Douglas Whaley

Gay Bashers, Homophobes, and Me

2012-01-27T21:29:00.005-05:00

In 1978, as I've related in this blog (see "The First Time I Nearly Died," below in "Related Posts"), I'd survived a ruptured appendix that went untreated for two weeks, and finally, by that summer, was on the mend, though I was still dealing with a fistula (a rupture spewing gunk from my insides) in my upper abdomen. My then-partner, David Merry, and I decided to attend a gay rights function at a bar ("Rudely Elegant") on the west side of Columbus. In those early gay rights day there were almost no venues where gays could safely gather except the bars. I was just beginning to gather the courage to become a gay activist myself, and, since I was still not fully recovered from my life-threatening recent experience, David drove us to the bar. On the way in we had to walk past a group of young straight men with an attitude (David later told me that one of them swatted his head as we went by, which I didn't learn until later that night). I no longer remember what the gay right event was, nor what was said, but when we exited we were pleased to see that the threatening crowd was gone. We walked to the car.

David climbed in on the driver's side, and as I went around the car to get in the other side, I was stopped by five or six teenagers, of both sexes, one of whom said, 'Here's a faggot!" Startled, I looked up just as one of the young men ran up to me and kicked me as hard as he could in balls. I yelled something like "Hey! Stop that!" as I doubled over in pain. As I looked up at him he sneered and said, "What, faggot?", but seeing David rise up from his side of the car (David is tall, and a former farm boy), he signaled to the others and they ran off.

"What happened?" David said to me as he helped me into the car. I told him, and he went wild with anger. He jumped to his door, started the car, and began speeding around the streets, hoping to run down the little gang. I yelled at him to let it go (the lawyer in me was already envisioning the trial of State v. Merry for manslaughter by vehicle), but he wasn't listening. Luckily, the teenagers were gone, and in the end all we could do was drive home. When I went the next day for a routine appointment with my surgeon, the great Dr. John Minton (see the post mentioned above), he was astounded that my testicles had turned quite black and were bigger than softballs. When he asked what the hell had happened, I told him, which caused him to be as mad as David had been.

This was my only physical experience with gay bashers, though I later did have to fend off a goodly number of threatening phone calls as I became more and more of a well-known gay activist in Columbus, Ohio. These occurred in the days before Caller ID, and if I hadn't been home to answer the phone myself, there was frequently a crude message ("Die, fag!" for example) left on my answering machine. More than once these were even on my machine at the law school (and, to his amazement, I played one of them to the Dean who happened by my office just as I was listening to it). When the calls were live I used the technique taught me by my mother (see "The Aging Gay Rights Activist"), who was always getting Mafia threats about prosecutions my prosecutor father was conducting in Dallas. "Here's what you do, Doug," she told me candidly. "Just hit the cradle a couple of times quickly to cause noises, but not enough to hang up, and then say, 'This is one of those calls, operator—please trace it.' Then what happens is they hang up fast, and, instead of scaring you, they're scared themselves. It's the opposite of what they'd planned on."

I think it's a rare person who's taught how to handle phoned death threats by their mother.

In those early days of gay activism here in Central Ohio, I was frequently on TV or radio call-in shows, or giving talks in various venues. Rather than let others keep the conversation focused on how "perverted" queers are, I would immediately change the subject to whether those who hated gays weren't really bigots. Of course "bigot" is a label few people want to wear, and this produced very heated (but defensive) discussions about their supposed bigotry. At the gay pride parade and rally in Columbus each year for the first few parades, I was frequently the final speaker, and was known for getting the crowd on their feet and shouting. My standard ending was the "Bigot Chorus," which you can see for yourself on this video from the 1984 march (under four minutes in length---click on the PLAY triangle in the lower left corner).

One of my contributions to the gay movement locally was to teach gay men and lesbians to be quick to introduce bigotry into the discussion. I'd learned that if you did that it shut up a lot of homophobes.

One last story. In 1991 at The Ohio State University, where I teach, many people were startled when two gay men were appointed to the Homecoming Court. There was much outrage at this effrontery (remember it was over 20 years ago, a very different era for gays). The homophobes both on and off campus were majorly upset. Some letters to the Columbus Dispatch protested the very existence of any gays on campus, much less allowing such deviates to participate prominently in Homecoming.

The Homecoming game was on Saturday, October 26 against Michigan State (we won by ten points). My then partner, Jerry Bunge, and I, as usual, walked across campus to Ohio Stadium. Near the stadium there was a shady spot under some trees where a group of male students were selling t-shirts. As the crowd Jerry and I were part of passed by them, some of the students in our midst started cheering this little group, and I strained to see what they were selling. The only item for sale turned out to be a t-shirt that displayed on one side a pink triangle (the symbol Hitler had made homosexuals wear in the death camps, and subsequently adopted by the gay community as a badge of pride), but on the t-shirt the pink triangle had a red restriction sign across slashed across it. On the other side of the shirt was this advice: "LET'S BEAT THEM BACK INTO THE CLOSET!"

Jerry and I passed by before exactly what was going on sank in, but all during the game I became madder and madder. We had a thermos of Scotch with us, and it was consumed during the game. When the final whistle blew, we wended the way to our car along the same route we'd come. Fairly drunk but not happy, I asked Jerry if he thought they'd still be there, and he allowed as how he guessed not. As we rounded a corner, there they were: three undergraduate males happily hawking the shirts.

I was furious and (filled with "Irish courage"—er—"Scotch courage"), I said to Jerry, "Come on!" He later confessed he had no idea what was about to happen, but gamely followed my lead.

I stormed up to them and said in a very loud voice (and I have a very loud voice when I want to use it), "I am Professor Douglas Whaley from the Ohio State Law School, and I want to know what's going on here! Let me understand this: you're advocating violence on our campus?"

The very young student I was talking to looked shocked. "No," he protested, "not violence!"

"The what does 'BEAT THEM' mean," Jerry asked, also in a loud voice.

"'BEAT THEM' can only mean violence!" I pronounced. A crowd gathered, mostly students who appeared vaguely supportive of the students, so I turned to them savagely and demanded, "These people want violence on your campus! Do you want that? This is Nazi stuff!" The crowd dissipated quickly (they undoubtedly thought I was a lunatic). I turned back to the t-shirts students in time to hear Jerry say, "I’m a lawyer. Do you have a vendor's license? What're your names?" At that the students frantically began gathering up the shirts. I added, "What? They won't give you their names? Let's get their names!"

Now they panicked and ran, t-shirts flapping in their arms. One of them dropped his hat and Jerry lunged for it as the student stopped to pick it up, but I dramatically said, "No, Mr. Bunge, let him keep his hat!" As they were hightailing it around the corner, Jerry and I looked at each other and burst into laughter, whooping like howler monkeys.

This incident reminded me of a favorite "Fred Basset" comic strip by artist Alex Graham, so I had an enlargement of it made, appended this story to it, and framed it. The picture hangs in my house still. Here is the strip:

[Click To Enlarge]

-----------------------------------

"The Aging Gay Rights Activist," March 24, 2010

“Homosexuality: The Iceberg Theory,” April 25, 2010
“How I Lost a Gay Marriage Debate,” April 29, 2010
“Straight Talk,” May 10, 2010
“Marijuana and Me,” July 11, 2010

"The First Time I Nearly Died," August 3, 2010

“How To Tell if You’re Gay,” August 31, 2010

“The Thunderbolt,” September 3, 2010

“How To Change Gay People Into Straight People,” September 20, 2010

"How Many Homosexuals Are There in the World?" November 8, 2010
"Choose To Be Gay, Choose To Be Straight," January 25, 2011
"The Homosexual Agenda To Conquer the World," February 8, 2011
"Seducing Straight Men," March 3, 2011
"Coming Out: How To Tell People You're Gay," March 27, 2011
"Jumping the Broom: How 'Married' are Married Gay Couples?" July 17, 2011
"The Legacy of Homophobia," August 2, 2011

"Going Undercover at an Ex-Gay Meeting," September 19, 2011

"The Presumption of Heterosexuality and the Invisible Homosexual," October 2, 2011

Funny Law Professors

2012-01-15T12:56:00.010-05:00

Professor Kingsfield of "The Paper Chase"

Of course law professors are a superior breed, with tons of favorable adjectives applicable to them ("intelligent," "handsome," "wonderful," "charismatic," etc.), but a large number are truly funny people, and this post is about five of my favorites.

Arthur Greenbaum. The first example is my best friend on the Ohio State Moritz College of Law faculty, Arthur Greenbaum. I've known him since the fall of 1979 and he and his family are part of the chosen family we've created here in Columbus, Ohio. Among his many admirable talents is his facile sense of humor (too often, alas, laced with puns that should have died aborning). One favorite story:

In 2001, attorney Michael E. Moritz donated the amazing sum of $30 million to the Ohio State Law School if the school would henceforth be named after him. As you can well imagine, that happened immediately. Shortly thereafter a reception in downtown Columbus combined the law school's faculty with many local attorneys. I was standing talking to Art when one of the attorneys stopped to ask us why the law school had recently changed its name. We explained, at which point the attorney looked annoyed. "You'd really rename of the school just for $30 million?" he asked. "For that amount we'd rename the faculty," I assured him. Without pause, Art stuck his hand out to me. "Hello," he said, "my name is Michael E. Moritz." I laughed and shook his hand, replying, "Glad to meet you—I'm Michael E. Moritz too."

Stanley Johanson. When I was a student at the University of Texas Law School (1965-68) the faculty had many great characters in their number, but one of my favorites was Stanley Johanson. His is a much heralded name in the field of Wills and Estates, and that was the course that I took under him. Always a delight in the classroom, Stanley could also pull off major surprises. In law school there is typically only one exam: a major essay test at the very end of the course. Consequently, it was no small surprise to his upper-class Wills students when one day he announced shortly after class began and we were all settled in our seats, that we should take out a pen and piece of paper, number it from 1 to 10, and get ready for a pop quiz! This was outrageous, and unheard of in law school! What were we? Fourth graders? Nonplussed, but unwilling to say anything, we dutifully obeyed, wrote down our answers to the ten questions he read off, and then, as instructed by Professor Johanson, exchanged papers with someone sitting near us for grading as instructed by him. Not quite anger, but something approaching rebellion was brewing, but then he announced the correct answers, smiled, and said, "Just kidding—let's get on with class."

I was somehow dragooned by the editor of the school newspaper, Joseph Armstrong, into interviewing faculty members as to what they thought about President Lyndon Johnson nominating the first black to the United States Supreme Court: the legal giant Thurgood Marshall. When I knocked on Professor Johanson's door and he invited me into his office, I asked him whether he thought this appointment would create a "black seat" on the Court. He replied, "No more than there is a Jewish seat." That puzzled me since there had been a Jewish seat since Lewis Brandeis was appointed to the Court way back in 1916 (currently, in 2011, three members of the Court are Jewish, with the rest being Catholics). Stanley paused, reconsidered, and then straight-forwardly told me, "Frankly, Mr. Whaley, I'm waiting for the Norwegian seat to open up."

Robert J. Lynn. When I joined the Ohio State law faculty in 1976, I became very fond of one of the older professors, the wonderful Robert J. Lynn. Bob was laidback, soft-spoken, and quick of wit, with a very dry sense of humor. He had wonderful instincts for what would work and what would not, and, in faculty meetings, if things suddenly came to a vote and I hadn't been paying attention to the minutia of the issue at hand, I would just wait to see how Bob voted, and then go along with him. I hated faculty meetings (see "Related Posts" below), and so did he. He would sometimes joke about a mythical school called the "Robert J. Lynn Fascist Law School" where there were no faculty meetings, and all law school administrative issues were decided by a benevolent dictator named Robert J. Lynn. "Sign me right up," I told him on learning of this forward-thinking institution.

When I first joined the faculty in January of 1976, I was a Visiting Professor. Since at the last faculty meeting I'd attended at my home school I had made a motion to censor the dean for outrageous conduct (and thereby made myself persona non grata), I was certainly hoping that Ohio State would make me a permanent offer. To that end, the hiring committee scheduled a series of meetings and lunches with various senior faculty members so we could get to know each other. One of these was with Bob, about whom I knew nothing at all. We went to lunch. A hot issue of the day at the law school was the students' recent demand that they be allowed to "self schedule" their exams (meaning they could choose when to take them). Bob was furious about this student grab of power, and over lunch he explained his position in detail. Having unloaded his very persuasive reasons why it was a bad idea, he then realize he sounded fanatical, and laughed at himself. "Actually, Doug," he informed me in a confidential voice, "now that I think about it perhaps I'm wrong. The idea could spread in beneficial ways. How about 'self-scheduled teaching'? I'm not always 'up' for class at the scheduled hour, and I would be much more effective as a teacher if I could choose the best time for me to call my students together and impart wisdom. After all, we still have an antiquated bell system in the school that we never use. We could activate it so that when it sounded, an announcement could be made: 'Professor Lynn is ready for his class,' and they could all scurry to get there before I started the lecture. It would even have the additional advantage of training the students to become volunteer firemen at the same time as they master law!"

Donald Weidner today

Donald Weidner. I have to go sort of slowly here, since Don is still the Dean of the Florida State Law School, and I wouldn't want to suggest in any way that he is anything other than the outstanding leader that his reputation leads me to believe he is. From what I hear from those who would know, he has been a stellar Dean, good with faculty, students, the legislature, the alums, and, all in all, a prince among men.

Donald Weidner in 1968

I met him when he was a year behind me in law school at the University of Texas back in the late 1960s. Then he was an outrageous, over-the-top, sometimes vulgar but always hysterically funny law student. Ever smart, he was on the law review, but a year younger than Jay Westbrook, my roommate, and me, and since one of us (I don't remember which one) was in charge of helping Don write his first article for the law review, he started coming over to our apartment, originally for help on that article, but then because he fit in with the nuttiness that was always going on there (see "The Exploding Alarm Clock" below). He became a good friend for that last year of law school, but then I lost track of him until I was myself a law professor. At the annual law professors' convention, the University of Texas always throws a very impressive cocktail party, and at one of these (probably about 1979), I noticed my old Property professor from Texas standing talking to people across the room. I joined them, planning on introducing myself and complimenting my old professor on his splendid teaching style. He was talking to a man and woman, and when I could easily do so I said, "Excuse me, Professor, but I'd like to introduce myself. I'm Douglas Whaley of the Ohio State faculty." "THE HELL YOU ARE!" the man talking to the professor said in an overly loud voice. It was Don Weidner (and his wife), and I hadn't recognized this older version of the kid I'd once known (nor had he recognized me). That led to a lot of laughter and talking, and we briefly renewed our friendship.

Thereafter I heard stories about Don being very eccentric in faculty meetings and his classroom, which didn't surprise me at all. But when I learned he'd become a dean, I was floored. Making Don Weidner dean would be like electing a heretic Pope. But, as I said, he's become a highly respected Dean at Florida State. About ten years ago he called me and offered me the chance to come to his school as a Visiting Professor. Busy with other commitments, I regretfully turned down that chance, though I confessed to him that I'd love to see what kind of deanship the Don Weidner I knew offered. "What do you mean?" he asked, defensively. "As dean, I do things by the book." "Well," I told him, "I heard you once mooned the faculty." He was outraged at the thought. "NOT SINCE I'VE BEEN DEAN!" he thundered.

Corinne Cooper. Some time ago I was invited to make a presentation at the University of Missouri Kansas City Law School, where I became friends with the incredible Professor Corinne Cooper, who taught the same areas of law that I do. Corinne is one of those people who loves a dare and is unafraid of doing things in completely new ways. She has since retired from teaching and runs a number of projects involving communication consulting.

We once put on a seminar together that I organized, but the story I want to tell you involves us both being presenters at a Cleveland Bar Association function about twenty years ago. The other professor on the panel was the famous James J. White of the Michigan Law School (himself one of the most fascinating people on the planet), but this tale is about my reunion with Corinne, who I had not seen in a couple of years before the Cleveland meeting. I was checking into the Cleveland hotel when I was greeted at the counter by a former student of mine who was the lawyer running this event for the Cleveland Bar Association. She welcomed me to Cleveland and reminded me of the courses I'd once taught her. As we were talking, Corinne Cooper came sweeping into the lobby, and my former student waved her over. Seeing me, Corinne smiled broadly, but before she could say a word, my former student grandly introduced me to Professor Corinne Cooper. I don't know what came over me, but I couldn't resist saying, "Oh, but I know Professor Cooper well—we once had a mad and passionate love affair!" I took her proffered hand, and Corinne didn't miss a beat. She immediately squeezed my hand tightly while cooing, "And now our Love Child has finished college, and we're both so proud of him! How are you, Doug?" She kissed me on the cheek and we both laughed.

My former student was horrified.

------------------------------------------------

"How I Became a Law Professor," January 27, 2010

"The Exploding Alarm Clock," February 19, 2011

"Adventures in the Law School Classroom," September 10, 2011

"I Hate Meetings," October 31, 2011

The Cheesecake Incident in Williamsburg, Virgina

2012-01-06T14:05:00.007-05:00

Williamsburg, Virginia

During the 1973-74 school year, I was a Visiting Professor at the University of North Carolina Law School in Chapel Hill, N.C., moving there for that period with my wife Charleyne and our son, Clayton, who had turned one year old that December. For spring break in March of 1974, we arranged to meet Jay and Polly Westbrook, my old friends from law school, and their son Joel, who was slightly older than Clayton, for a vacation in Williamsburg, Virginia.

The Westbrooks

The Whaleys

When we were all gathered together down there, we took rooms at a motel, and proceeded to do touristy things in Williamsburg, wheeling the children around in strollers, looking at the recreation of colonial times in his historic city. (Coincidentally, I graduated from York High School in 1961, not far from Williamsburg, so I'd been here before, and, indeed, had taken my college entrance exam at the College of William and Mary). Happily, Jay and Polly had brought along a portable bar, so after a day of sightseeing, we'd return to the hotel, put the children to bed, and then have a drink or two to end the day, while regaling ourselves with stories from law school, some of which might actually have been true.

The Williamsburg Inn

On the final night we made reservations for dinner at the Williamsburg Inn, a very elegant upscale establishment, hiring a babysitter for the boys. Of course we downed a drink before leaving the motel, and on arriving at the Inn were told there would be a wait before our table was ready in the restaurant. In no hurry, we repaired to the bar and had another. When we were seated not long thereafter, Jay, always the connoisseur, ordered two bottles of wine, one red and one white, and we sipped those throughout our splendid dinner. The atmosphere in the dining room was cultured (there was a string quartet playing in one corner) and comfortable.

In those days, when I was just 30 years old, I was something of a practiced drinker, but Charleyne was not. She rarely drank at all, and usually had only one drink when she had any. But this evening she entered into the spirit and "spirits" of the occasion, and was in a very merry mood by the time dessert was offered to us. I should also mention two other things: Charleyne is a talented mimic (her imitations of various faculty members at the law school were dead-on perfect), and in Clayton's toddler days the Whaley family watched a lot of the children's TV show "Sesame Street." On the dessert menu was a favorite of Charleyne's: cheesecake. Unable to bottle up her delight, she jumped into an imitation of the Cookie Monster's famous deep-voiced "COOKIE!" exclamation, but changed it to

"CHEESECAKE!!!"

and said it far too loudly. The string quartet momentarily stumbled in the execution of the piece they were performing, and all around the room diners' heads popped up in alarm. After the briefest pause the normal sounds of the room returned, and we happily finished our meal. It was suggested that we repair again to the bar for an after-dinner drink, and of course we did that. I excused myself and went downstairs to the men's room.

