…that, in the spirit of Forrest Gump, racist is what racist does rather than what racist says.

I’ve never met an incel, at least not a card-carrying one or one who admitted it, let alone a “He-Man Woman Hater.” I can’t think of a time when I was friends with a dude who thought it was anything but vile stupidity to cat-call a woman on the street or from a car. Granted, I quit theater years ago, don’t hang out much in comedy clubs and decided that the improv scene was far too much like high school so maybe I’m missing out on all the dripping toxicity of dudes who are doing everything they can to be seen as funny and cool in order to get laid, sometimes at any cost.

At the time, I just saw him as a big, stupid fuckhole. Turns out, he was an early adopter of what is now being called an “incel.”

"Me, too."

Following the explosive revelation of something everyone already knew about—the serial abuse upon countless women in Hollywood by Harvey Weinstein—the simple request online was for any woman who had experienced sexual harassment or assault to respond with “Me, too.”

The numbers of women who typed those two words was harrowing and maddening.

Most men online were either silent (that was my response) or typed in response “I believe you.”

Neither the declaration of contextless assault nor the insincere blanket belief is particularly helpful. It is the activism of the internet—looks good but generally doesn’t amount to much.

I was 13 years old in 1979. My mother had been married a couple of times by then and I had witnessed my first step-father, Dennis Coley, routinely beat my mother with his fists, with a belt, with a cast iron skillet. In terms of toxic masculine behavior, I had a front row seat to the freak show.

One would think that being audience to that would have an effect.