The Visual8

In September of 1984, the movie Amadeus told the story of young genius in a deeply human way. 

The next year it was nominated for eleven Academy Awards winning eight of them. The two male leads were both nominated for Best Actor. Tom Hulce portrayed Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

The same guy who was the nervous pledge from Animal House was now the ever-laughing, young prodigy. One who was never willing to genuflect to tradition.

In September of 1984, I entered the Rhode Island School of Design as a nervous freshman. And while I was surrounded by art geniuses, something odd happened.

Someone proclaimed that I was a dead ringer for Amadeus. He was so certain of this finding than no one within earshot mistook his conviction.

My back straightened a little and I felt a warm glow inside of my chest. It had never occurred to me to have a famous doppelganger. One who captivated a world of movie-goers with cackles under a powdered wig.

I did the best thing one could do at the time. Smile graciously, look down at the floor, and never speak of it again.

In 2011, my work took me to Portland Oregon.

I was working as a technologist for a company founded by a genius. My job was to convince prospects that our technology would change their business.

An affable sales executive named Jeff took me to his favorite place. We wandered the creaky floors of Powell’s City of Books. He bought me two by the same author because of how they made him feel. He was clear that the writing was insightful, and I needed to enjoy them, too.

Over coffee or drinks, I cannot remember which, he made another proclamation which resurfaced the same emotions of 1985.

He was convinced that I was Steven Colbert’s lookalike.

At the time, Colbert hosted a show called the Colbert Report. He dawned the persona of a hyper-conservative talk show host. This character constantly looked for audience recognition.

He would announce a guest. Then he would dash from the main desk to a smaller table where the guest was already sitting. During the welcoming applause he would wave his arms in the air as if it was meant for him.

The day after my time with Jeff in Portland, I was in Seattle to brief a customer about product futures. In our industry, we treat these occasions as “Non-Disclosure” requiring a legal contract to keep quiet.

The title slide illuminated the room. I lowered my voice and reminded them of the consequences of failure to comply. They looked at each other, then to me as tensions rose.

The next slide was a side by side comparison of my headshot next to Colbert. The customers fell apart.

This was admittedly a huge gamble on my part, but the start of my embracing the ridiculous.

Fast forward. After many years, I let the beard grow again. It’s a ritual I observe when there are big life changes coming.

Shortly after a yoga class a fellow student broke the 7am silence. He was certain that I pass for Luke Skywalker.

Not the young Jedi in the white costume of the late seventies. But the crusty, self-secluded hermit.

Within the last few years, friends at the Wizard Academy saw someone else. The Wizard put it on the front page of his Monday Morning Memo.

Upon reflection, I thought it needed a little more staging. So, I quietly returned to the original painting for another attempt.

What’s curious about these episodes is that I really look like none of these famous characters.

Sure, there might be a feature or two which triggers the idea.

Maybe it’s the tawny, black, and grey beard of Skywalker. Or the long hair of Wolfgang. Or even the rimless glasses for Colbert.

Yet it’s not the shape of my face that draws the comparison.

That “x” factor is actually an aspect of personality.

Maybe the lift in the voice. The sparkle of the eye. The solemn expression that meditation brings. These items tickle the mind.

Ask yourself what the underlying personality traits those characters share.

Mozart. Colbert. Skywalker. Quixote.

What threads them together? What threads them to me?

I can only conclude it’s a kind of ridiculousness. Being serious about not being serious. True to self. Independent of what other people think. Energized by an idea.

But not purposefully weird.

Just comfortable in being one bubble off of plumb.

Which leads me to something to share: a simple guideline on how to be ridiculous. 

1. Be in touch with how you stick out; then embrace it.

Growing up requires some level of conformity. It is the grease that eases friction of social engagement. Follow the rules. Say “please” and “thank you”. No flip flops at fine dining.

However, there are things that make you pleasantly absurd.

Don’t be shy. Share them.

2. Realize that’s it’s not about costumes.

Yes, a hairstyle or signature jewelry might do it.

TV Chef Alex Guarnaschelli once told me something interesting. Fellow celebrity Geoff Zakarian only wears wingtips. He wears them even when he first gets out of bed.

However, it does not have to be a costume to make it work.

It could be the fact that you knowingly cross-pollinate clichés in unexpected ways. Like “a stitch in time saves lives” (instead of nine).

Or maybe singing off key to a certain song while it plays on your headset and others cannot hear.

3. Don’t take a good thing too far.

There is a subtle art to being different without calling attention to yourself. Very few of us can dress like Elton John without hushed whispers.

It should resonate with your personal frequency without being noisy.

Know there’s balance between self-expression and self-indulgence.

There may be other guidelines or even better ones. These are just the ones I’ve noticed.

Remember this is just an amateur’s guide.

I am still working on being professionally ridiculous.