Too Late. You're Screwed...Conclusion

                                      ---Conclusion---

Matt: Well, for those of us who have kids, (little kids), it would be better if we ate earlier.

Doug: Wait…was that an insult? I know when I’ve been insulted!!

Christina: Yes, I agree. We need to eat as early as possible.

Paula: Yes! If we wait until 3 o’clock, Ron will be in full nap mode.

Doug: Well, I take a pretty mean nap between 2 and 4 lots of times, but…it’s Christmas Day people.  Everybody just needs to take some NoDoze and drink some of Ron’s coffee.

Bill: Somebody in this family needs to run for office.

Paula, Doug, Donnie, Linda, Jenny, Christina, Jenny, Becky, Lauren: Wait…what??

Patrick: What about the music? Nobody has mentioned anything about the music.

Ezra: NO SING!!!

Kaitlin: None of this matters, as long as I get to be with the most handsome man in the world. Did you guys know it’s out first Christmas together as a married couple??

Ryan: Gag!!

Jenny: Who is bringing the apple cranberry casserole? Is that Pam’s dish, my dish or Mom’s??!! It’s SO CONFUSING!!!!

Sean: Hey Patrick, I think we should do a reggae Christmas music theme this year.

Patrick: Uh…no offense Sean. Dale and the Z-Dubs can’t compare with Johann Sebastian Bach even on your best day!

Ron: And what about the nutmeg, hmmm?? Where in the world am I going to find Rhodesian nutmeg with only 13 days until Christmas?

Ruaridh: Can I bring a bottle of Scotch?

Donnie: Only if you want Nanny to come down from heaven and wipe the floor up with you.

Doug: Ruaridh, one word…FLASK

"Too Late. You're Screwed."

Inside the two week window of the Christmas season, and a silent panic begins to settle over the Dunnevant house. We have sped by a half dozen signposts that we had told ourselves would signal “go time.” Each signpost has been ignored. Today, Pam passes the critical signpost marked, “Last Day at Work.” The next sign, off in the distance, simply says, “Too Late. You’re Screwed.”

My Sister Linda just sent out a family e-mail beseeching the rest of us to begin engaging in a meaningful dialogue about Christmas Day. America often is similarly harangued to start meaningful conversations about race. But unlike America, we actually follow through. The emails have been coming in fast and hot.

Linda: Ok, this year I am NOT going to be the cruise director.

Doug: Sorry. That was a lifelong appointment.

Linda: Well…what about the menu? Remember that year we did Italian food?

Doug: I am trying my best to forget. When I walked in the house and smelled lasagna I remember thinking, “what the heck? Is this Columbus Day??”

Linda: Yes, but it’s so much easier than turkey with all the trimmings. You men just don’t understand!!

Doug: I understand enough to know that if God wanted us eating lasagna on his birthday, Jesus would have been born in a manger in Venice.

Linda: Well…what about the time?

Doug: I’m cool with 1:30

Pam: Since I will have all of my kids home, I would really prefer not having to rush out of the house so early. I think 2 would be better, actually 3-4 would be even better.

Doug: Like I said, I think 2 would be better, actually 3-4 would be even better.

Paula: Bag the Italian. Turkey with all the trimmings. I’ll have Ron bring a ham.

Christina: Ezra naps from 2-4.

Jenny: Yeah, 2-4 doesn’t work for us either. Bennet chops the heads off of bad guys and saves the world from Kryptonite from 2-4.

Linda: Well, we might have to do a second seating table out in the piano room. Any volunteers?

Paula, Doug, Pam, Becky, Lauren, Donnie Paula, Ron:  NO!!!!!

Ryan: I’m fine with the second seating table…as long as I can watch Sports Center.

Doug: I say put all the Pups out there, cover the table with gummy worms and Cheetos and lock the door.

Ron: Wait…I’m bringing a ham?

Paula: Yes, dear.

