Artifice

I had the good fortune to finally see No Reservations tonight, and I came to a great and powerful revelation. Not caused by the movie itself (it’s perfectly delightful but not in any way deep) but by the single special feature included in the DVD: an episode of Unwrapped, the Food Network program that typically concerns itself with the mysteries of Twinkie manufacture. The show did an “exposé” of the movie, discussing how the stars learned to be “chefs” for the film.

Here’s the thing: They didn’t learn to be chefs. They learned the mannerisms of chefs. Aaron Eckhart, in the show, was discussing the mannerisms, the ebb and flow, the life of a kitchen. It’s not that they knew how to make a roux - they knew what it looked like to make a roux.

The difference is important when discussing Web 2.0. I just had an excruciating experience podcasting about the core essentials of social networking. If our brilliant podcast engineer William Haldane (bio coming soon) is able to salvage anything, you will discover that authentically entering the space is hard. Not just that, it’s painful. There’s no identifiable ROI, really, and the risk of looking like some sort of Dilbert-esque doofus is great. How do you recover, as a company, when you’ve started off with some sort of horrible gaffe in the social sphere?

Well, you don’t. So in order to avoid that, fake it. Read people that you respect and love. Find a way to make their style your own. Steal their tropes. Myself, if I ever got easci.com to a place where it was favorably compared to Mule Design, I would die a happy man. Pretend to be cool until you wake up one day and discover that you are, in fact, cool.

Build the Facebook page. Get the Twitter account. Do your best. Learn the mannerisms of the Web 2.0 universe and the rest will follow. Because the core mannerism of Web 2.0 advocates is that they have no tolerance for inauthenticity. When you learn to fake that (ha!), you can never go back. It will change the way you communicate.

There’s an NPR segment that has stuck with me for a long time, about surviving as an American in Paris. In one section, an ex-pat who teaches Americans not to look stupid and annoying in France storms into a magazine shop and demands (in English) a copy of American Vogue. She is met with the sort of calloused indifference that we (as Americans) expect of Parisians. Then she takes the reporter to another shop, enters, and says “Pardonnez moi, j’ai une probleme.” That’s “excuse me, I have a problem.” Then, reverting to English, she asks for a copy of American Vogue. The staff, though still completely incapable of fulfilling her wishes, bends over backwards to make her feel okay about that. They bring her in, talk her down, offer her coffee, suggest alternatives.

In both cases, asking for American Vogue in Paris is an horrendous gaffe. But in the one instance, you’re an ugly American. In the other, you’re the cutest darn American they’ve ever seen, just trying to find a port in the storm.

I swear to you: fake it. The natives will honor the effort.