Well, guess what? I feel real bad about what she said, too.” Then he looked back into his drink and sulked. “Come on,” Jack said. “What the hell could she have said?” Cameron looked up from his drink. “She called me an unkind name.” Jack laughed at him. “Well, you’re a big boy. What could a little pregnant girl call you that would get you so riled up?” “Never mind. It’s over.” “How about—sperm donor,” Paul supplied. Cameron shot Paul an angry look. “Way to go, dipshit. Anybody ever tell you you have a big mouth?” “When Vanni said not to tell, I didn’t think she meant you. I mean, you know. Right?” Cameron glanced at Jack. “Don’t worry about Jack,” Paul said. “He doesn’t talk. Well, he does, but when he has specific orders not to, he can manage to keep his mouth shut.” Then Jack, caution drawing every word, said, “Now, why in the world would she say something like that to you?” “I can’t imagine,” Cameron said, pouting. “Well, if it makes you feel any better about things, Vanessa called me a dimwit for asking just about the same question.

I didn’t ask myself if it was possible. I couldn’t seem to help it. When you didn’t get in touch after we met in Grants Pass, when I couldn’t find you, I was miserable. I told you back then, I liked our chances. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone in my life I felt so much for, so quickly.” “I can’t say it was that way for me, Cameron,” she said. “I know. I guess I hoped that over time…” “But I liked you,” she said. “You were very sweet to me.” “That didn’t take any effort at all,” he said, giving her hair a soft stroke. “You were like heaven. I couldn’t believe I was that lucky.” “I thought about you afterward. All the time.” “You did?” he asked, surprised. “But I was scared to death to find myself hooked up to another guy I thought was everything I wanted, only to find out I was just delusional. To let myself believe in you, count on you and have you run out on me?” She shook her head. “I wasn’t up to that. I thought it would be a lot safer if I never saw you again.” “I understand, Abby. It doesn’t matter what place I have in your life—I’ll never run out on you. I’ll support you and the kids, I’ll be a good father, I’ll—” “You were even kind and supportive after I called you a sperm donor….” He chuckled. “You were in high temper that night. Remind me not to get into fights with you.” “Cameron,

The procedure works along the same principles as a probiotic, but rather than adding just one strain of bacteria, or even 17, it adds all of them. It's an ecosystem transplant-an attempt to fix a faltering community by completely replacing it, like returfing a lawn that's overrun by dandelions. Khoruts showed this process at work by collecting stool samples from Rebecca before and after her transplant. Beforehand, her gut was a mess. The C-diff infection had completely restructured her microbiome, creating a community that "looked like something that doesn't exist in nature-a different galaxy", says Khoruts. Afterwards, her microbiome was indistinguishable from her husband's. His microbes had stormed into her dysbiotic gut and reset it. It was almost as if Khoruts had done an organ transplant, throwing out his patient's diseased and damaged gut microbiome and replacing it with the donor's shiny new one. This makes the microbiome the only organ that can be replaced without surgery.

One consequence of all of this has been a severe erosion of democracy, an immediate consequence of sharp concentration of wealth and business power. We’ve discussed some of the means: virtual purchase of elections, radical escalation of lobbying, undermining of voting rights, all facilitated further by the most reactionary Supreme Court in living memory. There is no longer fear of excessive democracy. There’s a lot of fuss, as you know, about alleged Russian meddling in the elections. It is scarcely detectable, but even if it existed on any substantial scale, it would be invisible in comparison with the interference in elections by extreme wealth and corporate power. But these are more things that it wouldn’t do to say. Best to worry about the Russians. One consequence of all of this, also well established in the academic political science literature, is that a considerable majority of the population, those who are lower on the income-wealth scale, are literally disenfranchised. They may cast votes, but it doesn’t much matter. They’re disenfranchised in the sense that when you compare their preferences and attitudes with the decisions made by their own representatives, there’s virtually no correlation. The legislators are listening to other voices. The donor class. During the neoliberal period, the past generation, both parties shifted pretty far to the right. The Democrats abandoned the working class. They delivered them to their class enemies, who try to mobilize them on what are called cultural issues: white supremacy, fundamentalist religion, and in other ways to which we’ll return. And with the promises of decent jobs, which oddly enough are not fulfilled.

While accusations that Twitter CEO Jack Dorsey is a Nazi are surely exaggerations, it is not a stretch to say that white supremacy is alive and well in certain segments of Silicon Valley. From Oculus founder Palmer Luckey, a Trump donor who reportedly ran a “shitposting” account on Reddit, to Facebook board member Peter Thiel, known for attending white nationalist–friendly events and undermining free expression, to Clearview AI CEO Hoan Ton-That, perhaps Silicon Valley’s most notable alt-right supporter, the field is rife with white supremacist sympathizers.30

It goes without saying that charities need to use smart business strategies to meet their goals. Pyramid and populist fundraising don’t fit the bill because they assume all donors are created equal, and we know they aren’t. Instead, you should give priority treatment to the best donors and prospects. Doesn’t it make sense to use your precious time and valuable resources on finding and retaining more people who are not only passionate about your cause, but also have the capacity to make serious impact, instead of spending tons of money on low-dollar, low-capacity donors and then trying to move them up the pyramid?

