Whistleblower II

          Good evening, 919 Gang. This is a chaser on the earlier post because a photo was left out.

          KEN WILLIAMS writes:

          I've been following the threads about sexual harassment in the workplace, and was promoted to add to the conversation after reading the comments by Michele Davis.

          Back in the early 1990s, I was the Night City Editor at a medium-sized daily in Pennsylvania. At this newspaper, that meant that I was in charge of the newsroom -- city desk, reporting staff, sports department and copy desk -- after the 4 p.m. meeting concluded and all the editors who worked the day shift had left for home.

          One night at work, a young woman on the copy desk asked to speak to me privately and told me that she was routinely being followed home by her supervisor. He would park outside her house, call her home phone, and proposition her. She said she told him that she wasn't interested in seeing him, especially since everyone knew that his wife and children had not yet moved from Pittsburgh, where he supposedly was this hot shot editor. He was also a native to this city, and the publisher and managing editor were treating him like the second coming of Christ because they had recruited him from a much-larger newspaper.

          The next day, as was my duty, I met with the Editor and the Managing Editor to report what this young woman had told me. I fully expected that they would contact the corporate bosses for advice on how to handle the matter.

          I don't know what happened behind closed doors, but within a week this new hire was promoted to a position where he outranked me in the pecking order. So the "whistleblower" editor suddenly had to answer to the man accused of sexually harassing a copy editor who was young enough to be his daughter. Suddenly, he was making my life miserable ... because I had done the right thing and reported sexual harassment in the workplace.

          Long and short of it, I demanded a transfer out of Dodge ... and our corporate office arranged for me to interview for an opening in Texas. I landed the job, and never looked back.

          The young woman also was forced to leave the company and got a job far, far away.

          A few years later, I noticed that the man who sexually harassed women under his supervision had landed a job with The New York Times.

          RAY HUARD writes:
          In response to Michele Davis's comments, yes, I'm outraged about what women have had to endure. Sadly, it's still happening. I thought we were beyond that bad old days, but we're not. There's nothing funny about being sexually harassed. I haven't been, so I can only imagine how scary it must be. Jack, I hope you don't censor Preston. HIs comments led to a lively and enlightening conversation on 919 Gang. Maybe it gave some women the courage to talk about what happened to them.

          JIM OKERBLOM writes:

          To Michele Davis: I was trying to be funny, while at the same time not minimizing a serious issue. ("I am NOT suggesting sexual harassment is a myth or overblown.") I was attempting to point out, clumsily it seems, that the same behavior -- kissing someone without permission in a work setting -- could be considered charming in one situation, and highly inappropriate, even a fireable offense, in another -- "if a man had done this to a woman" -- or if the power structure were unequal. ("A lot depends on the circumstances.") That was probably obvious already.

          My apologies for not making the point clear enough, or if you were offended. It is treacherous territory I probably should have avoided altogether.

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          PRESTON TUREGANO writes:

          Last year, my spouse and I (for a DNA test) swabbed inside the mouth of our dog, Punky (photo below), because when we rescued her in 2012 from a shelter, vets and savvy dog people said she was a Border Terrier/Parson Russell mix.  Unlike many yappy and nervous Jack Russells, Parsons are docile, we were told, and so far the tellers have been right. Miss Punky is a trained and certified pet therapy dog.  Jacks aren’t so easy to achieve that. (The one in the TV sitcom, “Frasier,” was remarkable and very intelligent.)  In addition Parsons and Border Terriers, which are hunting dogs, have longer legs than a Jack.  The test said Punky is American Eskimo dog, Chihuahua, and Miniature Poodle.  No way! Rip off!  The Border Terrier part manifests itself when her coat grows out, and like a Border she can sit and look out for hours, waiting for other animals to dare pass by her front door.

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          MICHELE DAVIS writes:

          Today on Facebook, under Vintage San Diego, they ran a photo of a front page of the SD Union from April 14, 1908.  Just FYI.  Vintage San Diego has some pretty interesting photos of San Diego.  They have the photos broken down by subject, area, interests.  Most of the photos are from private individuals, family photos, etc.  Interesting history of San Diego. 

