As I sit in a cozy booth munching on roti alongside the esteemed Joe Gow and his wife, Carmen Wilson, a curious fellow in a baseball cap makes his approach. Gow, a towering figure at six-foot-four and the chancellor of the University of Wisconsin-La Crosse for a staggering 17 years—almost regal in the Midwestern realm—has been the subject of admiration (and selfie requests) by countless students. Yet, this man’s eyes glint with something between hostility and a poorly directed movie villain.
“I was an academic for 12 years, and I never let my pants down,” he states, eyebrow raised as if he’s just discovered someone ate the last slice of pizza.
Gow chuckles, a mix of surprise and bemusement dancing around the edges of his laughter. But the man isn’t done. “There are folks who are downright embarrassed your name is on their diploma,” he continues, as if they were discussing the weather rather than the fall of a university chancellor.
With a more serious tone, Gow replies, “I hope you realize we didn’t want this to become a circus.” He adds, “They could have just asked me to step down quietly. You know, a little less drama and a little more inconspicuous exit.” It’s a touch of Shakespearean tragedy mixed with a sitcom.
As the second-longest-serving chancellor in university history, Gow once oversaw a kingdom of 10,700 students and an annual budget of $95 million. But then, last December, the fabric of his professional life unraveled faster than a cheap button-up shirt: someone sent links to several “educational” videos featuring Gow and Wilson to the university president. Titles like “Juicy Anniversary” and “Bedroom Shenanigans” suggested a more hands-on approach to adult education than anyone could have imagined.
In short order, Gow found himself ousted from his royal post. Headlines across various media outlets from CNN to The Times of London erupted like popcorn in a microwave. In the playful town of La Crosse, reactions ranged from disbelief to outlandish hilarity. Students flew flags emblazoned with Gow in compromising positions, and a local brewery concocted a “Hot for Chancellor” beer that sold out faster than most celebrities’ overpriced merchandise.
But Gow, with dreams of becoming the next Bruce Springsteen back when he was a starry-eyed youth, refused to exit gracefully. This spring, while campuses across the country erupted in protests over geopolitical issues, Gow found himself embroiled in a rather unique First Amendment showdown. The saga of the chancellor-turned-adult-film-star stands to reveal much about our current societal values and just how far we’ll stretch the boundaries of free speech in the age of internet fame.