As I was sitting in one of the stalls, I suddenly recollected the "cheesecake" incident , and (I'd had quite a bit to drink myself, remember) that caused me to laugh out loud. The other three stalls were occupied, and a room that had already been quiet, suddenly was even more ominously still as those present wondered who this nut was. That, alas, struck me as even funnier, and I went into a fit of laughter that built on itself as it occurred.

When I finally achieved control, I realized that none of the other men had left the bathroom. Two were still in stalls and one was washing his hands, but obviously they wanted to wait and actually see this lunatic who'd been laughing like a hyena. I was too embarrassed to come out until they were gone, so I stayed hidden, and this waiting game took forever. After about fifteen more minutes they gave up and left, and which point I could do the same.

I'd been gone quite awhile, but somehow Polly, Jay, and Charleyne, all three having a good time of their own in the bar, hadn't missed me. To this day "CHEESECAKE!" has been an inside joke between Charleyne and myself, being muttered in that Cookie Monster voice at the strangest moments.

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"How I Became a Law Professor," January 27, 2010

"I Married a Hippy," April 14, 2010

"Far Too High in Las Vegas," September 1, 2010

"Charleyne and the Giant Cookie," September 16, 2010

"Bowling With Charleyne," February 13, 2011

"The Exploding Alarm Clock," February 19, 2011

Pronouncing "2012"

2011-12-31T22:13:00.012-05:00

Okay, it's very important that we all agree that "2012" is henceforth to be pronounced "twenty-twelve" as opposed to "two thousand and twelve"! Why—you might ask, given all that is going wrong on this planet—is this issue important?

It's for reasons of being vocally "green," of course!

Consider, blog readers, that "two thousand and twelve" has five syllables whereas "twenty-twelve" has only three. Just three! Tonight on NBC News as the announcers covered stories about the advent of 2012, the coming year was intoned using both possible pronunciations. But the announcers who said it correctly (three syllables) had more breath and air time to get out two extra syllables, thus perhaps altering their careers for the better. Nonsense, you may mutter—Whaley has lost it! How can it ever make any difference? But consider that this issue is not just a one year affair, but will go on for 88 more years (and has already plagued the past one, during which I shuddered every time I heard "two thousand and eleven"). Think of all those wasted syllables! Zillions of them are coming! It's horrifying!

This crucial dichotomy didn't arise last century because no one considered saying the mouthful that "one thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine" would have entailed (much less "1977" which would added two more syllables to the verbal landfill). But the disarming convenience of "two thousand" has led us into sloppy temptation. Avoid it, blog readers, I beg you!

Fortunately this syllable battle will not likely be an issue for, say, "2112," since "two thousand one hundred and twelve" will be too daunting for even the most committed of the current "two thousanders."

In the meantime, the saner of us (the more "vocally green") must convince those wrongheaded people of the correctness of our cause, and fight lustily for "2012" to have only the three syllables that common sense demands it be allotted.

So, blog readers, correct your misspeaking friends (which should make you even more popular as you put their feet firmly on the right path) and send emails of complaint to NBC and like organizations if they fail to live up to modernity in this important logomachy.

Remember: Friends don't allow friends to be "two thousanders!"

Happy "twenty-twelve" to you all!

An Atheist's Christmas Card

2011-12-23T10:56:00.005-05:00

.
I actually sent out the card reprinted below at Xmas time in 2007, but I thought it might amuse you, so in 2011 I send it to all my readers. Here it is:

FRONT:

INSIDE:

The Second Anniversary of This Blog: Greetings to the Planet Earth

2011-12-17T15:28:00.015-05:00

At this second anniversary of my first post, I start by thanking the thousands of readers who have visited this site. Every day when I look at the list of visitors (who are identified in the stats by city and country only), I'm overwhelmed.

As I explained last year on the first anniversary of the blog (see "Related Posts" below), this blog has unexpectedly changed my life. It occurred to me the other day that my musings were really a form of autobiography coupled with my life philosophy and the outpourings of a compulsive teacher who (rightly or wrongly) has a lot to say on a wide variety of topics. Then there are the stories I get to tell in final form (having told and retold them all my life). I'm from a family of storytellers (the high-falutin word is "raconteurs"), and my favorite stories have turned into blog posts, one after another, detailing the adventures of my family, friends, partners, pets, and people I barely know. Taken all in all—stories, philosophy, advice—this blog constitutes the most important writing I've ever done in my entire life (and this includes my large output of legal works and various novels).

Why? Because I know from the feedback I get that people like these posts, and some posts have been life-changing for my readers. That amazes me. When someone in Tunisia writes me that he's able for the first time to face his own homosexuality because of my blog, or a teenager in the United States writes to ask if he should come out to his parents even though they've announced they'll kill him if they learn he's gay (I said no, but told him to plan his escape route now), or someone in Jordan tells me that "Muslin Atheist" perfectly describes the hell that surrounds him, or one reader sends out dozens of copies of "Going Undercover at an Ex-Gay Meeting" because she thinks it should be mandatory reading, I'm jolted. When I wrote my first post two years ago (pitiful thing that it was), I had no idea that I would end up communicating with the world.

As of this morning, 156 countries have visited my blog since August 22 of last year (there were no accurate records for the first nine months of the blog). Here is a list of the top fifty countries visiting the blog since then (each "Hit" is a visit by someone from that country, including repeat visitors):

[Click to Enlarge]

You can find the complete list of all countries by clicking on View My Stats under the StatCounter symbol at the top left of each page of this blog. On the screen that pops up on the left Country/State/City/ISP produces this list of countries, or allows the reader to see a similar list of cities. If instead of Country/State/City/ISP you click on Recent Visitor Activity you come upon a screen that lists every visitor to this site like this:

[Click to Enlarge]

Number of Entries identifies how many pages of the blog the viewer visited (each page contains about six blog posts). Thus the visitor from Dearborn, Michigan, visited one page (which had on it the post about mortgage foreclosures), while the visitor from Iraq spent a lot of time on the blog since he/she visited seven pages of posts, staying on the final page for 2 minutes and 41 seconds. The "0 seconds" on the entry for the Dearborn visitor means only that he/she did not move to a second page. Here are the first 20 visitors from this morning (Dec. 17):

[Click to Enlarge]

These data record fascinating things about the visitors. For reasons I can't explain a post entitled: "How To Impress People in a Conversation" is very popular in India, but nowhere else on the planet. The posts having to do with sex—no surprise—attract visitors from all over the world. Some people searching for one thing (such as "How to communicate with God") end up with something else ("An Atheist Interviews God"). There are quick visits, by which I mean that the visitor took one look at a post and immediately clicked away. An example: someone Googling "sexy notes" would reach my post about preventing mortgage foreclosures because the promissory note is missing ("The Sexy Promissory Note"), not at all what he/she was looking for (even though it has a cute cartoon of a promissory note with its arm around a hooker). The opposite of that is someone who stumbles upon my blog, likes what he/she finds, and reads everything. A couple of months ago someone from Birmingham, England, read all that I've ever posted, which took two weeks of reading.

The top three most visited posts as of yesterday:

In the beginning I wrote fancy titles for the posts, ones that seemed fitting for them. My favorite post, for example, is entitled "Benjamin Franklin Riding Shotgun." It has this conceit: suppose you are driving your car and all of a sudden Dr. Franklin is magically whisked from his own time and placed on your passenger seat. What questions would he ask, and could you answer them? This game, which I've often played when stuck in traffic, has interesting results, most notably (and humbling) that I can't explain to this great scientist much about the world of the 21^st century, becoming stumped over and over by his questions. The problem with this post is that its name tells so little, and that means, I now understand, that it gets ignored. I've learned, therefore, to title the posts with Goggle searches in mind. Thus a post entitled "How Many Homosexuals Are There in the World?" is found by its audience.

In the beginning of the blog, I wrote two posts a week. But that has decreased in number this past year. Why don't I post more often? I simply can't write a post just to post a post. If I’m going to write something, I must have something to say. At the start I was overflowing with stories to tell and advice on many topics, but as I've fed my life into the blog, I've grown cautious of cheapening the quality of that which follows. I suspect some posts will interest or entertain anyone who reads them ("Adventures in the Law School Classroom" for example), while others have a very limited audience ("The Ohio State Hospital Nurses: A Letter to President Gordon Gee"), but I want them all to be worth reading by someone.

Alas, there are some posts I can never write because they would detail embarrassing stories about people yet alive who would drop me as a friend immediately (and—damn it!—good stories thereby go untold). Others would be too painful for me to relive or others to read. Some (and, again, some real barnburners) are too salacious for the blog. On the up side, I've learned to use Photoshop, and have a great time choosing images from the Internet, altering them, and using them as illustrations for my posts. To see Old Doug having a good Photoshop time, look at "I Hate Meetings." The image of the man in the stocks, for example, did not originally have a gag in his mouth. Nor was the monkey in the "Zoo Stories" photo originally holding a pair of glasses.

Whenever I post a new blog entry, I put that fact on Facebook so my friends will know there's something new to read. Otherwise, I don't use Facebook for anything. If you, reader, would like to know when there are new posts, simply send me a "Friend" request, and I'll confirm it, even if I've never heard of you. It would be a privilege to be your Friend, and I want interested people to know when new entries are posted to my blog. Or send me an email asking to be alerted to new posts, and I will send out a mass mailing to that effect when one is available. My email address (listed in my profile) is dglswhaley@aol.com. Put the word "Blog" in the Subject Line.

[Click to Enlarge]

Mostly what I've experienced from writing this blog is the thrill of communicating with the world. I have readers from countries I'd never heard of, like Brunei Darussalam (I looked it up—it's in NW Borneo)! The thought that someone on the other side of the world is reading a post I wrote just last night is a wonder of this new millennium. It frequently doesn't seem real to me at all.

One final thought: of course I'll die someday (and my nephew Adam has been designated to post a blog entry so stating), but as long as Google itself doesn't fail, this blog will be available forever. That's another startling concept about the whole improbable undertaking.

I end as I began. Thank you all for reading these postings that I love so much to write.

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Related Posts:

"One Year of This Blog," December 19, 2010

"Muslin Atheist," March 16, 2011

"Going Undercover at an Ex-Gay Meeting," September 19, 2011

"An Atheist Interviews God," May 20, 2011

"The Sexy Promissory Note," August 17, 2010

"Benjamin Franklin Riding Shotgun," May 29, 2010

"How To Impress People in a Conversation," October 10, 2010

"How Many Homosexuals Are There in the World?", November 8, 2010
"The Left-Brain/Right-Brain Life," January 17, 2011

"Adventures in the Law School Classroom," September 10, 2011

"The Ohio State Hospital Nurses: A Letter to President Gordon Gee," July 21, 2011

"I Hate Meetings," October 31, 2011
"Zoo Stories," August 20, 2011

Needed: Readers of the Final Draft of My Novel "Corbin Milk"

2011-12-13T15:43:00.007-05:00

Since my retirement in 2004, as readers of this blog may know, I've gone back to writing novels. My first published novel, "Imaginary Friend" (available on both Amazon and Kindle) has been selling well since I put an ad for it in the December issue of Free Inquiry magazine. That periodical is produced by the Council for Secular Humanism, and has a subscription base of 17,000; the ad for my atheist thriller will run for six issues, through next year.

My second novel, "Corbin Milk" is still a work in progress. I'm very close to saying that the current draft is the final one, but I'm still uneasy about the ending. Some days I think the ending is perfect and on others I'm not so sure. I guess it needs a few more eyes and suggestions, so I'm asking readers of this blog if any of them would be willing to download the novel, print it out, and read it. I'd much appreciate hearing whatever feedback they have (paying particular attention to that pesky ending). I'm also wondering what the cover should look like.

The novel concerns the adventures of a gay CIA agent, a handsome and very smart bodybuilder named Corbin Milk, for whom the CIA finds the most interesting uses. I got the idea for writing the novel while reading an article in The Advocate, the news magazine of the gay community. The article concerned an anonymous Army captain who was riding slowly through the streets of Bagdad on a tank during the liberation of that city when he locked eyes with a handsome Iraqi man standing on the street. Though it could have gotten them both in major trouble with their respective communities, the two men had a great times thereafter on a number of occasions. Surely, I thought, the CIA would see possibilities in the fact that gay sex is very far off the radar in a heterosexual world. In that world men and women are constantly aware of sexual tensions between two straight people, no matter what the setting—even in church, for example. But that world is more or less blind to similar gay encounters.

Mata Hari

Various snippets of "Corbin Milk" have appeared in this blog (see "Related Posts" below). "The Thunderbolt" describes how Corbin met George Yancy, the love of his life, at a party in D.C., "How To Change Gay People Into Straight People," detailes George's attempts to become a heterosexual, and "Choose To Be Gay, Choose To Be Straight" reprints a segment of the novel about how the five year-old Corbin Milk discovered he was gay.

The novel, which has some gay sex scenes (written without much detail and with a possible straight readership in mind), started out as a thriller, and does, indeed, have numerous thrilling episodes, but to my surprise it's really a love story about two people struck dumb with their attraction to one another. This is particularly inconvenient for Corbin, since a serious romance interferes with and threatens to destroy his very successful CIA career. I should also mention that there's quite a bit of humor in this complicated tale.

If you're willing to help me out, send me an email (dglswhaley@aol.com) with a "Corbin Milk" Subject Line, and I'll send the novel back to you as an attachment. I don't see myself trying to publish the book much sooner than the coming summer, so there's no great hurry in sending your thoughts and suggestions to me.

I extend my grateful thanks in advance to any of you willing to read and comment on this work in progress. I love the story and I'd like to make it better.

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“The Thunderbolt,” September 3, 2010

"How To Change Gay People Into Straight People,” September 20, 2010

"Choose To Be Gay, Choose To Be Straight," January 25, 2011
“Imaginary Friend,” June 22, 2010 (About my atheist thriller novel)
“Explosion at Ohio Stadium,” October 9, 2010 (Chapter One of "Imaginary Friend")
"Escape From Ohio Stadium," November 2, 2010 (Chapter Two)
"Open Mouth, Insert Foot," November 21, 2010 (Chapter Three)
"The Presumption of Heterosexuality and the Invisible Homosexual," October 2, 2011

Atheists, Christmas, and Public Prayers

2011-12-09T13:50:00.002-05:00

The President Publically Praying

The duplicate bridge club to which I belong has an annual "Holiday Dinner" at this time every year which includes both a meal and then a large-field bridge game. At this year's event I was seated at dinner next to one the players, an older woman named Donna. As the salad was served she remarked to me, "Last year, right about now, we had to sit through an 'Invocation' that sounded a lot like a prayer, and I hope that won't happen again." Amused and interested, I asked Donna if she was an atheist, and she nodded vigorously. Just then a microphone-enhanced voice from the head table announced it was time for the invocation. Donna snorted in annoyance, and as we were all instructed that at this time of the year we should all feel grateful for the blessings conferred upon us by "Our Lord," she continued to eat her salad in determined defiance of the message. I did not bow my head, as most people in the room automatically did, and when I looked around I noticed quite a number of other bridge players who were similarly nonconforming, looking stoically straight ahead until the invocation ended and the speaker moved on to announcements of club business (including applause for those who organized the event, which was dutifully given by us all).

What should atheists do during public prayer? Is it offensive to ignore it as if it weren't happening, as Donna did? If she were asked, I'm sure she would reply that it's offensive to presume that everyone should participate in praise of a deity many present don't believe exists. The next day I asked a Jewish friend of mine if a public prayer at Christmas time that mentions "Our Lord" bothers Jews, or if they pretend that those words refer only to the God of the Old Testament. He replied that Jews have a long history of going along to get along, and that offending Christians hasn't worked out very well in the past.

The world is changing, and the number of people who are not religious is increasing. Customs that presume otherwise should be rethought. If I were the person who was running a public event of this kind, I would work hard to say something that would be inspiring but would offend no one. Something like "We thanks you all for coming tonight, and in the spirit of joy and good will towards all that pervades this season, we hope everyone has a good time and increases the friendships this organization has long fostered. Now to club business . . . ."

Is this the secularization of Christmas? Of course it is, and it's appropriate when those gathered together are not there to participate in a religious ceremony. In an actual church, a sectarian prayer to the deity of choice is expected and participation is rightfully mandatory. But in a public gathering, a prayer to, say, Jesus Christ, is an announcement that other religious views must bow to this one. That's either insensitive if it's done without thinking of how it will be perceived by non-believers or those of another faith, or offensive if performed with awareness and conscious disregard of those who are not Christians. In any case, a public prayer seems to announce that those present must either join in the prayer or suffer the contempt of those who do.

The Whaleys, Japan, 1955

I was raised a Catholic in a family that celebrated Christmas in the traditional Christian way. My mother always took my sister and me to midnight mass, where hymns of praise were sung by us all (though my mother's famous inability to sing would cause some stares). I enjoyed this magical time of the year and our family rituals (some being traditional and others being silly things like Mom coming home from that late mass and making fried baloney sandwiches for the four of us while we badgered her into agreeing to open "just one" gift each, inevitably leading to unwrapping all the booty). When my sister and I became adults, living far from each other, these traditions died out. My sister and I now exchange Xmas cards, and that's it (my parents are both dead). With my chosen family in Columbus—all of them non-sectarians—we have a traditional Xmas meal, and give gifts to the children, while toasting each other with eggnog and stronger spirits. Human beings have had rituals at the time of the winter solstice since civilization began, and we've created our own version from many sources, Christianity being but one of them. A good time is had by all as we rejoice in friendship and love.

What does an atheist do if he/she is at a private home and a prayer is said at the start of the meal? In such a situation I take great care not to draw attention to myself. If "Let's bow our heads" is commanded, I don't do that, but I do look down, and that usually suffices. In such situations I'm a guest in the home of religious people, and I respect their right to celebrate their faith at mealtime. If asked, I say exactly that. But if someone pushes it ("Don't you believe in God?") I smile ruefully and confess that "Alas, I'm a nonbeliever, but I'm grateful to be included in this lovely meal," and then change the subject to something else.

What should a non-theist do if asked to give the prayer? In the rare situations where this has occurred to me, I demure ("Please, I'd rather not") and request that someone else do it. If it is insisted that I lead the prayer, I promptly bow my head, my hands in my lap, and intone something like this: "We are very grateful for this gathering of friends and the fine meal that has been prepared for us. May we appreciate the blessings life has sent our way, and rejoice in them." Someone almost always then says "Amen," at which point I smile happily and suggest we eat. In such a private setting I don't push my non-belief on others, and can only hope they respect my right not to lie and participate in a paean to a God that is not mine.

