Lena Dunham and the Cult of Literalism

Editorial Observation: General Narrator is fully aware that the content of this blog does not traditionally delve into pop-cultural issues comparable to what the reader will find below; however, given a weakness for researching Facebook trends, our contributor simply could not resist from opining at length, and we were, quite frankly, too nauseated to stop him.

By: Roman Conrad
Special to General Narrator     

I’m a huge fan of HBO’s Girls, and I’m slowly becoming a fan of Lena Dunham, which is important because it allows a needed distinction between the person and the character she created and portrays on the show. As far as the person is concerned, there is no one in pop culture (save Kanye West maybe) who is more polarizing or targeted. 

No doubt, Dunham does her fair share of drumming up fodder for the attacks. Deciding not to pay performers scheduled to work her book tour (a decision she quickly reversed, to her credit) didn’t help. And, most recently, recounting scenes from her childhood in that aforementioned book which include staring into her baby sister’s vagina at age seven and masturbating as a teenager while that same sister was next to her in bed don’t help either.

These snippets from her collection of essays have caused a backlash from mainly right-wing media outlets who argue that what she engaged in was sexual abuse. That she used a cheeky simile involving a “sexual predator” when discussing that moment with her sister’s vagina made the abuse accusations all the easier to suggest.

But the attacks, at least the ones I’m familiar with, always seem to start or include, either directly or in passing, a lambasting of the persona she portrays on-screen as though that persona is, in fact, Lena Dunham herself. There is no separation, which is convenient for her detractors since her character on Girls, Hannah Hovarth, is so wildly attackable. 

This indifference to any kind of separation between character and creator is important though because it speaks volumes to where we are as a society hellbent on literalism and reality. We live in a world where video games are marketed solely for the realistic depictions of their subject matter (which has to be stifling to the artistic minds working within that industry), reality TV still dominates the ratings, documentary-style action films replete with nauseatingly shaky camera movements win big at the box office, and on-screen personalities like that of Stephen Colbert’s or Nick Offerman’s are lauded by many to be anything but an act. Everything is taken at face value and with knee-jerk rapidity. Why? It’s simply easier to look at things that way as opposed to applying even the tiniest bit of critical thought to a situation, person, or piece of art. This is also why it’s easier to scan Buzzfeed articles as though they are news as opposed to reading actual journalism.              

But anyway, what I want you to do is think back for a second, if you’ve seen it, to Woody Allen’s Manhattan (1979) because in it you’ll find a subverting of the upper-echelon of social class by way of infiltration into that class not unlike what much of Girls is about. If you don’t agree, think about the reasons why a character like Ray exists in the narrative of Dunham’s show. In both Manhattan and Girls the subversion isn’t exactly obvious because the characters are so entrenched in their moneyed social standings, but it is there. 

In Manhattan, Allen plays an affluent writer named Isaac Davis who cares about and discuss art, and wears his sexual insecurities on his shirtsleeves. But look more closely and you begin to notice that Allen’s Davis is used as a tool (by Woody Allen the writer and filmmaker) to poke fun at the affluent lifestyle enjoyed by Davis and his comrades. The Marx brothers achieved the same subversion—though in a more obvious way—in 1933 when they made Duck Soup, a film Allen later referenced in Hannah and Her Sisters. 

Allen’s film and Dunham’s Girls brim with other similarities, but above all they are both concerned with affluent white people living out their days in a big, expensive city. So why is it that the former is praised as a “love letter” to New York and its inhabitants (which it is not) while the latter is chastised for being selfish, pretentious, juvenile, and ill-informed (which it is not)? 

The answer lies in how each actor’s portrayal is perceived. Allen’s Isaac Davis is simply less brash and more endearing thanks to his neuroses. We forgive his affluence because his insecurities remind us of our own. In short, he’s relatable. Dunham’s Hannah Hovarth, on the other hand, is openly naive, unapologetic, egotistical, and (lest we forget) female, which automatically renders her faults unappealing and grievous because women, especially celebrity women, are still not allowed to own imperfection they way men do. 

The result is a woman who is incapable of escaping the character she created. Lena Dunham is nothing more than Hannah Hovarth within the literal eye of the media and public, and as a result she must atone for Hannah’s sins.

But it doesn’t end there, and this is why the cult of literalism is dangerous to all. Because our entertainment-meets-reality interpretation of movies, games, and television is an extension of our social media obsession. Because it’s fun to friend famous people on Facebook or add them to our Twitter feeds and pretend like we know them personally as we stare at pictures of their dinners or see what they look like when they get out of bed in the morning. The glamorized veil of celebrity has been lifted by the power of social media. 

That veil is just as easily liftable on “normal” people though. Companies, whether they say they do or not, use these outlets to eliminate prospective job candidates on a daily basis. We preoccupy ourselves with the apparent fun everyone else is having based on the statuses they post. But, like Dunham in Girls, none of us are really those people we portray online; they’re all creations. Let’s take a quick poll to vaguely example this. By a show of hands, how many of our Facebook profile pictures accurately represent what we look like on a daily basis? My hand isn’t up. Is yours? Well, it shouldn’t be—especially if you live in California. The fact that social media is not reality, however, stops no one from blurring lines based on a few liked pages, pictures posted in a drunken stupor, or 140-character opinions. Basically, we’re all susceptible to the backlash Lena Dunham faces, only on a less ridiculously grandiose scale.