Ron: Well thanks a lot for the advanced notice!! I’m not sure I can find all the spices I will need to get a ham ready for Christmas. I mean, the special Tahitian cumin I use takes three weeks to ship!

Paula: Nobody cares about Tahitian cumin for crying out loud! Just make sure there isn’t any blood on the plate.

                                                  --- to be continued---

Palpable Anguish?

First Columbia School of Law, now Harvard.

The cream of America’s academic crop have demanded dispensation from their upcoming exams due to, among other things, the “palpable anguish” looming over their campuses as a result of the national crisis brought on by the Ferguson and Garner verdicts. In a letter to the Dean of Harvard Law, the “traumatized” and “visibly distressed” students reasoned that it was far more important for them to “stand for justice rather than sit for final exams.” Apparently, Ivy League law students feel that their obligation to do their school work ends whenever the American Justice system disappoints them. When did our nation’s future lawyers become such delicate flowers?  How would you like to be represented by a lawyer unable to rally himself out of his “palpable anguish” at being overruled by a judge?

As a public service, I would like to describe what real “palpable anguish” looks like outside the cloistered ivory towers of academia.

Palpable anguish is what Harvard students felt every day during the Civil War when their fathers, uncles and brothers were being slaughtered on battlefields from Shiloh to Antietam, the future of the country hanging in the balance. The only time classes were cancelled at Harvard was when the school ran out of students.

Palpable anguish was what my Father’s generation felt the day that Pearl Harbor was attacked plunging this nation into an existential fight for its very survival. The only college students who were allowed to skip their exams were the ones who either enlisted or were drafted into the fight.

Palpable anguish was what every member of the armed forces felt when the twin towers came down and they were swept up in the endless war on terror. Despite their “trauma” and being “visibly distressed” they showed up for work.

Palpable anguish is what parents feel when their child is given a cancer diagnosis. Real life gives them no dispensation from having to work even longer hours to pay the bills. Real life doesn’t allow them a month to contemplate the flaws of our healthcare system. They show up at work and soldier on because that’s what adults do.

Palpable anguish is what I feel when I read about a collection of pampered, and privileged Ivy Leaguers making demands of their schools that previous generations of Americans would never have made. Such trauma! Such anguish! How can they possibly be expected to take an exam when a couple of white cops just got acquitted for killing a couple of black men? Oh, the humanity!!

Here’s a news flash for the delicate flowers of Harvard Law. This world is a very disappointing place at times. And yes, the American justice system is sometimes unjust. Crap happens. And sometimes the crap that happens makes you angry. But, disillusioned or not, you still have to show up for work the next day. You buck yourself up, screw on a happy face and go about your business. The real world doesn’t stop to give you time to sort through your angst, to process your feelings.

Get over yourselves!

Not a Good Week For Rape Victims

Misc. observations on yet another cold, rainy morning:

1.     It hasn’t been a good week for alleged rape victims. First came the collapse of the UVA/Rolling Stone story. Now comes a retraction from Random House over the star of Lena Dunham’s memoir, Barry the campus conservative and rapist. It seems that there really was a “Barry” at Oberlin back in the day and he was the campus conservative. Trouble is, he has lawyered up and is fighting back by loudly claiming his innocence, so much so that now Ms. Dunham claims that his name wasn’t really Barry. Here’s a little advice for all of you aggrieved feminists out there. There are enough real rapes out there. You don’t need to manufacture fake ones. When you get caught, it damages you and everything you stand for, not to mention legitimate victims.

2.     Over the weekend Pam and I went to see the Grand Illumination downtown with Gordon and Leigh Ann Fort. It was fun. While there we took two pictures, one of Gordon and Leigh Ann and another of the two of us. We would have done a selfie of all four of us, but couldn’t manage the mechanics. Later we posted both photos on Facebook. As of this morning the Dunnevant photo has 15 “likes”. The Fort photo has 75 “likes.” The Dunnevant family self-esteem is at all-time lows as we consider the appalling state of our popularity.