The best way to reinforce your efforts to build trust is to adopt an attitude of giving to the donor with no expectation of getting anything in return. It boggles my mind when I hear fundraisers say, “Always ask for the gift!” with no thought about whether or not they’ve given any value to the donor first and often. Fundraisers need to be fair, respectful, and kind. They need to give before they can receive.

This strategy was central to AFP’s role in Koch’s political network. From the earliest days of AFP’s inception, the group operated as something like a fast-food franchise. AFP was composed of semiautonomous state chapters, but all of them served products from the same menu. The menu was designed with great care and specificity by Charles and David Koch and their lieutenants in Koch’s lobbying operations. This meant that state-level directors had a lot of autonomy. Lonegan developed his own pool of local donors and had the freedom to hire his own field directors and to determine where he spoke. But ultimately Lonegan and other state directors were told by AFP headquarters what they should say and how they should say it. “I had to report to the national office,” Lonegan recalled. “They gave guidance on where our issues would lie. . . . So, I would report regularly to my boss on what issues were emerging, and then we’d determine how they’d want to address it. Not every issue that I saw as an issue did they think was an issue.” This blend of local autonomy with centralized control created a political organization that was uniquely powerful and effective. AFP could mobilize the type of popular citizen involvement that most people referred to as grassroots support. But it coupled this popular support with intelligence and guidance developed inside one of the most well-funded corporate lobbying operations in America. This meant that AFP could get people marching in the streets, and it could get them marching in the exact streets and zip codes of congressional districts where their marching would most effectively benefit Koch Industries’ strategic interests.

This is why I love the field of transplant. Since I began taking care of sick people, I have noticed that one of the hardest things about getting sick, really sick, is that you are separated from the people you love. Even when families are dedicated to the patient, illness separates the well from the sick. The sick suffer alone, they undergo procedures and surgeries alone, and in the end, they die alone. Transplant is different. Transplant is all about having someone else join you in your illness. It may be in the form of an organ from a recently deceased donor, a selfless gift given by someone who has never met you, or a kidney or liver from a relative, friend, or acquaintance. In every case, someone is saying, in effect, “Let me join you in your recovery, your suffering, your fear of the unknown, your desire to become healthy, to get your life back. Let me bear some of your risk with you.

So, what did you get up to, Firefly?” Caden asks with a grin. “Oh, you know,” Bridget says, popping a grape into her mouth. “The usual. Hiding from crazy sperm donors, trying to figure out clues to the sister, pissing Nik off enough that he has a temper tantrum.

Whether it will ever again be possible to take an education easily, in Massachusetts or any other state, will depend upon political decisions made by those — like yourselves — who hold power in trust for the rest of us. I mean no disrespect, only to signal my personal sadness when I say I don’t think those decisions will be made. My reasons for pessimism stem from knowing that failure is built into our political system because it forces our political leadership to depend for its election on the same financial interests which profit from schools staying the way they already are. Schools are a most lucrative source of contracts and an enormous jobs project with sinecures for friends and relatives of your campaign donors. Don’t chalk that up to cynicism: unless you acknowledge why your hands are tied in regard to school change, you’re certain to make the same mistakes year after year in counterfeit reforms. Change isn’t likely to be possible from any political center for the same reason, but it can come from defiant personal decisions made by simple men and women who won’t stand still for their kids being outraged any more — like the revolution of homeschoolers taking place nationwide. This system has had a century to prove itself, that’s enough. It didn’t work at the start except in house-generated fairy tales; it doesn’t work today, and it won’t work better in the future.

Today DARK TIMES received a nice review from Literary Titan: “In Dark Times Michael Gerhartz explores the delicate yet sadly relevant organ trade problem. In this fascinating novel readers get a glance into the complicated and cruel organ trade business. The narrative is constantly changing its perspective, from the lucky recipient to the doomed donor while following the incredible adventures of the engrossing main character, Natascha. Michael Gerhartz creates a globe-trotting and energetic crime drama that is full of unexpected twists and deadly turns...I can confidently say that I had a great time reading Dark Times by Michael Gerhartz. The story is perfect for readers who like to follow clues to solve intriguing mysteries. Dark Times reminds me of Tom Clancy’s Jack Ryan where agents embark on clandestine and deadly missions to overcome a terror menacing the world. Perfect for readers who embrace a bit of romance in their action adventure stories.” Reviewed by Literary Titan

Robert Bruelle, a sociologist who studied funding for work that denied climate change, found that a sizeable chunk of this money—some $78 million between 2003 and 2010—was moved anonymously through DonorsTrust and Donors Capital Fund. The amount of money going through these groups, Bruelle found, increased dramatically after ExxonMobil and Koch Industries pulled back from publicly backing policy work that questioned whether climate change was real. But he couldn’t say whether it was these donors who fueled the surge of DonorsTrust with secret donations, since the group doesn’t have to reveal who’s using its services. Its donor-advised funds are like numbered Swiss bank accounts. “We just have this great big unknown out there about where all the money is coming from,” Bruelle said. Dark money moving through DonorsTrust has also fueled the Project on Fair Representation, the group seeking to dismantle the Voting Rights Act. And DonorsTrust has been the conduit for anonymous funding for groups sounding the alarm about Islamic threats within the United States. Some $18 million went to Clarion, a group that has been described as a leading purveyor of Islamophobia in the United States.

