I get into an elevator in a Beverly Hills building that's full of doctors, including my own. Before the car heads upwards, another man gets in with me. My keen eye for recognizing people tells me it's Paul Shaffer, famed bandleader-sidekick to David Letterman. He's wearing dark glasses and a hat that does not completely cover his totally-bald head but it's definitely Paul Shaffer.
Except that it isn't. In the second glance I take at him, I see that he is not Paul Shaffer but rather an incredible facsimile. I say nothing but he says to me, "No, I'm not Paul Shaffer."
I say, "I realized that on second glance. How many times a day do you have to tell people you're not Paul Shaffer?"
He says, "When I'm out in public, about once every half-hour. Sometimes, I can hear them whispering or I know from their faces and I just let them think that."
I ask, "Is it better now that Letterman's gone off?"
He says, "A little, yeah. For a while there, I was thinking of flying to New York, robbing a bank near where Letterman tapes and watching them arrest Paul Shaffer."
And that's when I get off on my podiatrist's floor. Except that before I get off, I tell him, "I know how you feel. I'm sick of telling people I'm not Jon Hamm."
As the doors close, he says, "I wasn't fooled."