So, to clear the air, let’s recap: 1) Lena Dunham is not Hannah Hovarth. The way she publicly handles some of her personal blunders, and the fact that she has clearly worked hard to reach her goals, is evidence of that. 2) She might not even be Lena Dunham, which would be refreshing and meta and cool if it were true. 3) Nor is she a child molester. Seriously, get real. Anyone who didn’t have an awkward, embarrassing, or weirdly sexual experience as a kid still has a lot of growing up to do. 4) I don’t know Lena Dunham and neither do you. Was it unwise and unfunny to compare her curiosity to that of a sexual offender? Probably. But there are just as many fans chuckling at those moments in her essays as there are detractors defaming her for them. 5) Yes, my staunch defense of her is odd considering I don’t know her, but I admire the woman’s work and I took the time to write anything about it when you didn’t. 6) Let’s all do ourselves a favor and stop taking each other so damn seriously. 7) I mean literally.

Even David Lynch Knows the Importance of a Beating Heart: A Review of Zach Braff's Wish I Was Here

In a recent interview with Elvis Mitchell on The Treatment, Zach Braff stated that when it comes to the unwritten rules of genre in Hollywood, “My brother and I just tried to just throw all that out the window and say, ‘Well, let’s just tell a good story.’” 

In his new film, Wish I Was Here, which he co-wrote with his brother, Adam, Braff’s aversion to Hollywood rules and standards is apparent—sometimes it’s obvious—but in no way is he a trailblazing maverick with his middle finger proudly raised to the establishment. His slight alterations to the status quo are made out of love and possibility, not spite. This doesn’t mean, however, that what he’s made is an overly daring film. It’s not. But it is different, and as a result, it’s flawed. 

Much of the rule-breaking Braff does—like incorporating space-age fantasy sequences into a family drama about mortality, spirituality, growth, and communication—feels somewhat forced. You can almost hear Braff—in his self-approving awe-whisper—say, “Look at that? I bet you’ve never seen that before.” In reality, we probably have, but we’ll give him the benefit of the doubt since he is nothing if not passionate. 

Because Braff liberally splices genres, the result is rather choppy. Some scenes feel like they were included merely because the idea was so well-loved by its creators as opposed to being critical to plot or character development. A scene involving Braff’s former Scrubs co-star, Donald Faison, and a very expensive sports car comes to mind. 

When all is said and done though, these flaws aren’t bad. In fact, they’re necessary in film these days. The big, corporate-run studios care only to produce and reproduce massive, technically perfect blockbusters, which is not going to end because the majority of audiences think they want to see massive, technically perfect blockbusters. Especially when it’s hot outside. What those movies lack—save this year’s Godzilla and Snowpiercer—is the sense that a risk, big or small, is being taken to offer something new or a little difficult for audiences to reckon with.

In the case of Wish I Was Here, Braff’s risks are on the small side, but the emotional reward they provide is monumental. One such risk is crafting a story in which the mother and father don’t hate each other’s guts. The risk, of course, presents itself in the question, “Well, where’s the conflict?” Braff’s answer comes in the inner struggles of his characters as they balance what it means to be on unique, personal quests that demand the inclusion of their loved ones despite differing opinions on what fulfillment is and how to attain it.

In that sense, the film is a triumph. The family members are distinct, genuine, and familiar, a feat that’s partly attributed to Braff’s risks and partly to the performances of his fellow actors, specifically Kate Hudson and Mandy Patinkin. 

Hudson plays Sarah Bloom, the matriarch of the family who has sacrificed a great deal of her own dreams so that her husband Aiden, played by Braff, can continue to chase his own—acting. If Sarah is bitter about this aspect of their relationship, she barely let’s on. Sure, she gets angry and frustrated from time to time, but like Natalie Portman’s Sam in Braff’s first film, Garden State, Sarah—an agnostic—believes in revitalization through the mysteries life offers us, and this belief allows her to persevere.

This isn’t to say she’s resigned to her role as breadwinner. Nor to her role at the water department where sexual harassment is the problem of women not being relaxed enough to understand the good-natured humor in a man’s unwanted sexual advances. Because she’s not resigned. She’s a fighter, for herself and for her family. She’s intelligent though, knows when to pick her battles, and knows that her husband confronting the creep at her work is not the answer to that problem. 

Her confronting her husband’s very religious father, on the other hand, is the right battle because she knows how crucial restoration to their relationship will be in the development of her husband and his brother as their lives continue to evolve. So she confronts him—challenges him, really—and in doing so simultaneously commands his respect and offers her love. And it’s beautiful to watch.

Speaking of which, Mandy Patinkin, who plays Aiden’s cantankerous father, Gabe, is nearly perfect. His performance centers on breathing, vocality, and enunciation rather than looks or actions, and the changes his character endures as the story progresses are subtle—yet heartbreakingly telling—and create an authentic, tragic reality that results in a profundity neither he nor his family expected.

Braff isn’t out to revolt against Hollywood, but much of the press surrounding the making this film could lead you to believe otherwise. He funded production through Kickstarter after running into numerous problems with studios that involved—among other things, no doubt—artistic control. Kickstarter allowed Braff to write, shoot, and edit the film his way. Thankfully, that way doesn’t include mockery or loathing. He’s too much of a romantic to go all Alexander Payne on us with his artistic freedom.

What he achieves when he breaks these narrative and structural rules, however, is the ability to remind us of the elasticity of film as an art-form. When bent or tweaked, even only a little, film is still capable of never-before-seen feats that go beyond insipid 3D images, and reach us on an existential level. But what we’re also reminded of, sadly, is how the majority of films made these days are done so without heart or a spiritual core. As a result, current cinema isn’t capable of reaching us on thought-provoking or even visceral levels, and that continually offered empty glass has left us very thirsty. 

'Whether I Accomplish All That Or Not Is Not the Point': An Interview

Editorial Supplement: The views found herein belong solely to the person(s) expressing them. General Narrator does not endorse, believe in, or understand the opinions offered by the interviewee, and, because of mitigating circumstances, was unable to proof the interviewer’s questions in advance to their being asked.  

