You're famous. But who the hell are you?

A story about mistaken identity. Sort of.

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I woke up in a Soho doorway
A policeman knew my name
He said, ‘You can go sleep at home tonight,
If you can get up and walk away’

No wait, that wasn’t me. Those are the lyrics Pete Townshend wrote for The Who song Who Are You? If Wikipedia is accurate, and I like to think it is, Townshend wrote those lyrics after a bender with two members of The Sex Pistols.

According to the story, Townshend did actually wake up in a Soho doorway, after a bender. And a policeman, who really did know his name, promised the musician he’d let him go, if he could get up and walk away.

But the part of the chorus that goes, Oh, who the fuck are you? (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?) wasn’t about Townshend being so drunk that he had forgotten his identity. The line was actually a reference to an obnoxious record executive named Allen Klein. Townshend would later describe Klein as the “awesome rock leech-godfather” (ARLG). Evidently, ARLG, who was known for being a total prick, played hardball while negotiating with Townshend and said something along the lines of, “Who the fuck are you?”

Of course, Townshend is a rock legend, ARLG was a lesser-known asshole, and I am but the humble writer of Situation Normal, the internet’s 57th most popular humor newsletter. I am neither famous, nor infamous. As another rock legend once sang, I’m just an ordinary, average guy.

Except, sometimes people really do think I’m famous. Once, at the Post Office, a Deadhead who was stoned out of his gourd thought I was Jerry Garcia. Even though Jerry had been dead for decades, the man insisted I “do something about Phish,” before asking for Jerry’s autograph.

Whenever I visit the Sherman Oaks Mendocino Farms, a cashier there swears I look like “Lebanese Einstein.” It should be noted, however, that I’m not Lebanese, and neither was Einstein. Also, I’m pretty sure the cashier was even more stoned than the Deadhead at the Post Office.

At the 2016 Presidential Debates in Las Vegas, a pair of Trump supporters insisted that was me Abbie Hoffman. Of course, Hoffman died in the late ‘80s, a few years before Jerry Garcia joined the ranks of the actual, as opposed to grateful, dead. I suspect the Trumpers called me Abbie Hoffman because saying something like, “check out the left-wing Jew” might’ve come across as too aggressive pre-Charlottesville. Or, maybe the Trumpers were also just stoned.

The thing is, the Deadhead autograph hound, the stoned Mendocino Farms cashier, and the Trumpers are all amateurs. It’s not their job to recognize celebrities, or even maintain sobriety. They’re just ordinary, average people who happen to have run into an ordinary, average guy and mistaken said guy for someone famous.

But a paparazzo is a different story, and as it turns out, I have a paparazzo story. Here’s what I wrote on Facebook about my run-in with a paparazzo back in 2017.

I am not a celebrity, but the guy who jams his camera in my face to snap some unflattering photos of me eating a slice of pizza sees it differently.

“Excuse me. Why did you just take my photo?”

“I’m a paparazzo! I work for Access Hollywood.”

“Good for you, but that doesn’t answer my question. Why did you take my photo?”

“I’m a paparazzo,” he says again, as if his job is the only explanation required.

“So you don’t ask for permission?”

He shrugs.

“It’s rude not to ask,” I say. “I really don’t appreciate you taking my photo, and I’d like you to delete it.”

“You’re being rude with this attitude. I shot Howie Mandel. I’m blessed.”

“Howie Mandel?! What’s he got to do with this?”

“Howie Mandel is a lot more famous than you,” the paparazzo says. “He was so cool, and you’re an asshole. But I got you stuffing pizza into your fat face, so there.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re the asshole here.”

“No, I’m blessed. I’m a famous paparazzo.”

“Paparazzi aren’t famous,” I say. “They’re infamous.”

“No. I’m a famous paparazzo.”

“What’s your name?”

“Tony Moss.”

“Never heard of you. But tell me something, Tony, who the fuck do you think I am?”

“Are you kidding? You’re the guy from Jurassic Park.”

“Jeff Goldblum?”

“No. The fat guy who was on Seinfeld.”

I burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” the paparazzo asks.

“What’s funny is how much you suck at your job.”

