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Monday, November 26, 2001
Cloning and the Catholic Church
There was a small news item which caught my attention this morning, and it really, really bothered me.
The pope has condemned the most recent advances in cloning. What a shock.
The fact of the matter is that the Catholic Church has been against most science since long before Galileo. Some science, such as exploration, is good. Some is morally ... well, ambivalent, I suppose. Those who decry the advancements in technology because they lead to the exploitation of labor in poorer countries have some truth to the matter; but on the other hand, which is preferable? Starving in mud huts or subsisting in tin ones?
Then, of course, there are advancements in medical science. It's no secret that the Catholic Church would prefer to leave much medicine in the realm of "God". "God's Will" being the sole determinant in whether someone lives or dies is perhaps an admirable and laudable goal in some circles, but given the fact that I am human, I cannot fight the nature which I have, which is to hold on to the known while peeking cautiously around the corner to see what change may come. God has, as yet, not delivered to me the evidence which I've asked after since I was eight - there's been as yet no concrete proof of life after death.
I believe there is something that comes after this, and I hope that I will someday find that which I've been told is waiting for me. However, I also must admit that belief and hope, combined with two bucks, might get you a cheeseburger and a coke at McDonalds. Of the three, the two bucks are going to be by far the strongest contributing factor.
The Catholic Church, and by this I mean the leadership and "intelligentsia" of the church, not the rank-and-file people (of which I am one), in condemning cloning is willing to deny the miracle of life, and of improved life, to many on this planet.
Who is to say that if cloning is this easy that we should not be able to do it? Consider - Dinosaurs ruled this planet for millions of years. They had quite some time to develop and adapt and grow and improve the breed. And what did they accomplish? Aside from leaving quite a few unanswered questions and a huge cache of fossilized bones, we have no proof that the reptiles who proceeded us as masters of this planet ever advanced beyond subsistence intelligence - the ability to hunt and eat and survive, no more.
Mankind, or Humankind, if you will, has managed in a rather short period, to evolve, to conquer (and in many cases, destroy) his environment, and has proceeded to move beyond the cradle in simple, faltering steps (such as off-planet). And now we're looking inside cells, seeing what may well be the final frontier indeed.
If God had not wanted us to be able to clone, he would have made the building blocks of life a much more difficult process to discover. He would have deeply hidden the essential tools for creating life, rather than making it obvious. The creation of life is not complex, or special, or even unique. It's a chemical reaction.
It's in the creation of A Life, in the creation of a Unique Intelligence, that the real magic is performed. And with all due respect to both science and the Catholic Church, that doesn't happen either in a test tube or a womb. It happens when someone gathers that life to themselves, and commits to raising it with moral and values and intelligence and knowledge, and that Life goes out to create Another, and Another, and Another.
Cloning may help us solve problems that have bedevilled the human race for centuries. Cancer. Spinal Cord injuries. Mental illness. Diseases which occur because of aging. Diseases which occur because of horribly slim odds which still infect hundreds or thousands.
I guess the bottom line, for me, is that I have children. My flesh and blood walk this earth, and if one of them were hurt or suffering from a disease that could be cured by replacing damaged cells with those from a clone, I would move heaven and earth to make certain they were able to have a chance at a normal life. While any daddy would, many "Fathers", it seems, would rather debate the ethical positions about it.
Sorry, folks, but this is one I just can't see clearly. I'm pretty sure I could handle something horrid - I'd be terrified, yes, but I'd also be in control. With my kids, though, I want the best for them. Any parent does. Not the easiest, or the simplest, or the cheapest - but the best. If that means cloning them and rebuilding their spinal cord from the spare parts bank, so be it. Is it really ethical to look at a small child and say "sorry, kid, you're riding in that chair because I think I know what God wants, and God wants you to be in that damned chair, not the drunk driver who slammed into your car, killed your mother, your baby sister, and crippled you?"
   The white dots you see in the pictures above are actual snowflakes getting in the way of the pictures. Honest. |
Well, I'd go a very long way to get away from winter, but it looks like the trips are already booked. Damn.
