BrodyBlog

Posted by Brody at 02:32 AM | Permalink

Posted by Brody at 08:25 AM | Permalink

ALMOST HALF of all Americans take at least one prescription medication on a regular basis, and one in six takes more than three, according to the most recent information on prescription habits compiled by the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta.

In particular, adult use of anti-depressants such as Zoloft or Prozac has increased exponentially since the late 1980s, as have many other categories of medication, from antihistamines to anti-cholesterol drugs.

But the number of pharmacists, licensed pharmacy technicians, and pharmacy specialists has not kept pace with the rising number of prescriptions, and the soaring cost of many medications has forced many smaller pharmacies to dramatically reduce the amount of medications they offer, or focus on a niche market of custom-made compounds for patients with allergies to elements in traditional formulas.

Retail pharmacies in urban areas or those with high population density can easily fill several hundred prescriptions per day. To prevent medication interactions, fraudulent prescriptions for controlled substances, and to better control inventory, most retail pharmacies employ sophisticated computer systems that manage the work-flow of filling a prescription.

Initially, all drugs kept in the pharmacy are scanned and stored in a computer database, as is patient and doctor information. A doctor's DEA number, a unique algorithm issued by the federal government to physicians licensed to prescribe controlled substances, such as Xanax and Oxycontin, is stored in a database along with other information.

When prescriptions are received, they are almost always converted to an electronic document via a scanning device, allowing the pharmacy staff to review the prescription and if necessary, check the prescription for authenticity by verifying a DEA number and cross referencing a signature. After the prescription is entered into the system, a computer program checks for possible negative interactions with other medications in a patient's profile, and then prints bottle labels and medication info sheets, waiting for the pharmacist to fill the script.

But with cheaper, safer, and more reliable robotic systems, could your neighborhood pharmacist be plugged into the wall?

A new generation of intelligent robotic systems can process and receive, via telephone or online customer interface, and process prescription requests by selecting, counting, labeling, and packaging medication in a fraction of the time taken at conventional pharmacies.

Some robots are able to locate medication by radio-frequency chips and process prescriptions using a laser-based counting system. Because the net weight of many medications is constant, an additional safety check can be done as a robot weighs the amount of medication it has dispensed against a failsafe of what the total weight should be, similar to technology used in self-checkout kiosks in grocery stores. If the wrong medication is accidentally filled, a discrepancy in the weight will immediately involve a pharmacy staff member to investigate and correct the process.

State and federal law require that regardless of the method of preparation, prescriptions must, in most all cases, be examined and verified by a licensed pharmacist before being dispensed to the patient. But despite many advancements in technology, training, and patient education, errors do occur, often with fatal consequence.

A 1999 report issued by the Institute of Medicine estimated that up to 98,000 Americans die in hospitals from medication errors. The financial cost of these mistakes in malpractice suits, civil damages, and federal loss of funding is estimated at approximately $70 Billion dollars annually.

An article published in the May 2007 issue of the journal Medical Care reported that a study in 2003, which sampled data from 672 pharmacies in 18 metro regions across the country, found that on average, a pharmacy filled 1,375 prescriptions per week over a three month period. During that time, the number of prescriptions filled with a possibility for harmful drug interactions dispensed by each pharmacy was just over 32.

In addition, researchers found that for every hour a pharmacy was open, there was only an average of 1.2 pharmacists on duty. An author of the study stated in conclusion that, “It appears that prescription volume is exceeding capacity and that automation and other pharmacy staffing may not sufficiently compensate for the increased pharmacist workload."

Many experts believe that further integration of robotics in the pharmacy may be the way forward in reducing risks and errors involved with high-volume prescription processing.

In 1997, ScriptPro Robotics introduced the first robotic prescription dispensing system for community pharmacies. Since then, the company has developed a broad spectrum of solutions for both large and small pharmacies, including hospital and government applications.

Today, the original robotic system installed by ScriptPro remains in service.