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          DAVID FARMER writes:

          I know that Mr. Reber doesn't publish jokes per se. But Arthur Salm's message about DNA testing reminded me of a story that's actually relevant. Arthur said a friend's wife and dog (two different individuals) had their DNA tested and both came back as "shepherd mix."

          My little tale pre-dates DNA tests. A doctor gives a container to a male patient and tells him to go home, deposit a urine sample, and bring it back later for testing.

          The patient, something of a smart-ass, decides to play with the doctor's mind. He collects samples from himself, his wife, his daughter, his mistress, his dog, and the family hamster. He mixes them in the container and drops it off at the doctor's office.

          A few days later the doctor, an old friend, calls him and asks, "Do you want the good news first or the bad?" The man opts for the good. "Okay," says the doc, "Your wife, your mistress, and your daughter are all pregnant."

          "Oh, my god!" moans the patient. "Little Suzie is only 15. I can't afford to pay for her child, plus my wife's and my mistress's. If that was the good news, what could be worse?"

          "Well, you have an incurable STD, your dog is suffering from kidney failure, and your hamster has rabies."

          REBER: I like jokes, I just don’t want to publish them. The blog is lengthy enough some nights. Okay, I printed this one. That fulfils my quota for 2017.

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          REBER: Tomorrow, May 1, is Thomas Neumann’s birthday, and I am hoping for something I know would make him happy. He was laid off by ESPN a few days ago.

Jack J. Reber

P.O. Box 2239

Ramona, CA 92065

U.S.A.

2reberjack@gmail.com

We care, Fernando

          Good evening, 919 Gang. Dennis Romero has posted this about his father:

          “Fernando Romero took a couple spills recently and fractured a bone. Now he gets to learn how to walk again. Circle of life. He's okay. But send him love if you can.”

          Fernando has a horde of friends in this group. Here is the contact info (I hope it’s still valid) he supplied for the 919 Gang directory:  cyberfr@aol.com; 1413 Manzana Way, San Diego CA 92139-4048; (619) 475-0636

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          REBER: Last night, David Farmer wrote about DNA testing for his dog. As happens so often, something he writes prompts others to write.

          ARTHUR SALM writes:

          Re dog DNA tests: A couple of years ago a friend -- a neuroscientist at UCSD, as it happens -- told me that he and his wife were talking about getting a DNA test for their dog. Each decided, without consulting the other, to send away for a test. So they got two. The first one they used on the dog, and sent it in. The second one my friend decided to use on his wife. Got a swab from her cheek (I think), and sent it in.

          The results:

Dog -- Shepherd mix

Wife -- Shepherd mix

          So the accuracy of the these things ...

          DANA WILKIE writes:

          Re: David Farmer's musings on dog DNA tests. I just finished a magazine article about homeowners' associations that are now using these DNA tests to catch dog owners who don't clean up after their pets. Every dog owner in these associations must submit a DNA sample for their pet, which is kept on file. If dog excrement is discovered on someone's lawn or sidewalk, the association picks it up, gets a DNA sample of the poo, then matches it to the dog of the offending homeowner.

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          MICHELE DAVIS writes:

          I am sure Jim Okerblom was trying to be funny when he described being sexually harassed. There truly is nothing funny about it. He did not have to put up with having his job threatened, having his crotch grabbed, his breasts prodded, and having disgusting things suggested to him.

          I put his comments into the category of "Have you no shame?" To make light of what women endure is not funny.

          I am disturbed that very few men have commented on what has happened to their coworkers. I have not seen outrage at females being treated this way. Is this how they would want their wives or daughters to be treated?

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          ANTONIA (TONI) ALLEGRA writes:

          The fact that a WSJ journalist moves to NYT is news enough. But in today's NYT intro to new columnist Bret Stephens, winner of the 2013 Pulitzer Prize for commentary, included is a Stephens quote on why we write as journalists/columnists. The words grabbed me, as I believe it will our colleagues:

          "... He wrote, in part, 'What a columnist owes his readers isn’t a bid for their constant agreement. It’s independent judgment. Opinion journalism is still journalism, not agitprop. The elision of that distinction and the rise of malevolent propaganda outfits such as Breitbart News is one of the most baleful trends of modern life. Serious columnists must resist it.' "

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          DAVID FARMER writes:

          I was reading a story on the CNBC site about surprise bills you can get from doctors you didn't even know had treated you. I'm referring to tabs your medical insurance doesn't fully pay because the providers are "out of network." And the unfortunate patient usually can't tell who's in and who's out.