---------------------------------------------

“Catholicism and Me (Part One),” March 13, 2010

“Superstitions,” March 21, 2010

“Catholicism and Me (Part Two),” April 18, 2010

“Imaginary Friend,” June 22, 2010 (About my atheist thriller novel)

“I Don’t Do Science,” July 2, 2010

“Explosion at Ohio Stadium,” October 9, 2010 (Chapter One of that novel)

“When Atheists Die,” October 17, 2010

"Escape From Ohio Stadium," November 2, 2010 (Chapter Two)

"Open Mouth, Insert Foot," November 21, 2010 (Chapter Three)

"Rock Around the Sun," December 31, 2010
"Muslim Atheist," March 16, 2011
"An Atheist Interviews God," May 20, 2011
"A Mormon Loses His Faith," June 13, 2011

"Is Evolution True?" July 13, 2011

Finding Bobby Startup

2011-12-05T15:11:00.006-05:00

Bobby Startup, 1960

My first three years of high school were spent in a suburb of Nashville, Tennessee, at Donelson High School (1958-1960), before my family moved to Virginia and I had my senior year there. During those three years my best friend was Robert Newton Startup, who lived three blocks away from my family's house in Donelson. We were the greatest of friends, spending huge amounts of time together, laughing, getting into trouble, learning to smoke and drink, climbing in and out of windows to escape parents, and more. His note written in my copy of the 1960 yearbook mentions "the road block with the broken leg, the days you didn't go to school, and the secret of the attic," among other adventures. "The days you didn't go to school" is a a euphemism for our frequent cutting of classes, and "the road block with the broken leg" must refer to some incident I don't recall having to do with the leg I broke while roller skating when I was sixteen.

My Yearbook Photo, 1960

But here's the secret of the attic:

My father, Lt. Col. Robert Whaley, was stationed in Nashville for this period as the Air Force's liaison officer to the Civil Air Patrol. The CAP was a private organization of people with their own air planes who would go into the air to help in certain situations: disasters, looking for missing cars, etc. Of course the people who owned such air planes tended to be rich, and my father was one of the most charming humans on the planet, so he got along well with them all. One of them, who owned a business that imported liquor, would send Dad a case of Johnnie Walker Red Label Scotch each year at Xmas time. Dad, a scotch drinker, would open it up with delight. Bobby and I discovered that the case contained 18 bottles, but it was easy to rearrange the cardboard dividers so that it looked like there were only supposed to be 12 bottles. We'd do this, and spirit away six bottles, which we hid in the back of the attic (which could be accessed only through my bedroom on the second floor). Decades later I asked Dad if he'd ever discovered this teenage theft, and he smiled ruefully and said that "no, you got away with one." Johnnie Walker Red was the first hard liquor that Bobby and I had ever encountered, and we became quite fond it. Through the years when people ask me how I became a scotch drinker, I smile and think of Bobby and I clinking our glasses together in that attic as we learned to appreciate fine scotch.

High School Football

He was a terrific friend and when I moved away we kept in touch for a couple of years, but then, as these things happen, we lost track of each other.

SF Public Library

Flash forward to 1982. As I've described before in this blog (see "Related Posts" below), I spent the 1982-83 school year as a Visiting Professor at the University of California Hasting Law School in downtown San Francisco. That fall I was teaching the first year in Contracts and I gave the students a practice exam, with the grades I assigned not counting anything—the idea was that they could get used to what a law school essay exam looks like and how it's graded. I handed back the much-marked-up bluebooks in class and then told the students that their grades were posted on the door to my office (with coded numbers used instead of student names). They rushed from the class to go examine the posting, and that presented me with a difficulty: I couldn't go back to my office until the crowd had cleared (and no one wants to talk to students who've just gotten their first grades in law school, even ones that don't count). What to do? The answer was to park my classroom books with the law school's front desk and walk around the beautiful city of San Francisco for awhile. When I stepped out onto the sidewalk I realized that the SF Public Library was just across the street, and, a lover of libraries since a boy, I promptly went in. Wandering around I discovered something called the "Telephone Book Room," which contained telephone books from across the country. Hmm. Who to look up?

Bobby, of course. I pulled down the Nashville phone directory and under the entries for "Startup" I was delighted to find out that Bobby's grandmother was still alive and living at the same address of old. I wrote down her phone number and called her that evening. When she answered, I identified myself and said, "I know you won't remember me, Mrs. Startup, but when I was in high school, your grandson Bobby was my best friend." She laughed and replied, "Of course, I remember you, Doug. You and Bobby used to sit in my kitchen and devour cookies." My next question was to ask for contact information for Bobby, and her voice lowered. "I'm so sorry to tell you this, Doug, but Bobby died of cancer this past summer."

I sat there stunned as Bobby's grandmother explained that Bobby had become a high school principal, had married and produced two (three?) children, and had died in Houston at the large medical center there which specializes in cancer. Tears in my eyes, I declined her offer to put me in touch with Bobby's widow, who, I reasoned, didn't need to hear from more mourners.

I can't tell you how deeply this startling information affected me. It's the oddest thing, but I was depressed for two weeks. I hadn't seen or even much thought about Bobby for many years, but neither had I written finis to our friendship, and the fact that he had just died (at age 39!) was a blow that flattened me all these years later.

In the 1960 Donelson High School yearbook Bobby had written a long note. It concluded with this statement: "I hope our friendship will always be."

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Related Posts:

"With Tim in San Francisco—1982/1983," August 6, 2011

"Adventures in the Law School Classroom" September 10, 2011

On Being Lucky: The Second Anniversary of My Heart Transplant

2011-11-23T00:12:00.000-05:00

I was born in 1943, right in the middle of World War II. It was a bad time for the planet, but it occurred to me about six months ago that children born in the United States during the war were demographically lucky. The famous "baby boomers" were born after the war when the soldiers and sailors came home, and they created this gigantic population bubble that was right behind me, but I didn't have to compete with them. When I was ready for my education, the schools were not crowded. When I wanted a job, they were readily available. When I decided to go to law school, there weren't hoards of other applicants, so I was accepted by every school I applied to, mediocre academic record notwithstanding.

Today, November 23, 2011, I celebrate the second anniversary of my heart transplant (about which I've written a good deal—see "Related Posts" below). As I did last year on this same occasion, reflecting on this medical miracle has caused me to review things. I've come to a conclusion I'd never appreciated before: I've been lucky all my life.

Exiting a movie a couple of years ago with a friend, he commented that the angst of family life that was the core of the plot was very much like his own unhappy childhood, and, he speculated, "We can all relate to that." I shook my head. "No, I can't. I had great parents, a wonderful sister, and couldn't have asked for a better upbringing." He frowned. "Then you were lucky." Thinking about this at the time, I concluded he was right, and the happy family life I'd taken for granted is rarer than I'd understood.

As I've explained in various blog posts in the past, other stokes of chance improbably came my way. At Dad's suggestion I joined the Navy right out of high school, did two years of active duty (1961-1963), and then used the G.I. Bill to partially pay for both college and law school. I received my honorable discharge in 1967, just as the Vietnam War hotted up and inactive recruits were being recalled to active duty—my law school roommates were worried about the draft yanking them out of law school (and making snide remarks about the monthly checks I received from "Uncle Sugar"). When I entered law school I was alphabetically seated next to the man who would eventually graduate number one in a class of 500. Because we became immediate friends (and still are), I simply did what he did, and ended up graduating 14^th in that same class, giving me a stellar academic record that set me up for the law school teaching career that dropped in my lap, completely unsought, a year and a half after I graduated. When I bought my first house, the G.I. Bill also helped me pay for it.

In 1971, I married Charleyne Adolay, an incredible woman, and we have an incredible son named Clayton. Both of them will be coming to Columbus to spend Thanksgiving with me and my local, much loved, chosen family—Clayton and his wife Maria are flying in from Seattle, and Charleyne is driving over from Indianapolis. I've had two male partners, David and Jerry, and we're all still good friends. David and I had lunch this summer when I badgered him to start selling things on eBay, and Jerry (who now lives in Las Vegas) sent me an email two days ago stating that my story about "Wake Up, Mr. Tree" (part of the recent "Potpourri #1" blog post) has mysteriously changed through repeated tellings (which, incidentally, I dispute). So I've known both love and my own happy families. Jerry and I once threw a party at which I suddenly noticed him in the kitchen talking to both David and Charleyne, all of them laughing at something. I broke that up damn fast before they could get to comparing notes.

Things have gone very well for Old Doug on many other levels. I've had a satisfying career as a law professor (publishing books used nationwide, being voted teaching awards, etc.), did my part for gay rights (getting in on the ground floor of the creation of one of Ohio's leading gay rights organizations), and, in a small way, have become a respected local actor. I've published a novel, created an album of comic songs I wrote, played in bridge tournaments, and have an international reputation as an expert on Gilbert and Sullivan. This blog, started in December of 2009, shortly after the transplant, has been the latest joy in my life, with thousands of visitors from155 different countries reading my eclectic musings.

All of this good fortune in life does not mean I've not known trouble. As this blog explains in detail, I've had misfortunes (delayed puberty, major health troubles, etc.) and made big mistakes (see "Mama Cat Saves My Life"). "Luck", of course, sometimes means bad luck. But I've gotten through all these things, and some of the recoveries were themselves lucky.

And then came the heart transplant of two years ago. Oh, that was very lucky indeed! Let me explain:

This past summer I was in the hospital making a quick recovery from the "Mama" incident, and one of the heart transplant nurses asked me if I would talk to another patient, named Jim, who was in a room right down the hall from me, waiting for his own transplant. She said he was so ill that he was currently at the top of the waiting list for a new heart. I was pleased to go talk with him, and Jim (plus his wife, who was in the room when I arrived) proved to be interesting, informative, and, given that he was clearly on the verge of death, surprisingly upbeat. The Ohio State Ross Heart Hospital transplant doctors had recently rejected two proffered hearts because they didn't seem healthy enough. Jim told me that in the past year Ross had lost two transplant patients on the operating table when the proffered hearts had failed to start. This statistic amazed me. Ross had only lost one patient to a bad heart in the five years before I received mine (I'd checked). Jim said he thought the doctors were determined not to have that awful event reoccur, but he was hopeful a good heart would be found for him soon. I wished him luck. When I asked the same nurse recently if Jim had gotten his new heart, she said no, but that he'd been given a temporary mechanical heart regulator for the interim.

When I received my heart two years ago, I was not that seriously ill (I was sitting at home working at the computer when the call came), and, indeed, had been told I likely wouldn't get a heart until January of 2010. It was just luck that no one more seriously ill than I was qualified for the heart that did become available just before Thanksgiving, 2009. This heart was brought from a hospital one mile from Ross (proffered hearts can come from as far away as New York), and the doctor who retrieved it later told me that when he first saw it he said to himself, "This is a beautiful heart!" It began beating as soon as the doctors started my blood flowing, which is rare; normally some sort of stimulation is required. It's beating perfectly in my chest as I type this two years later.

Summing up this post: I've simply had incredible luck throughout my life, and only recently has this fact struck home. I can only hope this good fortune continues, but if it doesn't at least I've had a great ride for over 68 years.

Finally, I also reflect today on the life of Andrew, the 27 year-old doctoral student in Philosophy at Ohio State, whose tragic death on November 22, 2009, permitted me to live. Not a day goes by but I think of him with gratitude for his heart and sadness at his death (four people received five of his organs, and multiple others were given tissue transplants!). I've become friends with his wonderful mother and stepfather, and my heart goes out to them and all his family on this anniversary.

----------------------------------

"The Purring Heart," November 23, 2010 (first anniversary of the transplant)

"About That Heart Transplant," January 24, 2010
"My Heart Belonged to Andrew," February 17, 2010
"Another Letter to Andrew's Parents," March 10, 2010

"A Toast to Andrew," May 2, 2010

"The Very Young Douglas Whaley," October 11, 2010

“My Competitive Parents,” January 20, 2010

"My Mother's Sense of Humor," April 4, 2010

"Douglas Whaley, Deckhand," December 22, 2010

“How I Became a Law Professor,” January 27, 2010

"I Married a Hippy," April 14, 2010

"Charleyne and the Giant Cookie," September 19, 2010

"The Aging Gay Rights Activist," March 24, 2010

"Going Through Puberty at Age 23," May 23, 2011

"The First time I Nearly Died," August 3, 2010

“Imaginary Friend,” June 22, 2010 (my novel)

"Strange Songs, Inc.," September 29, 2010 (my album)

"The World's Greatest Game [Bridge] Needs You," June 20, 2011

"Douglas Whaley, Actor," August 14, 2010

"A Fanatic's Tale (This Isn't Pretty)," April 11, 2010 (Gilbert and Sullivan)

"One Year of This Blog," December 19, 2010

"Mama Cat Saves My Life," October 23, 2011

"Potpourri #1," November 15, 2011

Potpourri #1

2011-11-15T22:44:00.014-05:00

The following is collection of little pieces that, taken singly, are too short for a decent-size blog entry. I call this post "Potpourri #1" on the theory that at some point there will be a sequel, possibly many. Send complaints to stop this if you want no more.

1. "Wake Up, Mr. Tree"

When Jerry and I were at the start of our twelve years together (see "Recidivist" in Related Posts, below), he was still in law school. But three days a week he didn't have morning classes, while I did. After we moved in together, I'd rise and he'd stay in bed. When I commented on this, his reply was "I'm not getting up unless you can sing 'Wake Up, Mr. Tree." This stumped me until he explained that when he was little (Jerry was born in 1959) there was a Columbus TV children's show called "Lucy's Toy Shop." In each show the children would wake up a seven foot tall tree puppet by singing this song to it. Since, alas, I didn't know the song, Jerry could pull up the covers and return to sleep.

Lucy's Toy Shop

[Click to enlarge]

This was nonsense, of course, but the sort of whimsy that made our relationship interesting. Hmm. I had an idea. I went to class that very day and announced to the 75 or so students, "I have a chance to play a great practical joke if I can learn to sing 'Wake Up, Mr. Tree.' Can anyone help me?" I was amazed that four students came up after class, formed a little chorus, and sang the song to me with much enthusiasm. One of them, a former music major, came by my office and presented me with sheet music she'd written out of the song itself (see photo). That evening, when Jerry was out, I sat at the piano and picked out the melody (I write songs, and have even put out an album of them—see "Strange Songs" below). I rehearsed it a couple of times (it's certainly not complicated), and the next morning when Jerry and I repeated the above dialogue for the second day, I promptly plunged into the song and sang it with some vigor.

"How did you do that?" Jerry asked, jaw dropped.

"I have mysterious talents," I replied. "Get up."

2. Sodomy in Arkansas

Sam Price, who lives in California, is a friend of mine. He has a discerning eye and quite a sense of humor. Here is an example of both:

Letter to the Editor, San Francisco Sentinel, July 16, 1992

In your issue of July 9, you quote the Arkansas definition of sodomy: "The penetration, however slight, of the vagina or anus of an animal or a person by any member of a person of the same sex or an animal."

I would like to point out that if you take this statute to mean exactly what it actually says, you will reach two surprising conclusions:

1) In Arkansas, sex between people and animals is perfectly legal, provided the person and the animal are of different sexes!

2) In Arkansas, whenever two animals fuck, they are both guilty of sodomy!

Sam Price

Berkely, CA

A Crime in Arkansas?

3. On Being a Chicago Cubs Fan

Wrigley Field in 1908

When I moved to Chicago in 1968 to begin practicing law, I often went out to Wrigley Field to watch the Chicago Cubs play baseball. This was a great time for the Cubs, with famous players like third baseman Ron Santo, pitcher Ferguson Jenkins, outfielder Billy Williams. and the manager Leo Durocher, though in both that year and the next the Cubs failed to advance to the World Series (again). Sports aficionados among my readers will know that the Chicago Cubs last won the World Series in 1908, a longer championship drought than that of any other major North American professional sports team. Known as the "Loveable Losers," they've routinely disappointed their fans ever since. In 2007 and 2008, for example, the Cubs had wonderful baseball seasons (having the best record in all of baseball in 2007 as the regular season closed), but as soon as the playoffs started, the Cubs were immediately eliminated (sigh). Season after season, I've felt like Charlie Brown as I've vainly rooted for the Cubs to finally restore themselves to the glory of 1908. Sick at heart, I've now adopted a new rule: I won't start watching Cubs games after the first one unless they have at least a .500 winning record. That rule has changed me from someone who would once watch around 60 games a year to someone who's watched only about three since 2008. In 2011, the Cubs, with one of the biggest budgets in major league baseball, were awful.

If you're a Cubs fan, people (even usually nice people) will make fun of you. I regularly play poker with a group of lawyers (most of them former students) and when baseball season rolls around, I steel myself for the inevitable Cubs jokes. They mostly root for the Cincinnati Reds or the Cleveland Indians, hardly exemplars of baseball renown, and it's depressing to have them snub the Cubs.

A couple of years ago, Free Inquiry, the magazine of Secular Humanist Society, had an article in which one of the questions addressed was whether atheists should proselytize their lack of faith. The author (with whom I disagree) decided the answer was no. He ruefully concluded that some people should be left with their illusions undisturbed, like "entrepreneurs, lovers, and Chicago Cubs fans."

That hurt.

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" How I Became a Law Professor," January 27, 2010

" How To Become an Atheist," May 16, 2010

" Recidivist: A Criminal Who Does It Again," September 10, 2010

" Strange Songs, Inc.," September 29, 2010
" Football Advice for Coach Jim Tressel," October 23, 2010
"The Marina City Party Crowd," January 13, 2011

" Basketball and Its Announcers," March 6, 2011

Good Sex, Bad Sex: Advice on Making Love

2011-11-09T15:30:00.009-05:00

In this blog I've sometimes discussed things I'm bad at ["The Many Faults of Douglas Whaley," "The Only Course I Ever Flunked," and "Mama Cat Saves My Life" are just three examples—see Related Posts below], but I've always had a robust sex life, even---in my twenties---with women. I once had a couple of dates with a man who lived in Cincinnati (well, "dates" is a euphemism here), and on one visit to that city he took me to a party of his friends. As he introduced me to the small crowd, he frankly announced, "He isn't much to look at, but—wow—is he hot sex!" I was both offended and flattered at the same moment. That very evening I suddenly figured out that he made his living as a thief ("I can get you an almost-new TV at a great price!") and we parted company forever, hot sex be damned.

When it comes to making love I have the same philosophy mentioned in this blog for the following things: teaching law, impressing people in a conversation, and acting. The guiding principle is this: try to see the whole process from the point of view of the other person (the student, the interlocutor, the audience). When I'm teaching, what I'm engaged in is not performing for the class and trying to convince them what a good instructor I am; it's about their learning the things they'll need to become first class lawyers. When I'm trying to impress someone I'm talking to, I don't hog the conversation but try to keep it focused largely on that person ("Is it true you are friends with the Governor?"). On stage I've learned that showing off my talents for the audience is a mistake; instead I should ask myself "What are they seeing, learning, feeling about what my character is experiencing?"

Good sex comes from a similar focus on your partner's desires and reactions. From the very first moment zero in on making the other person know that in your eyes he/she is sexy, enticing, overwhelming you with desire. Start with a compliment along those lines. If your partner is a beauty, say so, and say it again as you proceed. If he/she is not beautiful, then concentrate on the trait you do find desirable ("You have the sexiest smile!") and highlight that. Don't fake this—if you want to go to bed with this person there must be something about him/her that attracts you, or, if not, why bother?

But making love is not about talking. It's a right-brain activity, purely physical, and realizing that and what it means is the key to good sex. In this blog (see Related Posts below) I've written about using the right side of your brain more effectively, and nowhere is this more important than in the bedroom. The left side of your brain is concerned with words and numbers—matters that have nothing to do with good sex. But the right brain understands the art of the touch, what a moan of desire conveys, and the startling thrill of an unexpected move. When making love avoid the usual (boring) way of doing things and ask your right-brain if there isn't something different, surprising, or amazing that your partner will find sensual and exciting. Your right-brains should "talk" to each other through the sexual acts—a carnal conversation.