Yup, just after the Belands departed (and what more certain way to taunt the deities of frozen precipitation than have a former citizen of this frozen wasteland come back from Seattle for a weekend's visit - sure, show the rain gods the way inland, didja? Lovely), we started with the fun. Actually it was raining prior to their departure, and once they left, it let up a little, got cold, and started up with that other four-letter "s" word. Seriously. As in four to eight inches of snow. Schools up in my old stomping grounds are shutting down early lots of warnings and admonitions being issued, and we're about to enter "Minnesota's Amateur Driving Show" (MADS). You see, annually, we develop into some of the best all-around all-condition drivers. The problem is that, right now, most of us are seven or eight months out of peak condition on "slip-and-slide" stuff while we're at or near peak on "dry/damp/hot pavement" performance. This, in turn, means that there will be cars emulating ballet performers for the next some six to six-hundred hours here. Yup. Pirouettes, en pointes, and all the other fun stuff. Even a few leaps and the ever popular "flub" will show up. Actually, truth be told, the flubs will well outnumber the acrobatic and graceful maneuvers about twenty-five to one. In other words, this is "Body Shop Pays for Christmas" season. So far, it's been snowing in spits and furts (or spits and furts, or spits and spurts, whatever) since about 6 am. Most of it here in the Metro has gone to make the ground very, very wet. Since it's still fairly warm from the last three weeks of above-average temps, we're looking at the occasional white on grass thing, and lots of wet pavement. And, of course, the ice-covered vehicles. But that's a trip for 4 pm to clear up. Those of you who've been around for a while might well remember my diatribe against Pigg & Co., the upstanding duo of Pigg & Sparks, giants in a land of small men, who attacked a vicious and evil four-year-old for the crime of being multi-racial, apparently. Well, news now is that Mr. Pigg (oh how I love that name - unfortunately, he gives the porcine "pigs" a bad name) has wised up to the way of the world, and has turned states' evidence against thay scrappy evil genius, Mr. Sparks. While I'd like to hope this idiot is truly remorseful, viewing "To Kill A Mockingbird" just isn't going to cut it, unless he's sentenced to watch it continuously for the next several months. And even that might not work. Well, it's now 2:15 pm, and the snow is finally starting to stick to some of the pavement. IT's also coming down so hard that I can't see buildings less than a quarter-mile away. And now 2:45 pm. There's a building 150 yards from me. I see it every day. And I know it's still there by the light on the fifth or sixth story that's always shining this way. Otherwise, your guess is as good as mine. At least the good news is that for the next couple months we get to make our own spaces on the pavement rather than try to fit in where they think we should be. One of the few benefits of snow on the ground. Oh yeah, the light? Seventh story. I can see through the snow somewhat now. I'm sure that'll change. Left work at 4:00 sharp. Swept off the car, and was in it, moving, by 4:10 pm. Got across 494 by 4:35 pm. Got onto the freeway, off, and into Savage by 5:10 pm. Got to Rhiannon's new school, picked her up, and got moving again. Then picked up Jack, got home, beat Ann by about 20 minutes, then spent fifteen minutes putzing with the wiper blades, getting them back in order. What fun. And just for Mrs. Beland and that sick husband of hers (please don't let me come down with it), some snow pictures. More tomorrow, I'm sure. |
Tuesday, November 27, 2001
Well, this is what I came OUT to tonight after work.
Yup. More of that ... snow.
I heard from a friend of mine tonight; they've got eleven inches - or at least, that's what they had when the ruler blew away. Just before the snowplow got stuck just past their house. And the phone lines were down, but her cable modem still worked. Heh.
The down side? Five kids. One house. Two miles to the nearest milk supply. And a two-day supply. And her hubby was at work, across town - no biggie except for he might be stuck there.
Can you say "I hate winter"? I knew you could.
Lord knows I can.
Oh well. On the good side of the ledger, I found that I can remove the "Magister" virus from infected computers with simple tools (mostly mental effort). Fortunately, it infested a friend's computer. I also found that there are benefits to using one of those free e-mail providers for e-mail, as they prevent the spread of that damned "badtrans" thing going around.
And while I use Outlook at home, I also have Outlook in the "restricted" zone - and my restricted zone is all "disable" at best. I'm hoping that's good enough.
Well, I've got to clean out cat boxes and then I've got to clean the rest of the bathroom. What fun.
Oh. Before I forget, Ann is just dealing with the heavy-duty load that is "book week". It happens about five-six times a year, and then is followed closely (typically the next week) by "meeting week". She will return when the mood striketh - and she stopeth strikingeth me.
