Apparently I have this kind of face...

... that reminds people of someone they feel they should know, but don't quite remember. (Not Sir Tony, whose face adorns my blog.) Never less than annually, and often several times per year, some complete stranger comes up to me and asks where they know me from.

This isn't the same thing as the time I showed up for my dentist for a routine cleaning and inspection, and was told not to worry: "Root canals don't hurt nearly as badly as you've been told." When I protested that I was only there for a cleaning, the nurse, thinking I was freaking out, patted my hand and offered me a sedative. I insisted that no, I was really just there for a cleaning. "You are Geoff Hart, aren't you?" "Yes, but I think there's been some kind of mistake." She wouldn't believe me until (in a fit of CSI-inspired logic) I suggested she compare my teeth with those in my file photos. Fortunately, they didn't match. (Had they matched, I would have assumed I'd fallen into some scary-bad Phildickian situation and left the dental office airborne.) As it turns out, another Geoff Hart (same spelling and everything) was scheduled for the same date and time, but with a different dentist, and he hadn't shown up. Maybe it's this guy?

Sometimes the sense of likeness is a little more surreal. Back about 20 years, I was in a park pushing my young son on the swings, when a couple teenagers came up and asked for my autograph. "Who do you think I am?", I wondered. "Weird Al Yankovic", they replied. Nowadays the resemblance is faint, but back then, I did bear a sort-of resemblance to the younger Al, in his curly hair and eyeglasses phase. You had to squint a bit, but the resemblance was there.

A month or so back, checking out of a hotel, the clerk furrowed her brow, and asked me whether I was a famous artist, because she was sure she recognized me. Unfortunately, she couldn't come up with the name or genre of art, but she insisted I was not Geoff.

Then, a couple weeks ago, Shoshanna and I were at the Maryland Renaissance Festival, which is a ton of fun, when someone approached me out of the crowd. "Why'd you fake your death?" he asked. Wait... what? "Who do you think I am?" "No, really, Jerry? Why'd you fake your death?" Turns out he thought I was Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead. The resemblance is there, but not to anyone who is a sufficiently serious Deadhead to spot Garcia (or his ghost) in a crowd. I informed him that I was a lesser-known member of the Grateful Living, and had never been a member of the Dead, and we parted company, but I'm not sure I convinced him. Somewhere on the Internet, there's undoubtedly a new contribution to the meme that Garcia, like Elvis, is still out there somewhere.

I have this suspicion that maybe this is my mutant superpower, and that I only need to learn how to harness it to achieve riches and fame. (Or possibly the sad fate of Peter Parker, who never seems to catch a break.) Where's Professor Xavier when you really need him? Maybe I need to fan-stalk Patrick Steward at Comicon: "I really need your help, Professor... I know you're pretending to be an actor, but this is serious..."