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anada353
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.* O . . .. ..O .. 353 12 May 2001 ) ( ')
.* O O* o o o o o o o ( / )
* ***O O O O O O O O O \( _)|
* O o o.*..o.*..o.*..o. .net "Charisma Retarded" *
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* /,`.-'`' -. ;-;;,_ *
* |,4- ) )-,_..;\ ( `'-' by Infernal *
* '---''(_/--' `-'\_) *mE0w* o
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'Anada is cat-friendly..o*`
I've had a secret affliction all my life, and it's time to tell the
world about it.
I didn't have a name for it, or really even know something was wrong,
until about a year and a half ago, when I went into business with a guy
who could sell, as they say, refrigerators to Eskimos. Shit, he was so
good, he could probably go back to those igloos a week later, after
buyer's remorse set in and the poor stupid fucks realized they didn't
have anywhere to plug the damn thing in, and sell them an extended
warranty plan and a half dozen ice cube trays. He was that good.
Watching him in action, I was astonished. He embodied every slick
talker who'd ever put one over on my stammering ass. He was every guy
in a band who could walk into a room full of strangers and make them all
think he belonged there before soundcheck, while I set up my drums in
the corner and nodded uncomfortably at all the people I didn't know, and
slept in the van rather than ask anyone for a place to crash. He was
the Big Man On Campus, the baby-kissing politician, and the fox in the
henhouse when women were around, and I was the tongue-tied wallflower,
rarely speaking even when spoken to. People who came into our
establishment during that time always tell me how I was “the pissed off
guy behind the computer” and he was the glad-handing friend to all.
I finally figured out what my problem is ñ I'm charisma retarded.
Some people can charm strangers, make conversation on a plane, and think
nothing of treating a total unknown at the bar like their best and most
cherished friend. I, on the other hand, silently observe - I keep my
mouth closed and my eyes wide, I don't flirt, I talk to the people I
already know like they're a fort I can hide behind.
It's not really shyness, I don't think, although I'm sure there's
some of that lingering from my childhood. In my own environment, I can
converse and cut up with the best of them. On my turf, I can tell a
stranger to fuck off, or treat anyone like I've been sitting here all
day just waiting for them to come in and talk to me. In my own place,
though, people come to me ñ it's more on my terms, I think. It's not
really an equal relationship. On neutral ground, I'm so transparent as
to disappear in the wrong light.
So what's my deal? I don't harvest phone numbers on a night out at
the bar, I stand and watch the bands, or I talk to the friends I have there,
which are few in number. When I do venture out in public, which is
relatively rare, I'm in and back out of where I need to go ñ you'll
never see me striking up a gabfest with someone behind me in line at the
grocery store, and when someone does it to me I want to drop through the
floor and make my way home through the storm sewers. I've got friendly
relations going with people I see every day at the post office, or the
bank ñ I mean, I'm not some aloof asshole. I think it just has to do
with mindset, more than anything.
I'd rather save my words for the small circle of people who listen,
really listen to them, and are equally appreciative when I listen to
theirs. Membership in my inner circle is beyond exclusive, because it's
not even something anyone would want, really ñ the few who've made the
effort to get to know me are in, and I hope that in my every word and
action I let them know how much they mean to me. As for the rest ñ what
do I, or they, have to gain by schmoozing up a “friendship” larded with
lies and cloying how-do-you-do catch phrases? Who has time for that
shit? I've been on a mission (a not altogether successful one, mostly)
to simplify my life for some time now ñ the last thing I need is to,
figuratively speaking, stack a bunch of these phonies in the corner of
my attic “for later” and let them sit and rot. Better to cut off the
flow of hot air at its source.
This means I won't get served at the bar ahead of the twinkly-eyed
smiler with the mouthful of charm (who inevitably mouths “bitch!” at the
barmaid's back if she takes too long to fetch his lager) ñ but when she
does make it down to me, I'll show respect, and I'll tip better, because
my feet know how much her job sucks. I'll cut a path a millimeter thick
through the world of the bullshit artists ñ before I'm even out the
door, they'll have forgotten I was there. The stealth nerd, the secret
geek, spying on their wasted breaths and dipshit dances.
But to my friends and me, we're all fucking king size. And for those
who judge me by my work and my words, or choose to get to know me,
they'll have the only thing I have to offer worth anything, which is my
everlasting respect and gratitude. “Family” and “brotherhood” are more
than hoary hardcore cliches. To those of us who are charisma retarded,
they're the yardstick by which we measure whether someone's worth
talking to. I'm not old, but I'm too old already for wasting breath on
meaningless people and their bar games. Teenage angst is tired and long
gone ñ I know who I am, and what I'm worth. Some of these people I see
out have spent so long, convincing so many, of their merits, that the
sales pitch is all that's left of them. Their influence and their
self-security is a mile wide and an inch thick, and when they dry up in
the light of scrutiny, there'll be a hundred other human puddles to take
their place.
So now that I've recognized my charisma retardation, rather than look
for a support group or go on Oprah, I think I'll embrace it. My life is
a line in the sand, and if I'm not talking to you, that means you
haven't crossed it yet ñ you're welcome to, but I'm certainly not going
to drag you across it. I have enough friends if you don't. And if I
have nothing to say to you, I'm not going to pretend I do, because I'm
already busy enough.
Charisma is for people with too much time on their hands.
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( o.o ) (c) Anada e'zine anada353 by Infernal o
> ^ < o
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