Wednesday,
November 28, 2001
Short takes...
Did you know that training on a product you don't understand sucks brain cells right out through your skull? Me neither.
Microsoft's Class-action settlement - what better way to get a toe-hold in the education market than to give poor schools crappy computers and tell them they're good. Gee, I wish I could print money in my basement...
Pepperoni and Mushroom pizza just before an afternoon of training (See one above) is double-plus ungood. Fortunately, I had control of my colon and other ... byproducts. Unfortunately, some didn't. Double-unfortunate - you can't open our office windows. Triple-unfortunate - ventilation in our offices is truly pathetic.
'Snuff for now.
Thursday, November 29, 2001
Well, I survived a second day of training. I now know more about MRP systems than any sane person has a right to know. Then again, that's assuming I'm sane.
While this soul and mind-sucking training was going on (I suppose I should mention that we covered in two days what normally takes two WEEKS in a boot-camp-style training session - programmers, oy), they also signed a lease on a new, smaller office, right below us - we're going from 5300 square feet to 2000 square feet, and losing our kitchen, computer room, lunchroom, and conference room. Not bad - right. Oh well. It's a three-year lease, thank God.
So that's a good thing, I think. And there were a number of discussions today which highlighted a few areas the company as a whole and our MRP package in particular were lacking. Oddly enough, I happen to be smart in those areas. And, regrettably, some of my bosses found out. Uh-Oh. Actually, that's a good thing, so we'll move along...
Speaking of good things, I was going to mention a few days back that I really admired the baseball owners, as they managed to extend Bud Selig's contract - and in the process, guarantee that Selig will become one of the most hated men in America (right there after bin Laden, in fact) if they succeed in contracting.
But there's now news that there's a businessman from Birmingham, Alabama who is looking to purchase the team. He's very rich, and very interested, and he's also an African American. Now, I'm tired, so I'm probably not going to put this right, but if those rich old white men of baseball manage to contract out of existence a team with forty years of history in being a successful small-market team which remains profitable despite competitive hurdles that have made other teams dismal failures in the face of the potential purchase of said team by an African American, well, I think we've got more than enough ammunition lined up. In other words, the legal issues of all of that would make any judge weep.
I love it.
And with that, I'm off like a herd of cats to bed. G'nite.
Friday!, November 30, 2001
As a kid, my parents listened to big band music and Broadway show tunes. Go ahead, get the jokes out now...
Anyway, it wasn't until I was old enough to explore music on my own that I discovered the Beatles. By then they were broken up, though the reunion rumors persisted.
One cold December morning as I was on my way to high school as a sophomore, the bus had crossed the Heims Mill Bridge on the "Great River Road" (now I believe it's called Stearns County Road 1), and was on it's way up a slight hill. The sun was out and it was bright and cold outside. And it got colder inside as the radio announcer came on after one of Lennon's new songs and said Lennon had been shot the previous night.
This morning, as I rolled out of bed though I really didn't want to, I turned on the television. And right there they had a picture of George Harrison, and they announced he, too, had passed before reaching that so-called magical age of 64.
I was, perhaps, a bit twisted. I'd listen to Beatles albums and look to pick out the Harrison and Starr contributions. During my second semester of college (a whopping twelve months after my first, oddly enough), I had to write a final paper on some musical topic, and I chose the Beatles. My thesis was that the effect the Beatles had on the musical landscape at the time was directly proportional to the effects in their lives, and continued long after they broke up.
Some years Mr. Harrison proved my point by stating "there are only four people in the world who know what it's like to be a Beatle. I don't know what it's like not to be one."
Ringo's music was usually a half-step above the novelty tune status - Octopus's Garden, for example. Harrison's weren't ever as toe-tapping as the half-dozen or more Lennon-McCartney songs on the album, but Harrison never, ever failed to make you think.
Today and tonight one of our local radio stations is running "The Beatles, A to Z". It's really less a trip down memory lane and more a chance to say hi to some old friends...
This week has been just one of those that I'd much rather take out in the back yard and stake into a coffin. Then bury it, really, really deep. The good news is that I took a look, and I've got more than I expected to have left for Vacation, so I'm going to enjoy December 21 through the end of the year off, I think. I've worked hard, and I've been trying to pull this off since 1995. Finally, I'm gonna get to do it.