* * * *

My guest has been referred to as, “Who?”, “Never Heard of Him.”, and “I think I Read A Romance Novel with a Character By that Name.” He prefers the term "Artist." Regardless, I was excited to speak with him. Our conversation, however, was somewhat out of the ordinary for me insofar as preparation is concerned. Normally, I conduct extensive research, familiarize myself with the vast body of my interviewee’s work. Yet I couldn’t find even one remotely interesting or relevant thing this person has accomplished within the last two and half decades. Still, I was surprised to learn that he has an obvious knack for going on, at length, about himself despite the fact that he has yet to produce anything of note. In that sense, I was struck by the man’s resiliency, unwavering optimism, and, of course, that fantastic beard. Join me, won’t you, for my interview with Matthew Cabe.

* * * *

Matthew Cabe: You celebrated your 30th birthday recently, didn’t you?

Matthew Cabe: I did, yeah. July 14th. Bastille Day in France, uh, incidentally. 

Matthew Cabe: And do you feel changed in any noticeable way?

Matthew Cabe: Before the big day, I guess… I guess I didn’t think I would feel, uh, different, you know, but. Well. See, here’s the thing. Um, 30 isn’t necessarily the issue. 29 seems to be much more of a—a thing. At least from my perspective. 

Matthew Cabe: How so?

Matthew Cabe: I think it’s the expectation. If—if—if you’re like me, uh, you can’t even enjoy 29 really because you spend the entirety of that year thinking about the fact that you’re basically 30. Really, 28 is probably the—the real last year of your 20s. In that sense. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve, uh, gone on Facebook recently, or—or watched a Mumford and Sons music video, and just—just really felt too old for it all, I guess.

Matthew Cabe: But you’re not old in the traditional sense.

Matthew Cabe: No, no. I know that. I mean, uh. Look. Am I really “old”? No. Not comparatively, anyway. It’s a—a—a, uh, a milestone for sure when it comes to, like, numbers and length and all that. But—but. You’re right. I’m not old. I. Um. I think the one thing it does make you do though is—you sort of end up taking stock. Evaluate an entire decade that has gone by to—to, like, map your accomplishments. 

Matthew Cabe: Well, let’s talk about that actually.

Matthew Cabe: Okay, great.

Matthew Cabe: Because, based on everything I found, there doesn’t seem to be much to map, as you put it.

Matthew Cabe: [Sighs] I think… Hm. I think on the surface, uh, that’s probably true. But… I mean we all do things. Um. I bought a computer recently, for example. I also just got some new shoes.

Matthew Cabe: What kind?

Matthew Cabe: Van’s.

Matthew Cabe: Classic?

Matthew Cabe: Ha ha, is there any other worth buying?

Matthew Cabe: Point taken. Well, let me pose this in a different way. Lena Dunham. Taylor Swift. 

Matthew Cabe: Uh huh.

Matthew Cabe: Benh Zeitlin. He’s 31 now, but he wrote and directed his first feature-length film at 27, I think.

Matthew Cabe: Co-wrote. Sure.

Matthew Cabe: I could go on, but the point is there’s three examples of people well under 30 who’ve accomplished much more than you. Taylor Swift has nearly 42 million Twitter followers. Dunham has 1.6 million. You, comparatively, have 35.

Matthew Cabe: Well. I mean, yeah. That—that’s true. But, uh, I think you—you have to look at—at two things there. With Twitter. Number One: I just don’t get it. The whole microblog thing. I know it’s important. I get that it connects a lot of people and ideas and news instantaneously. Um. I—I think people like the constraints of it. But—but. I—I still don’t understand it, if I’m being honest. With that said, and this is Number Two, I do think I have the wittiest, like, Twitter bio or—or whatever you want to call it. 

Matthew Cabe: Remind me what your’s is.

Matthew Cabe: It’s, heh, it’s, “Publisher’s Note: What follows is the abridged version of the author’s life and times.”

Matthew Cabe: I see.

Matthew Cabe: Ha ha ha ha, right? It’s funny because it—it basically sums up everyone’s Twitter. You know?

Matthew Cabe: Right, but despite that, your Twitter account remains, to put it bluntly, a barren wasteland in terms of page views, followers, posts, etc. 

Matthew Cabe: Well, look. I said already that I’m not really a—a Twitter person. If I was forced to pick right now, I’d probably say I’m more of an Instagram person, per se. I’ve got over 120 followers on there, which I think is—is—is pretty substantial for someone who hasn’t really made a name for himself yet. 

Matthew Cabe: But why haven’t you is the question.

Matthew Cabe: Honestly, uh, I think it comes down to content. I mean, the—the—those people you mentioned. Lena, uh, Dunham. She created one of the most popular shows currently running on television. 

Matthew Cabe: Girls.

Matthew Cabe: Right. And—and. So, of course an accomplishment of that magnitude will render more fans than, say, the average person on like Twitter or something.

Matthew Cabe: But you don’t consider yourself an “average person,” correct?

Matthew Cabe: Well. Hm. I—I—I. No, I don’t. But, um. Nobody does really. We all live in our heads. And—and in—up in there. Well. We’re pretty much the most important person, and think that the world sort of revolves around only us. It’s very easy to—to—to feel like a celebrity in that sense. 

Matthew Cabe: But in reality?

Matthew Cabe: In reality. It’s—it’s probably… it’s probably a little different, I guess. For most of us. But listen. The content is there. On Instagram. The videos, for example. I really see them as 21st century short films in a way. That’s why I always post them in black and white. There’s a—a gravitas there, you know. And—and—and if I’m really being honest I would say that, unlike Ms. Dunham, my artistic output is more of an acquired taste, you know? 

