Ooobie on Everything

Me Too. Boo Hoo

I’ve tuned out the mobs of hysterical females throughout the slimy info-tainment industry who claim they were victims of Harvey Weinstein. I’m convinced they are being joined by legions of women who never even met Harvey. By now, thousands of starlets and would-be’s are going through their old souvenirs (a broken bra strap, torn panty-hose, a used condom), looking for some male in their past who was a complete and utter pig and treated them the same. Maybe the offense was merely verbal, suggestive talk à la Clarence Thomas, with a willing participant, à la Clarence Thomas. Maybe it was uglier and meaner. Anything they can bring up that allows them to be part of “me, too.” Anything for a few minutes in the limelight.

I am convinced that this newly-discovered army of victims remained silent not out of frailty and vulnerability, but out of satisfaction with whatever they got in exchange. Was it a role, a money settlement, an invitation to an exclusive event? This is the same crowd of Hollywood females who routinely fake sex on the movie set, show up for global television awards shows largely naked, or make sex-tapes to introduce themselves to the audience. Now they claim irreparable damage to their psyches from crude nasty men with too much power and money. I, for one am not the least impressed. Even if every word they say is true, I am not impressed.

Wait, I am impressed with Courtney Love. She was the only one who had the nerve to say something out loud, and she wasn’t even a victim of Weinstein. When asked for advice for young entertainers, she thought a second and answered, “if Harvey Weinstein invites you to a private party in the Four Seasons, don’t go.” She was supposedly black-listed by the Creative Artists Association for being so bold. So far that’s the only victim I see. Bravo, Courtney.

There’s no getting around a fundamental truth: if you are so disturbed by boorish and even aggressive male behavior, girls, open your mouth and move those surgically-enhanced buttocks — walk out in front of the kliegs and talk about it. Don’t wait five or ten or thirty years and claim trauma. If you clammed up in exchange for any consideration or advantage, then live with it. Get on with your life and if you never again make or have made the same mistake, please write to me care of “Ooobie.”

My view is that all men are essentially boorish due to the potent testosterone they carry around, which seems to be hyper-activated by power. The greater the power, the worse the behavior. Some men lack any form of self-control, such as flashers on the street or governors of Arkansas who crowd into a tiny news editing booth to rub themselves into ecstasy against the rigid back of a terrified kid just out of her teens. Or US Presidents who offer a rigid cigar in exchange for…

Yes, I find that most men, even those you thought would NEVER, can act inappropriately and worse. Here are some examples from my own life, by no means exhaustive, about none of which I am complaining:

At age eleven, I took my niece to the community swimming pool where we were gazed at for hours by an adult white male lurking beyond the fence. After we left, this man asked if he could buy us a coke. I  knew to the tips of my toes that this guy was a pervert, even though I didn’t know what a pervert was. I told him politely no and then walked all the way home with my head over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t following. Ugh. I told everybody, but nobody cared enough, including me, to report it to the police. I never had a bad dream about it, much less chronic stress.

My first job at 18 was as a secretary for the staid US Chamber of Commerce. I was so bad at typing that I hid my trash can under the desk so nobody would see it was packed with discards. What I especially  remember was the 40-ish married boss chasing me around the office with a can of whipped cream as all the other girls screamed and giggled. Then there was the much higher-ranked boss, who wanted to steal me from the whipped cream guy and I’d guess not for my secretarial skills. He tried a more sophisticated approach, lingering in the doorway to comment on whatever deep book I was reading on lunch break, something like Brothers Karamazov. He had a sudden vacancy, he told me one day, his personal secretary was leaving and it was urgent that I apply for it immediately before somebody else got it. Now was my chance to move up the food chain! I would have taken it in a heart-beat, too, but I couldn’t bear to break the news to my sexually frustrated boss. I passed on the chance. Was any of this behavior appropriate? Was it tinged with sexual aggression or maybe just desire? Of course. I definitely got it. It just didn’t bother me or apparently anybody else. Not even the sober businessmen (and they were all men) of the Chamber.

In the State Department, I had a boss suffering from an illness that was sapping his life. He developed a fantasy around me (a wife of only four years, with my husband working there as well). He would congratulate me on matching my eyeshadow to my clothing or make other “off” remarks. His office was adjacent to mine and one day he called me into the conference room. There he declared his love, but he was talking as if we had had an affair or were in some form of relationship that most certainly did not exist. It was “us,” not “I.” I knew he was going downhill mentally, and was greatly relieved when he said, “but we are both adults, and so nothing can come of this.” I heartily agreed and had to endure only one horrible kiss at the door. I was really shaken by the experience.

The only funny part of the story was that the instant I got in the office I went to call my husband, but he called me first. He said he’d like to know what was going on. “I just passed so-and-so and he said to me, ‘don’t worry, there’s nothing going on between me and your wife.’ ” If ever there was a case to bring to the attention of the authorities, that was it. But both my husband and I let it lie. The man in question was soon completely disabled and died in a long-term care facility. Terrible fate and I’m oh, so glad, I didn’t give him further grief over something that could be handled.

The story has never changed much. Men are men and women are women. Men are sexually aggressive, and no matter how large the super-brain, the lizard brain is focused on propagation of the species. For their part, women are ambitious. I am sure there are adages the world around that boil down to the Russian version, “the man is the brain, the woman, the neck.” I think the ladies involved knew what was up with Harvey, who practically oozes corruption. They also knew how to benefit, or so their silence suggests. Thus, my response to the sanctimonious phonies: who cares?