And on that slightly gloating note, I'm going to go. I got a haircut tonight (yes, ma, I can see out again) and I've just got to get these hair snip/farts off me before I go to bed, or I'm gonna go nuts. Might as well shave while I'm at it. The only problem with getting a haircut in winter is that things get very, very cold on the sides of my head (I had the lady use a #2 clipper there). And yes, I went to Great Clips. Might as well. Last time I went to Cost Cutters, the woman nearly took my ear off.
Now, to enjoy my weekend - tomorrow is the kid birthday party. God help us.
Saturday, December 1, 2001
I'd like to buy another Saturday, please?
Today was, in a word, brutal. Fun, but brutal.
We got up around ten, then got the cakes decorated, ready to go, got to the Y, did the party thing, the pool thing, the BK thing, and then the mall. I don't know why, it seemed like a good idea at the time, I swear.
And now that they're home, and in bed, and very tired, they're hooting and hollering like a whole tribe of chimpanzees. It sounds like I'm going to have to become the "Spankinator". Gee. Sounds like fun, eh?
I'll leave you with gratuitous pictures.
This is called "Chicken Limbo". There are no live chickens involved. I'm not yet sure if that's a good idea or not. On the one hand chickens would probably do quite well with chicken limbo. On the other hand, if my kids were involved with playing limbo with chickens, we would be having some serious problems. Not to mention be hip-deep in chicken... well, by-products.
And here we have chaos in action. Musical Chairs.
The end result, she of the ruthless butt aims for the chair. Can't really argue with that.
Now there are women who get passionate about shoes. But in some distant future time, my daughter's probably not going to be quite so enamored of Barbies. We can hope. Or, on the other hand, we can always medicate.
Speaking of medication, we have the other participant.
Significantly, he's still alive, I didn't fill his swimsuit pockets with marbles
or anything.
Yet.
Heh. On the news here tonight is a piece about a local group claiming that lutefisk is for lovers. Lovely. Insanity makes the evening news. I guess that means we're back to a slow news day, officially. That's kinda nice.
For those of you who do have the benefit of ignorance regarding lutefisk, your choices are to leave now, or prepare for a complete mental mind warp. Ready? Set? Go...
Lutefisk is, I am told, a product of Scandinavian origin. It is a white fish (perhaps the white fish, though I doubt it - even that damned Moby Dick would run out of meat eventually - the book certainly did) that is soaked in, believe it or not (I sure as hell do not), lye. Lye is something that grandmothers here at least used to use to make soap. This "food" (I would have guessed some sort of cleaning product) is then served to people who claim to enjoy it. Of course, having seen what passes for enjoyment in these countries (such as the concept of "sauna" - roast your ass, then hop in a snowbank. Yup. That's the picture right here next to the word "hell" in my dictionary, I swear. Right before the picture of a Viking's fan), the concept of eating lye-soaked fish would probably fall somewhere between "smack myself in the privates with a maul" and "run stark screaming naked into a hole cut in an otherwise frozen-over lake". But I'm just a fun-lovin party type from Minnesota, what do I know?
This, I should like to point out, was something that was at one time packaged locally as an "instant meal" - yes, a Lutefisk TV Dinner. No, as far as I know, Asmodeus himself is not yet walking the earth, though I think I heard him knocking on the door from the underworld not too long ago. One would expect that a lutefisk TV dinner would come with it's own accompaniment of demons, devils, and assorted lawyerly types, but not yet, to the best of my knowledge. I'm sure they're just setting up the seating arrangements and marching orders before losing the entire hosts of hell upon us here for packaging such a product as ... well, food, I guess.
Ann's prevailing theory is that Lutefisk is a nasty trick. It's something that those still behind in those cold Scandinavian countries foist off on the immigrants to this one as a cruel joke. I don't think it's a joke. Punishment, perhaps, but not a joke. Or perhaps some form of abuse? One will never know for certain.
Now, this local group claiming that Lutefisk is for Lovers really, really scares me. Scandinavians, not the most demonstrative of people in the best of times, are now encouraging us to eat soapy fish and get "jiggy with it"? Right. Not even in my drunken college days would I consider that. Significant amounts of cayenne pepper? No problem. Raw habenero peppers? Absolutely. Right there with you, man. But soapy fish? Excuse me, which way to the facilities?
I think I'll just line up for a turn with Pan's Goat, if you ask me...
