#MeToo: What happened in '85 in Athens, Ohio, when I grabbed a girl's ass

(795 words)

Like most men in this #MeToo year I’ve done some soul-searching about whether I ever mistreated a woman in pursuit of cheap sex.

Did I ever put my hands on a woman in a unwanted way sure to offend? Did I ever grope or otherwise sexually harass a female?

In fact, I did. I once grabbed an unsuspecting young woman’s ass.

I used her. Just not in the way you might think.

First, I must set the scene.

It was 1985 at the Sigma Nu fraternity house in Athens, Ohio, a place my own grandfather once described as the only dwelling he’d visited where he felt compelled to wipe his feet on the way out. So there are some obvious “Animal House” elements to this story.

I can’t remember the sorority or the party theme, but I do remember the girl. Her name was Jenny. She was young, pretty and had really great hair.

So did I!

It was a very long time ago.

I didn’t have any real aspirations of dating her. Many pretty young girls just like Jenny had over the years rejected my advances with reactions ranging from polite indifference to scalding ridicule.

I didn’t mind. It taught me perseverance, a trait I’d need in the next three decades of trying to earn a living as a freelance writer prone to working with editors who’d respond to my literary advances with reactions ranging from polite indifference to scalding ridicule.

So I was just being friendly. 

Up to that point in my young life, I don’t believe I’d ever pawed or groped a girl in any unwanted way. Even then, I knew it was wrong, something Bobcat stalwarts and disgraced serial pigs Roger Ailes and Matt Lauer apparently never learned.

What made me grab Jenny’s ass? The devil didn’t make me do it.

Blame Bob. 

Bob and I had known each other in high school, but didn’t become true buddies until Athens. He’s always been a very funny guy and a world-class prankster. Like so many other friends from those raucous times, I love him very much.

As I was chatting with Jenny, I saw Bob standing near the dance floor about 45-degrees behind Jenny’s blind spot some 20 paces away. Some mix of their positions, my buzz and an eagerness for mischief combined to inspire the restless joker in me.

I motioned for Bob to join us and he began a 3-second stroll across the dance floor.

I said to Jenny, “I’d like you to meet Bob. He’s a great guy, but watch out. He can be a little grabby.”

From that instant, it was like the whole thing had been choreographed. Because, having been warned, Jenny turned to Bob just as he came within arm’s length. As she turned her attention from me, I deftly reached out with my right hand and gave her Bob-side tush a robust toot. 

I’m not saying I would have not grabbed her ass had I been forewarned, but I was totally unprepared for her reaction. It was like she’d been tased. In an infuriated micro-second she turned on Bob.

In my life, I’ve seen Muhammad Ali demolish Joe Frazier, saw Mike Tyson destroy countless forgettable bums and once spent an afternoon watching Sugar Ray Leonard tear a hapless sparring partner to bits. But I’ve never before or since seen a haymaker left delivered to an exposed cheek with such precise fury as the one Jenny landed on Bob.

Had she opted instead to knee poor Bob in the testicles, I’m sure Bob today would be dead and I’d be telling this cautionary tale with just a shade less jocularity. 

For story purposes, it would be great if I could truthfully declare Jenny changed her name to Gloria Allred and on the spot decided to devote her life to championing downtrodden women, but that would be false.

She instead turned on her heels and stormed out the door, taking with her her entire contingent of comely sorority sisters. The party was over, leaving me as the only individual that whole evening to have even a bit of fun.

A few short years after that the Sigma Nus were thrown off campus for poor grades and disreputable behaviors. The charmingly ramshackle Court Street house that holds so many vivid memories for me is now an unassuming university building haunted, perhaps, by the ghosts of ass grabbers past. 

And I’ve never even once since thought of engaging in such despicable behavior against an unsuspecting woman.

Neither has Bob, of course, but that’s something anyone with even a basic appreciation of the powerful consequences of cause-and-effect lessons already knew. 

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Today it's Matt Lauer; When will a man ever accuse a female boss of sexual harassment? When pigs fly?

(625 words)

Our daughter, 17, asked me a current events question I’ve yet to hear posed by any of the deep thinkers paid big bucks to comment on the news of the day.

“How come there haven’t been any female bosses accused of sexual harassment?”

Because I was wearing my father face, I didn’t crack a reflexive joke, roll my eyes or snort. And I didn’t say the first truth that popped into to my mind, which was, “Because men will happily screw any woman for any reason.”

My verbal response was far more nuanced. I said, “Because most men will happily screw most any woman for most any reason.”

I thought it wise to give my answer a little wiggle room, but I was essentially advising her to watch out ‘cause men are pigs.