Matthew Cabe: How so?

Matthew Cabe: I just, uh, I tend to think I have a very particular world view. More so than other people. And—and that world view sort of, like, rears itself in my work for better or worse. But because this world view is particular, almost niche, you know, it’s—it’s not going to exactly appeal to everyone, which I think accounts for, uh, the lack of popularity. As you put it. And, listen, there are people out there who like me. Who think I’m funny. Maybe even hilarious. It’s those people for whom I create. They like my videos, my Facebook statuses. But… See. Um. I think David Lynch’s work as of late is a fair comparison insofar as he’s—he’s doing what he wants. He hasn’t made a feature-length film in almost a decade. But—but—but he’s made something like 15 short films that are very much about what he’s interested in. 

Matthew Cabe: But Lynch is able to make those short films now, rather than features, because he’s proven himself. You’re talking about a man who has a concrete artistic output that spans nearly 40 years. Do you really see that as a viable comparison?

Matthew Cabe: I—I. Um. [Clears throat] I’m simply saying that how David Lynch does it, now, despite the career, is a lot like how I do it. Whether I’m writing, Instagraming, whatever… I want to, you know, do it my way and that means that probably a very select number of people will “get” it or—or even like it. 

Matthew Cabe: A very select number.

Matthew Cabe: Well, sure. But the other thing you have to sort of remember is this—this thing isn’t my day job. I don’t make any money at this yet. So, as a result, I work full-time. And anything else in my—my life basically becomes kind of supplemental or secondary. In every way.

Matthew Cabe: And you’ve been working for this company for three years now, correct?

Matthew Cabe: Not Quite. September, uh, 7th will be three years. 

Matthew Cabe: And what do you do there.

Matthew Cabe: Gosh, what a question. Um. So many things, really. I mean, uh, work anywhere for three years and try to tell me you did only one task over and over that entire time. If you work at McDonald’s, for example, you—you—you aren’t just going to cook burgers. Chances are you’ll work the register, too. You’ll sweep up excess food that spills onto the floor. Wipe tables. Whatever. Do you see what I’m saying?

Matthew Cabe: A person acquires a job, and, depending on the day and experience level, he’s pulled in many different directions that ultimately make him more well-rounded.

Matthew Cabe: Exactly! That’s exactly right. So, like, in—in my case. Um. When I started with my company, I was responsible for de-palletizing boxes and pushing them thru an X-Ray machine. Then, once that was finished, I had to re-palletize those boxes. Then there was the shrink-wrapping. And—and—and it wasn’t just me. This isn’t, like some sort of one man show. See. There was a group of us. We had a supervisor. A manager. But the thing is this. I—I didn’t just do that. I labeled the boxes. Moved them from one spot to another with a forklift. I’ve even “dimmed” them, which is when you—you measure all the, uh, sides of the boxes and sort of update what’s called “The System” with those dimensions. 

Matthew Cabe: That is fascinating.

Matthew Cabe: Yeah. Oh! And—and, ha ha. And sometimes the shippers of the boxes, right? Sometimes they—they write their own dimensions and weights on documents and things like that. And so when we, uh, reweigh or check the dimensions with our—our tape measures, they’re just like way off, ha ha. It’s pretty… pretty crazy.

Matthew Cabe: Do you find it difficult to balance those two aspects of your life? By that, I mean your work life and your creative or artistic life. Because it seems to me that the two would conflict.

Matthew Cabe: It was tougher at first, I think. But. You know, over time. Over time, everything starts to—to—to blend together. What I mean is—is the work, because it takes up such a vast majority of effort and thought and all that, tends to bleed into the creative process. They—they sort of… They sort of end up becoming two parts of the same entity.

Matthew Cabe: And do you envy other artists who are able to focus solely on their art? Artists who don’t have to work, like you do, to make ends meet, and who make actual money from their art.

Matthew Cabe: I try not to envy anyone. We’re all just living our lives, you know? Like you—you mentioned before those people who have “done more than me” at or around the same age. I—I—I just can’t really afford to think about it that way. I think. Hm. I think everyone sort of has their moment. Especially in this day and age. And, in our society, there’s this—this pressure forced upon us to succeed at a very young age. Those who do are labeled “geniuses” and “voices of a generation” and “visionaries.” Those who don’t somehow… the perception is they somehow, uh, missed the boat or something. But I don’t see it that way. 

Matthew Cabe: How do you see it then?

Matthew Cabe: I, uh, I see it, basically, like there is a lot of time left, in general, and there are popular and important people in the spotlight now. But—but eventually they'll give way to other people. And those new people aren’t… they’re not always young and fresh or whatever. There are countless examples of artists who never saw a great deal of popularity or cultural relevance until much later in their lives.

Matthew Cabe: Or until after they were dead. 

Matthew Cabe: Right. Totally. And so—so—so I’m okay with waiting.

Matthew Cabe: But doesn’t that mean that you have to trust time will always be there for you, which is not a guarantee at all?

Matthew Cabe: Sure. Um. Sure it does. But—but, you know, look at any great artist. At some point they had to take a huge risk. And I think… I think the—the whole patience and time thing, you know, and the whole possibly dying before I do anything substantial or of value is the—the—the risk I have to take in order to achieve my goals.    

Matthew Cabe: Speaking of which, what would you say is your main goal for the future? Your ultimate hope moving forward now that you’re nearly a week into this new decade in your life.

Matthew Cabe: That’s a tough question, heh.

Matthew Cabe: [Smiling] I still expect you to answer.

Matthew Cabe: No, no, I know. Ha ha. [Slaps my knee] I’ll answer it. I’m, uh, just trying to process what you’re asking, I guess… You know, I—I—I think I’d like to. Hm. I’d like to… eventually be more up to speed.