Should you begin fast or slow? Well, the one rule about sex is that there are no rules when it comes to sex; do what is right for the moment and right for the two of you. There are couples who want sex hard and heavy from the moment they see each other, and encounters between them start with clothes flying in all directions as bodies collide. But usually a slow approach is best: a gentle touch, a kiss on the neck, a finger moving sensuously against an area that is rarely touched by another. But whatever you do and however you do it, see everything from the point of view of your partner. Is he/she thrilled by what is going on? What will excite him/her the most? Study your partner's reaction. If you hear "YES!" muttered when you do something, keep at it, give your partner more, and then step it up a notch. But if your partner is squirming, not happy, or distracted, do something else. Pleasing your partner is the goal, so judge his/her receptivity carefully. Should your partner make a suggestion or indicate by a physical movement what should happen next, go for that (assuming it's within your own desires).

What about kinky sex? Well, as I said in the last paragraph, there are no rules about sex (except the criminal laws against rape, etc.), but if you want to do something that's outside the norm get your partner's permission ahead of time—don't try it without warning. You may be very surprised (even shocked) as to what your partner would really like to try. Before the sexual encounter gets underway, bring up your proposed scenario. Ask "Have you ever considered ______?" (filling in the interesting blank with the desired fetish). Watch the reaction. If your partner looks concerned or disgusted, drop it and make sure he/she knows it isn't going to happen. But if you get a smile, a nod, or a suggestion on how to improve the fun, well, blog reader, game on! Sexual adventurers can lead very, very happy lives.

If you and your partner have made love many times and that part of your lives is getting stale (or non-existent) it's time to shake things up. Mechanical, paint-by-the-numbers sex is bad sex. Sit down with your partner and ask if he/she would be willing to try something new. Suggest something yourself or—even better—ask your partner what he/she has always wanted to explore. When trying to think of ideas, dig down into your own deep, dark urges. Is that a scary thought, blog reader? Why? Assuming what you want to do is safe, sane, and consensual, why the hell not try it? Let me also give you permission to explore possibilities you've never thought about. Type "sex toys" into Google, for example, and a whole new world will open up for you and the person you love. Are you too staid, too mired in your habits to consider doing this? Get over it.

We don't train people in how to have sex, and that's unfortunate because it means that one of the most enjoyable things you can do on the Planet Earth must be self-taught. It's easy to get bad advice or misinformation about sex from movies, TV, novels, conversations you heard or mis-heard in high school or on Facebook, and to settle for "common understandings" about what happens in a sexual encounter, or, worse, to treat sex as if it were a test you must pass. If you think that sex is a routine event with routine actions that's wrong.

When making love, you and your partner are allowed to enjoy every moment. Give yourself permission to do that and you won't miss out on one of life's greatest pleasures.

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“The Socratic Dialogue in Law School,” January 31, 2010

"The Many Faults of Douglas Whaley," March 31, 2010

"Douglas Whaley, Actor," August 14, 2010

"How To Impress People in a Conversation," October 1, 2010

"Men, Women, and Pornography," December 10, 2010

"The Left-Brain/Right-Brain Life," January 17, 2011

"Life's Little (But Important) Rules," April 23, 2011
"The Only Course I Ever Flunked," July 25, 2011

"Mama Cat Saves My Life," October 23, 2011

I Hate Meetings

2011-10-31T16:06:00.011-04:00

One of the great pleasures of retiring is that I no longer have to attend faculty meetings, as I did regularly for 34 years. Meetings of any sort are usually awful, but I'm alive to tell you that a collection of law professors gathered in one room to discuss anything is hell on earth. Like all lawyers, law professors can verbally litigate sentences just uttered, and, also being teachers, then expound for interminable periods on their own point of view. It's so boring that mice have moved out of the building rather than ever experience this again. Indeed, an exterminating service should consider scheduling law school faculty meetings at one contaminated house after another and make a fortune.

At one meeting back in the 1970s we were all seated around tables forming a large square (so we could see each other clearly and not risk missing any of the bomfoggery). To avoid injury from falling asleep and smashing my nose on the hard wood of the table, I began to experiment with writing left-handed (I am right-handed by birth). The professor sitting next to me noticed this and asked what I was doing, and I explained. Soon he was trying the same thing, and then the person next to him, and eventually six people were productively engaged in this activity.

I certainly don't mean to imply that I haven't attended any exciting faculty meetings—there have been a number of those. At one I made a motion we censor the dean for outrageous conduct, and no one slept through that one. But on the whole meetings are tedious affairs in which attendees mostly do not listen to what's being said, but are only waiting their turn to rise and speak while spreading their beautiful feathers for an admiring audience. I became so disgusted with how badly meetings went that I finally sent around to the faculty, half seriously and half in jest, a "Proposed Etiquette for Faculty Meetings." Here are its rules, somewhat doctored, and with a few additional ones, starting at #6:

1. Except in extreme cases, it shall be considered rude to raise one's hand to speak more than once to an issue.

2. No one cares to hear someone take the floor to explain how the speaker plans to vote and with whom the speaker agrees. Let it come as a surprise.

3. Given the issue, most of the people in the room can predict who will say what. This being so, try to refrain from stating the obvious.

4. There is much virtue in silence. If you can get through a faculty meeting without volunteering a word, many in the room will think you a splendid colleague.

5. No faculty meeting should last more than an hour. Anything that can't fit into that period should be put over to the next meeting. If there's an important item on the agenda, put it first; otherwise its time will be overwhelmed by minutia.

6. If you are considering raising your hand to speak, first ask yourself, "Am I boring?" If the answer is "yes," perhaps you should consider never speaking, or at least limiting yourself to no more than 30 seconds per comment.

7. Also ask yourself, "Am I annoying?" If the answer to this one is also "yes," re-read number 4 above. Ignore this at your peril, for if you push your colleagues too far, they will be silently considering severe consequences (see illustration below).

8. If you are chairing the meeting, be firm. Cut off the bores and the annoyers. If the conversation has miraculously stopped, don’t stupidly ask, "Is there anything else someone wants to say?" On the other hand, if the discussion refuses to die down, but the debate has descended into either tedium or vitriol, announce that you will take two more speakers only and then entertain a motion to vote.

9. Bring a copy of Robert's Rules of Order to a meeting, and, when bored, study it. I became a dangerous faculty member when I serendipitously discovered that a motion to adjourn is not debatable.

Happily, I'm retired and my faculty meetings days are over. If you, reader, are, alas, regularly exposed to meetings of any kind, you have my deep, deep sympathy. Good news: I've heard that with self-hypnosis you can actually learn to sleep with your eyes open. You might investigate that.

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“How I Became a Law Professor,” January 27, 2010

“The Socratic Dialogue in Law School,” January 31, 2010

“Clickers,” March 17, 2010

“The Summer Bar Review Tours,” June 15, 2010
"Women in My Law School Classroom," January 8, 2011

"Life's Little (But Important) Rules," April 23, 2011
"Adventures in the Law School Classroom," September 10, 2011

Mama Cat Saves My Life

2011-10-23T21:13:00.007-04:00

Mama Cat and Owner

The Whaley Family line has always featured two unfortunate traits: (1) optimism when it's not justified (and, indeed, is contradicted by all available facts), and (2) ignoring important symptoms even if doing so will likely lead to major trouble. This all was on exhibit Tuesday, July 5, 2011.

Readers of this blog may remember a prior post entitled "Report on Old Doug: Health, Theater, eBook, and More" (June 28, 2011) in which I described various topics. One of these was my enthusiasm for attending a writers' conference in New York City entitled "ThrillerFest," held July 6-10 of this year—and at which I hoped to pitch my self-published novel "Imaginary Friend" (it's an atheist thriller, currently available on Amazon and Kindle) to the country's leading agents. I had arranged (1) a plane flight leaving that Tuesday at 2 p.m., (2) a five day reservation at the Grand Hyatt, (3) a paid $800 ThrillerFest registration, (4) scheduled dinners with old friends, and (5) tickets for four Broadway plays ("Book of Mormon," "Anything Goes," "Sister Act," and "War Horse"). But, as the "Health" part of that blog post reported in some detail, I was growing weaker instead of stronger, primarily because I wasn't eating enough (and that because of being over-medicated). From my usual (when working out) weight of 195 to 200, I lost forty pounds, and at my worst stepped on the scales and saw the number "157." Did this stop me from going to NYC, weak though I was? Absolutely not. "I'll travel by cabs, walk little, spend most of my day just sitting in ThrillerFest seminars—I'll take it easy, but I'm going." Stupidly, it never even occurred to me to cancel until death was whispered in my ear.

I spent that Sunday and Monday slowly, painfully, getting ready for the trip, and by the time I went to bed on that Monday night, though exhausted, I was completely packed and ready to go. All I had to do on Tuesday morning was get out of bed, shower, dress and drive myself to the airport. That's all I had to do. That's all.

It was almost impossible. I was even weaker when I awoke on Tuesday, and I struggled from the bed to the bathroom. In my shower I have a little plastic stool that I use to put my foot up on when I'm washing, but this morning it had a more important role. Too weak to stand for the whole shower, I sat down on the stool three times just to rest, letting the water hit me as I panted. When I finished, I was too weak to stand and dry myself, so I laid down on the bed to do that. Finally it was time to dress, but that too was a nightmare. I'd put on an article of clothing and then lie down on the bed and pant for awhile. It was pathetic, but I was still hadn't considered cancelling the trip.

Mama Cat was watching all of this very carefully. In this blog I've written numerous posts about her (and my other cat, Barney), but let me quickly recap her story. At age one she escaped from the home in which she'd originally lived, had an adventure with a tom cat, and produced a litter of kittens. The number of kittens in her litter is unknown, but cats typically give birth to three to eight. Mama, even though declawed, managed to keep two of them alive until all three cats were rescued, taken to a vet's office (where she acquired her name), the two kittens weaned and given away, and Mama became the office cat for a few months until she was taken home with me. She's incredibly smart and I'm very pleased at how much she loves me, witness what follows.

That Tuesday morning, as I lay panting on the bed, she jumped up beside me and stuck her nose in my ear while making an urgent "Mew, Mew, Mew!" sound. It clearly meant "GET UP! DON'T DIE ON ME!" Mama had seen her kittens die and she knew what was happening.

"Mama thinks I'm dying!" I muttered, amazed at the thought. Then I remembered my own and my family's history of ignoring symptoms, decided she might be right, made a phone call to my doctors, and shortly was in the emergency room. I spent three days being fed through an IV drip, with more than one doctor assuring me that "Mr. Whaley, you'd have died on the airplane from system failure."

Mary

Shortly thereafter I was given a medicine that dramatically increased my appetite, and I had the good sense to put myself under the care of my longtime friend, Mary Bush, a professional nutritionist. When I nearly died of a burst appendix in 1978---I was only 34---Mary had saved my life (see "The First Time I Nearly Died" below), and now she took on the task again. Driving me to Bed, Bath, and Beyond to buy a hand-sized mixer, and then to the grocery store to introduce me the ingredients to go into that mixer (yogurt, Benefiber, flaxseed, ice cream, fruits, and much, much more). She showed me how to put it all together, and three times a day I drank her "cocktails" and then supplemented them with various foods, such as peanuts (which have lots of fiber). In the beginning the cocktails Mary prescribed were easy to drink, but the other foods (even the candy bars she told me to eat for much-needed calories) tasted awful. however, as the days went by, my taste buds were re-stimulated, and the appetite medicine made me hungry all the time. I quickly gained weight, and within a month was back to working out on the weight machine and exercycle in my basement. I'm putting on much muscle, and feel great (196 this morning). So I'm heavily in Mary Bush's debt once again. [I love you, Mary—thanks for saving me both times.]

Barbara

A final note. As related in "The Woman Who Runs My Life" (see below) my good friend and full-time employee and manager, Barbara Shipek went to work on the day I was admitted to the hospital to see what she could do to prevent my cancelled trip from being a total financial disaster. She talked the Grand Hyatt into completely cancelling my reservation (including that Tuesday, which was in the "too late to cancel" period), she couldn't get ThrillerFest to refund my fee for the convention but they did agree to give me a free ride for the summer of 2012, then she called the airline and received an assurance that with a doctor's certificate the airfare would be refunded (minus a small cancellation fee), and finally she phoned the ticket company that had sold me the theater tickets weeks before. When I'd put them on my Visa I was clearly informed that all sales were final, but Barbara, as she later explained, went through three levels of supervisors, telling each my sad story while "playing the violin," and eventually was assured that all monies would be recredited to my Visa account (even for "The Book of Mormon" which had already occurred!). How she did that, I don't know, but she's a wizard at that sort of thing, which is why I love her too and have kept her close to me for over thirty years. I did miss ThrillerFest, of course, and the friends I was going to see once again, and the four Broadway shows, but at least thousands of dollars didn't vanish along with those adventures. I'll sally forth and do it all next July.

So from nearly dying on Tuesday, July 5^th, to being in very good health as I approach the second anniversary of my heart transplant (November 23, 2009), it's been quite a scary ride this summer and fall, but with the help of those mentioned above and many others (friends and family) I made it. In another month I'll post a blog entry about what it's like living with someone else's heart for two years.

[And you thought I was exaggerating when I titled this post "Mama Cat Saves My Life," didn't you?]

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Related Posts:
"Dog Meat," December 27, 2009
"The Many Faults of Douglas Whaley," March 31, 2010

"The Woman Who Runs My Life," May 5, 2010

"Mama, Biopsies, and My iPad," May 19, 2010

"The First Time I Nearly Died," August 3, 2010
"Teaching English to Cats," August 6, 2010
"The Purring Heart," November 23, 2010

"Two Cat Stories: Mama and Barney in the Wild," July 9, 2011

"Report on Old Doug: Health, Theater, eBook, and More," June 28, 2011

How To Write an Effective Legal Threat Letter

2011-10-19T23:34:00.002-04:00

Since I graduated from law school in 1968 I've always has some sort of legal practice which varied from extensive in the early years, to these days when I'm retired and mostly just doing consulting work for a hefty fee. In this period I've written a lot of letters threatening legal action on behalf of my client (or, on the rare occasion, myself—see Related Posts below). In the classroom I've passed on my advice on how to create an effective letter, and now I offer it to you, blog reader.

A letter threatening legal action almost always discombobulates a recipient who is not him/herself routinely involved in legal actions. I tell my law students that in their coming practices they will often receive such letters (or nowadays even emails), and they will calmly evaluate what to do about them depending on the legal issues involved and the wisdom of litigating them. But the non-legal recipient of such a letter is in a very different position. Non-lawyers are usually very upset just by the thought of having to (a) hire a lawyer, (b) pay the lawyer's fee, the court costs, and (gasp!) the damages that flow from losing, as well as (c) the publicity of being the defendant in a lawsuit and having to testify, and (d) having his/her common practices condemned by some jury and/or the court of common opinion. The recipient, contemplating all this, feels inner organs turning over painfully, and will likely have trouble sleeping that night.

The first thing that occurs to many in such a state is to avoid the whole thing by settling the matter here and now. Good. That's exactly the attitude you want the person receiving your threat letter to adopt.

All this presumes that the recipient is not locked into a "sue and be damned" mind frame before receiving the letter. For this reason, I never make legal threats when dealing with potential defendants in person or on the phone. I don't want this person to get angry and take it out on me with language like "I'll see you in court, you son of a bitch!" After an exchange like that any subsequent letter will come as no surprise, and will not often make your defendant think about settling.

Before we go any further let me repeat a thought from the last post on this blog ("What Non-Lawyers Should Know About Warranties"): it is unethical and immoral to threaten something you are not really planning to do, and in which you do not have a good faith belief as to the soundness of your argument. Even if this plea of mine to your better nature doesn't work, you should also consider that losing a lawsuit can roll your own life down a very dark alley.

Here is a list of the elements of a good threat letter:

1. Be calm and professional. You might be convinced that the other side is composed of incompetent quasi-crooks, but telling them so won't get their sympathy. Instead start by identifying yourself and then stating the reason you are writing. Describe what happened step by step, chronologically, all leading up to your current position. Use dates and whatever specifics you have. If there are documents that support your argument, attach copies to your letter.

2. State clearly what relief you want. "Make good on this and I'll go away" is just an unspecific threat and you sound disorganized. Instead try something like "If you'll take the product back and refund my money, this matter will be over quickly." If you have consequential damages of any significance, list them as part of the recovery you expect. As I said in the last post, consequential damages are those that never would have happened if there'd been no breach of the contractual agreement (for example, your kitchen caught fire because the product malfunctioned, which also caused medical expenses, more consequential damages).

Keep your demands as reasonable as you can. Piling on minor things makes you sound unrealistic. But if the other side has committed fraud (see last post), you should also mention that you will pursue that theory in any subsequent litigation, and that courts often award punitive damages and attorney fees if the defendant is guilty of such outrageous conduct. If what happened violated your state's Consumer Law (check this via Google using that label plus your state's name), specify that, citing to the statute (by statute number if you have it) and quoting the specific language of the statute you feel has been violated. Here is a sample list from Ohio's Consumer Sales Practices Act:

§1345.02 Unfair or deceptive consumer sales practices prohibited.

(A) No supplier shall commit an unfair or deceptive act or practice in connection with a consumer transaction. Such an unfair or deceptive act or practice by a supplier violates this section whether it occurs before, during, or after the transaction.

(B) Without limiting the scope of division (A) of this section, the act or practice of a supplier in representing any of the following is deceptive:

(1) That the subject of a consumer transaction has sponsorship, approval, performance characteristics, accessories, uses, or benefits that it does not have;
(2) That the subject of a consumer transaction is of a particular standard, quality, grade, style, prescription, or model, if it is not;
(3) That the subject of a consumer transaction is new, or unused, if it is not;
(4) That the subject of a consumer transaction is available to the consumer for a reason that does not exist;
(5) That the subject of a consumer transaction has been supplied in accordance with a previous representation, if it has not, except that the act of a supplier in furnishing similar merchandise of equal or greater value as a good faith substitute does not violate this section;
(6) That the subject of a consumer transaction will be supplied in greater quantity than the supplier intends;
(7) That replacement or repair is needed, if it is not;
(8) That a specific price advantage exists, if it does not;
(9) That the supplier has a sponsorship, approval, or affiliation that the supplier does not have;
(10) That a consumer transaction involves or does not involve a warranty, a disclaimer of warranties or other rights, remedies, or obligations if the representation is false.

If you are yourself a lawyer, cite to whatever statutes and cases and regulations support your theory, using details. This will likely intimidate the recipient who will want to avoid having to hire a lawyer, and if the recipient does take your letter to a lawyer the latter will now have to do legal research (which most lawyer avoid like the measles—"Can't you just fix the car?")

3. Specify what you will do next if the letter's recipient doesn't solve the problem immediately (give the recipient a deadline, say ten days, in which to act). Be detailed as to what will happen if the deadline isn't met ("Be advised that unless this matter is settled to my satisfaction within ten days of your receipt of this letter, I will file suit in the _______ County [or City] Small Claims Court, asking for damages in the amount of $______, plus court costs"). In the last post I suggested downloading the Complaint from the Small Claims Court's website and filling it in, and then attaching it to your threat letter ("Attached is the Complaint I will file unless I hear from you shortly"). Holding an actual Complaint that names someone as the "Defendant" is shocking—people don't want that label pinned to their name.

4. The Escape Clause. In a new paragraph of your letter state as calmly and specifically as you can what steps the recipient can take to avoid of all this. Use language like this: "I hope we can resolve this problem short of formal legal action—all I really want is ___________ ["a product that works" or "my money back" or whatever]". Get their mind fixed on helping you and not having to do something as strange as going to some court and hash this out.

