Off the Scale

I don't show up with "do you know who I am?" gravitas. Maybe I'm doing something wrong—I honestly don’t know—but I never saw the point of trying to seem like someone like me, whatever that would even mean, so I just act...regular. Which suits me to a tee, though I do have certain faculties and bona fides which occasionally leak out. And when they do, it's not like in the movies.

God, is it ever not like in the movies.

A few months ago, I told a tale of meeting a local jazz musician in small town Portugal (newcomers: I was a respected world-touring jazz trombonist for a couple decades):

We played together for a few minutes, and I coaxed him into swinging a little harder, and he managed not to stumble on a few of the easier chord changes (by local standards, this constitutes jazz mastery). The song ended and he looked up at me, thoroughly unsurprised, and asked where I'm from.

I said "New York". This is like an Okinawan showing up in a Dutch karate dojo, but he wasn't visibly affected. He just coughed and told me about the jam session every Thursday which I might sign up for a week ahead if I'm aching to play. Perhaps they'll let me, because I sound pretty good. Then he very politely and courteously told me that he needed to practice, and sent me on my way while he resumed the karaoke.

Strange as it was, that was a clean example. It's not always clean.

The chef in the little joint where I eat most lunches has no idea that I'm a nationally-recognized food authority. For her, I'm the hapless American who shleps in and eats with extra gratitude. If I told her—and on the remote chance she believed me—she'd stop short, offer some vague words of confused quasi-admiration, and immediately forget all about it, because it's simply off her scale.

When things go off one's scale, one instinctually pulls back to normalcy. This is understandable. Efficacious. Evolutionarily adaptive. Whatever was just said or done might be politely acknowledged, but previous assumptions quickly snap back. It's exactly like getting past a brain fart.

This reaction—vague acknowledgement followed by amnesic re-composure—is bumpier than anything the Portuguese jazz guy experienced. He placidly absorbed my words like chatter on a radio across the street. He didn't blink. But I'm pretty sure the chef would blink. For a moment.

With the blinking, a whiff of emotion is often out-gassed. Whichever is that person's signature. Effusive people might enthuse "That's so GREAT!" while distracted eyes reveal they're mostly thinking about their expiring parking meter. Paranoid people will contemplate how this piece fits the nefarious puzzle. Insecure people will shield their inadequacy. And jealousy is far more prevalent than we realize—it may even be the default. Highly sexualized people will ponder how this involves getting laid (if you're a promising candidate, chops will be licked; if not, you may be snidely spurned, even though you'd never offered).

The emotionality rarely builds to a rip-roar. Just a visceral belch of disruption before returning to the previous comfortable framing. Back on track. Back on the scale!

This is all extremely strange from the viewpoint of the surprising person (longtime readers have watched me straining to puzzle it out for years now). But this is the only way it could possibly work. The world is the Scale. To go off the scale is to slip well and truly offstage for one's audience. There's no familiar role to play as "That Off-Scale Person." You're off the show.

Edge cases of all sorts are outcast.


See also:
Lost Perspective, explaining how we instinctually normalize anomalies.
Fans, explaining the weird dynamics of meeting people who profess to admire your work.

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After selling Chowhound, I relayed the news family members.

(I'm not respected in my family. I'm the troublesome, nonconformist cousin with the oddball career as some sort of horn player or whatever. They speak slowly to me so I can understand. I'm a bit of an embarrassment.)

They were aware that I was running some kooky little web site, and when I mentioned that I'd sold it to a major corporation, response was oddly uniform: "That's nice..."—followed by a swift, eerie change of subject.

Why?

Off the scale! He's not that guy!

Now, where were we? So how are your parents...?