Matthew Cabe: In what way?

Matthew Cabe: Well. Um. In every way. I think I’ve—I’ve always been a little behind the eight ball, so to speak. So, uh, I’d love for this decade in my life to be the—the one in which I sort of catch up and, hopefully, get more culturally in tune. For example, you know, I—I—I still haven’t watched Breaking Bad. I’d like to do that. I started Game of Thrones recently. My hope is to catch up before the next season starts. I mean, geez, I could show you my—my—my Netflix que. It’s filled with movies and shows that I probably should have seen by now, you know? But—but it’s like how do you keep up? I think. Um. I think I want to get really adept at hashtagging, too. It would be great to—to—to start a hashtag trend. Um. I’ve noticed a lot of my Facebook friends are getting married. It would be great to attend some of those weddings or maybe even, like, get married. I think it would be great to just… to just be on par with everything out there. To be at the forefront, you know. Or, uh, near it. To post a video I find on YouTube right before it goes viral.

Matthew Cabe: That can be tricky to accomplish.

Matthew Cabe: God, tell me about it. All of this requires a good deal of—of—of foresight and just—just a lot of luck, actually. But, you know, I’m hopeful. I think… I think I’m finally at an age where I feel grown up enough and ready to—to sort of meet these challenges head on. And—and—and whether I accomplish all that or not, you know, is not the point. Because, uh, the fact that I’ve finally reached a moment in my life where I can say I’m ready to—to try is… well, it’s very exciting.    

The Monday Following Sunday

Editor’s Addendum: The following recounts events that transpired on the Monday following Sunday. More specifically, the Monday following the Sunday of Super Bowl XLVIII. The names of persons depicted herein have been changed to protect the innocent; however, any and all other names that seem suspiciously authentic are not to be found in error, and were purposefully left unchanged at this editor’s discretion, which was such that their innocence was deemed not worthy of protection.

At 14:37h, my direct manager, Bartholomew Sternwood, pinged me via Office Communicator. His two instant messages, as well as my reply, are reproduced below, verbatim:

B. Sternwood                                                                                                              2:37pm               
Mr. Cabe.

B. Sternwood                                                                                                              2:59pm                        
id [sic] apreciate [sic] the curtesy [sic] of a promt [sic] reply. Come 2 [sic] my office                                 

M. Cabe                                                                                                                      3:21pm                   
Yes, sir, absolutely. I do apologize; I was in the bathroom.

At 15:23h, having safely locked my computer screen, I walked up the seven flights of stairs to Mr. Sternwood’s office whereupon I discovered his door closed in what could be considered a heinous violation of our company’s “Open-Door Policy.” After cinching my unemployed roommate’s tie to a more reputable position, I cleared my throat and knocked firmly, but sans authority. Mr. Sternwood replied with a muffled “come in” and I opened the door at 15:37h.

Mr. Sternwood stood, and, extending his arm, pointed to the chair in which he thought it best I should sit.

“Ah, Cabe. Please,” he said.

Despite having had multiple disciplinary-related conversations with Mr. Sternwood, this marked the first time I’d ventured inside his office, so the mounted and stuffed pheasant, with wings outstretched and legs dangling, on the wall behind him took me by surprise.

“Should I, uh–”

“Yes, by all means, Cabe, close the door.”

“Thank you, sir.” I said, and closed the door.

“Have a seat, Cabe.”

From my position, the wings of the stuffed pheasant resembled feathered ears sticking out from either side of Mr. Sternwood’s bald head. Trying not to stare, I focused instead on my hands, which I decided would be best folded and placed in my lap. Mr. Sternwood had gone with placing his elbows on his desk and clasping his hands together. He leaned forward, an adjustment that resulted in the pheasant looking as though it were sitting directly atop his head. He did not speak straightaway, but at 15:40h delved into the below conversation.

“Do you hear that, Cabe?”

“What, sir?”

“Just listen a moment, will you?” he said and gestured with his hands for me to shush. My eyes slowly trailed across the room and back again.

“Hear it now, Cabe?”

“I hear nothing, sir.”

“That’s exactly right. Silence. More importantly though, Cabe, based on your body language, it’s an awkward silence. And, all things considered, today is, historically, our least awkwardly silent day of the year. Let me provide you with a few statistics. This company has not had one documented ASE [Awkward Silence Error] the day after the Super Bowl since 1968. Not even in ‘95, Cabe. In short, we depend on the Super Bowl to keep the YASM [Yearly Awkward Silence Mean] low. Do you know how many awkward silences we have on record today, Cabe?”

“I haven’t checked the repor–”

“Four. We’ve had four documented ASEs today. And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you what sort of havoc ASEs wreak on our productivity; you’ve been to the meetings.”

“Yes, but, Mr. Sternwood, with all due respect, I hadn’t had an awkward silence all day until just a moment ago,” I said defensively.

Mr. Sternwood leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. He nodded in agreement.

“I’m aware of that, Cabe. I am most certainly aware.”

I began to relax some.

“However,” he continued, “you have been the alleged cause of more ASEs than anyone in your department. That doesn’t include today’s four, mind you.”

“That can’t be righ–”

“The numbers don’t lie, Cabe,” he said. “More exactly, employee complaints don’t lie. Does that make sense? You know Hester Bustecoup, don’t you, Cabe?”

“Yes, she works in marketing.” I shifted in my seat.

“I have a formal letter of complaint filed by Mrs. Bustecoup concerning a conversation she claims took place between the two of you today at 09:22h. Did you, in fact, speak with Mrs. Bustecoup today?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, in this formal letter of complaint, Mrs. Bustecoup contends that the ASE she documented in the system at 09:30h was a direct result of her conversation with you. Do you mind if I read her complaint aloud?”