          If you have X-rays or scans, they'll have to be interpreted by a radiologist. CNBC says if he or she is out of your network, you could be billed an average $5,400. Your insurance might pay $2,500 of that, with the rest up to you.

          The financial website says anesthesiologists often charge up to six times what Medicare will pay them. I assume that medi-gap insurance handles a lot of that. I never ended up with a surprise bill from an anesthesiologist, but I do have a gripe about them. At least two different docs seemed highly pissed off about putting me under for the measly Medicare payment (whatever that was).

          Another surprise: you're in surgery when a complication arises. An assistant surgeon is called in. If out of network, this physician could bill you about $14,000, with your insurance picking up about $1,800.

          Then there are what I call "phantom" or "drive-by" doctors. When my son was in the Cedars-Sinai hospital (LA) with a heart problem, his bill recorded visits from doctors he'd never heard of and didn't remember seeing. I assumed they were part of his regular physician's team, not just a person in a white coat who'd glanced in the door at him.

          You also have to be careful about whether you were really hospitalized. Sometimes a facility will park you in a hallway on a gurney and never put you in a room. Were you "in" the hospital? The fees could depend on the answer. That gurney thing happened to me. Fortunately, I was a member of Kaiser and it didn't matter.

          Finally, there could be people plunging their hands into your body you didn't expect. Okay, I dramatized a little. What I'm really talking about is doctors who are in the operating room to learn how to perform a procedure. Your surgeon could be earning thousands by demonstrating some arcane art to a paying customer.

          I once had minor eyelid surgery and my physician told me just before oblivion that another doc would be observing. I suspected that the second guy would do some cutting, too, but I wasn't in a position to cross-examine. The operation turned out fine, and the "student" didn't bill me, so all was well.

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          REBER: We salute Larry Ross and Marcus Stern and wish them a Happy Birthday April 30.

Jack J. Reber

P.O. Box 2239

Ramona, CA 92065

U.S.A.

2reberjack@gmail.com

Hide the bikini photos

          Good evening, 919 Gang. You probably have read that ESPN is laying off about 100 employees. One of those is 919er Thomas Neumann, former sports copy editor. His wife, Holly, was a copy editor and night news editor. These are two of the nicest people you will meet and I hope Thomas slips into another spot right away.

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          REBER: Here’s more on sexual harassment, and these definitely are not like the stories you have been reading recently.

          SUZANNE MACK writes:

          I was telling Bill about the sexual harassment stories, and he had a tale, too. In Barcelona Hewlett-Packard had an offshoot that worked on large-format printing. The best way to test if the colors were true was how human flesh tones reproduced. Therefore there were large photos of scantily clad women on the walls. There were women engineers working in Barcelona, but they were broad-minded. Whenever there was to be a visit from the American (female) engineers, management asked that the posters be temporarily removed so as not to offend the American female engineers.

          BRIAN CLARK writes:

          There’s a million sexual harassment stories in the city, to paraphrase James Franciscus, and here’s mine:

          When I was hired by the Modesto Bee - after a short stint at the Davis Daily Democrat - my beat was agriculture and I worked under the ag editor. He was a friendly fellow and invited me to help him coach his son’s baseball team. I also met his wife and daughter and was invited over to his house for dinner a few times. So far, so good...

          But after a few months at the paper, he started to tell me about his experiences as a gay man, which made me a little uncomfortable. But it became more than a little awkward when he - as my boss - let me know he wanted to have a relationship. I think I only had one job review from him, which was glowing, before I made the jump to cityside.

          That was something I wanted to do anyway, but I was REALLY glad to get off the ag desk. He never bothered me again, but he often looked sad. And he later tried to take his own life. I don’t think being a gay man in the 1970s in Modesto was easy for him. Fortunately, when I said “no thanks,” he stopped making suggestions.