Posted by Brody at 10:42 PM | Permalink

So how do we change this? How do we change the fact that you can walk down the street and stereotype everyone? It all starts with media, these so called "celbs" could shave their heads and all of their fan-boys and girls will do it, but why? Why are some people better than others why can you look at some one and judge them by the how they look or the color of their skin? Why can some live in riches and others live in ghettos, or some on well-fare and others on 30 inch rims? What im trying to figure out is that why are there such polar extremes? Can there not be a happy medium for everyone? Im not saying we should all be the same, that would rip the the originally out of us that human kind is. But if you just stop and think about how messed up society is you will figure it out.

So what is this world worrying about instead? War. Im not going to be bash our President because he is doing his job just like like scooping ice cream or serving coffee, is it in this countries best interest to be at war? Maybe, maybe not, but one thing is for sure, instead of focusing on one thing. We should look at the big picture, why fight a war to save innocent people when even more innocent people are dyeing on your home turf because you just wont help them?

to be continued...

Posted by Spence at 06:06 AM | Permalink

Dispatch from West Los Angeles
(4 July 2006)

I arrived at the Metro Green Line Aviation station around 10 in the P.M., returning from my Orange County connection at Norwalk and a day spent with the oil tankers on Seal Beach. As the time passed, it became clear that there was a disruption somewhere along the route--the Santa Monica Big Blue Bus that runs through Venice was over an hour late.

When it finally did arrive, the driver, a young flustered black woman, was on the phone with what must have been her supervisor. Shouting. Black people I have noticed, tend to get heated about things rather easily, and this girl exceeded my expectations. Eventually she let us on board, but made it clear that she was only going so far.

"You ain't gonna to get to Venice from here," she said, "uh-uh. At LAX get off and catch the next bus." And I did.

After an hour and a half in a standing-room-only bus, which was forced to detour due to traffic on Lincoln Boulevard, I was dropped off at Venice & Lincoln, nearly two miles east of my apartment.

It was like a warzone. An incredible number of cars packed the roads, and I could only assume that all these people were coming from the beach, or to watch fireworks...or both.

Black Cats tore through the night, while no less than fifty people waited at a bus stop. Busses passed by, full, without stopping. Not that stopping would've done any good.

One black gentleman announced (shouted) to the bus stop that he was "gettin' on the next bus for shure, god damnit. I'm trying to get me somewhere." Another colored gentleman was peddling burned CDs from a grocery sack, and was quite displeased when I declined to review his selection. Sorry, I don't like Chingy.

It was clear that I wouldn't reach the shore via bus before Sunrise, and as such, I hailed a cab. <<

>>FROM POINT A TO POINT MTA

MTA, short for the Los Angeles Metropolitan Transit Authority, boasts having “The Nation’s Largest Clean Air Bus Fleet”, trudging across the vast and endless urban sprawl with over two hundred bus lines. The system--and the sheer amount of ground it covers--is amazing, to say the least. Many of the lines run twenty-four hours a day or with limited night owl service beyond traditional route service times.

MTA offers (traditional) local routes, which have frequent stops every few blocks or so, limited stop routes, which have about half the stops of local routes, and Rapid lines (which have even less stops) that use the Global Positioning System and computer controlled traffic signals for traffic signal priority at intersections.

Rapid lines are hailed by many as a low-cost alternative to expensive subterranean or light rail lines, as it is more cost efficient to outfit existing busses with GPS transponders and install similar devices at traffic signals. Critics of rapid bus service quickly point out that busses continue to share the road with other cars and that intersection signal priority can create more traffic problems.

As gas prices have skyrocketed in recent months (even by Southern California’s standards), MTA has stepped up its advertising campaign, targeting people who have cars—and would otherwise never take public transportation—with newer, cleaner, and faster Rapid Bus Service operating along the busiest of corridors.

Most of the people who ride the bus do so without election, as the high cost of living keeps many from being able to afford a car, gasoline, maintenance, and—of course—parking.

There is a clear racial divide among bus patrons. While it is known that many immigrants do not speak English, those who ride the bus quickly learn the phrase “back door.” Which is spoken to signal the driver to open the rear exit door. Often times this is rather comical, as the person’s pronunciation of the word is horrible, and most black passengers pick up on this, and frequently mock Hispanics.

Few white persons ride the bus, and the majority of bus patrons are Hispanics who do not speak English, and commute long distances to work service related jobs that pay low wages. Busses overcrowded beyond safe levels, and often blow right past stops when they are full.