I shook my head. Mr. Sternwood cleared his throat and placed a pair of reading glasses on the edge of his nose. He then held up Mrs. Bustecoup’s letter and began:

“At approximately 09:23h, I incurred an ASE (which I documented) following a conversation with customer service agent, Matthew Cabe. Upon discussing the subject of the 2014 Super Bowl Halftime Show, I asked Mr. Cabe if he thought Macklemore should have headlined the show instead of Bruno Mars given that Mack is a Seattle native and devoted Seahawks fan. I’ve included, in bold, Mr. Cabe’s reply: ‘Macklemore’s short, though albeit successful-thus-far, career is a testament to just how effective the music industry – and corporate America on a whole, really – has become in the digital age in identifying trends in independent music and appropriating those trends faster than we’re capable of processing, which results in a vast majority of the population being duped into thinking they are actually experiencing something entirely authentic and raw and artistic as opposed to yet another industry cash cow shoved out there for every clueless bastard to devour.’ Needless to say, Mr. Cabe’s sentiments, partly due to how offensive they were to Macklemore, caught me so off guard that I was rendered speechless for approximately eight seconds. As a result, I am filing this formal complaint in order that the ASE may be reviewed and, hopefully, stricken from my employee record. Comments such as Mr. Cabe’s, in my opinion (which is based on 18 years of unblemished service), have no place in a professional setting such as the one in which we conduct day-to-day business.”

Upon finishing, Mr. Sternwood gently set Mrs. Bustecoup’s complaint down on his desk and removed his reading glasses.

“I will spare you the three additional formal complaints. But all four leave me no choice but to ask the glaring question, and I pray, for your sake, you are forthright in your response. So, Cabe, did you watch Super Bowl XLVIII?”

I felt the sweat start to accumulate in my armpits; very soon the underarms of my shirt would be visibly damp.

“It’s a simple question, Cabe. Did you, or did you not, watch yesterday’s Super Bowl?”

It was then that a moment of silence occurred that verged into the infamous gray area of company policy regarding ASEs. As it stands, the company guidebook states:

“All silences lasting six (6) seconds in duration or longer, and which are the immediate result of conversation(s) between two or more non-exempt employees, are considered hazardous to the financial stability and natural yield of the company, and must be documented in the Awkward Silence Error Database (ASED). Silences lasting between four (4) and five (5) seconds are to be reviewed by the exempt manager directly in charge of the non-exempt employee whom [sic] may or may not have violated company policy. Upon review, the exempt manager must choose either to log the silence as an ASE or render the silence’s duration ‘Too Short to Tell’. In instances involving the latter, the exempt manager must file a formal appeal on behalf of the non-exempt employee that will then be reviewed by a panel of three (3) district managers prior to or at the end of a six (6) month period. After review of the formal appeal, the panel must unanimously agree upon the length of the silence in question, based on evidence provided in the formal appeal, whereupon a conclusion will be presented to the exempt manager and non-exempt employee at a documented review hearing. If the panel concludes that the silence falls within the four (4) to five (5) second range, the silence must then be documented in the Near Awkward Silence Error Database (NASED) and applied to the non-exempt employee’s personal record as an ASE, but highlighted in yellow rather than orange.”

I watched Mr. Sternwood’s ears twitch ever so slightly while the seconds between his question and my response ticked away aggressively on the clock sewn into the chest of the mounted pheasant, which, at that moment, resembled a large tumor protruding out of the right side of Mr. Sternwood’s head.

“No,” I finally replied, and exasperatedly recounted the last few seconds in my head.

“I see,” he said. “Look, Cabe, I don’t need to read you the policy on ASEs in the company guidebook. You’re well aware of our no-tolerance stance. Yet you sit before me as the root cause of not one but four documented ASEs on the one day out of the year when they should be – and have been until now, mind you – virtually impossible to incur. Does that make sense? All you had to do was watch, Cabe. I know the game was pretty much a wash by the end of the first half, but there are always the commercials.”

“Sir, if I may?”

“By all means.”

“My roommate and I can’t really afford cable at the moment, and–”

“Cabe, this is not the time to be asking for a raise.”

“No, sir, I wouldn’t dream of–”

“I don’t really know how to put this.” He stopped for exactly three seconds. “Numero Uno, ASEs diminish productivity. That much has been proven. Numero Two, you are the cause of more ASEs than anyone in our department. So, Cabe, you are ‘bad for business’ to use the idiom. Does that make sense? You do understand what an idiom is, don’t you, Cabe? You did get your state university master’s degree in English, didn’t you? I think that pretty much sums the whole mess up really, if you want my honest opinion.”

At this point, I noticed my foot tapping against the floor faster than an engaged piston, which caused my knee to bounce up and down furiously. Mr. Sternwood looked down at my knee and smirked.

“So, what do you have to say for yourself, Cabe?”

I focused on slowing my foot and again shifted in my seat.

“I presume you enjoy your job or else why would you show up on a daily basis?”

I placed my hand on my knee and pushed down.

“I presume you want to continue to be employed by the company or else why would you be so nervous? Is it the economy, Cabe? Fear of the unknown? Does your stomach tighten when you think back to what you pictured your future self doing after college?”

My foot stopped.

“Do you depend too heavily on the encouragement of others? Has the wellspring of support dried? Did everyone stop caring about what you thought you had to say? Are you drained of confidence? Do you go home every night fearing that exhaustion has wiped every creative ambition from the core of your being? Are you afraid you’re insane? Is it the tedium, Cabe? Are you too good for this sort of work? Do you feel like you’ve been cheated or do you feel like you did the cheating and now you’re paying the piper? Have you been failed or are you a failure?”

