A while back I wrote a frustrated, distressed post about a #MeToo accusation of George Takei. The story was disturbing, given that all political progressives and sci fi geeks love George, but it also sounded way too like the kind of thing that, well, happens. Hollywood is a weird place and can bring out the worst in people who seem admirable.

It begins to sound as if the whole thing was much less fraught than the original story suggested — an almost classic tale of mixed signals. It doesn’t have heroes, but neither does it have villains. God love persistent reporters.

A fabricated coffee meeting. Key facts withheld or walked back. A “great party story” about a sexual assault—which the accuser now says may not have actually happened.

What happens when an activist’s legacy is tarnished by the story of an old friend who later says it could have all been a misunderstanding? And how do we process such an anomaly in an era of overdue social justice?…

It all makes plenty of sense to me. Yikes, if I had a nickel for every time I thought someone was interested and put the blocks on him… oh well, I’d have a handful of nickels. But there it is. No one else has had a thing to say about Takei, gay culture of that time was known for impulsive hookups, Takei is still happily Tweeting away; meanwhile, Harvey Weinstein has turned himself in. The wheels grind slowly but exceeding small.






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