Getting groceries, or transporting anything larger than a backpack then becomes a problem, and as a result, communities with high levels of bus patronage (mostly those with high density apartment complexes) often have grocery carts strewn about neighborhood streets.

A trip that could take twenty minutes by car can easily take over an hour by bus, especially on the Los Angeles Westside, which is largely more affluent and lacks substantial public transit.

Many communities have developed their own municipality lines, such as Santa Monica’s Big Blue Bus. These municipal bus lines contrast sharply with MTA’s lines, and are generally less crowded and serve a diverse mix of ethnicities. This is largely because these lines rarely extend into mid-city or central city, and also operate a schedule more suited for leisure.

Unfortunately, because the city of Los Angeles is so large and fell prey to urban sprawl during its development, bus service is largely impractical. The subway system is also very small, and there is no easy connection to LAX by rail. Those who wish to commute from Union Station to LAX by rail must make a number of transfers, before ending up at the Green Line Aviation Station and taking a shuttle to the airport terminal.

Still, $58 dollars per month for a transit pass that works not only on MTA buses but on most municipality lines as well is a superb bargain, and cheaper than the cost of a tank of gas for many SUVs. You don’t have to worry about parking, either, which is a complete nightmare in most places.

Busses use clean natural gas, which is easier on the environment than gasoline powered vehicles, and because they can hold many people at once, the waste from the manufacture, transport, and maintenance of each vehicle is reduced. For adolescents not yet old enough to drive (or cannot afford a car) the bus system provides an extraordinary opportunity for exploration and helps to eliminate cultural boundaries as people become more exposed to one another from different neighborhoods.

Perhaps what I dislike most about public transit is the lack of control you have. Busses are rarely on time, and when commuting to work, one must add an additional “cushion” of time to be prompt on a consistent basis. If something is not near a bus line, it may be completely out of reach.

Romantic relationships are almost impossible to maintain without a car. What girl wants to be picked up at a bus stop? If one party is completely reliant on the other for transportation during dates, how does this affect the influence each person has over the relationship? Because there are so few busses running late at night, when clubs and restaurants are most active, it’s often impractical or outright impossible to get to many of these places. A standing-room-only bus is no place to be in high heels or a jacket.

Meeting new people is challenging as well, because implied socioeconomic perceptions about public transit (“only loosers ride the bus”) are challenging.

Friendships are hard to develop, as most gatherings are spontaneous. With the bus, though, routes must be planned and researched in advance.

If MTA wants to attract more casual, affluent riders, they must first take care of the basic needs of their core patrons. This means increasing frequency of many lines that serve late night service corridors (such as lines going from Downtown to Santa Monica, where many restaurants and clubs employ workers with low or sub-standard wages), adding more rapid lines, and increasing coverage across the region.

But there is only so much they can do.

Posted by Brody at 08:00 AM | Permalink

Dispatch from Downtown Los Angeles
(One Year Ago)

He wore several layers of clothing, the outermost of which was a tan hoddie, tattered and riddled with soot. A boy with flaxen hair, no more than thirteen or so, quitely padded his way down Los Angeles St. with a small grocery sack hanging off the crook of his elbow, reading a bible.

His bible, too, was worn, without a cover and clearly missing entire sections. I would like to know what passage he was reading. There are many things I would like to know. Where did he come from and how did he end up on the streets? Certainly there is nothing a child of that age can do by his own design, no matter how troubled, to deserve living in such desperate poverty. Further on, he found a small alcove in an empty alley and and said his prayers, laying himself down to sleep.

Sleep must not come easy, even for the tired and the restless. There was constant shouting; desperate pleas for help were lost in a chorus of drug induced screams of anger, all set to an ominous backdrop of sirens that never cease.

Constantly, police and emergency workers shuttle about Skid Row, though for the small size of things I could not figure out where they all came from. The amount of filth is unparalelled--nothing else compares. Trash cans on every street corner rustle with life, picked apart by the sewer rats and roaches that seem to have lost fear of humans long ago.

But still, there is an undeniable sense of community here. Once I tucked my camera into my backpack and brandished drinking from a bottle in a brown paper bag, I headed deep into the fray, en masse to discover an underworld of tents, a shanty town in it's own right; built by dusk everyday, only to be dismantled by dawn.