There I was, standing on a cold marble floor in a long room and staring at white walls lined with the names of the donors who had contributed to building the library. I was starting to get nervous. What’s going on? Did they forget about me? Suddenly, a huge line of serious-looking Secret Service men with radios in their ears and an attitude that showed they were all-business came into the room. A moment later, I realized why, as they were followed by all five living Presidents and their wives. Barack Obama. Bill Clinton. George Bush. Jimmy Carter. George W. Bush. I froze against the wall like a mannequin. I tried to will myself to be invisible and not get in anyone’s way. George W. Bush, in a black suit and blue-checkered tie, spotted me and caught my eye. I saw him glance down at my prosthetic leg decorated with the American flag as he waved at me and interrupted the conversations going on around him. “Let me introduce you to my friend, Melissa,” he said. All of the Presidents and their wives came over and circled around me. The Secret Service formed a half-circle ring behind them. I was introduced to everybody, one by one. President Bush told everyone about me and my story, and how we had met during the ride at his ranch. I was almost speechless as I managed to say, “Nice to meet you, Mister President,” over and over. I felt like I was in a dream. As the circle dispersed to get back to preparing for the event, President Obama paused to ask me how my life in Chicago was going and about the progress of Dare2Tri. I had no idea how he knew about these things, but we spoke, just the two of us, for a few minutes. “I’m proud of you,” he finally said, getting one of his presidential coins out of his pocket as a gift. President Bush was standing close by, and he put his arm around me as he cracked a joke to put everyone at ease. I noticed Condoleezza Rice had come in and was standing on the opposite end of the room practicing pronouncing the names of all the foreign dignitaries in attendance. It had to be the most surreal moment of my life. I felt like I was exuding pure patriotism, just being in that room with those people. On that day, political views didn’t matter—what was important was that several of our country’s leaders had come together to honor one of their peers, and, by extension, America itself. I had never been prouder to be American.

She spoke wearily, her eyes rimmed a permanent shade of red. “They say we need to take him off of life support. That his body is deteriorating.” The wail of Brandon’s mom came down the hallway. It had become a sound we knew all too well. She broke down at random. Everyone did. Well, everyone except for me. I was void of emotion while my predator and I shared space. Instead of feeling pain at Sloan’s suffering, I spiraled further into my OCD. I slept less. I moved more. I dove deeper into my rituals. And nothing helped. Sloan didn’t react to the sound of grief down the hall. “His brain isn’t making hormones anymore or controlling any of his bodily functions. The medications he’s on to maintain his blood pressure and body temperature are damaging his organs. They said if we want to donate them, we have to do it soon.” “Okay,” I said, pulling tissues from a box and shoving them into her hands. “When are they doing it?” She spoke to the room, to someplace behind me. She didn’t look at me. “They’re not.” I stared at her. “What do you mean they’re not?” She blinked, her eyelids closing mechanically. “His parents don’t want to take him off life support. They’re praying for a miracle. They’re really religious. They think he rebounded once and he’ll rebound again.” Her eyes focused on me, tears welled, threatening to fall. “It’s going to all be for nothing, Kristen. He’s an organ donor. He’d want that. He’s going to rot in that room and he’s going to die for nothing and I have no say in any of it.” The tears spilled down her face, but she didn’t sob. They just streamed, like water from a leaky hose. I gaped at her. “But…but why? Didn’t he have a will? What the fuck?” She shook her head. “We talked about it, but the wedding was so close we just decided to wait. I have no say. At all.” The reality suddenly rolled out before me. It wouldn’t just be this. It would be everything. His life insurance policy, his benefits, his portion of the house, his belongings—not hers. She would get nothing. Not even a vote. She went on in her daze. “I don’t know how to convince them. The insurance won’t cover his stay much longer, so they’ll be forced to make a decision at some point. But it will cover it long enough for his organs to fail.” My brain grasped at a solution. “Claudia. She might be able to convince them.” She hadn’t been able to make the meeting. And she would side with Sloan—I knew she would. She had influence on her parents. “Maybe Josh too,” I continued. “They like him. They might listen to him.” I stood. She looked up at me, a tear dripping off her chin and landing on her thigh. “Where are you going?” “To find Josh.

Chapman concurs. “All the polling we get back shows the fiscal issues are a complete wasteland,” he says. “And the donors know it.” “The Tea Party is gone. It doesn’t exist anymore.

Some doctors think blood type says a lot about the personality," he said. "Type A is calm and trustworthy, and B is creative and excitable. The Japanese ask the question What's your blood type as often as Americans ask What's your sign." "I bet you're type A," I said. "I'm O. The universal donor." "Of course you are. The one that everybody loves.

Once, after a donor meeting in which Romney heard the phrase “No shit, Sherlock” for the first time, he gleefully repeated the quip to his staff—but cleaned it up to say, “No bleep, Sherlock.