5. Then sign your name with a standard closing. I don't use "Yours truly" (which is misleading in that I am not "theirs" in any way, much less "truly"), preferring something closer to reality such as "Sincerely." Make sure all contact information is included in your letter.

Finally, let me mention that if the recipient subsequently calls you up or sends a reply letter challenging you ("Is that a threat?"), you must be ready to ignore the natural human reaction of "Oh, no, I didn't mean it that way." Instead, hold your ground. "Of course, it's a threat! Weren't you paying attention? Life as you know it is about to get much worse unless you satisfy me immediately." Don't let the other side bully you. Having said that, compromise is also a good thing, and proposing one that allows the recipient to save face is often the right solution to the legal dilemma that led to you sending your threat letter in the first place.

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"I Threaten To Sure Apple Over an iPad Cover," April 8, 2011

"The Payment-In-Full Check: A Powerful Legal Maneuver," April 11, 2011

"What Non-Lawyers Should Know About Warranties," October 11, 2011

What Non-Lawyers Should Know About Warranties

2011-10-11T22:45:00.002-04:00

I've taught the law of warranties at the law school level for over forty years, and have written a number of books on point. I thought I'd create a short version of the law for blog readers who are not lawyers, with the warning that in an actual case (unless you are going to handle little problems in a Small Claims Court) you should certainly consult a lawyer.

Sale of Homes. There is no national unity for the law of warranties in the sale of homes. Some states have special statutes about this, while others either use the Uniform Commercial Code (see below) by analogy or create an "implied warranty of workmanlike construction" in creating a remedy for defective homes. For problems with defective homes you should certainly see a lawyer if you can't settle the matter with the seller.

Sale of Goods. For the sale of goods (anything moveable, including animals and food), almost all states (Louisiana is the exception, but it has similar warranties adopted from the Napoleonic Code) use the Uniform Commercial Code [UCC] for statutory guidance in the law. The text of the statute (but not its very helpful Official Comments) can be found at http://www.law.cornell.edu/ucc/2/article2.htm. Let's start with the types of warranties the UCC regulates.

Express Warranties. Of course the seller of the goods might provide a written warranty (either a formal one drawn up by lawyers, or simply something stated in a letter or email). That's a written express warranty, and UCC section 2-313 requires the seller to live up to what is said. But warranties can be oral (the seller in the sales pitch says "This car will last you six months without any need for repairs") or even created by actions ("Look at this model" or the photo of the food printed in the menu). The seller might try and take away these express warranties by contractual language ("This is the entire agreement, and the seller has made no other representations"), but particularly in consumer contracts are the courts leery of enforcing such "boilerplate" (i.e, standard blather) clauses that the buyer did not necessarily agree to. Indeed, the UCC provides that express warranties, once made, cannot be disclaimed; section 2-316(1). The way for sellers to avoid liability for express warranties is not to make them in the first place. Many states have Consumer Sales Practices Laws forbidding misleading statements about warranties, and creating a cause of action in favor of injured consumers that includes attorney fees and punitive damages. I once bought an expensive set of earphones from a seller who was lavish in praise of the quality of the product. When I got the phones home they wouldn't do all the things promised, so I took them back and asked for a refund. "I don't warrant my products," the manager told me. "You may not think you do," I replied, "but when you opened your mouth and said thus and so about these earphones you created express warranties under section 2-313 of the Uniform Commercial Code." "Where is your receipt?" the manager demanded smugly. "I don't have it any more," I responded, "but the Code doesn't require I have a receipt. I do have to prove I bought it here, but I have both a cancelled check and a witness." "Go away." "Okay, but I'm going to immediately file a complaint against you in the Small Claims Court, and you will lose at trial, and then have to refund my money plus pay court costs (plus the fee of any attorney you hire), so you might as well deal with me now." He did.

Implied Warranties. Our law has always required sellers to live up the basics assumptions of any bargain by creating implied warranties that the product will do the expected task. These warranties are "implied" because they are automatically part of the deal (imposed by the UCC) unless the seller or the circumstances does something to get rid of them. There are two basic ones:

Merchantability. The implied warranty of merchantability (strange name: "merchant" and "ability" tied together) is basically a warranty that the goods will perform their ordinary function; UCC section 2-314. Say, for example, that you buy a sweater at a store and when you get it home it and wear it once it falls apart. This sweater was not fit for its ordinary purpose and therefore breaches the warranty of merchantability. When you think about it, the implied warranty is a huge warranty: it means the goods must work. Federal law forbids its disclaimer in consumer transactions if the seller gave a written warranty [this is the federal Magnuson-Moss Warranty Act section 108], and the UCC disfavors its disclaimer in all cases unless the buyer is warned in language that actually uses the word "merchantability" so as to tell the buyer the warranty will not apply in this sale. Buyers ought to be very suspicious if the seller disclaims the warranty of merchantability. What? The seller doesn't warrant the goods will work?

Fitness For a Particular Purpose. If the buyer tells the seller prior to the sale of a particular purpose for which the buyer needs the goods ("I am about to try and climb Mt. Everest and need boots") and it's clear the buyer is relying on the seller's expertise to furnish suitable goods, an implied warranty of fitness for this particular purpose automatically arises unless the seller clearly disclaims it; UCC section 2-315. So if you, the buyer, tell the seller why you want the goods and the seller suggests buying a certain product, the implied warranty of fitness for a particular purposes protects you if the goods can't hack it.

Fraud. A quick note about fraud, which technically has nothing to do with the law of warranties. Instead, fraud is the civil action for lying of any kind. If someone makes a material misrepresentation (that's the lie, and it must be about something important to the deal) in the course of a sale (or any transaction), and means to deceive when the statement is made, any person who justifiably relies on the statement may sue for damages caused by the lie. The TV salesperson says "This TV will receive a perfect signal from a satellite" when it is known to have major problems communicating with objects circling the planet, is committing fraud. Fraud is grounds for rescinding the sale and getting your money back. Moreover, our courts have always been offended by those who make deliberate misstatements to mislead others, and sometimes will award punitive damages and attorney fees to punish such conduct. State Consumer Sales Acts often also give such relief, and you should check online to see if your state has such a statute.

Small Claims Courts. For big sales transactions that go bad (the sale to the U.S. Army of weapons, for example) the usual courts are the appropriate place for a lawsuit. But tiny consumer problems don't belong there unless a special consumer statute on point has been violated. Instead use the internet to see if there's a Small Claims Court in your jurisdiction. You can download the Complaint online and attach it to the threat letter you send to the seller of the defective product, threatening legal action unless the dispute is settled to your satisfaction. In a Small Claims Court you don’t have to have an attorney (though you do have to pay the filing fee, which the website will list), and if you win you'll get back your damages (the cost of the product typically) plus any court costs (the filing fee). Small Claims Courts are, as the name suggests, courts of limited jurisdiction. In Ohio, for example, such courts can only hear cases where the amount in controversy is $3000 or less.

Threat Letters. In a the next post I'll talk about threat letters and how to write them. For now, let me emphasize that it is unethical (and can get you sanctioned by the court) to threaten something you don't have a good faith belief in. In future blogs I will also talk about remedies for breach of warranty, including the issue of consequential damages (the house that burns down because the TV malfunctions and causes a fire, or the hospital expenses for the victims of the conflagration).

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" Update: Mortgage Foreclosure and Missing Notes," November 16, 2010

"I Threaten To Sure Apple Over an iPad Cover," April 8, 2011

"The Payment-In-Full Check: A Powerful Legal Maneuver," April 11, 2011

The Presumption of Heterosexuality and the Invisible Homosexual

2011-10-02T22:38:00.011-04:00

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The presumption of heterosexuality is so strong that even where it's clear to anyone approaching the facts with an open mind that it's invalid, the presumption will often prevail. Thus parents will blind themselves to the perfectly obvious homosexuality of one of their children (or at least pretend to not notice despite whatever nagging doubts trouble them when their heads touch their pillows at night).

Walt Whitman

This presumption has hugely benefited homosexuals for millennia, allowing them to hide in plain sight. If challenged, said homosexuals need only affirm their "heterosexuality" and in most cases this lie will be readily believed. Walt Whitman, for example, as part of his tremendous output wrote some wildly erotic homosexual poetry, but when the charge was made against him that he was gay, all he had to do was deny it, and most people (and even early biographers) believed him. Never mind his documented romances with men. One of the greatest poets of all time surely couldn't be "bent."

General Eisenhower

Sometimes heterosexuals have to face the truth. When General Dwight Eisenhower was once ordered by his superiors to investigate the possibility of lesbians in the military, he called in his most trusted female officer and asked her to draw up a list of suspected lesbians under his command. This woman officer was very conflicted as to what to do since she herself was a lesbian. Finally she summoned up her courage and returned to Eisenhower's office as he was dictating a letter to his secretary. "General," she told him, "if I have to draw up such a list I want you to know that my name will be at the top of it, and you'll lose the value of my services." At this point the secretary interrupted by saying, "No it won't, because I'll have to type it and I'll put my name first." At this, flabbergasted, Ike dropped the whole matter and went back to military matters he understood. [This is not to say he was any less homophobic than the rest of society in the 1950s; when Eisenhower became President he signed an Executive Order forbidding the hiring of homosexuals by the federal government.]

John Switzer

I was reminded of all this by a column I read in May in the Columbus Dispatch by John Switzer. He's the newspaper's retired Weather Columnist, and he occasionally writes folksy pieces about nature or local events in central Ohio. I've enjoyed his musings for years, and was very interested when on May 22, 2011, he wrote a Memorial Day piece about two graves in Pleasant Cemetery in Madison County. One is of a Confederate soldier from the Civil War named Frank Chick who fought under the famous cavalry General Nathan Bedford Forrest ("be there first with the most"), both of them from Tennessee. The other is Nicholas Brill, an Ohio native and Union Army soldier who encountered Chick when the latter was a prisoner Brill was guarding at a camp in Columbus, Ohio, during the war. They were not yet 20 at first meeting, but when the war ended Chick moved into a cabin Brill owned near Mount Sterling, Ohio. The two lived together until they died in 1922 and 1923 respectively. Known locally as "the turkey men," they were buried next to each other in an area "separated a little bit from the other graves" (why would that be, do you think?). In his column contemplating this interesting history, Switzer speculates that this is "a nice story about how two men who were once sworn enemies came to rest in peace side by side throughout eternity."

I immediately sent an email to the address Mr. Switzer conveniently provided at the end of his column. Here it is:

Mr. Switzer:

I have long enjoyed your splendid columns.

Today's column about the Confederate prisoner and his guard who became lifelong friends and lived together—the "turkey men"—struck a chord with me. You say they "somehow became fast friends," and I may have an explanation for that. I'm an aging gay activist here in Columbus, now retired, and it struck me that there's a good chance these men fell in love and became partners. Is there any hint of that? Were either married? Gay couples know how to hide and have done so for centuries.

My best to you.

Douglas Whaley

Mr. Switzer never replied. Obviously it hadn't occurred to him that the "turkey men" could have been lifelong gay partners, but that's as likely—even more probable—an explanation as any other. Considered as a romance it's even a better story than two straight bachelors who just happened to live together for over 50 years. Perhaps the reason I received no reply is that this possibility embarrassed or offended Mr. Switzer, but I'll never know. The presumption of heterosexuality, still quite strong, kept him from seeing a conclusion that in 2011 should occur to lots of people, including straight people, who are beginning to wake up to what's been going on for a very long time.

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"The Aging Gay Rights Activist," March 24, 2010

“Homosexuality: The Iceberg Theory,” April 25, 2010
“How I Lost a Gay Marriage Debate,” April 29, 2010
“Straight Talk,” May 10, 2010
“Marijuana and Me,” July 11, 2010

“How To Tell if You’re Gay,” August 31, 2010

“The Thunderbolt,” September 3, 2010

“How To Change Gay People Into Straight People,” September 20, 2010

"Going Undercover at an Ex-Gay Meeting," September 19, 2011
"Gay Bashers, Homophobes, and Me," January 27, 2012

Gephyrophobia: My Phobia of Crossing Bridges

2011-09-28T14:29:00.011-04:00

I had a fear of heights for the first thirty years of my life, but it faded in time. Strangely, I only had it when I was connected to the ground, say leaning out a high window or at the edge of a cliff. When I was a passenger in a plane, I had no problems with looking down to the ground, not even when the plane was landing and we were almost touching the runway. However, eventually this phobia, a common one, faded, and heights don't much bother me (though a character in a movie who's in danger of falling puts me on the edge of my seat).

I developed gephyrophobia when I met the Chesapeake Bay Bridge in 1981, crossing it on my way to a vacation in Atlantic City. The bridge is enormous, both in height (186 feet) and length (four miles). Look at the pictures and consider this additional terror: the part of the bridge that you drive on is not solid, but is instead a metal grid you can see through right down to the water far below you—emphasizing the distance your automobile will have to fall before it splats into the gigantic Chesapeake Bay.

My panic attack started as my car began to climb up and up and up, while the water swirled by an increasing distance below. My breath came in gasps and sweat broke out on my brow. None of this affected my driving, and I'm certain that a video from a distance of my car trip across the bridge would be uninteresting. But anyone in the car with me would have certainly noticed my manic condition (and then considered leaping from the vehicle). I'm told that my reaction is not uncommon, and—private enterprise to the rescue—for a $25.00 fee helpful contractors will drive you across the bridge in your own car.

After this experience I became afraid of driving over any large bridge ("gephyrophobia" is the technical term). Fortunately this didn't come up much until the following year. The University of California Hastings Law School in San Francisco offered me a Visiting Professorship for the 1982-83 school year, which I accepted. I decided to drive to SF from Columbus, Ohio, where I normally teach at The Ohio State University Law School, and for the purpose of the trip out I first drove to Indianapolis, where my ex-wife Charleyne lives and practices law, and picked up my then nine-year-old son, Clayton, so he could accompany me on the trip.

"What a great father and son adventure!" my friends commented on learning of these plans, to which I laughed and replied, "Yes, until the car breaks down in Nebraska."

Clayton

And it was a great trip except for two things: (1) our car did break down in North Platte, Nebraska (though it was easily fixed and we were soon on our way), and (2) I had to deal with a goodly number of large bridge crossings. The first of these was the mighty Mississippi, which was the obstacle separating Illinois from Iowa. Clayton, happily playing with his Star Wars figures, was completely unaware of my distress as we started over the bridge, and I manfully chatted with him as if nothing were wrong. Inwardly I was a mess, but Clayton noticed nothing and we crossed this bridge and all the others without any visible problems with old Doug.

[Click to enlarge]

For the trip I pretended to make Clayton the navigator, and he struggled with maps every morning (with me helping him reach the right results). I wanted him to get an idea of how very large our country is, and the five days we took to get to California did imprint this message on his consciousness. As a child I was an Air Force brat, and my family had done much driving across most of the United States (though only once a trip this long—when my mother drove my sister and me from Indiana to Seattle to board a ship to Japan in 1954). The first part of Clayton and my journey was across the Great Plains (not particularly interesting driving), and then we hit the Rockies (which can be too interesting to drive through with large trucks behind you as you traverse highways that have mountain on one side and steep drop on the other), and that beautiful descent into Salt Lake City through the Wasatch Mountains. Clayton enjoyed the trip, though getting him to look up from his toys and be as astounded as I was at some of the views was not always possible (he was, after all, nine). Other than the all day layover in North Platte, the trip was uneventful, and we were both glad we'd made it together.

But now that I was in San Francisco I was living in a city surrounded by large bridges. Indeed, as I've mentioned in a prior post (see "With Tim in San Francisco 1982/1983" below), from one window in my apartment I could look out and see the Golden Gate bridge. Clayton and I had had to drive across the Oakland Bay Bridge to get into the city, and I was destined to cross both of these bridges a lot during the next year. That would have been a nightmare except for one thing that happily occurred. I was sitting one day reading a magazine article about phobias (see the list of the most common phobias at the end of this post), and was amazed when the author casually commented that any phobia is mild type of "mental illness." MENTAL ILLNESS! I put down the magazine in a huff. I would not—simply would not—have a mental illness. So I firmly decided that from now on I would not be afraid of crossing bridges, nor think anything about it.

Perhaps you won't believe it, but this worked. My gephyrophobia disappeared instantly and has not returned. All right, readers, I know that getting over a phobia is not usually as simple as making up your mind to do so, but in my case that was truly all that was necessary. But when I was thinking about this post it occurred to me that maybe I never really had gephyrophobia at all. The reality could be that only the enormous Chesapeake Bay Bridge brought on such a panic attack, which I then wrongly extended it to all bridges until the magazine article made me rethink the matter.

Hmm. It would be interesting to see if I could now drive across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge without it being a big deal. My guess is that I could do it, but—trust me on this—I'm never going to find out. If my travel plans take me in that direction, I'll somehow find an alternate route that doesn't have me driving up into the clouds and looking down at water 186 feet below my tires.

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Related Posts:
"The Many Faults of Douglas Whaley," March 31, 2010

"Doug, Please Get My Clubs From the Trunk," August 20, 2010

"Charleyne and the Giant Cookie," September 16, 2010

"With Tim in San Francisco: 1982-1983," August 6, 2011

Going Undercover at an Ex-Gay Meeting

2011-09-19T19:51:00.012-04:00

In a previous post ("How To Change Gay People into Straight People," see Related Posts below) I discussed the disgraceful history of the Ex-Gay movement and so-called "reparative therapy," both of which pretend to be able to cure homosexuality, but which are in fact flagrant frauds. As a lawyer, I'm amazed these people aren't put out of business by simple lawsuits alleging fraud and/or malpractice. When asked for a list of people who have successfully converted from gay to straight, these organizations or individuals suddenly go mum and refuse to cooperate. As I've also mentioned before ("How I Lost a Gay Marriage Debate") I have a standing offer of $5000 to be donated to the charity of choice of the offeree who can produce five men who used to be gay but by the efforts of whatever organization or process can now be tested and found to be totally heterosexual. After decades of the Ex-Gay movement and the steady efforts of many reparative therapy psychologists you'd think there would be thousands of men who would so qualify, but so far not a single effort has been made to collect my $5000. The reason is clear: you can't change gay people into straight people, and these efforts always fail. Always.

In my gay rights activist days (the 1980/90s) I was frequently on radio call-in shows where the callers would claim that they used to be gay but now were straight. The law professor in me, who loves to conduct Socratic dialogues to get at the truth, would go to work. "You used to be gay, but now you're married and having sex only with your wife?" "Yes." "And you never have homosexual thoughts—and before you answer this question, be aware that if you lie even slightly about this, you will deceive hundreds of men in your position who are desperate to change and depend on you to say, if it's true, that you never ever even slightly think about gay sex." Long pause. "Well, yes, I guess I still think about it sometimes." "And sometimes masturbate thinking those thoughts?" Another pause. "Sometimes." "If it's still that important to your pleasure, how do you satisfy yourself with your wife?" At this point one of the callers confessed, "I pretend she's a man."