Today, wow, it’s Matt Lauer.

Will we ever see a story of a man who felt forced to have sex with a female boss?

Perhaps. I’ll bet there are dozens of enterprising reporters right now pursuing these man-bites-dog stories — and please don’t read anything bitchy into my handy news definition cliche.

It’s gotten so bad I fear if a woman or women don't soon accuse me of sexual harassment people will begin to think I’ve either squandered my life being disinterested in sex or am, worse, a gentleman.

Will any man sleep with any woman for any reason?

It’s beginning to seem that way. I’ve known scores of men who will literally sleep with any woman who’ll nod yes. Heck, it’s not uncommon to hear rural arrests of men apprehended seeking carnal comforts from gentle farm animals.

And at what point your gaze begins drifting away from match.com and begins casting a discerning eye out toward the nearby pasture I cannot fathom.

It is curious we’ve yet to hear even one story of a prominent female boss threatening a subordinate male with occupational retribution for not putting ol’ Percy in the playpen.

Statistically, there are more male supervisors overseeing more females, but that can’t be the explanation.

Are there scores of men sleeping with their female bosses out of self-preservation or because they get to brag to their male counter-parts, hey, I’m going heels-to-Jesus with the boss!

(Bonus points to readers who knew both sex euphemisms were cribbed from Woody Harrelson’s “Tallahassee” character in “Zombieland.”)

Like any thoughtful male, I did some soul searching over whether I was ever guilty of mistreating a subordinate female when I was in a position of power.

The soul searching lasted about 0.005 seconds when it dawned on me I’ve never once in my life been in a position of power over even one female. I haven’t had a job since 1992 and was an underling prior to that.

Occupational fecklessness, you see, is not without its hidden merits.

But it did occur to me that, lo and behold, I was twice brought to heel by better positioned females.

A Pizza Hut shift supervisor once told me if I didn’t stay to close with her on a busy Friday night she’d stick me on weekends the rest of the summer. The carrot sweetener was she’d get a 12-pack for us to split later in the parking lot.

It was a consensual no-brainer and to this day I’m probably the only middle-aged man who starts feeling frisky whenever he drives by a Pizza Hut.

The other incident happened when I was a lowly Latrobe bureau correspondent for The Tribune-Review. Complicit in the scandal was the pretty young Lifestyles editor.

I’ll spare you the unseemly details, but suffice it to say its revelation shocked the newsroom.

I eventually took the only noble resolution.

I married the girl.

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16 random thoughts on Rio Olympics/Lochte/etc.

• Does winning 51 more Olympic medals than the world’s second winningest nation mean we’ve made America great again?

• When announcers said divers were judged on size of the splash, I told daughters I’d divined a way to become the greatest one-time diver in Olympic history. “Before my dive, I’d ask them to remove all the water from the pool.” Like I said, it’d be a one-time feat.

• I forgave Ryan Lochte after about the 30th time I heard Matt Lauer blatantly prompt him to seek our forgiveness. I was, er, pissed at first because it seemed like a stain on Rio and the people of Brazil deserve better — the hosts were magnificent and did their nation a world of good. Lochte’s lies only serve as a contrast to the joyful reality. My best @8days2Amish tweet on Lochte: “I think Ryan Lochte would be found innocent if he were judged by a jury of his pee'ers, but the situation remains fluid.”

• I adore watching the Olympics and do my best to make sure my darling minions do the same. At its best the Olympics are a big middle finger to people who hate based on race and religion — and, yes, I’m aware of the inherent contradiction of not embracing people who hate.

• I entertained the kids by making up non-PC lyrics to the obscure national anthems of gold-medal winning athletes. Here’s what I sang while Kenyan marathoner Eliud Kipchoge was singing: We’re someplace in Africa! It’s very hot here! Our chief export is textiles! We stop what we’re doing every day at 4 p.m. to to tickle each other! Come visit and pet our goats!”

• My 10-year-old asked why USA was winning so many more medals than other countries. I told her, “It’s because we’re affluent enough that our youth can fritter away their lives learning to tumble, throw balls and jump when youths of poorer nations must work on farms for food or dig through garbage dumps to find essentials.” Then I told her to quit asking so many pointless questions and go separate the aluminum cans from the rest of the recyclables to help Daddy afford to buy another case of cheap domestic beer.

• Favorite Lochte headline comes from the New York Post: “Liar! Liar! Speedo’s on fire!”

•Fencing should be one of the most exciting of all the oddball Olympic sports. Instead, it is one of the least. They should make ‘em wear pirate garb and compete on planks above pools of hungry alligators.

