…or rich? last night we went to a new italian restaurant. It’s small, and a bit pricy. We don’t overdo often, but once in a while…
We have a 10 year old, Corvette. It’s paid for. We keep it nice, it has less than 80k miles on it.
So, we parked on the street in front of the place, which is mostly outdoor seating. It was a beautiful evening. We were seated in the prime spot on the deck. It seemed we were our waiter’s only customers. The owner came by to welcome us and ask if we would mind if the camera crew that was filming a commercial, included us.
The waiter offered us a wine from the owners private reserve, compliments of the owner. We had a wonderful dinner. We were then escorted to the door by the waiter, and the owner, who extracted promises to come again, soon. We went to the car with them waving like cruise ship revellers.
We then realized it was the CAR, not our scintillating company, that had caused all the attention.:smack:
Paul Szep, formerly in charge of Editorial Cartoons at the Boston Globe (and an editorial cartoonist himself). My wife saw him at a First Night celebration and thought he was me.
Many years earlier, he was the subject of one of those “Dewar’s Profiles” ads on the back of a magazine, and one of my co-workers cut it out, cut the name off, and posted it on my door. People kept coming up to me and seriously asking how I got into a whiskey ad.
In all fairness, his chin is a bit more Leno-esque, but even I am struck by how similar we loooked (I’m not sure if we still look the same)
This is more akin to picunurse’s story. I have a work colleague whose daughter used to work for an internationally-known artist. When a nearby museum was hosting a large exhibition of the artist’s work and I mentioned to my colleague that I wanted to see it, he said, “I’ll let my daughter know. She can arrange for you to get a personal tour.”
Let me tell you, the day I showed up for my personal tour, the museum staff were obviously DYING to know who the hell I was that I rated a phone call from the one of the artist’s people and tried in various subtle ways to get it out of me. Since it wasn’t going to do them any good to find out anyway (since I am just a poor art-loving schlub, not some well-connected rich person), I played coy the entire time. It sure was fun to be fawned over, though.
I can’t give too many details or my anonymity will be void - suffice it to say that I share names with a rather famous/champion of a sport that I also used to play - when I entered into a local tournemant, the entire area was quite a flutter that 'oh my god - he’s here? really? hope I get partnered with him" - while I was good, I was never that good - and the collective let down of the crowd when they realized it was not him was quite humourous in a sad sort of way.
When I was 18, some old dude stopped me in Dillard’s and asked if I was John Daly. He was on the cover of Sports Illustrated that week, and I admit my haircut and physique were a lot like his, and our faces are even sorta similar. Still, I was about 10 years too young, so the old guy was disappointed.
Not me personally, but my dad was often mistaken for Chicago food critic James Ward. We’d get seated immediately in crowded restaurants and more than a few times, our server told us that the manager had taken care of the bill. My dad completely played this up, to my horror.
I just googled James Ward and found his obituary. I hope my dad doesn’t try to use his little scheme again:
Not for anyone specific, but it did happen to me when I visited Los Angeles. I actually wrote a short essay about it, back when I thought I was going to go back to school for writing. Rather than tell the whole story or repost the essay, I’ll just link to it for anyone who might be interested in reading it.
At a bar I frequent in Los Angeles, it is often commented upon that I look like Matt Damon (which I don’t see, but I get it on the street a good bit as well, so I just go with it).
It got so bad around the time “The Bourne Supremacy” was released that I answered to “Supremacy” for about six months.
Anyway, there’s this one old drunk at the bar who actually thinks I AM Matt Damon, and that the whole laughing it off when people call me by “my” name is my way of keeping it secret. He’s promised me on a number of occasions that he won’t tell anyone.
On one such occasion, I was flirting with a fine-looking young woman. I told her my actual name, we talked a while, she got up to use the bathroom, and old drunk gives me a big wink like he and I sure are putting one over on this girl.
Not for nothing old-timer, but if I were Matt Damon, my pickup line would be, “Hi. I’M MATT DAMON.” :dubious:
This happens to me waaay too much. What I don’t get, is folks can’t even agree on who I am.
I’m either this guy, this guy, or this guy. Seriously, I was accused of being all three in less than an hour last time I was up in Corpus. What really sucks, is I’m much sexier than any of them.
At least that’s what my wife says.
