When fans and fecal matter meet, the results are generally disquieting — or worse. From The Hollywood Reporter:

Near-daily disclosures of misconduct from N.Y. and L.A. men — as outlined in a since-deleted spreadsheet of "Shitty Media Men" — have blanketed the landscape with a palpable unease: "We all wake up thinking, 'Who's next?'"

Dayna Evans, a freelance writer in Brooklyn, was working at her apartment on Oct. 11 when she received a link to a Google spreadsheet curiously titled "Shitty Media Men."

"When I first got it, there were 12 or so names on it, and you could see people editing it," says Evans. "I still remember even then thinking how few men there were on it considering how many of them have power." She left her computer for a few hours, and when she returned, the number had ballooned to more than 50 (a version obtained by The Hollywood Reporter includes 72 names), covering an array of outlets, including The New Yorker, The New Republic, The New York Times, Harper's, Mother Jones, BuzzFeed and New York.

Now I could easily dismiss this whole thing as a coastal phenomenon, an exercise of power among the mighty; The Hollywood Reporter has no interest in what might be happening in Wichita. But just because there's less attention to the subject around here doesn't mean it isn't happening around here; when the circumstances and the power structure permit, you pretty much have to assume that there's some shittiness going on.

Inevitably, this led me to wonder where, on a scale of 1 to Harvey Weinstein, I myself might fall; I've never been in a position to enforce my will on anyone, but that doesn't necessarily mean that I haven't made someone's life miserable somewhere along the way. And so I hied myself to a very deep chair and called to mind every time I'd made her cry, for several values of "her." There were — well, there were too many. But none involved forcing myself on her. And as close as I ever came to a grope was in a hospital room, sneaking my hand up under her gown. Without saying a word, she moved my hand away from her clavicle toward a more central location. This did not appear to qualify as an objection.

Perhaps I'm better off retired from the marketplace: unless you happen to be in some weird realm like the District of Columbia, it's rather difficult to make a charge stick against someone you've never even met. And I figure by now I'm enough of a known quantity to discourage someone's ill-advised approach. (At no time I can recall did I represent myself as anyone's best value in a boyfriend.)

But then there's this:

At some point, this game will come to an end. And if the complaints about "shitty men" are suddenly silenced, we'll know that once again we've been victimized by the Worst Political Class in American History.

The Vent

  18 December 2017

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