• Having said that golf, to me, fell really flat. How come I, an avid golfer, couldn’t watch even a minute of Olympic golf, but was riveted to synchronized swimming?

• The daily news is dominated by angry, bloody faces and, happily, the Olympics are just the opposite. It proves the world is full to busting with good-hearted and appealing men and women. I hope after the closing ceremonies they all had sex with one another, conceived a bunch of children and that one day the whole happy gang of ‘em will immigrate to America.

• I’d like to know more about Keshorn Walcott, who is the Michael Phelps of Trinidad and Tobago (which is one country with two names; see link). Walcott won the bronze in javelin for TT to become the nation’s only medalist. Here’s what he said: “I praise God. I know the people have been coming down hard on the TT athletes and hopefully this will give them reason to ease up a little. I hope they keep having faith in me and know I am going to try my best each and every time. Thank you, my friends!” Guaranteed, you won’t catch Walcott peeing outside any gas stations. I hope Walcott immigrates to America soon, too.

• I guess one of the reasons I’m so forgiving of Lochte is I was just five days ago accused of acting like an immature jerk. I’d hosted a raucous little party in the corn hole room up here in the third floor penthouse of the Tin Lizzy just down the hall from my shabby little office. There was booze, loud music, scattered butts, a broken chair, etc. The next day Buck, my friend/landlord/chief inebriator here in Youngstown posted an angry note on my door: “Always clean up after yourself. That’s rule No. 1!” Honest, I thought I had cleaned up. Lesson: Buck ought to be glad he’s nothing more than my landlord and Lochte ought to be glad Buck’s not running the USOC.

• I’d like to train Val to get into bed each night by running down the hallway and doing Fosbury flop right on top of me like all the high jumpers do. 

• How did a nation renown for topless beaches wind up with BRA as the first syllable of its name?

• The Kenyan national anthem is, “O, God, of all creation.” The actual lyrics are: “Oh God of all creation! Bless this our land and nation! Justice be our shield and defender! May we dwell in unity! Peace and liberty! Plenty be found within our borders!”

• Guaranteed, Kenyan tourism will increase when they adapt their anthem to my lyrics.

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Arrivederci, Ann Curry

I felt a flood of emotion when I learned Ann Curry was being dumped from the “Today” show, which is exactly how Ann Curry wants me to react when she reports on things like actual floods.

I felt confusion, heartbreak, anxiety and finally, sustained relief.

Confusion because dumping Curry won’t fix a thing; heartbreak because she seems like a nice lady; anxiety because we’re about to be subjected to another tedious search for elusive anchor chemistry; and sustained relief when I read that Curry’s going to haul in $20 million to take a hike to some news outpost like Budapest.

Feckless TV critics devote endless time and space dissecting the ratings and petty hostilities of late night TV hosts when that is a format that still succeeds.

I prefer Jay, but some nights I’m entertained by Dave. I can find something nice to say about Jimmy Kimmel, Craig Ferguson and am even warming to Jimmy Fallon. And if all these hosts go dark at the same instant, I’ll always have Seinfeld re-runs I’ve already viewed 193 times previous to spare me from having to ever watch Conan.

But morning network TV is an absolute mess.

The right side of its brain strives to be news oriented; the left, entertaining. The result is two hours of pure mindlessness.

Recent “Today” opening segments progressed like this: Morning! Wildfires, immigration, hurricane, Romney, Obama, Supreme Court, Olympics -- you can almost sense palpable unease on the set as the anchors convey something they worry might upset viewers.

Actual news takes about nine jiffy minutes. Then anorexic but still lovely news reader Natalie Morales drops a clip designed for someone on the set to play the part of scripted straight man.

This morning it was a 30-second spot saying the British Parliament had changed the official name of “Big Ben” -- Clock Tower -- to Elizabeth Tower to mark the old babe’s Diamond Jubilee.

Now, anyone who’s seen even a week of “Today” knew exactly what was going to happen next. Someone was going to launch a joke that would signal, hey, we apologize for having to put you through all that news so we’re going to give you a giddy burst of laughter to signal we’re just moments away from the cooking segments.

Today, the line fell to Curry, a woman so earnest she couldn’t be funny if Al Roker smashed her in the puss with a pie.

Her line?

“I guess you could call that a sex change operation.”

The reaction was the same as if Tony Soprano told a joke to Paulie Walnuts and the gang down at the Bada Bing: Uproarious laughter. Al was practically wiping tears from his eyes.

Some of this over-reaction may have been sympathy for Dead Ann Walking. Curry’s clearly well-liked, but it’s not working, something that saddens Curry.