Youth sit in cirles and do drugs. Marijuana, I could smell, but also prevalent were the unmistakeable odors of burnt cocaine and methamphetamine. It is dangerous here, for whatever good intentions people may have, men can do terrible things for drugs. Perhaps the things a man can do in desperation for drugs are worse than those things done while he is under the influence of them.

On more than one occasion I was invited to partake in a the last bit of pizzo or rock, I politely declined, unsure of any stipulations attached to recieving such party favors, and without a genuine desire to consume them, also.

What fascinated me the most were the impromtu structures--sturdy enough to hold the night, but portable enough to be collapsed and lugged about for the day.

Homes of the homeless, these varied in size and grandeur, some were decorated with marker, others plain. For the upper echelon, camping tents provide a sense of normalcy, as much as can be found in a place like this.

Making my way out back to Union Station, I was left with more questions than answer, and the words yet to be seen.

Posted by Brody at 07:53 AM | Permalink

Dispatch from Oceanside, CA
(Summer-2005)

My plan was—for lack of a better word—perfect. I walked to the drug store and purchased two bottles of the store brand cough gels, checking the label thoroughly to ensure that there was nothing more in the capsules than Dextromethorphan, as a number of kids had died by unknowingly ingesting an excessive amount of decongestants, which have high levels of toxicity.

Supposedly, there are various “plateaus” which are in direct correlation to the amount of DXM ingested. So popular is the abuse of this chemical that I was able to locate dosage calculators online and easily figure an approximate amount to consume for my first time. I figured swallowing the mean between the 1st and 2nd plateau, for my first try would be wise.

And so, I counted out the capsules and swallowed before heading to catch the 10:00 A.M. showing of Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, which I had seen before and thought to be a good flick for my trip.

Being a weekday—and the first showing of the morning—the theatre was desolate, I had an entire row to myself with only a few people scattered in the rows below. Eventually, the world-famous introductory fanfare and scrolling text started, and I vomited.

I had not experienced the pleasure of vomiting while sitting upright before then, my experience with regurgitation being limited to worshiping a porcelain king on my knees, and more than anything I merely opened my mouth and let it spew.

Many of the capsules had only partially dissolved by then, and I was able to feel them on my shirt, pants, as I realized I’d made a complete mess on myself. A bloody looking mess at that.

My first instinct was to get up and leave, but there was no way I was going to walk through the lobby looking like that, dripping. No, the possibility that I might startle an employee or patron was completely unacceptable.

I decided, at the very least, I would move a few seats down to get away from Ground Zero, but when I tried, my legs refused to work. My head was spinning. Enough of the drug had made it into my blood stream before I blew chunks to wreak havoc on my motor coordination skills, and my vision began to blur.

In this haze, I still knew that with enough time, the effects would fade. I wondered about the end of time, in ways that were beyond my comprehension, however, and the movie muffled and blurred like some type of old film playing reel-to-reel.

This was not pleasurable in the least bit. There were periods of dry heaving, which felt like my diaphragm had detached and become a fibrous pancake attempting to flee my body through my mouth, one excruciating grunt at a time.

Three hours later, as the movie neared the end, I mustered enough guffaw to stand up and walk slowly down the lighted stairway of the theatre towards the fire exit, which, fortunately, was not alarmed.

The doors opened about ten feet below street level, into a small and empty concrete alcove with stairs leading up. I sat against the wall in the shade for some time, breathing. There was now enough light to get a clear assessment of my aesthetic condition: poor at best.

The red vomit had saturated most of my shirt and khaki pants (if only I’d worn jeans!) and even stained the tops of my feet and flip flops. There was no way I was getting on the bus. Partially because of my look, but also for the smell of me.

So I eventually—I don’t know exactly how much time passed while I sat outside in the summer sun—I started the long walk home. Passers by on the street probably thought I murdered the Kool-Aid man, or perhaps got drunk on fluorescent red wine of sorts, which would’ve explained my occasional stumbling.

From time to time, I would brace myself against a lamp post, or newsstand, and heave, spit, and drool until I was sure that nothing was coming out, only to be doing it over again minutes later.

Eventually, I made it to my apartment, padded to the shower, and fell asleep, lying in the bathtub.