He stopped for another three seconds.

“I mean, what in hell are you even doing here?”

 

 

    

"A Dedicated Follower of Fashion"

When I awoke this morning, my first thought was that Pope Francis has a Twitter account and I need to check it out. In general, the dreams I can recall are detailed and vivid, but if I dreamed of the Pope in sleep to prompt the thought, it was one of those innumerable dreams I can’t remember in the least. My mother would tell me it’s God’s way of speaking to one of His lost sons. Whatever the reason, I sprang off the couch, charged the phone, thumbed the blue app with the white bird, and searched out the pontiff’s page.

What really inspired my thinking of Pope Francis at 0643h (on a Sunday) is probably twofold. An NPR feature I heard the other day recounted the story of a woman who received three phone calls from an unknown number over the course of a few days. When the phone rang the third time, the woman answered and the voice on the other end said, “Hello, this is Pope Francis.” He reached out to her after a letter she wrote to him detailing recent tribulations. They talked for several minutes; he promised to pray for her, her family, and her recently deceased brother. The story stayed with me because I’d been listening on my way to work and had been touched by the contrast between his seeming kindness and patience, and the lack thereof displayed by a majority of people in the building to which I had been currently driving.

The second occurrence involves the most recent issue of GQ; my roommate is a subscriber. Flipping thru what felt like the endless pages of the magazine’s Men of the Year issue yesterday, I stumbled upon an “article” entitled, “The 25 LEAST INFLUENTIAL PEOPLE of 2013.” Oddly capitalized title aside, what’s miraculous is I actually made it to the “article,” which starts on page 216; bored and cynical don’t begin to describe my feelings toward this magazine. I could mention the lack of voice and/or heart and/or thought in the writing that sporadically pops up amid the more-than-generous helpings of advertisements. I could cite portions of endless pomposity that bombard you from start to finish. I could even hone in on the magazine’s own cool cynicism (which, I suppose, would here make me a hypocrite) – that shines like rays of sunlight thru the open-curtained window and into the pulsating eyes of a hangover sufferer – that presents itself in the banal brevity of the thoughtless sentences attempting to pass themselves off as hip and unarguable. But I won’t.

What I will mention, briefly, is #5 on this list, compiled, assuredly without effort, by Drew Magary (GQ correspondent). No, Pope Francis did not make the cut. But Miley Cyrus, Paula Deen, Justin Beiber, Aaron Hernandez, and 21 other set-em-up-knock-em-down targets did. Putting Miss Cyrus (#6) on the list displays Magary’s lack of ingenuity with regard to interpreting the actions of others, as well as GQ’s go-with-what’s-popular-to-stay-popular approach. More disturbing though is the choice of Aaron Hernandez. Sure, he’s arguably the easiest and most deserving target, but the simple fact that he’s on the list, coupled with GQ’s presumed penchant for staying with what’s most current, implies that he won’t make the list next year (assuming this is one of those annual things [Drew Magary can dream can’t he?]), and given his (Hernandez’s) reprehensible deeds – well, that’s just plain sad. It’s one thing to poke fun at the topicality of a person’s artistic output; it’s something entirely different to poke that same fun when lives have been lost.

Anyway, #5 is Pope Benedict XVI. And in his defense of why the former Pope deserves mention on his little list, Magary opens with, “The newest pope [sic] is sooooooo much better than Benedict, isn’t he? Who knew a pope [sic] could be, like, nice?” And, in reading, I had to agree. I don’t like everything for which Pope Francis stands; after all, he is the leader of a famously intolerant, unflinching, and (more often than not) reprehensible religious juggernaut. On the other hand, it’s hard to deny his likability and, more importantly, his sincerity and conviction when compared to Benedict XVI and John Paul II (post priest sex scandal).

Pope Francis has 3.2 million followers on Twitter, and like any Twitter phenomenon, Pope Francis follows a very select number of people: eight. Closer inspection of his page, however, reveals Pope Francis follows only the multi-lingual versions of himself, so, in essence, Pope Francis follows exactly no one (not even God, who also has multiple Twitter handles).

In case you’re wondering, I did some math. Between his nine Twitter handles, Pope Francis has roughly 10.4 million followers. Small potatoes when considering Twitter’s top ten, which starts with Katy Perry (47.8 million) and ends with Justin Timberlake (28.6 million). Even smaller potatoes when considering an estimated 1.2 billion Catholics existed in the world in 2011. Still, if all nine of Pope Francis’s Twitter handles were accounted for collectively – and arguably they should be since they're all exactly the same aside from the language in which the tweets roll out – he would rank in the top 70 of Twitter accounts with the most followers,  right between Charlie Sheen and singer-songwriter Alejandro Sanz, respectively.

After brewing some coffee, I read Pope Francis’s most-recent tweet – “The Sacraments are Jesus Christ’s presence in us. So it is important for us to go to confession and receive Holy Communion.” – and something about it confused me. Initially, I attributed my confusion to the Jesus Christ information. Maybe I expected the usual: Tidbits from his daily life rather than advertisements for God’s unending love. Then I remembered what it is that the Pope is hired to do, which is to spread the word of God and uphold the teachings of Vatican II Catholicism.

And so I looked elsewhere for a source of my confusion, landing on the fortune cookie-esque style with which his tweets are delivered. With this reasoning in mind, I felt closer to the source of my confusion, and as I read another tweet – “The Kingdom of Heaven is for those who place their trust in the love of God, not in material possessions.” – it dawned on me: The tweets are legible. There are no #s.  No RTs or @s. No contractions or purposefully misspelled words meant to save those all-important 140 characters. What you end up with are simple, pure sentences. Not unlike those which are found in a book or escaped from a person’s mouth every so often.