“It’s hard not to take it personally,” she told Ladies Home Journal. “You worry, ‘Am I not good enough? Am I not what people need?’”

I can sympathize.

I, too, have given into swooning frets over my popularity.

Back in the fourth grade.

Curry’s problem is, like the venue she serves, she wants to be all things to all people.

I wish “Today” and current ratings leader “Good Morning America” would just ditch the pretense of being interested in actual news and go full pander on their core demographic: mothers who care about true crime stories involving mothers who were killed by husbands, mothers who kill their husbands and mothers suspected of killing their children.

I tried to think who the surefire host to sit next to Matt would be and really think they should try Ellen Degeneres. She’s very funny and intelligent.

Savannah Guthrie, the current frontrunner to replace Curry, will be in the same predicament that’s led to Curry’s demise. She’s intelligent, attractive and gets giggly with Matt and Al.

That didn’t help Curry and it won’t help Guthrie.

So where’s a guy to go for morning news?

“CBS This Morning.” The six-month-old show features Charlie Rose and Erica Hill doing 60 full minutes of serious news in an appealing and balanced format. Then at 8 a.m., Gayle King comes in to take over most of the fluffy stuff.

Rose is a real pro -- and he’s good and ugly, too. I trust ugly anchors because I know they earned their news chops through more than their pretty haircuts.

Hill’s wonderful. She’s pretty, whip smart and delivers the news in a professional way that doesn’t lead me to believe she’s going to offer up an exposed breast for me to suckle in case things start to get too scary. 

If you’re interested in serious journalism and haven’t checked it out, I have some news for you.

So does CBS.

No. 1 party boy from America's No. 1 party school

It’s probably because of my years at Ohio University I drink responsibly whenever I should and irresponsibly whenever I can.

It’s a vast over-simplification to say, but the only thing I can recall learning with any clarity there from 1981-1985 was never mix Ouzo and beer. In the same glass.

We used to do that all the time and, guaranteed, whenever we did someone was bound to lose their pants.

You can’t spell bourbon or ouzo without OU.

It was a fountain of knowledge where I went to drink.

Those were some of the T-shirts they sold on campus when I was there. I still see variations of them when I go back once every year or so to see the old gang.

We fly or drive in from all over the country and get two or three rooms at the diviest hotel down near the Hocking River. In a town where big guys are called “Tiny,” the hotel on the lowest point in southeastern Ohio is called The Highlander.

Tell someone who attended most any other college a group of 40 somethings are going to go back to the university they all attended in the 1980s and many assume lecherous activities will ensue.

They think the guys will slip off their wedding rings and spend their nights chasing around the comely innocents.

This is wrong on multiple levels. First: I never met an innocent at OU, not to be confused, please, with Ohio State University in Columbus.

Second: most of us are too fatigued and too wise to chase anything anymore.

Third -- and this is key: there’s not a soul within a 50-mile radius more important to us than the dozen or so people clustered around those tables tilting from too many pitchers of beer.

It was after leaving Athens I began to understand games were for people who were inept at the art of conversation.

Why would you engage in any distraction that kept you from learning more about the people sitting right next to you?

Those were some of the things that crossed my mind when I learned Ohio University was named by the Princeton Review as the No. 1 Party School in America.

It’s a chicken and egg sort of question, but I didn’t go to Athens because it was a party school. But I did go there because at the time the Ohio drinking age was 18.

I learned later on -- surprise! -- it had a great school for journalism. Hey, I liked to journalize!

If anything exceeds its reputation for being a party school, it is its reputation for grooming dynamic journalists.

Media big shots Roger Ailes and Matt Lauer graduated from there. Legendary actor Paul Newman dropped out of there.

My academic achievements fall somewhere deep in the middle of that spectrum.

I remember when I went for one of my first post-graduate interviews. It was at the Nashville Banner. The managing editor, a fine southern gentleman, saw Ohio University on my resume and asked if that’s where Woody Hayes coached.

No, sir, that was Zero State in Columbus.

“How long were you on the school paper?” he asked.

One year, I told him.

“What’d you do the other three years, drink beer?”

Yes, sir.

“Good. I did it for four.”

In a world where crabby tight asses seem to make all the rules and then more rules regarding the original rules, convivial folk will always have a way of finding one another.

I got that job and it was instrumental in launching a career that has led me to friendships with some of the world’s most fascinating individuals.

Athens was where I became who I am.

So cheers, Ohio University. I’ve been under your influence for 30 years now.

And gloriously under the influence for many of those years.

And it’s all just been one hell of a good time.