Tonight I was told that Norwegian free-jazz bassist Ingebrigt Håker Flaten is my doppelgänger.
My girlfriend and I were at the Dusty Groove America record store in Chicago's Wicker Park neighborhood when a man to my left looked up from the soundtracks section (alphabetized by composer, not by movie title—Dusty Groove don't mess around, y'all) and said, "Ingebrigt?"
I wasn't sure at first what he'd said—I didn't recognize any English in the question he had posed.
He followed it up with "Håker Flaten?"
Again, confusion. I was wondering where the hidden camera was located.
"You're not Ingebrigt Håker Flaten?"
At that point I remembered the bassist's name from the five years I spent proofreading the music listings at the Chicago Reader. According to the gentleman at Dusty Groove, Håker Flaten doesn't live in Chicago anymore, so it's a good thing I'm still around for false sightings.
(This is my "actor" head shot. If I don't land the role of Ingebrigt Håker Flaten in The Ingebrigt Håker Flaten Story, I'll have to fire my agent. Of course, before I take that drastic step I'll have to find an agent, but why sweat the details?)