Learning it’s possible to read a person’s tweets, in a world where the lot of them are harder to decipher than Ulysses or most ee cummings poems, brought on a sensation of freedom within me. In a flurry of excited mindlessness, I added myself to the legion of followers of the pontiff in English (and Latin, just for fun) with no regard to my non-religious proclivities. And as a result of my hasty decision, I suddenly found myself in contemplation over who Twitter thought I would also be interested in following: Joan Rivers and/or The White House.  

Differences in opinion aside, the fact remains that Pope Francis is a decent and well-respected man. He’s a person to which you can look up. To which you can aspire. Like Gandhi or the Dalai Lama, except that Pope Francis is more relatable. He’s frugal and finds meaning and purpose in his frugality. He prays for the sick and dying, and calls people up when they’re feeling low. He’s only interested in an uncomplicated and holy life. And I can’t fault the guy for that because it’s what most of us complain about not having, ad nauseam, to anyone with stamina enough to listen.

“All of What I Could Teach You Provided Enough Time to Learn It"

There is so much I don’t know and even more that other people do know and wrongfully withhold. While reading David Foster Wallace’s essay, “Some Remarks on Kafka’s Funniness from Which Probably Not Enough Has Been Removed,”[1] it dawned on me that I was reading criticism on an author whose work I’ve barely read,[2] which is a ridiculous endeavor that is sort of like being inspired to build a house after hanging drywall once as a favor to a friend, and reading the directions[3] after tiling the roof and sealing all the windows. But this uselessness is nothing new to a guy who prides himself on his ability to name the authors of nearly every book he’s never opened.[4] I planned on giving a short list here, exampling this skill; however, my mind drew a definite blank while attempting to do…[5] Thus, I normally wouldn’t be disturbed by the scarcity of my own understanding of things,[6] but the whole Kafka incident reminded me of a day in one of my professor’s offices, surrounded by way too many books I’ve never read let alone heard of,[7] while he discussed Salinger’s Babe Gladwaller story, “A Boy in France.” I don’t remember what his exact argument was because I was distracted by two facts: 1) that he knew who Babe Gladwaller is, and 2) that there are three[8] stories concerning Babe Gladwaller.[9] What’s more is upon his mentioning of Babe’s full name, it dawned on me that I had spelled the character’s last name incorrectly while “analyzing” him in my comprehensive exam[10] essay. The books were no longer surrounding me. They were wiggling free, coming off the shelves and smacking me upside my head like that scene in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast in which all the possessions in the castle attack the intruders who have come for the beast’s hide. He’s read Salinger, I thought. Also, And not just any old Salinger, underpublished Salinger. He’s probably read Kafka, too. And David Foster Wallace. The part about Kafka and Wallace I didn’t ponder until la[11]ter that night. Walking out of his office though, down the loud, cement staircase, I stayed optimistic. Don’t be discouraged, I told myself. There are truths you can offer people, facts with which you can broaden the minds of others, knowledge you can bestow upon the ignorant. For example:

---

[1] For the record, this essay was above my comprehension in some ways. Take the title of the essay as an example. I know humor is in it, but I’m still searching out where and why the humor exactly is. I think I have an idea, but I’m not confident enough to share. Maybe the second footnote is – I don’t believe me one bit right now – an explanation of why the essay confuses me.  

[2] Outside of “The Metamorphosis” (a piece hazy in my mind, and I am, to add to this, not entirely sure if the title is quotation marked or italicized because I can’t remember if it’s a novella or a long short story) I’ve also read the first page of Amerika.

[3] If housebuilding directions even exist.

[4] Giving others the impression that he is well read, knowledgeable, intimidating, capable of working in a bookstore, worthy of sweeping at least one remarkably tailored category on Jeopardy! so long as he works the buzzer correctly, etc.

[5] THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MARK TWAIN WRITTEN BY MARK TWAIN!

[6] I define “things” here as anything capable of being thought of: words, history (American, world, or otherwise), technology, how to rebuild any kind of engine, 13 X 14, the mating habits of Loggerhead sea turtles, etc.

[7] Shamelessly, and without glasses, I squinted at the names on the spines and tried to commit each to memory for future reference.

[8] Not one.

[9] “The Last Day of the Last Furlough” and “The Stranger” being the other two (Wikipedia succeeds where memory falters).

[10] An exam I did not pass, not even close, and, as a result, must retake, thus keeping me in my MA program for one more semester only, pass or fail.

[11] As I finished writing the thought actually.

Memory Examination #1

Charles, as I recall him, was a nice kid. I didn't know him that well or for very long; we worked together for a little over a year almost a decade ago. But he used to tap on my truck's window to wake me up before our shifts started at 05:30 even though I drove a Ford and he drove a Chevy.

We'd walk toward the large building in the pre-dawn dim, not saying much, probably thinking about how tired we were, and about how that particular tired never compared to the tired we would feel once our jobs were finished. Our asses were kicked on a daily basis; but we also ate breakfast burritos in the cafeteria on our lunch breaks.

Charles was soft spoken and laughed genuinely. For a short time, he was my best friend. He knew someone who was important to me at the time (I want to say it was an ex-girlfriend), but I can't remember who that person was. I can barely remember Charles now, too; his name came back to me only two days ago. He was blonde, grew decent facial hair, and shaved when he wanted to be less unruly. He had a good smile.

I remember being affected by his presence. But I was selfish. Did I even say a proper goodbye after I quit? The word bastard should be reserved for the young and arrogant and neglectful and unseeing. I hope Charles is happy if he's still around. Sometimes I just miss people. If only I could hate myself more effectively for forgetting the people who proceed through my life.