3.     It has been fascinating to watch the evolving tactics of peaceful protesters around the country over the Ferguson and Garner incidents. The latest rage seems to be something called a Die-In, whereby protestors gather at some high profile place and then lay down on the ground as if dead while photographers snap pictures. Interesting. I have never taken part in an organized protest in my entire life. It’s not that I have never been outraged by anything. I get mad as quick as the next guy. It’s just that it all seems so pointless. In a couple more weeks all of these protests will be over and cops and black men will still be enemies. Maybe it does serve the needs of the protestors by giving them a way to demonstrate their frustration which is fine and good. I just can’t imagine being part of a crowd of angry tax-paying businessmen marching on the IRS headquarters on April 15^th. The very idea of laying on the sidewalk with my pockets inside out pretending to be dead-broke seems preposterously silly to me. I mean, it might make me feel better, might even be great fun, but I still owe them the money.

 Lucy is about to lose whatever sanity dogs come with. It has been cloudy, rainy and disgusting outside for what seems like forever, robbing her of her favorite activity…destroying my backyard. She has had only one digging session in the past week and the withdrawal symptoms are starting to become debilitating. Poor girl has taken to sitting at doors and windows and letting out long mournful whines. It’s a dog’s life.

We Need To "Crank" it up!

If I didn’t know better I would think that the Dunnevants are turning into the Cranks.

This weekend would have been a perfect time to finish up the Christmas decorating what with all the chilly rain out and all. We had every intention of doing just that. I managed to put the swags in the windows and get a couple of trees down from the attic and set in place. Then everything just sort of petered out. The usual manic holiday momentum never materialized despite the festive Christmas soundtrack booming through the Bose sound dock. Of course, it didn’t help when one of the trees collapsed in a heap and crashed into the Palladian window upstairs, the plastic stand cracked in three places rendering it useless. We never recovered after that.

Pam did manage to address a bunch of Christmas cards, so we got that going for us.

Here’s the thing. When there are no kids at home it’s hard to summon any meaningful urgency. Kids are the engine that powers Christmas. Without them it’s so much easier to procrastinate. But here it is December the 8^th, only 17 days until Christmas and I haven’t even put the lights on the holly tree out front. At this pace, we will be one of those weird couples that put up their decorations on Christmas Eve and then take them down on New Year’s Eve. What’s the point?

Maybe it was a mistake to watch “Christmas With the Cranks” the other night. I was against it, but Pam and Kaitlin insisted. Terrible movie. Poorly written, badly acted, moronic dialogue, and yet a compelling story line. Skipping Christmas in favor of a Caribbean vacation? Sounds fascinating actually. Set aside for a moment the fact that if we all skipped Christmas, the country would fall into an economic quagmire that would make the Great Depression look like Shangri-La. Also, set aside the millions of crestfallen toddlers scarred for life by the selfishness of their parents. Once you get past a few negatives, a couple of weeks on the beach sipping Pina coladas and munching conch fritters sounds pretty darned good right about now.

I’m sure we will ultimately rally. We will wake up some Saturday shaking in panicked horror at the fact that there are only ---- days left until Christmas. Pam will start barking out orders, then follow it up with some sort of computerized to-do list sent directly to my cell phone. The kitchen will explode into action, cranking out cookies and banana bread seemingly by itself while the dining room gets transformed into present-wrapping central. My bank will begin a series of calls warning me about “unusually high use volume” on my credit card. Lucy will curl herself up into the fetal position in some corner of the house, terrified by the chaos.

Then we will find ourselves all dressed up sitting in a row together at the Grove Avenue Christmas Eve service wondering how we ever managed to get it all done. Since it will be the first time that either of us has sat down in two weeks, Pam and I will fall asleep during the reading of Luke 2….and it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that ZZZZZZZZZZZ…

Too Good To Check

What the hell?