Posted by Brody at 07:49 AM | Permalink

Dispatch from West Hollywood, CA
(6 Months Ago)

I was standing in line at the Deli at Pavillions when an overweight gentlemen complained to the woman working the deli that nobody was helping him in the bakery.

She appeared to be in her late fifties or early sixties, and was wearing oversized plastic gloves blurring the bejewled hands hidden within. Her spectacles were most telling of her age, becuase her hair was hidden beneath a Pavillions branded cap. I wanted to ask if she had to pay for it. I also wondered why she was working in a position that I had come to assume was reserved for people who spoke broken english and were of a much darker complextion; she was white.

She took a break from slicing roast beef and threw her shoulders and hands up in a shrug and said "I paged somebody, I don't know where they are!"

But this was not satisfactory to the gentlemen, who claimed to have been waiting for "ten minutes." She said nothing and went back to slicing cold cuts, under the watchful glare of the Deli customer, until he demanded that she page someone again.

Overhead, pages rang for more checkers up front and then a few seconds later, baggers. Quickly it seemed that the store became heavy in life the lines long. Eventually it was my turn, and I ordered my sandwich. No one ever came to the bakery.

I worked retail from the ages of seventeen to nineteen, but don't think I can ever work there. Actually, I would rather bleed to death than work another day in a retail enviroment--at any wage.

But there are always people lining up to apply because, where else is there to work, these days?

Companies like Pavillions know staffing a store with mostly part time jobs lacking benefits has its rewards financially. From my experience working with Best Buy, stores that operate under strict corporate control are given labor bugets by their superiors and forced to only spend so much money on hourly wages per week.

The result is that some weeks there may be more work and hours than can be handled by the staff, but more often than not it means that part time employees--who are not guranteed a minimum level of hours by U.S. or California law--watch their hours and earnings dwindle from time to time.

The working conditions in retail jobs are almost always deplorable. There is much pressure metted out to meet sales, service, or other goals, and always quippy, gimicky ways to get it done. Stupid contests for meaningless prizes. Dress up days. Corporate Pillars.

How'd things get this way?

Posted by Brody at 07:48 AM | Permalink

Dispatch from San Diego, California
"America's Finest City"
(October 16, 2006)

Apparently, people only commit suicide after 10:00 a.m., because that is when the emergency psychiatric ward opens its metal grates for business. If Los Angeles is the city most of the world thinks of upon hearing the word "California", San Diego is the city they dream of. But in the home of the sun, twice as many people die by suicide than murder: It is the leading cause of non-natural death.

By the time you finish reading this, you might not wonder why.

When I first approached the main entrance, I was greeted by a butch, bloated woman with gnarly gray hair and putrid facial blemishes, as if she were slapped with a piece of lumber at birth and never recovered. Her limbs were fat and the skin keeping her fleshy mess together was riddled with hail damage, sort of like cottage cheese lying about in a gravel driveway.

"How are you going to kill yourself? Standing there with your cell phone?," she asked in a snyde voice after I answered her questions about whether I had a weapon in my backpack. I guess she never heard of stepping in front of a speeding train.

While I filled out the intake forms, she asked what I expected of the clinic. When I noted that, due to financial crisis caused by lack of employment and a deteriorating mental state, I was soon to be out of an apartment as one of may reasons for being suicidal, she said, "so...you expect the county to provide you free room and board?" I expect to be diagnosed by a trained psychiatrist for what is obviously a serious mental illness, treated, and given reasonable assistance in finding a way to help build the city of my dreams.

She was married (wedding ring), so right then and there, I prayed to any god that might exist to have pity on her husband's soul for having to fuck her. And I'm an Athiest.

I told her the days when someone could reasonably survive on financial assitance provided by the government were long gone. Like when the streams were still safe enough to fish from, and the pier was a bleak collection of wooden planks sitting in shame for the way it dug into the sea floor below. Now the wood has rotted, replaced with concrete.

She made small talk with a colored gentelman who was a security guard while I filled out some intake forms. He certainly didn't do much to break down any stereotypes of blacks. He pushed his bifocals up on the bridge of his nose as he scanned me with his eyes, then leaned back and propped his feet up on the small desk next to the metal detector and entrance to the hospital. Working hard. I couldn't imagine him stopping a psychotic person with the wrath of hell and haldol from putting a pen into someone's neck.