In debates about homosexuality through the years, whether in public forums or living rooms, when someone says that they don't like homosexuals I ask them, "What would you do if you were a homosexual?" "I wouldn't be a homosexual," is the usual response. "How would you avoid it if you discovered that in spite of your upbringing, in spite of your religion, in spite of your strongest desire to change, you were a homosexual like it or not?" "I'd get help from my pastor or a doctor." When told this supposed help doesn't work (with offers of books and websites to prove it), the person I'm talking to changes the subject. I just have to be wrong. I just have to be. The bible commands that I be wrong. Surely religion or medicine or something has the magic pill that can be taken twice a day until heterosexuality occurs. Surely. Because if I'm right and change isn't possible, then whoever I'm talking to has to rethink his/her position, and most people would rather slaughter hogs than do that.

The best that the Ex-Gay movement or reparative therapists can offer is for gay people to learn to suffer in silence about one's homosexuality, while leading a life of sexual depravation and frustration ("offer it up to God as your burden"). The Catholic Church sponsors an organization for gay Catholics called "Courage" (Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia's son Paul, an ordained Catholic priest, is one of its mainstays), which teaches that Catholics can be homosexuals and good members in standing of the Church if they never act on their homosexual orientation (they just pray and hope that abstinence works—hence the "courage" part of the title).

Very upset by the hypocrisy and outright cruelty of all this, I once went to a meeting for the parents of homosexuals who were anxious to see their children change and become heterosexuals. The group sponsoring the meeting was an offshoot of Focus on the Family, and was trying to get a new chapter of that organization started in Columbus, Ohio—this was in the late 1980s or early 90s (I'm unclear when). The Columbus Dispatch announced that the meeting would help parents deal with homosexual children, that a pastor from Dayton would lead the discussion, and that the gathering would be held on a coming weekday evening at the MCI Cafeteria on Morse Road. I decided to go, but I needed a "wife" for the occasion. Naturally I called Lorraine Latek, who through the years in Columbus has morphed into my chosen sister (her husband Arthur is on the Ohio State law faculty with me), explained the situation, and asked if she would pretend with me that we were the distraught parents of a homosexual child seeking guidance. Always one for an adventure, Lorri agreed immediately.

She did have one reservation. Lorri is dedicated foodie and a tremendous cook, proud of her epicurean tastes in food, and as we exited from my car in the parking lot to enter the MCI Cafeteria, she hurried me along. "I can't be seen going into an MCI by my friends," she insisted. "It would ruin me." Completely understanding, I hustled into the building with her, our faces averted.

In the meeting room there were only about twenty people, some of them middle-aged couples, with the rest being two ministers and young people. A clipboard was passed around as a sign-up sheet, and Lorri filled it in with our fake names and address. A very nice minister from Dayton, Ohio, led the program. He described his mission as bringing gays to God. To do this he frequently went to public places and on spotting suspected homosexuals, he would begin to talk to them about the need for religion in their lives. This minister then introduced us all to a young couple about to be married, both of whom he'd converted from gay identities to complete heterosexuality. The young man was tall, but very effeminate, and his bride-to-be was about as butch as lesbians get. Lorri and I exchanged glances, secretly agreeing that a wedding gift for these potential newlyweds would be a waste of money.

Lorri and I had rehearsed a cover story in case we were asked to describe our reason for coming (teenage son who had recently come out to us), but we never had to say a thing. The only really interesting moment was when the other minister, older and stern-looking, who had said nothing until the meeting was winding down, suddenly exploded with, "But you've said nothing about casting out the demons who are causing all of this!!!" The room went strangely silent, with deep embarrassment battling confusion throughout the crowd. Lorri and I, for fear of a laughing fit, worked hard at not catching each other's eye. In answer to the outburst, the younger minister from Dayton kindly replied something like "Of course, we need to explore all possible remedies." With that the gathering was over.

I signed up "Arnold Whaley," my parakeet, for the mailing list of this organization (so I could keep an eye on them). But they didn't last long, disbanding within a few months in spite of increasingly dire pleas for both money and attendance.

In the end homophobia, even in the name of God, is so sad: the wasted time, energy, anguish, and sorrow, all unnecessary suffering. The young people the minister from Dayton prayed over either eventually escaped and lived the lives they were always meant to live, or else they endured decades of desperation (or, the worst outcome, committed suicide rather than face a God or parents they could not please). But not one of them became a happy heterosexual. This is doubly tragic because it was avoidable from day one. The cure for their problem was easily available: admit to themselves what was always true (their sexual orientation) and then figure out how to achieve the best life possible with the cards they were dealt.

[Click to enlarge]

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“The Socratic Dialogue in Law School,” January 31, 2010

"The Aging Gay Rights Activist," March 24, 2010

“Homosexuality: The Iceberg Theory,” April 25, 2010
“How I Lost a Gay Marriage Debate,” April 29, 2010
“Straight Talk,” May 10, 2010
“Marijuana and Me,” July 11, 2010

“How To Tell if You’re Gay,” August 31, 2010

“The Thunderbolt,” September 3, 2010

“How To Change Gay People Into Straight People,” September 20, 2010

"Jumping the Broom: How 'Married' are Married Gay Couples?" July 17, 2011
"The Legacy of Homophobia," August 2, 2011
"The Presumption of Heterosexuality and the Invisible Homosexual," October 2, 2011
"Gay Bashers, Homophobes, and Me," January 27, 2012

Adventures in the Law School Classroom

2011-09-10T18:43:00.009-04:00

In my forty-plus years of teaching some strange things have happened in the law school classroom other than the routine educational missteps. This post describes some of the more memorable incidents.

In January of 1970 I began my teaching career at the Indiana University Indianapolis School of Law, and that first year (and before a move into an impressive new building) the school was housed in a very old and even charming structure that was rumored to have a colorful past (theater, bawdy house, etc.—who knows the truth?). I was teaching an evening course in Contracts, and we were located in a rather large classroom on the third floor. Even though it was January the classroom was far too warm because all the building's heat migrated straight up to this room, making us all sweat. So three large windows were open in the back of the room, which allowed an adventurous crow to swoop into the room and see what was going on. The class laughed at the antics of the intruder, who tried to land on the suspended light bars, only to find them scalding hot, sending the bird loudly caw-cawing as it buzzed both students and teacher. It was impossible to hold class with this cacophony going on, and, nonplussed, I had no idea what to do. I was a very new teacher (not yet one month into the job), and all I could come up with was to muse aloud whether the bird was a raven about to pronounce "Nevermore!" to my teaching career. The students, bless them, were on top of the situation. One of them yelled, "Turn off the lights!" which another, sitting next to the switch by the door, promptly did. With the only available illumination now coming from outside, the crow made a hasty exit, the lights came back on, and, to my relief, we returned to the law of offer and acceptance. But that particular classroom must have been jinxed—before the semester ended the blackboard suddenly disengaged itself from the wall one evening and collapsed onto me. Luckily nothing other than my dignity was injured, but still . . .

The large classrooms at Ohio State have no windows, which can cause problems if the electricity fails, leaving the room in absolute blackness. When that happened in my class once, I proceeded to tell an amusing legal story that lasted about ten minutes, finishing just as the lights came back on. Professor Michael Rose of the OSU law faculty once called on a student just as the lights went out, causing the student to comment, "Well, professor, without the lights I can't see my notes." Just them the lights returned, whereupon the student promptly added, "Now that the lights are on I see I don't have any notes."

In the 1982-83 school year, I was a Visiting Professor at the University of California Hastings Law School in San Francisco. At the start of the second semester in January or 1983, my course in Secured Transactions turned out to be over-subscribed and at the last minute I was given a larger room. I was told by the administration to go to the old classroom on the third floor, and as the students arrived for the first class to direct them to the replacement classroom down on the first floor. I did this, and informed the assembled students that I'd be down in just a few minutes after I had gathered up the stragglers. So the students left for the first floor and I followed them about five minutes later. To my horror (and due to a scheduling error) there Professor Smith's tax class was already in the first floor room, and these students, grumbling, had been evicted by the larger number of my students, who'd apparently told them to claim the now-vacant third floor room. As I was standing outside the classroom, trying to decide how to handle this, Professor Smith came ambling along. With embarrassment and an apology, I explained to this very nice man what had happened, and watched him walk off bemused on his way upstairs to find his wandering class. By the next day, when my class met for the second time in the larger room, I found the whole incident amusing, and told my students that I was proud of the "Secured Transactions Army" and its victory of yesterday. I added that if any of them knew of an even better classroom, just let me know and I'd send them out to take it by conquest.

One snowy February day a fire occurred in my OSU classroom just as I was making some fascinating point (once again it was a Contracts class). Here’s why that happened: in those days there were electrical sockets in the floor of the classrooms, supposedly covered by round metal plates that screwed tight over the sockets when not in use. Of course, as years passed, the metal plates sometimes disappeared, allowing debris to accumulate in the electrical wiring. On this particular day a male student's boots dripped water from snow into the exposed socket, which caught fire and sent a five foot tall jet of fire into the air, coming up between his feet and causing him to fall over backward in his chair. We all looked at this pillar of fire, burning like something from the bible, jaws dropped. The downed student scrambled out of the way, and I heard myself mumble, "Perhaps we ought to leave the classroom NOW!" We all quickly did just that, and as we exited I noticed a fire alarm in the hallway. I pulled the lever and an overly-loud clanging invaded the building. I noticed that Professor Albert Clovis was conducting his Contracts class in the room next to mine, and in spite of the deafening noise he was still lecturing. I pulled open his door and yelled, "It's a real fire, Al!" At this he frowned, and then waived a hand to shoo the students out of the room. By the time the firemen arrived the fire in my classroom was reduced to just smoke. It also turned out that if you pull a fire alarm you get to fill out a lot of forms and talk at length to a stern fire chief, describing exactly what happened.

A couple of stories about plants (not the botanical kind, but the "ringer" kind). Professor Rose, mentioned above, once had to take care of his eight year old daughter during the day time, so he brought her to class and she sat in the front row, coloring in a book as he taught his tax course. At one point the students were stumped by his question, and he looked annoyed as he said, "Everyone should know the answer to that one, even someone untrained in law." At this he called on his daughter, and, without looking up from her coloring book, she recited the answer he had had her memorize before she came to his classroom. In a similar incident at Indiana Indianapolis Law School, Professor Lawrence Jegen, also in a tax class, was asked by a student if Jegen would mind if the student's wife came to class the next day. Jegen gave his permission, but as soon as the student left his office, Jegen called the home of the student, talked to the wife, swore her to secrecy, and, like Professor Rose's daughter, gave her the answer to a tax question that baffled her husband when he was called upon the next day.

But my favorite "plant" story occurred at OSU back in the days when we required all students to take a course entitled "Introduction to Tax Law" in their first semester of law school. One year, by happenstance, the initial class the new students would attend was this very course, taught by Professor Phillip Sorensen, and he posted a notice that they should study section 61 of the Internal Revenue Code (the definition of "income"). We had a visiting professor from the University of Moscow that semester, a young man in his 30's whose name I forget (nice guy—I taught him the rules of American football on one of the walks across campus we sometimes took), but for purposes of this story let's call him "Gorbachev." On the day of the first class, with the students nervously waiting, Professor Gorbachev walked into class, strode to the front of the room, wrote "Section 61" on the blackboard, and then turned to the class and began lecturing in Russian! The students were flabbergasted. A hand went up after a minute or so, but it was that of Professor John Quigley of our faculty, a plant in the first row, and he asked a question in Russian, to which Gorbachev made his only statement in English, "Good question!" After a bit more of the incomprehensible lecture, Phil Sorensen, who had been sitting in the back of the room, got up, interrupted the proceedings, introduced himself and the two other professors, and confessed it was all a joke. Much later, when I learned this had occurred, I asked Phil if it was true, and, with a guilty smile, he allowed that it was. Hmm. Like most practical jokes it's funny in the retelling, but was not amusing to the victims at the time it occurred. Imagine being one of those students on the first day of law school as you're worst fears are realized immediately: you don't understand what's going on even slightly. I asked Phil how the students reacted. "Ah," he said ruefully, "they never forgave me—not even as alums."

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Related Posts:
"How I Became a Law Professor,” January 27, 2010
"The Socratic Dialogue in Law Schools," January 31, 2010
"Clickers,” March 17, 2010
"Women in My Law School Classroom," January 8, 2011
"One More Story From Law School," February 27, 2011
"With Tim in San Francisco---1982-1983," August 6, 2011
"I Hate Meetings," October 31, 2011

Zoo Stories

2011-08-30T21:37:00.007-04:00

I have always been fascinated by zoos. Yes, I know that the current thinking is that the forced confinement of animals is a form of cruelty by one species on another, but I also know that many animals are vanishing from the shrinking wilderness and will die out without the efforts of zoos and similar institutions. In any event, I grew up enjoying zoos as a major entertainment in my life, and I don’t apologize for the love of animals that was fostered by this.

When I was in the first and second grades my family often made trips to the St. Louis Zoo (one of the best in the country), and when I was ten we lived within one block of the entrance to the San Antonio Zoo. I walked, alone or with my sister, over there five or six times every day during the summer of 1953, which sounds dangerous in 2011 but was perfectly safe in that very different era. These experiences sparked a life-long reading of books about zoos and animals, and made me a frequent zoo visitor wherever I have lived since. To name but a few, I've been to the zoos of Tokyo, Rome, London, D.C., San Diego, Cincinnati, San Francisco, Indianapolis, Chicago, Boston, Seattle, New York (both Central Park and the Bronx), and to the wonderful Columbus Zoo, also one of the best in the United States (Jack Hanna, the zoo's leading light, is a frequent guest on Dave Letterman's TV show).

Let me tell you some zoo stories, both mine and those of others.

When I was an 18 year-old sailor walking through the zoo in Rome with fellow sailor from our ship, I was explaining to him that if a zoo animal can figure out a way for visitors to feed it, the animal will show you how to accomplish this. As if to demonstrate my point, a rhinoceros, seeing we both had popcorn, came thundering from the back of its outdoor exhibit, stuck its large head over the railing, and opened its mouth expectantly. It's head was in our path, mere inches away. We laughed. Somewhat hesitantly, I put a handful of popcorn on its tongue, but nothing happened. The large beast just stood there, mouth open, waiting. It occurred to me that the rhino didn't realize there was food on its tongue, so I gently tapped its snout, whereupon the mouth closed, there was determined chewing for a moment, and then the mouth opened again. This was repeated until we ran out of popcorn.

Years later when I was living in San Francisco, I was walking alone through the zoo when a similar thing happened. An ostrich noticed my popcorn and ran to a corner of its cage where a tiny opening allowed it to stick just its head out onto the visitors' path. It too opened its large beak, making a squawking noise to attract my attention. I dutifully walked around the enclosure until I came to the bird. I offered a handful of popcorn, and was immediately bitten! That hurt, but no skin was broken, and I stormed off in disgust, taking my popcorn with me, eating it myself.

Compare that with my visit to the San Diego Zoo in the early 1990's. Strangely enough I had never before seen a live hummingbird (nor since, though for years I planted flowers to attract them), but in this zoo I came upon a aviary devoted to hummingbirds. The public was invited to enter, and I excitedly did so. What I later learned is that the hummingbirds formerly ensconced here had all escaped—save one—and most of them were living nearby, and could even be seen perched or buzzing above the top of the aviary through the open-to-the-sky wiring of the roof. The one remaining hummingbird was understandably pissed. As I walking into the aviary, this tiny bird deliberately zipped to the spot right between my eyes, not even an inch away, startling me and causing me to jump back. One of the zookeepers laughed and told me about the escape of the other birds, pointing his finger up toward them, and commenting the attacking bird did this to all the visitors. It took its revenge by scaring them.

Thinking about it later, it occurred to me that I'd now been menaced by both an ostrich (the largest bird in the world) and a hummingbird (the smallest). Since I've lived with parakeets much of my life (and certainly been bitten by them—one, the evil Floyd, hated humans and if you brought him close to your face while he was sitting on your finger, he'd bite you on the flesh between the nostrils, pleased by your scream), I can claim to have had close encounters with a large number of avians.

There was a small roadside zoo in Tennessee where a capuchin monkey once stole my glasses. I was in high school and my family had stopped to wander through the zoo. My sister Mary Beth and I walked up to a cage filled with the small monkeys. I leaned down to read a sign pinned to the cage and one of the monkeys snatched my glasses off violently and expertly zipped them through an impossibly small opening in the wire mesh. (The sign, I later learned to my disgust, said "Beware—Monkeys Steal Glasses!") Astounded, I muttered, "A monkey stole my glasses!" So now I couldn't see well, and Mary Beth was laughing as if she was having a fit, later telling me about the thieving monkey zooming around the cage, banging my glasses against things, and then pausing to sit to look through the lenses at odd angles or chew on the parts that wrapped around the ears. Annoyed, I asked Beth to find a keeper, which, trying to control her laughter, she did. This man sternly approached the cage and said to the monkey, "Give them back!" Sheepishly, as if to almost deny their existence, the monkey carefully folded the glasses and oh-so-gently slipped them through the wires of the cage. They proved, miraculously, to be undamaged, but to this day Mary Beth can sometimes be heard to mutter "A monkey stole my glasses" and then break out laughing. Just this evening when I phoned her and said my blog would discuss zoo stories, she chortled that very phrase.

The behavior of animals in zoos is quite remarkable. A keeper once wrote about an experiment in which putting a screwdriver on the floor of the cages of the great apes vividly demonstrated the difference between them. The gorillas were afraid of the screwdriver, avoiding it with suspicion or chest-pounding in defiance of the intruding tool. Conversely, the chimpanzees were fascinated, picking up the screwdriver and, in the words of the zookeeper, "using it for every possible purpose except the one it was made for." But when the screwdriver was placed in the orangutan cage, it promptly disappeared. The next day the cage was empty and the former tenants had to be hunted down and returned. "The orangs," the keeper explained, "are the escape artists of the animal kingdom."

At the Cincinnati Zoo some years ago a keeper was killed when she accidentally walked into the tiger exhibit, mistakenly thinking it was empty. There was an immediate outcry from the public demanding that the tiger who jumped her be put to death, but the official in charge of the zoo adamantly refused. "We're not going to kill a tiger merely for being a tiger," he explained. That seems absolutely right to me. However, when a Canadian goose (strangely violating the natural tendency of Canadian geese to land only in appropriate places) recently touched down in the polar bear exhibit at the Columbus Zoo and, sadly, came to a bad end, no one in the public seemed to object at all.

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Related Posts:
"Dog Meat," December 27, 2009

"Parakeets and Me," February 5, 2010

"Douglas Whaley, Deckhand," December 22, 2010

"With Tim in San Francisco—1982/1983," August 6, 2011
"Two Cat Stories: Mama and Barney in the Wild," July 9, 2011
"Mama Cat Saves My Life." October 23, 2011

The Magic and Power of a Wink

2011-08-24T15:27:00.008-04:00

You can't use it often, but if you choose your moment carefully, a wink is a powerful tool to have in your social repertoire. Why a wink? Because it's almost always unexpected, and, being so, causes a reaction. A wink at the absolutely right time can create magic.

When is it appropriate? Consider the following possibilities.

A. Seduction. Oscar Hammerstein wrote: "Some enchanted evening, you may see a stranger across a crowded room, and somehow you know—you know even then—that somehow you'll see her again and again." He then advised "fly to her side and make her your own," but in a crowded room that's not always possible. If you have a tremendous attraction to another person, and—this is very important or you'll look like a fool—that attraction is mutual, a little smile and a deliberate wink can convey this message: "I'm interested in meeting you." Notice that I said a "deliberate wink." By that I mean that it must be an obvious wink, leaving no doubt that it occurred. You don't want the object of your affection wondering if he/she really saw a wink or not. How do you make sure? Hold the wink just a split second longer than a blink. But you don't want to go too far and look ridiculous. Practice in a mirror until you have a wink Cary Grant would be proud of.