Sunday, December 2, 2001
This morning, in church, I was again faced with that rather odd characteristic of late-twentieth century Catholicism - the neutering of God.
It was through a song I've known for nearly 20 years - "City of God" where I encountered a "God" where the word used to be "Him". Now, I admit that in college I had previously encountered one of the worst practitioners of this dark art, a Benedictine nun we called "Attila the Nun" - more commonly known as Sister Nancy Hynes. Attila was fond of doing much of her own prayer referring to "God our Mother" and other gender swaps. I, frankly, was disgusted by the woman then and now, and have little pleasant to say about her.
Regrettably, somewhere along the line, her little experiment snowballed in with others of like mind, and we're all now treated to the de-genderization of God.
It also occurs to me that in that same time period, the role of the father in the family has become much diminished. Certainly, there are men who give the position a slap-dash care and move on - I've long been fond of the saying "any idiot can be a father, but it takes a real man to be a Daddy".
But the role of the father in both religious and secular life has, frankly, fallen quite far from that queer pinnacle of the fifties where you had women counseled to "wear their best" "touch up their makeup" and "keep the children and complaints from him". Not the best of times, certainly, but in one sense they did give a clear role and understanding to the children who came after.
Today, we have dead-beat dads, who leave their families in a lurch, and fail to pay child support. You have entire communities springing up around the concept of "welfare motherhood" where the state encourages out-of-wedlock children by giving more public aid to mothers who cannot show the presence of a father in the children's lives. You have men who lack an understanding of their role in a family, and you have men who frankly fail those families at turn after turn, abandoning them. Worst of all, you have those men who provide the best in goods and things for their families and spend little to no time cuddling, snuggling, listening, and caring for their families, believing instead that their worldly goods and financial success are more important to their children than an active and positive role model.
I know the church has spent quite a few centuries demeaning women, and I know that it is quite possible that this started with Peter himself. I also know that it is possible that the Bible had, through time, fallen under less scrupulous translators who changed a gender-neutral word here and there to "buck up" the apparent power of the male gender in all things.
But I also know that playing politics with religion is a dangerous thing. Look at Afghanistan. When the state combines with religion, or religion attempts to influence the state, you have serious and dangerous problems in both areas that must be addressed before they corrupt both beyond the power of that short of revolution to cure.
Religion may well be the opiate of the masses, but the neutering of God is clearly a misguided attempt to push political correctness even further up the nose (or other parts) of people who've already had it rubbed in their hair. I just do not like it.
I should have known.
Last night after the rest of the work around here was done, I'd made myself a sandwich, and grabbed a leftover bottle of our home-made Bailey's Irish Creme. Ann had used a small jar for our leftovers, and, regrettably, the jar originally held Garlic. Mind you it was a glass jar, well-washed, but the lid was ... well, less-so. The rubber seal seems to have absorbed some significant amounts of garlic. Which was then imparted to... well, let's just put it this way - I opened the jar and smelled garlic - "it's just in my head" I thought - then I drank. Oh, my. Dairy products most certainly are opportunistic absorbers of strong flavors. And Garlic does not go well with Irish Creme. At all.
Flip to this morning.
All too bloody early, Jack began his "oh, shit, now I've stepped right in it deep" cry. As a parent, you learn the cries of the kids - some are hunger, some are bored, some are pissed, and some are "oh, no - now I've done it". That was what we had. He was howling about having to go to the bathroom, and as I fought with consciousness (losing the whole way, mind you), my hope was "please, God, let me have to clean out his pants. Let this one not involve blood."
Alas.
Rhiannon came in, and by this time announced the obvious, and we (the cavalry) came running. Jack had, contrary to house rules, common sense, direct order, and all logic, removed a sharp knife from the kitchen and tried, in vain, to open his new plastic-enclosed walkie-talkies. You know, the type where you don't stand a chance in hell of getting the plastic off without some sort of industrial cutting laser or a very, very sharp knife. Which Jack had done.
That was 9:30 am. Ann cleaned and bandaged the wound while I got dressed, expecting a trip to the ER or at the very least, Urgent Care. Ann came into the bedroom a few minutes later and told me no need to get him to the professionals, it was OK.