In the course of my eavesdropping I heard her say "they should require that these kids spend time in the military, it might give them a little bit of discipline." Apparently this woman was as stupid as she was ugly. Take a suicidal person and put a gun in their hand in a place with more stress than a jet airliner can take. Brilliant!

When opening time came around, I carefully placed my belt and belongings into a paper sack which was labeled with my name and stored in the vault. Inside the clinic I was given flip flops (shoes were not allowed because one could hang by their laces) and a urine test to screen for drugs, had my blood presure taken and saw a stout doctor.

She was at least in her late 50s if not older, with a slight hunchback only surpassed in clarity by her rude demeanor. She hated her job. So a quick interview with her was all I was afforded. She made no real probing questions as to the problems I have with the world and the people in it, no real advice to me on what causes there are for these things, and no solution to any problem if I had before. If anything, due to the financial cost of my one night stand there ( about $1,000.00 ) I am now even more fucked, for lack of a better word.

She failed to catch my bipolar disorder, although any shrink worth their weight in carbon might have known that from the way I perked up only a few hours after being confined in the pink pastel atrium of the psychiatric ward, shuffling about in bare feet curiously observing the motions of the day, the gestures of the staff, and the rants of the other patients in the building.

I made up a bullshit lie about catching a flight to stay with some friends the next day out, and was released on my own recognisence the next afternoon, not wanting to spend another day in what was really a holding tank for the violent homeless and drug crazed criminals. Stay tuned.

Eventually I made my way down to another public hospital in the state of Texas, only to find that because I am a resident of California, I cannot recieve any treatment from them, but with no job, I cannot afford to see a psychiatrist on my own. Even the medication that might be able to treat this nightmare that has me stuck between the dark and the light is costly without health insurance.

And it's so sad to think that there's no other way.

P.S. Did I mention that every public hospital I've been to has a McDonald's within? Brings me back to thinking you were mine under Golden Arches.

Posted by Brody at 07:42 AM | Permalink

The first thing I noticed about this quiet suburban city of 50,000 nestled between Dallas and Fort Worth was the sprawl. Cars in every direction, these communities were built entirely around housing, with few businesses other than grocers and, of course, fast food restaurants.

There is no public transportation.

Nor would it be feasable or economical even if a politican were to propose it, because the population density is so low--and americans so involved with their automobiles--that it is beyond impractical. I find it curous that people think "everyone drives in L.A." But at least in Los Angeles there is Metro, and the public transit system is not so bad. Because of the design of the city and its massive size, commuting by automobile is the preffered way to travel if you have any sort of real job. Mexican immigrants largely patronize the bus services, while the rail and subway system enjoy a more diversified ridership.

A Metro survey found the average sallary of a Los Angeles bus rider was around $12,000 anually.

But in Texas, cars--trucks rather--are even more pertinent. This is clearest in the suburbs. At night, youths drive around aimlessly with nothing to do. Mostly because there is nothing to do. What I noticed most is the lack of a place where people can go to meet up and hang out, without planning ahead.

So, what then? Well, video games, television, movies, and other homebound activities are certain to prevail. Americans are spending more money on home theatre equipment than ever before. Children are living longer with their parents and recieving more financial assitance for longer as well. People are fat. Not because they want to be, but because the stresses of commuting often make preparing a healthy meal unappealing, and there are no places to walk to.

So when it's late in the evening, and one is bored, what is there to do? If parents want to help prevent against their kids doing drugs and alchohol, stop living in the surburbs, where your adolescent youth are dependant on automobiles to get around, and there's no way to explore the world in which we live.

What I love most about cities with public transit is that any kid with permission from his parents, even at middle school ages, can board a bus and see the world, even if it is only the city. This is important, because not only does the child get excersise by going around on foot, social, economic, and cultural barriers are also broken down.

You see more than just your home.

What forces have built our communities like this? We worry on terrorism and war, but if we look closely, we can see that we're really killing ourselves with our own backyards.

They have built this world where people are in love with a home to themselves and the illusion of security created only by being so hard to get to without car. Who are they? Where are they?

And how can they be stopped?

Posted by Brody at 07:19 AM | Permalink