B. A Message. All winks are a message of some sort, but here I mean a secret message that only the person being winked at will see and decode. For example, in tournament bridge it's against the rules to compliment your partner after a hand has been played if he/she played the hand well. Why? The rule is designed to prevent "gloating." But if my partner has played well and the opponents therefore did badly on that hand, I sometimes will catch my partner's eye and wink. This conveys the idea of both "Congratulations" and "Hey, we did good!"

C. I'm Lying. Say you and your spouse are trapped in an awkward social situation and need to escape. Think up some fictional pressing obligation, wink at your spouse as you announce it, and trust he/she will back you up. You could say, "Well, we need to get home because Whitley will be arriving early and we have to pick him up," even though in truth there is no Whitley in your future. The wink asks your partner for backup, and if he/she is alert it will be forthcoming: "Oh, goodness! That's right—we have to go!" Just don't let anyone else see the wink (that's important for most of the winks described in this post) and the two of you will be out the door in a flash.

D. Deliberate Confusion.

I've always had a preternaturally loud voice, and it's been valuable on more than one occasion. At the early gay pride marches here in Columbus, Ohio, there were always religious protestors on the sidewalks, holding ugly signs, yelling messages about going to hell, their children at their side. There was one particular minister who waved his bible and got the protestors foaming at the mouth, and I singled him out for the first couple of parades and moved up close to him as I yelled at the gay marchers: "THIS MAN IS PREACHING HATRED IN THE NAME OF GOD. SHAME ON HIM! LET'S TELL HIM THE TRUTH: GOD LOVES GAYS! GOD LOVES GAYS! GOD LOVES GAYS!" The marchers would pick up the chant and the religious protestors were drowned out. After the first couple of marches where this happened, at subsequent parades this particular minister would disappear when he saw me coming, which was just fine.

In 2001, for the twentieth anniversary of the founding of Stonewall Columbus, our local gay group, some of the founders and early gay rights activists were chosen to ride in the parade in open-air cars. I was supposed to ride with Craig Covey, the first president of the organization, but he was unable to make it, so I ended up alone in a 1969 (fittingly the year of the Stonewall riots that started modern gay history) Cadillac DeVille, driven by David Fleisher of the Lambda Car Club, and it was a real beauty. I tried to get the young marchers surrounding the car (see photo) to do some of the old chants, but that led nowhere. The major reason was that we were followed by a float with loud music and singing, and it was almost impossible to hear anything else. As the Cadillac drove the parade route, various sympathetic groups watching from the sidewalks would break out in applause. At first I thought this was for me, which was flattering, but it soon became obvious that they were really applauding the stunning car.

As we neared the heart of downtown, there were a large number of religious protestors (500 I was later told) bunched along one particular block. One of these people was arrested that day for burning a gay flag (a fire hazard violation). These protestors were chanting something, but again the music defeated their efforts. Twice a man from these protestors came running up to the car, bible in hand, and yelled something at me in a threatening tone. In each case the result was identical. As this man looked me, hatred flaring his nostrils, I smiled and winked at him. You could see the shock on his face (was I making fun of him or—even worse—coming on to him?), but before he could react, I winked again. Readers, I am here to tell you that he didn't like being winked at, but in each case before he could do anything more the car moved on. Both men had come up to the car to annoy or startle me, and both had retreated in confusion, not sure what to think.

A wink had done its job.

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Related Posts:;
"The Aging Gay Rights Activist," March 24, 2010

"The Thunderbolt," September 3, 2010
"Good Sex/Bad Sex: Advice on Making Love," November 9, 2011

Chaucer, The Miller's Tale, and Me

2011-08-16T18:53:00.009-04:00

Geoffrey Chaucer

To earn a degree in English at the University of Maryland (from which I graduated in 1965), one requirement was to take a "development of language" course (of which there were a number of possibilities). The majority of these sounded dreadful, judging from the catalogue descriptions ("Elements of Grammar," for example), but the course that caught my eye was "Chaucer in the Original English." Since Geoffrey Chaucer was born in 1343 (I was born in 1943, six hundred years later), his version of the English language is only a kissing cousin to modern English. The professor who taught the course (whose name, alas, I cannot recall) was a treasure: a true Chaucer enthusiast with a love of his subject, and an infectious way of reading the old English out loud with enthusiasm. On the first day of class he told the thirty or so students that we would take turns reading aloud from Chaucer's various works. The text was arranged so that on one page would be Chaucer's original language and on the facing page would be the modern day translation. Most of these readings were from Chaucer's masterpiece "The Canterbury Tales" (in which the various pilgrims on their way to Canterbury Cathedral each tell a tale), but there were other works such as "Parlement of Fouls," describing a convocation of birds. Here is the start of the original prologue to "The Canterbury Tales" and then one of the many modern translations. Try reading the original out loud after you've read the translation, and then consider doing so in a classroom.

Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote

The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,

And bathed every veyne in swich licour

Of which vertu engendred is the flour,

Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

Hath in the Ram his halve cours yronne,

And smale foweles maken melodye,

That slepen al the nyght with open ye

(so priketh hem Nature in hir corages),

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages . . . .

When April with his showers sweet with fruit

The drought of March has pierced unto the root

And bathed each vein with liquor that has power

To generate therein and sire the flower;

When Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath,

Quickened again, in every holt and heath,

The tender shoots and buds, and the young sun

Into the Ram one half his course has run,

And many little birds make melody

That sleep through all the night with open eye

(So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)-

Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage . . . .

That first day of class the professor himself read us a good portion of the Prologue, and then assigned a couple of students to read to us in the following class. But after that he called on students at random. Most so chosen were daunted by the task, and it was often hard to listen to them stumble through their recitations. Some students, of course, were better than others, and all improved as the semester progressed. As for me, I loved preparing for class and faithfully practiced reading Chaucer's words aloud. About halfway through the course the professor called on me, and—ham that I am—I plunged into the text with brio. His face lit up with pleasure, and thereafter I was frequently called upon to recite, which I did with pleasure. I'd been an actor since I was small boy, and that sort of background is just what Chaucer requires to bring his tales alive. It was a particular pleasure to be chosen to read aloud "The Miller's Tale," though I worked hard at not blushing when doing so. If you're going to have to say outrageous things, then do it in an outrageous manner, and everyone will have a good time.

A few words about "The Miller's Tale." Unlike the other tales, which range from a story of courtly love ("The Knight's Tale") to exploration of various aspects of society ("The Wife of Bath's Tale" treats the relationship of men and women), the tale told by the miller is over-the-top, extremely bawdy, and very funny. As I describe it for you, consider that this famous story from the late 1400's has never been televised and never could be televised (except on HBO-like channels where X-rated situations and nudity are permitted). If you're a high school teacher and assign your class "The Miller's Tale," you'll be looking for a job shortly thereafter.

The synopsis:

Nicholas, an astrology student, has become sexually attracted to Alison, the young wife of John, a carpenter (and Nicholas's landlord). To consummate their passion the would-be lovers must find a way to get alone, so Nicholas tells John that a flood like Noah's is coming:

"Now John," quod Nicholas, "I wol nat lye;
I have yfounde in myn astrologye,
As I have looked in the moone bright,
That now a Monday next, at quarter nyght,
Shal falle a reyn, and that so wilde and wood
That half so greet was nevere Noes flood.
This world," he seyde, "in lasse than an hour
Shal al be dreynt, so hidous is the shour.
Thus shal mankynde drenche, and lese hir lyf."

To avoid this deluge, Nicholas, Alison, and John build three wooden tubs and suspend them from the rafters. On the designated night, they climb in and sleep in the tubs. During the night, Nicholas and Alison climb down, make love, and then hear outside the serenade of Absolon, a foppish parish clerk, who's in love with Alison. He begs her to put her cheek up to the privy window (through which people relieved themselves) so he can kiss her, but she sticks her butt there instead and farts in his face when he attempts the kiss. Outraged, Absolon stalks over the blacksmith's shop and borrows a red hot poker. He returns, asks for another kiss, and when Nicholas, chuckling, now offers his bum, rams the poker home. When Nicholas, in great agony, yelps "WATER!", John the carpenter awakes in his tub, thinks the flood is raging below, cuts himself loose, and breaks his arm in the resulting fall.

The Angry Absolon

Try televising that. Most of the tales are not this outrageous, but I confess that I never think of "The Miller's Tale" without smiling and wondering at what a rogue Chaucer was all those centuries ago.

In addition to developing an appreciation of the works of Geoffrey Chaucer, I did learn something about the early history of the English language from this splendid course. Indeed, I was amazed to discover that Chaucer, just like Shakespeare two centuries later, gave us hundreds of words that are now commonplace. These include: accident, border, box, funeral, horizon, nod, observe, princess, rumor, scissors, superstitious, theater, universe, village, and wallet.

The word "tub" itself first appears in "The Miller's Tale."

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"The Only Course I Ever Flunked," July 25, 2011

The Mack Problem: Saving My Parents' Marriage

2011-08-10T22:48:00.015-04:00

Ruth McCarty Whaley (1959)

John and Bobby

I have written before about the fact that my father's mother died before he was three years old (and his two brothers, older than he but very young, died shortly before she did), leaving my father, Robert Whaley to be reared alone by his father, John Whaley. John worked for the Southern Railroad as a station agent (meeting and checking the trains as they came in and dealing with problems) in various small towns in southern Indiana. He later told my Dad that "If you want to know what despair is, lose two children and your wife in a three year period. All that kept me going was you, Bobby."

In 1924, when Dad was five, John decided that his son needed a mother. Ever practical, he promptly wooed and won a local high school home economics teacher named Ruth McCarty (born October 12, 1894), marrying her the day after Christmas of that same year. All her life he called her "Mack," and she called him "Whaley." Growing up around them, I never saw much affection between the two, but he was not a demonstrative man, and she tended to take charge of the domestic arrangements, while nattering on in a pleasant enough manner. She was good for my father, and he more than once mentioned that she was the one who bought him his first pair of long pants, evidently a big deal for a boy in the 1920s.

John and Mack did have problems later in life. In his seventies he became mentally ill and she (fanatical when she wanted something) worked hard, against my father's wishes, to put him in an institution. To everyone's surprise, John recovered and resumed normal life with her, though one night at a dinner table with all of us sitting around, when she chided him too much about something, he exploded with "And you tried to put me in the nut house!" When he died at age 82 in 1964 (I was in college), Dad and I were there, staying with Mack in their large house in Huntingburg, Indiana (the small town in which I was born). Dealing with the dying John, who was in bad shape at this time down at the hospital was trying, but even more difficult was back on the home front where Mack's mood swings and general nuttiness created a surreal atmosphere. One morning as Dad and I met at the top of the steps of second floor (where we each had a bedroom), he looked at me, smiled, and ruefully said, "Ready for this madness? Take a deep breath, my son, and let's go see what she's like today." John died shortly thereafter, and the funeral went as expected. Dad was furious to learn from Mack that John had asked that the hymn "The Old Rugged Cross" be sung during the ceremony, but she'd decided that she couldn't take that, and the matter was dropped. "If I'd have known my father asked for that particular hymn at his funeral," Dad told me, "it would have happened if I'd had to sing it myself!"

[Click to enlarge]

John Alvin Whaley (August 24, 1882 to June 5, 1964) was buried in the Cox Cemetary near Birdseye, Indiana, where many of his ancestors are laid to rest (and where eventually he was joined by Mack, and both of my parents). It's a lovely spot, high on a hill overlooking woods and a farm, and John had chosen it because he (a famous hunter) declared that from here you could "hear the fox hounds run." After the burial, Dad returned to Bermuda, where he was stationed at the Air Force Base, and I went back to college. But within a few years, I graduated from law school and moved to Chicago to practice law. Mack loved it that I was that nearby, and she promptly began using me as her lawyer in a number of legal disputes. These involved an inheritance from her sister, a dispute with the City of Huntingburg over curb repairs to her property, and other spats I can't at this moment recall. She was quite litigious and pleased to explain to all concerned that her grandson/attorney would bring them to their knees. Things only got worse when I took at job teaching law in Indianapolis, a mere two hour drive away (and by then I'd passed the Indiana bar exam). Whenever I came to town, Mack would be delighted to see me, and we'd plan legal strategy over a bottle of bourbon she kept under the sink (and which, apparently, she only brought out when I was there—it was always dusty and the same level I'd last seen it).

Eventually it became obvious that a woman of Mack's age couldn't continue to live alone in that large house, and that she'd have to move out and live with my parents, who by then were in Dallas, where Dad had become an Assistant Prosecutor for Dallas county. So in the summer of 1973, we all met in Huntingburg for the big event. The Vietnam War was on, and my brother-in-law, Richard Colpitts, was a pilot about to be shipped to Asia. His wife, my sister Mary Beth, would stay in Mack's house for the duration, while Mack would drive back to Dallas with my parents, who'd just driven from there to Huntingburg to pick her up. Also present was my wife Charleyne and our son, Clayton (born the previous December). Complicating everything was that coming long drive back to Dallas. My mother was not overly fond of Mack, and particularly in these later years when Mack complained about many things while demanding constant attention. Mom was never one to cater to fools gladly, there were difficult times ahead in that journey, which everyone present (except the infant Clayton) knew. I particularly felt sorry for my ever-genial father, who would be in the middle of the Mack-Mom skirmishes all the way home (and, of course, thereafter). Rich and Mary Beth, Charleyne and I, the four of us torn between amusement and dread, watched Mom, Dad, and Mack pile in the car after tearful goodbyes and drive off. One of us commented, "I wonder how far they'll get before someone jumps or is pushed from the car?" That made us laugh, and then someone else added, "Who do you think it will be?"

Minutes Before the Trip to Dallas
[Top: Me, Dad, Rich and Mary Beth
Bottom: Charleyne, Mack, Mom and Clayton]

In the event, the three of them did make it back to Dallas intact, and Mack was installed in an apartment on the same floor as my parents. However, she was sick a lot, and ended up in the hospital, which she enjoyed greatly, loving the constant attention, and thereafter feigning illnesses to get readmitted (she had great health insurance, courtesy of the Southern Railway). Since Dad was prosecuting criminals all day, Mom often had to deal with Mack and her various needs on her own, and this caused marital difficulties as the months dragged on.

I didn't realize how bad things had become until the early winter of 1974. I was invited to Houston to interview with the University of Houston Law School for a position there, and Charleyne, Clayton, and I flew to Texas for the interviews (I ended up not taking the position). My parents decided it would be fun to drive from Dallas to Houston and spend some time with us, so we all met there, staying at a motel. The first evening we were all so gathered, I ended up alone with Dad, standing out on a walkway overlooking the parking lot. I realized he was troubled, which was unusual since he was famous for being on top of all situations and problems, and I asked him what was the matter.

"It's Mack," Dad replied with a deep sigh. His eyes misted as he added, "I think it's about to break up your mother and my marriage." I was more than astounded—my parents had always had a deep love affair and the most rock solid marriage I could think of, and Dad didn't lose control of his emotions. How could this be? I asked questions and Dad explained. It had become clear that Mack needed to be moved into what we would now call an "assisted living" home, and my mother was urging that immediately. "What's the problem?" I asked Dad, and he shrugged. "On his deathbed I promised my father that I'd never put Mack in a nursing home. Remember, Doug, that she'd nearly put him in a 'home,' and he didn't want that for her. I don't know what to do, but I just can't break that promise to my father. My word is my word."

Mack, John and Me

I thought about it for all of four seconds. "This is an easy one, Dad," I told him. "When John Whaley asked for your promise, he couldn't foresee this future. If he were here now and knew everything that's going on, he'd tell you, 'Bobby, don't be a fool! Your marriage is more important than a forced arrangement that pits your wife against your stepmother.' I'm his grandson, and I know this is absolutely true. Speaking on behalf of John Whaley, I hereby absolve you from the promise. Put Mack in a nice nursing home, visit her often, and treat your wife to a calm and happy home life." I even felt like John Whaley as I said this.

Dad looked at me amazed. Then he thought it over, smiled, agreed to this particular family transfer of power, nodded his head, and shook my hand.

Mack was in a nursing home shortly thereafter, dying on November 14, 1975. And that, readers, is how I save my parents' marriage.

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"My Year in Bermuda," February 9, 2010

“Bob and Kink Get Married,” June 2, 2010

"The Very Young Douglas Whaley," October 11, 2010 (my birth in Huntingburg)

"My Missing Grandmother," December 26, 2010

"My Parents and Dummy," May 13, 2011

"Bob Whaley Goes to Law School," June 3, 2011

With Tim in San Francisco—1982/1983

2011-08-06T13:59:00.004-04:00

The View From Pacific Heights

One of my very best friends is Tim Ihle, who was a law student in 1976 when I joined the Ohio State law faculty in January of that year as a Visiting Professor for the winter and spring quarters. Things had become heated at Indiana University Indianapolis Law School, which was my permanent home, where the previous December I'd made a motion to censure the Dean for outrageous conduct and then led the faculty, more or less en masse, into his office the next day to tell him he must resign. He declined. When I left the next month to be a visitor at Ohio State until the summer, I was certainly hoping they would make me a permanent offer. I was also, as explained in previous posts, exploring being a gay man for the first time. At the Columbus gay bars I, of course, encountered the OSU gay law students, and they were very helpful in teaching me the ways of the homosexual world as it existed in 1976. Tim was among this crowd, and we became fast friends for a number of reasons, especially including the fact that he was one of the creators of my record album "Strange Songs," where he kept stealing the limelight with numbers such as "The Specialty of the House."

[Click To Enlarge]

I was told by the OSU law faculty, unanimously, that there was no way I would be offered a permanent position—in the changing legal education world of that day most law schools, OSU included, were simply not hiring white males. [One of the most liberal members of the faculty told me years later that had he known I was gay, he'd have voted for me!] I was saved, and did receive and accept the permanent offer, because the graduating class of 1976 (blessings upon them) voted me the Outstanding Professor of the Year (which annoyed some other faculty members since I was both a visitor and had been only there for five months).

Subsequently Tim graduated from law school in 1979 and went to work for one of the most prestigious firms in Columbus. One Monday morning in 1982 he came into work and the secretaries informed him he was about to be fired because the partners had discovered he was gay! This turned out to be an accurate prediction—they told him to clean out his desk by Friday. This same firm had had an embezzler who they gave six months to find a new job, but a gay associate was too much for them in those homophobic days. Tim was devastated. The Steven Sondheim song in which one of the lyrics is that "bricks can fall out of clear blue skies," was written for moments like this.

About the same time I'd accepted an offer from the University of California Hastings Law School (a free-standing law school in downtown San Francisco) to be a Visiting Professor for the 1982-83 school year. What gay man (then single) could resist and offer like that? Tim approached me and asked if he could share expenses with me for that year, with the two of us being roommates while he took the California bar and found himself a new job. Delighted, I said yes, and the adventure began for us both. Understand that we were not a romantic couple, but just good friends embarking on a new experience together.