Just about the time I have finally simmered down after reading of the horrific rape at UVA, word comes that Rolling Stone no longer has confidence in the story and apologizes to everybody for publishing it in the first place. Their exact words were:

“In the face of new information, there now appear to be discrepancies in Jackie's account, and we have come to the conclusion that our trust in her was misplaced. We were trying to be sensitive to the unfair shame and humiliation many women feel after a sexual assault and now regret the decision to not contact the alleged assaulters to get their account. We are taking this seriously and apologize to anyone who was affected by the story.”

Hmmm, “we apologize to anyone who was affected by the story.” Does that include me? I sure was affected by this story and I’m here to tell you, Rolling Stone, I do not accept your apology. At a time when journalism has become about confirming and advocating agendas, not the honest pursuit of truth, a simple apology isn’t going to cut it. This story was apparently too good to check. This writer set out to write a piece about rape culture and was simply too willing to accept testimony that confirmed her own beliefs and biases. But, that’s what editors are for. That’s what the Perry Whites of the world do. They bark at their reporters for “sources, sources and more sources!!” But even in the make believe world of the Daily Planet, the barking is done BEFORE the story goes to print.

To those out there who ask, “Do you actually think that an accused rapist would agree to be interviewed?” My answer is that if a writer came up to me and said, “Mr. Dunnevant, I’m writing a 9000 word story that’s going to appear in the Rolling Stone about a girl named Jackie who is accusing you and 8 of your buddies of repeatedly raping her at a frat party in 2012,” I would absolutely either A. Tell her that it was a lie or B. contact my attorney and give her a “no comment.” Either way, the reporter has something to write and has made a good faith effort to get the other side of the story, which I understand is Journalism 101.

Instead, not only have many key details of the story collapsed under scrutiny, but the last remains of my confidence in journalism lies in tatters on the floor.

The problem with advocacy journalism disguised as news reporting is that it segregates us into information ghettos. If I lean conservative in my politics, I watch Fox News. If I lean liberal, I watch pretty much everything else. But regardless, I know in my heart that I’m being lied to at some level by all of them. Everyone has an agenda. Every story has an angle. I’m so tired of it all.

I shed no tears for the frats at UVA, but I do shed tears for the truth.

Ilma Stone R.I.P.

I was in South Carolina on business when I got the news that Ilma Stone had passed away. For many years she was my Mom’s best friend so her loss saddened me at first. But then the idea entered my head that the two of them are reunited in heaven and I couldn’t help smiling. Like my parents, Ilma’s final years were plagued by declining health, so belief in an afterlife where she has been made whole is a comfort. Still, every time I think of Ilma I smile. I can’t help it. She always made me laugh. Let me explain.

Forty years ago, I was a cocky, wisecracking teenager. It was about this time when I was introduced to my mother’s new friend, Ilma Stone. She was a very pretty lady with an infectious laugh who could be laughing one minute and crying the next. She and Mom were always sitting at the dining room table nibbling on pound cake, sipping iced tea and talking about Jesus. That’s pretty much all I ever saw them do together. Sometimes their discussions would get pretty intense. I would bound down the stairs and pass by them on my way to the kitchen and find Ilma sitting there with tears running down her face. I would always go over and hug her and ask if she was ok. She would always smile and hug me back. Then every once in a while I couldn’t resist saying, “Hey, look Ilma…a CAT!!” She would always scream and nearly jump out of her chair and onto the table. I thought it was great fun but Mom would always fuss at me for being so mean. Ilma was more afraid of cats than anything in the universe so naturally, I always kidded her about it. Somehow she loved me anyhow.

Tomorrow, I will attend her funeral, the first such occasion I’ve been to since Dad passed away. There will be a viewing before the service. I used to hate everything about funerals. But now that I’ve been through two big ones, not so much anymore. Besides, this is Ilma. I know where she is and who she’s with.

Wouldn’t miss it for the world.