I’ve run into the same paparazzo a half-dozen times since our first encounter. The exchanges are always tense. The paparazzo refuses to say who he thinks I am, but he’s generous with the insults. I know he’s just trying to get under my skin so that I’ll freak out, and he can get one of those celebrity freak out photos that are tabloid gold. It’s a great plan, one that’s worked on Sean “Punch a Paparazzo” Penn many, many times. Except, and I can’t stress this enough, I am not famous.

Or, maybe I’m wrong about that. Maybe I am famous, and I just don’t see it. Melissa, who bags groceries at our local market, is convinced that I’m a famous actor.

“I’ve seen you in here before,” Melissa said the other day. “I always keep meaning to ask what show I’ve seen you on.”

“It’s true,” the cashier said. “Every time you come in, she’s always like, that guy is famous.”

“Do the other people who work here think I’m famous?” I asked the cashier.

“I don’t think so. But Melissa is kinda obsessed with you.”

I look at Melissa. She smiles and nods enthusiastically. Unlike the paparazzo, Melissa seems like the kind of person who doesn’t say mean things just to fuck with people. And unlike the Deadhead autograph hound, the stoned Mendocino Farms cashier, and the Trumpers, Melissa also seems sober.

“Seriously, what show have I seen you on?” Melissa asked.

“I dunno… maybe Supermarket Sweep.”

“You’re being funny,” Melissa said. “He’s funny, probably a comedian, am I right? You were on Community, weren’t you?”

“No. But I am a member of the community.”

“I keep telling you,” the cashier groaned, “he’s not famous.”

“Look at him,” Melissa insisted, “he’s gotta be famous.”

The cashier looked at me. She didn’t see it, and I didn’t want to get into my previous brushes with fame, not here in the checkout line. Besides, I was worried Melissa might get confused and assume I was the actor who played Jerry Garcia, Abbie Hoffman, or Lebanese Einstein, even though no such actor exists.

“He always looks super-casual, like he just rolled out of bed,” Melissa continued.

“There’s an explanation for that,” I said. “I actually did just roll out of bed, and I always fly casually.”

“So what if he wears a hoodie and athletic shorts to go shopping?” the cashier asked.

“That’s how celebrities dress when they’re doing normal stuff,” Melissa insisted. “It’s how they take a break from putting on makeup for the camera, or dressing to the nines. It’s more comfortable to dress like a real person. That’s why whenever you see tabloid photos of celebs doing normal stuff like getting coffee or walking their dog, they’re just wearing normal stuff, like sweatpants and t-shirts.”

“Sorry to tell you this, Melissa, but I’m not famous. I’m a nobody.”

“Well, who are you?”

There it was. The Pete Townshend question. It always comes back to the Pete Townshend question, doesn’t it?

Well, who are you? (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)
Oh, who are you? (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)
Come on tell me who are you? (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)
Oh, who the fuck are you? (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)

“I’m Michael Estrin,” I told Melissa. “I’m a writer. You may know me from such mediums as the internet.”

“Oh.”

Melissa sounded disappointed. But I didn’t want to bum her out, and maybe that’s why I chose to end this “celebrity” encounter on a hopeful note.

“But I’ll tell you something, Melissa, your question is a good one.”

“It is?” the cashier asked.

“Absolutely,” I said. “The truth is, I’ve often wondered just who I am.”

“Really?” Melissa asked.

“Yes! The question comes up a lot, more than I’d care to admit, actually.”

“It does?”

“Oh yes. It came up at the Post Office. It comes up often at my favorite restaurant. Heck, one time I had to ask who I was and all I was doing was trying to eat a slice of pizza in peace. Trust me, this question comes up a lot, Melissa. So, do me a favor.”

“What?”

“If you figure out who I am, please let me know.”

Meantime, I’m sharing a portrait of the writer as a young(er) man.

My friend Sam Comen took this photo of me in 2018ish. Just FYI, sometimes I grow my hair and beard out to “epic” lengths. Please leave a comment & tell me if I remind you of any celebrities. Good AND bad answers encouraged!

And if you’ve got a moment, please hit the ❤️ button 👇