Our Apartment Building

Tim went first to SF and rented us an apartment on Laguna Street at the top of Pacific Heights across from Lafayette Park. It had a tremendous view of the city—just breathtaking. From one of the windows you could see the Golden Gate bridge, and when the fog would come rolling in every evening it was spooky and unreal, much like a bad special effect in a movie. Lafayette Park is beautiful, but the grade in climbing it up to our apartment was 45° (no exaggeration). Since you can't park anywhere in the city, you must get around by walking, taxi, cable car, or bus. The first twenty times or so that I struggled up that grade carrying groceries I thought it was all sort of enchanting, but then it began to occur to me that it would be easier to be back in Columbus when in need of groceries, having only to hop in the car for a quick trip to Krogers. Getting to work was easy—all downhill. But coming home required use of some sort of public transportation, which could be a pain. The law school was located at the edge of the Tenderloin, a bad section of town, and I frequently had to step over bodies of drunks on the sidewalk or deal with panhandlers. Someone once well said that you are permitted to love two cities: your own and San Francisco. That's true, and I did and do love SF, but I confess that I quickly realized I was often battling the city, and came back to Columbus in the summer of 1983 with an appreciation I'd not previously had for how easy it was to live there.

Lafayette Park (see our apartment at top right)

Beach Blanket Babylon

When I arrived in SF it was a Sunday, and Tim greeted me happily and we went out to explore the neighborhood. I asked him if the liquor stores were open on a Sunday, and he confessed he didn't know. A quick exploration of nearby Polk Street revealed an open package store, and Tim grinned broadly as he commented how nice it was to find a city that had its priorities straight. Over the next ten months we explored much of the city, everything from its fabled sights (Twin Peaks, the Coit Tower, Alcatraz, etc.) to its wonderful gay life (the bars in particular, which had a stunning range from drag, to wet t-shirt, to bikers, to leather, to classy and expensive), and great theater (local companies did marvelous things, as well as major Broadway touring shows, powerful gay productions, and extravaganzas like Beach Blanket Babylon, with its wonderful oversize hats). Gay areas of town, such as the Castro or South of Market, were particularly fascinating since seeing gay men and lesbians happy in a non-threatening environment was remarkable for the early 80's. Tim and I went to the first Gay Games (they were forbidden the name "Gay Olympics" by a Supreme Court decision), took in the SF Opera (where some gay men attended in full leather!), and also visited the wine country and other nearby cities like San Jose. We made friends and entertained visitors from out of town. We loved it.

[L to R] Tim and I with Two Neighbors

The weather in SF is fascinating, being mild most of the year. Strangely, however, the summers can be quite chilly, causing Mark Twain to once remark that the "coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco." Wikipedia explains: "Among major U.S. cities, San Francisco has the coldest daily mean, maximum, and minimum temperatures for June, July and August. During the summer, rising hot air in California's interior valleys creates a low pressure area that draws winds from the North Pacific High through the Golden Gate, which creates the city's characteristic cool winds and fog." All during the year in SF people have trouble deciding what to wear. I've seen a woman in a heavy fur coat standing next to a panting jogger in t-shirt and shorts, both waiting for a light to change, as if they had somehow been magically teleported from different climates to this street corner.

It was fun being in a neighborhood with fancy residences, many of them with gay populations. We quickly learned the local establishments that were best for food, sundries, liquor, books, etc. One nearby doughnut shop proved to be our undoing. On a weekend morning the thought of those hot and delicious doughnuts would often pull me from my bed. By the time I returned, Tim would have made coffee, and our weekend would get off to a great start. As I put on some pounds, I joined a local gay gym, which proved to be . . . interesting. During that year there were sexual adventures too, of course, but I'm not going to report on that here other than to say that I had a very good time. AIDS was just beginning to make its appearance in the early 1980s, and many people were rightly scared—no one knew what it was or how to deal with it. When I spent a week in San Francisco ten years later I went back to one of my favorite bars and found it almost empty at a time when it used to be packed. When I asked a bartender "Where is everyone?" he replied in all seriousness, "They all died." That was a sobering moment.

Things went well at the University of California Hastings Law School, and I still have friends I met there (as well as former students I sometimes hear from). Tim passed the California Bar Exam and went back to doing legal work. He bought a home north of the city, where he still lives, and I see him when he occasionally returns to Columbus (as he will next month, and on my birthday we'll have a playreading at my condo starring him). I drove back across the country in May of 1983, very pleased by the whole experience. Whenever someone asks me if I've ever been to SF, I smile and my eyes mist up with fond memories of that wonderful year with Tim when we both were young, gay, and living in San Francisco.

Coit Tower

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Related Posts:
"The Aging Gay Rights Activist," March 24, 2010
"Elena Kagan and Me," May 23, 2010 (about playreadings)
"Strange Songs, Inc.," September 29, 2010

The Legacy of Homophobia

2011-08-02T17:16:00.018-04:00

A Brazilian Anti-Homophobia Design

Senator Strom Thurmond

Consider the Southern Senators in the middle of the last century who loudly opposed civil rights for all, using ugly terms for African Americans and their supporters. Did it occur to them that they were writing themselves into the history books as bigotry personified? In an unsuccessful efforts to block the Civil Rights Act of 1957, South Carolina's Senator Strom Thurmond led the longest filibuster in Senate history (among other things in his 24+ hour rant he read aloud every state's election law in alphabetical order and recited his grandmother's biscuit recipes), while failing to acknowledge he was the father of an illegitimate African American daughter. Would he and the others like him have cared that their names nowadays are synonymous with hypocrisy?

There are penalties for bigotry, whether private or public, and eventually these people are an embarrassment to all who knew them or learn about them. The history books shame their legacy.

Now take the current crop of public homophobes, a number of whom are candidates for the Republican Presidential nomination. Former Senator Pennsylvania Rick Santorum vehemently opposes gay marriage, and was once quoted as saying, "If the Supreme Court says that you have the right to consensual sex within your home, then you have the right to bigamy, you have the right to polygamy, you have the right to incest, you have the right to adultery. You have the right to anything." Minnesota Congresswoman Michele Bachmann is also much opposed to gay marriage, and her husband runs a Christian Clinic that supposedly turns gays into straights. At one point in her career she made this comment: "Any of you who have members of your family that are in the lifestyle—we have a member of our family that is. This is not funny. It's a very sad life. It's part of Satan, I think, to say this is 'gay'. It's anything but gay. . . . It's profoundly sad to recognize that almost all, if not all, individuals who have gone into the lifestyle have been abused at one time in their life, either by a male or by a female. There's been profound hurt and profound things that have happened in almost all of their lives." Both have signed an anti-gay marriage pledge as part of the current campaign.

Santorum and Bachmann: Dueling Homophobes

Now I ask you: do you think either of these candidates has a realistic chance of attracting enough voters to actually become President of the United States? What are they thinking? The answer is that they're only interested in the voters who agree with their hatred, a dwindling number, and, like the Southern Senators mentioned above, in the end will finish as historical embarrassments, their homophobic statements (and other missteps) clouding their legacy forever, ugly and inexcusable.

This all came home to me in 2005 when I reconnected with a man I went to law school with who has since become a major player in a Southern State Senate. Let's call him "John Smith." He was my roommate for the first semester of law school, but, for personal reasons, dropped out after that semester. I thought he was a nice guy, fun to be with, and was sad when he left school. Later I was pleased to learn he had gone back to a different law school and graduated. When I practiced law in Chicago in the late 60's, John came for a visit, but then I lost track of my old friend. Consider my surprise when I learned that the leading Senator in the State of ______ was John Smith, and his big campaign was to get that state to pass a constitutional amendment forbidding recognition of gay marriages. Sure it was him (for various reasons I won't go into), I hunted up his email address online and sent him an email entitled "Douglas Whaley, Does That Name Ring a Bell?" He promptly (and delightedly) replied that it did ring a bell and asked me how I was doing. I sent back a description of my life as a law professor, but didn't mention my gay activism. John's emailed response described his law practice, political career, marriage late in life, and his two college age sons. Now that we had reconnected, I sent him this:

-------------------------------------------------------

John:

What follows is the portion of my history that I omitted from my last email.

I was reared as homophobic as everyone else of our generation (I was a Catholic altar boy back in the days when the mass was said in Latin). I spent a lot of energy on sexual encounters with women, designed to convince myself that I was heterosexual. At age 32 I finally talked truth to myself, dumped my homophobia, and came out. This was 1976, just as I started a visiting Professorship at Ohio State (where I was offered a permanent position, and from which I retired last year). It was heady period, and an enormous relief to allow myself to be myself. It freed me from all that self-hatred and wasted time pretending to be another person. Eventually I found not only freedom, but happiness, and even love.

I also became very angry at what society did to gay people. This anger fueled political involvement, and I helped organize the gay community in central Ohio in the early 80s. I am now, to my amazement, known as one of the elders of the gay rights movement in this state.

Imagine then, my distress, at seeing an article in The Advocate (the gay community’s version of Time magazine) mentioning that you were the sponsor of your State Senate's version of DOMA.

Oh, John, that hurt!

Okay, I have a question for you:

Surely I am not the only gay person you know (almost everyone in this country has gay relatives, co-workers, neighbors, friends). What would you have your gay constituents do about their gayness? Do you think that if only they prayed harder, went to the right therapist, or really, really tried, they could all become happy heterosexuals?

I know that this must be a hard issue for any legislator to deal with, and a political nightmare that is not going to vanish anytime soon. I would be fascinated to hear what you have to say on the topic.

And I remain an old friend of yours.

Doug

-----------------------------------------------

John Smith wrote back that of course he knew a lot of gay people both as friends (his wife is an interior decorator) and constituents. But he added that he must represent what the vast majority of his constituents want, which is of course to keep marriage between one man and one woman.

My emailed response was that his reply was well and good as far as it went, but surely it's the job of leaders to lead and not just follow current opinions, particularly when they're bad for the represented community. I then made an appeal to history. I pointed out that if today's high school students could vote, gay marriage would a reality, and that within twenty years the whole controversy will seem silly. By then it will be obvious that gay people should be treated like everyone else, and those who had said something different in the past would be pitied or vilified. I ended with this:

"John, if I were in your position, here's what I'd worry about every night when I put my head on my pillow—I'd wonder if my grandchildren are someday going compare what I did to those southern senators who battled racial civil rights fifty years ago. I'd fear my grandchildren would be hugely embarrassed by what their grandfather did when he had power in the state legislature, and they'd avoid talking about me whenever my name came up."

Well, by golly, John never replied to that email! But perhaps his anti-gay crusade slowed down some, and I'll bet I caused him a sleepless night or two.

After all, he currently doesn't have any grandchildren yet.

------------------------------------------

"The Aging Gay Rights Activist," March 24, 2010

“Homosexuality: The Iceberg Theory,” April 25, 2010
“How I Lost a Gay Marriage Debate,” April 29, 2010
“Straight Talk,” May 10, 2010
“Marijuana and Me,” July 11, 2010

“How To Tell if You’re Gay,” August 31, 2010

“The Thunderbolt,” September 3, 2010

“How To Change Gay People Into Straight People,” September 20, 2010

"Coming Out: How To Tell People You're Gay," March 27, 2011

"Jumping the Broom: How 'Married' are Married Gay Couples?" July 17, 2011
"Going Undercover at an Ex-Gay Meeting," September 19, 2011

"The Presumption of Heterosexuality and the Invisible Homosexual," October 2, 2011

"Gay Bashers, Homophobes, and Me," January 27, 2012

The Only Course I Ever Flunked

2011-07-25T12:41:00.004-04:00

Microbes

I was always a good student, but until law school (where my splendid academic performance resulted from an alphabetical accident, as described in "How I Became a Law Professor," see "Related Posts" below), I never worked hard at making good grades. Mostly I succeeded as a student at all levels because I was genuinely interested in the courses, and/or was good at studying and taking exams. I didn't do well in courses like physical education, while I made "B" sorts of grades in science or math courses, where I cared less about the subject matter.

In college at the University of Maryland my grade point average was an almost perfect 3.0. But there was one major blot on my record that pulled it down to that level: the course in microbiology.

I flunked it. And in addition to it being the only course I've ever flunked, I damn near flunked it twice. This was very hard to explain to my father, Robert Whaley, who was paying a lot of money for my education. I should say that I'm much embarrassed by the whole incident, and do not recommend following my wretched example, described in agonizing detail below.

I was an English major at Maryland, and those courses were all snaps. But I was required to take two science courses in order to graduate, so I chose Basic Astronomy (which was interesting) and Microbiology. The reason the latter came to be my undoing had nothing to do with the subject matter, but much to do with the fact that I'm a night owl and not a morning person. All my life I've typically stayed up until one a.m., risen at late as possible, and done my best work in the afternoon and evening. But the course in Microbiology met twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays, with a two hour lab session starting at eight in the morning each of those days, followed by a one hour lecture. EIGHT O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING!!! I'm afraid that's a time that doesn't exist for me, not in 1966 when I took the course, and not in 2011 as I write this. When I eventually became a fulltime law professor, I just couldn't handle classes that started at, say, nine o'clock. No matter how much coffee I drank or how early I got up, I couldn't put nouns with verbs in a coherent order until ten a.m. or later. I finally told the law school's academic dean (in charge of scheduling) that I was a wasted resource teaching a class before ten in the morning, and thereafter that became my earliest scheduled class time for the rest of my career. (See "The Summer Bar Review Tours" below, for a horror story in which I woke up teaching.)

Growth in a Petri Dish

For that eight a.m. science lab twice a week, I really, really tried hard to be there and do the assigned tasks. But dragging myself from bed in time to make it to class was difficult to do, and I frequently was late or failed altogether. When I did make it to the lab, my eyes (nearsighted and in need of heavy glasses) would have trouble focusing the microscopes and reading the results of the various experiments we did with petri dishes and test tubes. I would sometimes wakeup doing these trials, and would be amazed by the results of the various assigned tasks. They were horrifying! Microbes can grow at incredible speeds and contaminate everything. When I was awake enough to appreciate what was going on, I was, well, shocked. But as the semester made it to the halfway point, I wasn't attending enough lab classes to pass that segment of the course, and my instructor so warned me. Depressed, I quit going to labs altogether, and only attended the ten o'clock lectures (which I made about half the time). Since the final grade was calculated with one third being lab work and two thirds written exams based on the lectures, I ended up flunking Microbiology, and then—horror of horrors—having to explain all this to Dad. My explanation, it was made clear by him, was nothing but a confession of failure, and he was very disappointed in me. I felt terrible. Over my strong protests, he made me promise to take the course again the following semester.

I did do that, but then I had the same problem. The scheduling was identical, and, try as I might, I couldn't get to the labs at eight in the morning twice a week and do the assigned work in a credible fashion. I did go to all the lectures, and I paid careful attention when there. By getting a "A" on all the written exams, I made a "C" for the course even though I failed the lab segment. Dad wasn't pleased with a grade of "C" either, but I was relieved I hadn't flunked the course a second time.

Food in the Open Air

The only happy thing to come out of this miserable experience was that thereafter I learned not to schedule early morning classes either in college or law school. Oh, and I suppose I should mention that to this very day I still know a good deal about microbiology. For example, I never leave jars uncovered or food sitting out where the evil microbes floating through the air can contaminate items I'm planning on eating later. Even though I flunked the course, I've retained a rare appreciation of microbes and the damage they can do in very short periods of time, so I suppose that in spite of the bad grades, I did in fact receive the necessary education. Surely that counts for something even if it doesn't show up on my U of M transcript.
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“How I Became a Law Professor,” January 27, 2010

“The Socratic Dialogue in Law School,” January 31, 2010

“Clickers,” March 17, 2010
"The Many Faults of Douglas Whaley," March 31, 2010
“The Summer Bar Review Tours,” June 15, 2010
"Women in My Law School Classroom," January 8, 2011
"The Exploding Alarm Clock," February 19, 2011

"One More Story From Law School," February 27, 2011
"Chaucer, the Miller's Tale, and Me," August 16, 2011

The Ohio State Hospital Nurses: A Letter to President Gordon Gee

2011-07-21T12:50:00.015-04:00

For some time I've trying to think of a way to thank the many nurses at the Ohio State Hospitals for all they've done for me during my many years of medical troubles. Finally I decided to bring my admiration to the attention of OSU President Gordon Gee, who would certainly know how to use such a commendation. Thus, the following exchange occurred just this month.

President Gee

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
July 12, 2011

Dr. E. Gordon Gee

Office of the President

The Ohio State University

205 Bricker Hall/190 North Oval Mall

Columbus, OH 43210-1357

Dear President Gee:

You kindly sent me a congratulatory letter after an article appeared about my 2009 heart transplant, and we've briefly met at a couple of law school social functions, so I take the liberty of passing on the following to you to use as you see fit.

I joined the law school faculty in 1976, and in March of 1978 I ruptured my appendix (at age 34) and very nearly died since I walked around for two weeks in that condition. Only the help of a nutritionist friend (who gave me drinkable meals when I could keep nothing else down) kept me alive until emergency exploratory surgery at OSU saved me. The surgeon who cut me open (the great Dr. John Minton) later told me he'd informed everyone in the operating room that "this one isn't going to make it." Happily, after a month in the hospital, I did make it, though it led to five subsequent OSU surgeries for fistulas and hernias, the last being in 1995.

In addition to the heart transplant in late 2009 (and major new medical difficulties in 2011), there have been other minor surgeries at OSU hospitals (say six or seven, depending on what you count), and these, cumulatively, result in this letter.

The doctors (who have done much on my behalf, and to whom I'm very grateful) have ranged from absolutely splendid to something less than that, but the OSU nurses have uniformly been wonderful. In circumstances that varied from life-threatening to minor, they were terrific: talented, kind, caring, dedicated, truly interested in me, and putting patient care before anything else. After one hernia operation in which my body, after four months, had rejected an artificial net that had been surgically wrapped around parts of my stomach, I awoke with three nurses near me. While they were making sure I was all right, one of the doctors approached and briskly told me, "Well, Professor, that didn't work, so we'll be operating again soon." Then he walked off without another word. As if they were one entity, the nurses began stroking me, telling me not to worry, while proclaiming that this particular doctor had no "patient skills" and was known to be a "jerk."

Most recently in two hospital visits this spring and summer, the nurses have taken my side in sometimes difficult conflicts in ways that amazed me. In their position—frankly—I wouldn't have had the courage to do it.

In the end, the only way it occurred to me to thank them is to bring my incredible respect for all the nurses at Ohio State to your attention. If you can find a way to let them know how much their many patients appreciate what they do in difficult times for suffering people, I would be very grateful.

Sincerely,

Douglas Whaley

Professor Emeritus

Michael E. Moritz College of Law
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President Gee mailed me a response on July 14^th:

Dear Doug:

Thank you for your note. I am so pleased to know that the nurses at our Medical Center provided you with exceptional care on numerous occasions. We cannot thank these talented individuals enough for their important, life-changing work. And, I will certainly continue to express my gratitude to our nursing staff.

Again, I very much appreciate you writing to share your experience, and do hope you are faring far better. Best wishes for a summer of rest and relaxation.

Sincerely,

Gordon

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Related Posts:
"About That Heart Transplant," January 24, 2010
"My Heart Belonged to Andrew," February 17, 2010
"Another Letter to Andrew's Parents," March 10, 2010
"A Toast to Andrew," May 2, 2010
"Mama, Biopsies, and My iPad," May 19, 2010
"The First time I Nearly Died," August 3, 2010
"Rehabilitating Doug," June 12, 2010
"The Purring Heart," November 23, 2010

"1999-2001: A Dramatic Story, " December 15, 2010

"Naming My Heart," March 24, 2011

"Report on Old Doug: Health, Theater, eBook, and More," June 28, 2011