As I type this now, some eight and a half hours later, she's at the Urgent Care, just up the hill from his daycare, and they're evaluating the wound. It was bleeding again when Ann removed the bandage, though it had not the entire time the bandage was on. So, I'm sure we'll come home with, at the very least, another story for you folks and the space here.
In the time between arising, bloodletting, church, and now, we managed to do yet more shopping, a little lunch, and a trip over to the Rosemount theater to see, you guessed it, Harry Potter. Rhiannon has not yet finished the books, and I went book-unread, to see what the fuss was about.
First off, for those of you looking for a good movie theater, you couldn't do much better than the Rosemount one. "Stadium seating" means that even if Lurch himself plants his hairless ass in front of you, you've still got a clear view of the screen. The seats are also quite comfortable without reclining you prone as some theaters do.
We booked the tickets on-line this morning in the somewhat paranoid thought that the movie might sell out before we got there, and we were quite wrong - while it did add seventy-five cents to the cost of each ticket, the $4.25 matinee price meant we were able to get a family of four in to see Mr. Potter for $20. Quite a savings, which we promptly managed to squander in that other movie-theater profit center, the snack bar. After purchasing two small buckets and a large pail of soda for the price of four two-liter bottles of pop at Cub each, we then had the inevitable discussion about Candy.
Ann : What do you want?
Me : How about Junior Mints?
Ann : Nobody else would eat those!
Me : So you're saying I have to share?
Ann : Yes!
Me : Oh, all right then. Heath Bites?
Ann : I'd never eat those!
Me : Why do you do this to me?
Ann : Do what?
Me : You knew you were going to get Peanut M&Ms. You just brought me
over here to toy with me.
Ann : So?
Me : Go ahead, I give up.
Ann : One bag Peanut M&M's please.
Why bother, indeed. I got 8 M&Ms. Perhaps because I was on the other end of the line from the bag, but I dunno.
Anyway, Jack wanted to sit in the back row, which was right out - as it was, we stopped him about six from the back, and that was almost too far back. The good news is that the theaters in Rosemount could accommodate perhaps two hundred or so, and the theater was about one-third full. By the time the movie previews started, it might have made it up to half.
And the previews hit all the big ones. First was Jimmy Neutron, which I think Jack's looking forward to - a planet without parents? Get him the address, he'd be fine with it (well, maybe not today, but after his finger heals). Then, in no direct order, came a teen movie, Lord of the Rings (had a tough time breathing through that one - I won't see it opening night, but I'll be there - re-reading the books right now, and boy, does it look wonderful), another teen movie, Monsters, Inc., doing one of the best cross-promotional ideas I'd ever seen (the eyeball and "Sully" play charades - Sully tries to get the Eye to guess "Harry Potter" with clues Jack got, and he's never played charades), then the Lucasfilm logo came on.
In a nearly silent theater, Jack stage-whispered (I'm sure they heard it ten miles away) "STAR WARS" and he was right. That one also looks good, though not quite as good as the first one - thus, with any trilogy, book two is the "get through this to get to the end" bit.
And at the end, Scooby-Doo. Of that bunch, I'm hoping to see two or three of them. We'll see how it goes. I will see two in the theater, we'll put it that way.
On to the movie itself - Frankly, the movie was wonderful. There was only one bit of film (at the end of the semi-football-like game) where I thought the special effects guys had gotten away with a bit much, but that's to be expected in a situation like this. It was quite impressive, very, very well done. I thought the child actors were terrific, and they did nothing to give away the story at all.
My personal favorite in the characters was Ron. Good kid, but a bit confused. Reminds me of me. The character Ms. Granger (sp? on the last name - I'm not even going to try the first name) was just like one of my younger sisters, but slightly more endearing at that age - then again, my sister lived through it too, so it couldn't be quite as bad as I remember it. Thought I found myself glad I wasn't her father - I'm sure he's going to be putting holes in the vehicle. She's a heartbreaker already, and, what, ten? Twelve? Yikes.
Now I need Rhiannon to find the book, and finish it, or let Ann and I read it and then move on to books 2-4.
Well. Orders from the field, and we can add three more stitches to Jack's total. He's now beat me as the family stitch prince, and his official total is eight (two here, three there, and now three today). He's still got his mother the Queen of stichery to go against. Though I hope he never beats that total.
Off to sit and cuddle and thank someone that the finger didn't come off.
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P. Dominik. All rights reserved. No reproduction without express
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