          I never considered reporting him because I thought he was generally a good guy. And I learned later that it was somewhat common knowledge that he was gay. As long as he did his job, which he did well, people ignored his private life. I probably could have gotten him reprimanded or even fired, but he had a family to support.

          JIM OKERBLOM writes:

          OK, with all the other accounts revealed, I guess I have to tell my story about being sexually "harassed" at the U-T. I was covering a major story -- perhaps the 1986 case of killer CHP officer Craig Peyer, but I really don't remember what story it was. A young, smart and attractive woman working in the fourth-floor editorial department wanted some background so she could write a factual and reasoned editorial. She was new to the job, and wanted to display her abilities for the fourth-floor brass. (I'll be discrete and not name her, but she is married and still in the business on the East Coast.) I provided some information to her on the phone, and later went to her office with a bunch of additional paperwork. I wanted an accurate editorial, too. As I was about to leave, and we were standing face-to-face in her office, she thanked me profusely. Then she leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. Of course, I immediately called HR and complained about her taking liberties.....NOT! Offended? Harassed? Hardly. I was immediately charmed and smitten with her. I thought it was a wonderful gesture. If I wasn't married at the time...

          I guess if a man had done this to a woman, it may have had different implications. A lot depends on the circumstances. I am not suggesting sexual harassment is a myth or overblown. But in my particular case, it is "harassment" I will always remember fondly.

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          BONNIE ROGERS writes:

THROWBACK THURSDAY

          When I was a little girl I was taught to be afraid. We were taught to be afraid of success, to be afraid of failure, to be afraid of being independent. Little girls were taught that the only way to happiness was to obey, to be docile, to not call attention to oneself.

Daddy's helper, age 2

          Mothers earned their status in society by their ability to produce "good" girls who were afraid to venture, to speak up, to be unique. I got all the same lessons as my contemporaries taught by a mother who had been taught the same. But my mother taught me something else which had the power to override the other lessons.

          She taught me to think.

          Whenever she gave me an order (like 100 times a day) she told me why it was that I should or should not behave in a certain way. She shared with me her rationale so I would understand the reason for the order. This also gave me the opportunity to consider the issue myself and draw my own conclusion.

          When I was 3 I tested her theories. I was sitting on the curb in front of our house on B Avenue in National City, looking across the street. The parking strip on the other side had a lovely stand of lantana covered with brilliant flowers. Flitting about over the flowers were scores of white cabbage butterflies. I looked at them with longing.

My temptations: Cabbage butterfly and lantanta

 

          I wanted to cross that street and catch butterflies! I had a clean mayonnaise jar to put them in once captured. But what I didn't have was someone's hand to hold while crossing the street. At 3, I was not allowed to cross the street by myself.

          I remember sitting on that curb, pondering the situation. "I am afraid to cross the street without holding someone's hand," I thought. "I know what can happen if you run out into the street without looking. I saw what that did to the kitty who lived down the block. Squashed flat. Besides, Mommy will spank me if I cross the street alone. I am afraid to cross by myself."

          I sat there for what seemed like a long time to me, thinking. The reason I wasn't allowed to cross by myself was my mother's fear I would be hit by a car and either be injured or killed. Very good reasons. (Thinking again of the dead cat my mother had pointed out to me as the result of disobedience.) But the kitty hadn't died because it didn't mind its mother. It died because it didn't look both ways for cars. I could do that. I didn't need a hand to hold. I only had to be careful!

          If the only reason not to do something is that I'm afraid, I reasoned, then I will never get to do anything in my whole life because I am afraid of everything!

          With that conclusion, I marched carefully across the street, first making sure there was no traffic, and caught butterflies.

          I have no memory if I was punched for this misdeed. But I do remember the decision not to let fear ever be the overriding deciding factor in the way I lived my life. Did I feel fear? Of course. Have I ever let it be the deciding factor? No! I always give careful weight to the risks in any situation. But I never have let simple fear call the shots in my life.

          And I am still catching butterflies.

