There are billions of people on this planet. Billions. Yet everybody looks like somebody else. Go on, look at yourself. Give yourself a good once over. Is that you, or is it Skippy from Family Ties? From a certain angle, you might closely resemble a young Barbara Walters, Hugh Downs, or John Stossel. Hey, I didn’t make this up. They told me. You know, “they”.
Once, while waiting on a long line, a group of people in front of me were introducing themselves to each other. They made small talk, asking each other the Five Obligatory Small Talk Questions (age 18-25). The first, “What is your name?” is almost never actually asked, but is volunteered. Next you have “Where are you from?” followed by “Where do/did you go to school?” The answers to these questions prompt Question 4, a.k.a The Name Game. “Do you know Guy/Girl? He/She grew up in Your Town or goes to Idontcareabout U./Annoyed State.” “Yes! I totally met him one time. He’s my roommate’s boyfriend’s best friend from high school, and I met him when he came to visit someone he knows from Governor’s School.” Apparently some governors run schools when they aren’t running their states. This is a foreign concept in New York, where I am from, I suppose because our Governor has his hands full with the many issues that face New York and hasn’t the time to run a school. Leave that to states like New Jersey and Virginia, where the governors need to find pet projects to keep busy.
Anyway, back on line, the group ahead of me started in with Question Five. Up until this point, Question Five had been unknown to me as part of the standard Small Talk repertoire. Question Five goes a little something like this: “So who do people say you look like, like what celebrity?” Now, I will not refute any claims that these in-fronties may have a little off, but of the six people comprising the group engaged in Small Talk, not one flinched. Not one floundered. Not one seemed at all unprepared to answer this question. And this was, to me, the most alarming part of the whole ordeal.
I had never really studied myself with the intention of figuring out whom I could best impersonate. I figured that, when the time came for me to take my career to that level and move to Vegas, I’d worry about it. But was I totally off base? Maybe I should be prepared with this information. After all, if these people all knew, who’s to say that my next potential employer won’t ask the same? After exposing my strengths and weaknesses, I’ll have to disclose what musician I most resemble and hope he or she knows his work. I’ll have to carry a picture around for easy comparison. But al that is simple. I needed to take the first step: identification of my famous doppelganger.
I wandered the streets, gazing at myself in every car mirror, darkened window, or oily puddle. I heard voices in my head. More than usual. And, luckily, one made itself heard. It was Nupe. He said, “Hey man, what’s up? Being in you’re head kinda rules. Hey you have any cold beers? Sweet. Can I ride that roller-coaster over there by your hippocampus?” “Nupe,” I thought back, “You can ride it but please don’t get sick. I’ll never get the smell out. Didn’t you want to tell me something?” “Oh yeah, you a lot like Ben Folds.” I didn’t believe Nupe at first. The memory of the time Nupe tried to convince me that electricity was good for my hair was still fresh. But I had a little one on none session in front of the mirror with collage of pictures of Ben from different angles. And there it was, the resemblance, staring me right in the face. Bingo. Thanks, Nupe.
Ben Folds, for any of you unfortunate not to know, is only the best thing to happen to music since. You might think that statement is unfinished, but it’s not. He used to be the part of the band Ben Folds Five, which only had three members. Don’t try to reason it out. Just accept it. He has since struck out on his own and started wearing glasses. Green plastic glasses. Just like mine.
So now I know. I look like Ben Folds. I’ll always have an answer in case I ever get to Question Five in any social, political, or economical situation. And I’m lucky. I look like my favorite musician. If I were to theoretically mistake myself for Ben in a haze or due to some kind of complicated amnesia, I’d be psyched. I’d probably even go through mild depression once I found out I was just me. But if I looked a lot like, say, Chris Kattan, whom I strongly dislike (to say the least), I might severely injure myself. And we wouldn’t want that. Not due to a case of mistaken self-identity anyway.
Editor’s Note: Compare for yourself.
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| Ben Folds. | Our little Flynn. |