There's a huge smelly elephant in the middle of our living room.
So. Topic broached.
Until now no one's dared to mention--let alone describe--this shedding, trumpeting pachyderm, nor hint that we'd be better off if it were led outside, perhaps shipped off to the circus.
Rest assured I'm not fishing for compliments.
Neither am I vociferously lying about some non-existent fire at the crowded Cineplex.
The big issue that, until now, no one in the family has dared to discuss is alive, real, and growing more and more problematic.
But for whom? This "elephant" has a life of its own to protect, doesn't it?
Nope.
Before I describe what's infiltrated our living room, I find it necessary to note that as a journalist I'm torn. My training has been to become the mirror, to simply reflect what happened without the smudge of my opinion.
But sometimes, as with our elephant, the truth is better left in between the lines.
Yep: for the real deal to be delivered in this case, I must imply.
It's as if the only way I can make my point is that I must starve myself to death on their doorstep; my lifeless body, an indictment.
They say dead men aren't talkative. I aim to be the exception. My corpse will speak volumes.
It's about approaching from a position of weakness. I'm sure if I were a real detective this whole Wal~Mart incident would have been handled differently. I would have figured out a way to search Kevin B.'s house by now. The interior of Beth L.'s place would also have been thoroughly examined. It wouldn't be this frigging guessing game.
And yes, I feel terrible it's come to this. I think salsa guy's gotten away with it. And what am I doing? Bashing myself. Both at the office, and at home. Even while driving.
That's what's really going on. The above, the stuff about elephants and offing myself is nothing more than venting. It's just melodrama.
Please: no emails. I'm fine. I just wish there were something I could do. But there isn't.
That's why I say it's approaching from a position of weakness.
Say you matriculated from a prestigious university with a degree in Economics, and though not currently employed in that field, you've consistently fared well in the stock market, and--five years before their collapse--you overhear someone jabbing Enron. I mean they're really sticking it to 'em. So you scrunch some numbers and, soon enough, it's obvious: they're a house of cards built on sand. What do you do? Of course, sell. But then what? Blow the whistle? OK, so you blow and blow and blow your whistle, but then the local newspaper editorializes that a "...barstool economist, atop his teetering barstool, concocts amateurish misgivings about a stalwart pillar of the Houston community...." Then what? This is where a lot of well-meaning armchair economists would regret their whistleblowing.
And the thing is, about it being "our" living room? Perhaps this is a bit presumptuous of me. If you happen to be, for instance, one of my Nigerian friends, and we're still hammering out arrangements regarding where to and how much money I should wire so you can charge your barrister to complete the paperwork necessary for him to expedite those $35 million dollars in my direction, then maybe you don't consider my year-long to-do with some salsa-purchasing louche to be any of your concern because the fallout from this incident is putatively tainting only my "living room," not yours. If that's your position, you're thinking locally. Myopically, even. I, on the other hand, choose to think in a more globalistic fashion. My neighborhood is your neighborhood. My living room is your living room. It's a small planet; we're all in this together. I'm a firm believer in the butterfly effect. Whether we like it or not, we are one big global family.
So. What am I doing when I address something or other from a position of weakness?
Ordinarily this involves writing about it. (Which would be weak enough. Stronger would be to do something about it instead of writing about doing something about it. Though I'd be remiss if I failed to mention the likes of, say, Thomas Paine and his "These are the times that try men's souls" battle cry. A written statement. And it ended up being very powerful. So I do admit that calling attention to heinousness is not always the weakest course of action.)
Today, however, instead of writing about it, I must write around it. If writing about something is weak, writing around something is potentially even weaker.
Regardless, here goes.
First I got involved, tried to help, but then my cover was blown. Repeatedly. Then the Skeet got involved, and he got made, too. Then Kevin B. makes with the threatening insinuations, and the proverbial fork, into it, got put. (Shown here.)
But now I'm reconsidering. Life, after all, is a highway. A crowded one. There's the tumult, a treacherous and winding commute, spilled Starbucks, and then the topper: some Dale Earnhardt, after nearly killing you, flips you the bird. Time to go lie in a ditch? Not for me, it isn't. After they see me venture off the shoulder, those who write the history books will eventually settle on the term "strategic retrenchment."
And this ain't just talk. I'm doing something about it. We--Skeeter and I--are over at Duane's place right now. He was a little hesitant about our idea at first. I think his exact words were: "No (redacted) way." So we tried alcohol. After a few snifters it seemed like he was wavering, but then Skeet reminded him of his rebuffing (due to a urinary indiscretion) at his last stakeout, so we had to get out the blender and make some Orange Nebulouses. Clouds rolled in. I forget who brought it up, but at one point I remember Duane vowing that his car would never, ever, be used for anything other than to and from his place of employment.
"What about your van?" I asked.
"It's been moshballed," he replied.
"What?" Skeet said.
"It's still back there. On blocks."
"But you said 'mosh.'"
"OK."
Anyway, after some more clarifying, I offered to get her running again if he helped us, sat in the driver's seat over near the other woman's place, stuff. And he agreed. Skeet's out there in his garage right now. They've got the distributor apart once again, and I've been sitting here at Duane's nasty kitchen table, doing a little updating.
I'm supposed to help, too. I guess I better get out there.
FORWARD to what happened next
BACK to what jumped-started this Wal~Mart juggernaut
OVER to HerbNation HOMEPAGE
In case anyone's wondering, the title of this--"Encapsulating everything in one swell foop"--refers to the sentence in the above where I meticulously and painstakingly (or painfully) answer the question: "What if, for comparison's sake, I wanted an analogous juxtaposition of the two most compelling features of the Internet, but were afraid to ask?" This all-encompassing sentence speaks to honesty and integrity; it implores us web surfers to persevere in the face of rampant hucksterism and diet pills. It begins with the simple words "If you happen to be...".