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          DAVID FARMER writes:

           Have you heard about dog DNA tests? They exist, but not to solve cold cases of canine carnage. No, these tests offer to tell you what breeds are present in your doggy's DNA. If you own a purebred, you should not need such a test. On the other hand, you might regretfully discover that your pure Doberman has a poodle in her background.

          In the UK, they speak of a person whose ancestor fathered (or mothered, I suppose) a child "on the wrong side of the blanket." Let's not be cute about this: it means the parents were not married. At least not to each other.

          Leave aside the fact that dog marriage is not yet legal in this country. (I've already copyrighted the word Muttrimony. I'll license it to you for a very reasonable fee.) I'm also thinking about a Waggles Wedding Chapel on the Las Vegas Strip. It will feature washing and grooming, in addition to a licensed wedding practitioner. Eventually, we'll offer simultaneous weddings of couples and their dogs. Washing and grooming will be available to the humans, too.

          Getting back to our example above, Poodle genes may detract from a Dobie's famous aggressiveness. A poodle is more likely to invite an intruder into the kitchen for espresso and a pastry.

          If you breed or sell what I call a Doodle, you may be committing dog fraud. At the very least, junkyard owners and military guards would be entitled to a reduced price. They'd have a 50-50 chance of their dog attacking terrorists or offering French lessons to guys in black clothes and balaclavas.

          Now, you know that my informative essays usually start with a personal experience. And today's is no exception. My wife and I adopted a sweet little mixed-breed from a shelter. (We'd never consider buying from a pet store or breeder. I won't get into that unless you write Mr. Reber and demand, through him, that I do so.)

          Hinda and I had speculated that our little Gracie was a mixture of Chihuahua and pug. We even coined a term: Chipughua. We envisioned selling Gracie's adorable puppies to people who wanted something different from the fuzzy little hand-warmers you see here in Hollywood.

          Alas, we'd forgotten that Gracie was spayed. As the immortal Bobby Burns said, "The best-laid plans of dogs and men gang aft agley." (Why the man couldn't speak English, I'll never know.)

          We subjected Gracie to the painful DNA swab test (kidding; it's painless). A few days later, we received her DNA results by email. To our shock and awe, she turns out to be mainly dachshund, with lesser amounts of Pekinese and corgi. At least that explains the little short legs.

          I'd grown so used to having a coveted Chipughua that I contemplated taking Gracie back to the No Kill LA shelter. (Nooo, I'm kidding again. I would never part with our little pooch.) My wife, on the other hand, has made no such vow about me.

          Hinda and I are seeking clarification of the DNA results. (Really.) Does this look like a Dapeco* to you?

 *C'mon. You can do it.

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          JACK REBER writes:

          Last night Jay Johnson showed us photos of “phone zombies” in Singapore and asked if people on this side of the Pacific are similarly afflicted. Don’t know, but I am guessing yes.

          Friday’s U-T had a story about a fellow suing his former employer and claiming he was fired for (among other reasons) his refusal to break the law by texting while driving. He says his supervisor told him he should text and drive “like everyone else.”

          At the post office, I saw a lady talking on her phone as she waited to pick up a package. She asked the clerk to carry it to her car. The package didn’t seem heavy, but it was too bulky to handle with one hand, and her other hand was holding her phone, of course.

          Phones are tools, but it seems they are our masters. A features staffer was in my office reporting a problem with her sex life (I got some strange ones). As we talked my phone rang. I ignored it. She said, “Aren’t you going to answer the phone?” How rude would that be? It would be like saying “I don’t know who is calling me, but it is bound to be someone more important than you, so please sit quietly while I handle the phone call.”
          Another example of a phone’s death grip: A few months ago I shared a news report about a woman in Vancouver who was driving and texting when she rear-ended a police car. Even with her rear bumper pushing on the cop’s back seat, she couldn’t put the phone down, texting a friend, “OMG. I was texting and I crashed into a police car.”

          Lady, when the cops find that confession on your phone you can kiss your not guilty plea goodbye.

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          REBER: A birthday bonanza: Happy Birthday, April 29, to Bob DiVeroli, Sharon Reeves, Pauline Repard and Rose Wojnar.

Jack J. Reber

P.O. Box 2239

Ramona, CA 92065

U.S.A.

2reberjack@gmail.com