By Elizabeth Petrangelo 2024

There was a time when my husband looked exactly like David Letterman. For those who might not know, David Letterman was the host of late-night television talk shows for 33 years, the longest-serving late-night talk show host in American television history. His face was distinctive and recognized everywhere.

Anyone who has met my husband Mike knows him to be diffident and unassuming, certainly not a seeker of the limelight. Yet there he'd be in an airport somewhere on a business trip, getting requests for his autograph. Not wanting to be argumentative, he'd oblige, but he'd sign his own name.

In 1993, Letterman switched networks to host the Late Show with David Letterman on CBS. This was a big deal for the network and its local affiliates, which included WCCO-TV in Minneapolis. To celebrate and ride the public relations coattails, this local station sponsored a David Letterman lookalike contest. The winner would come home with a new color TV.

Our employees at CRC Marketing Solutions were ecstatic. This would be a fun night at a local bar and an excuse to hang out together. They pestered and begged. Reluctantly and to be a good sport, Mike agreed. He'd go, have a few beers and a good time, and come home a happy loser.

But at the bar on the night of the event, it was immediately apparent that Mike would be the winner. None of the other entrants looked remotely like Letterman. A few breathless hours later, Mike was awarded the title and the TV and was interviewed on the WCCO News.

What he didn't account for was the enthusiasm of others. A friend called to let him know about a national promotion to find the best lookalike, to demand that Mike enter, and to give him the entry form, here you go. Before we knew it, he was signed up for the next gig in Chicago.

And, so began several years of the most reluctant stardom a person could experience.

Mike is known for thoroughness. Anything he does, he does all the way. When he works on a handyman project or vacuums the carpet, he does so with the tip of his tongue out. It's a family joke that he knows it's time to stop when his tongue hurts. A thing worth doing must be done well.

The approaching Chicago contest was no different. He bought a pair of Letterman granny glasses, a cigar, and a canned ham. He made sure he had an appropriate Letterman-style suit, shirt, and tie. Nervous, he packed and flew to Chicago.

The point of the Chicago contest was to choose a winner who would then be entered in a national lookalike competition sponsored by the MGM Grand in Las Vegas to celebrate its grand opening. Still thinking that Chicago was a temporary boondoggle and the only thing standing between him and coming back home to run his business, Mike was equal parts stunned and dismayed to be named the winner.

Even more stunning and dismaying was an immediate invitation to appear on Regis and Kathie Lee, ABC-TV's top-rated morning show along with a heavily oiled-up fake Sylvester Stallone. I suppose there is a video tape of this appearance somewhere, but I haven't been able to find it. What I do remember is fake Stallone looking uncomfortable and slightly creepy and Mike looking like he was having the time of his life.

Next stop Las Vegas.

His Chicago winnings included free airfare and a stay at the MGM Grand, which was an exciting boon to cash-strapped parents of teenagers. I packed and went along. This was my first exposure to the gambling and weirdness mecca that is the Las Vegas strip. It's America dialed up to 20. Nowhere else could you walk down the street accompanied by multiple Elvises, women wearing giant headdresses and not much else, jugglers, pirates, and the dreaded mimes. In 1993, Las Vegas casinos were still like theme parks, built to look like pirate ships or an Egyptian pyramid or Caesar's actual palace.

We arrived, checked in, and roamed around a bit, taking it all in. We thought we might see a show. But at the Seigfreid and Roy ticket booth, the $80 price tag sent us shamefacedly away. I had decided ahead of time that I was willing to lose up to $20 gambling and that slot machines would be the least scary way to gamble. We wandered through the rows of noisy machines and depressed, smoking women pulling levers, dropped in some coins and watched the cherries or hearts come up, grabbed a meal, and went to bed. Tomorrow was the big day.

The next day in the MGM auditorium, I hugged Mike, checked his tie, and wished him luck. He disappeared backstage and I found a seat.

The show consisted of an excited MC shouting into a microphone announcing each lookalike as he or she came out on stage and stood shoulder to shoulder. "And here's....John McEnroe!" "Let's all give a big welcome to Robert DeNiro!" Lookalikes included President Bill Clinton, Hillary Clinton, Jack Nicholson, K.D. Lang, Michael Jackson, Cher, Sylvester Stallone, Mike as David Letterman, Mikhael Gorbachev, Pope John the 23rd, and a guy who was portraying Alan Alda portraying Hawkeye Pierce from the old M*A*S*H* TV show, which was pretty meta. Big applause all around, drum roll, and the winner was ... Michael Jackson. (Let it be known that it was patently obvious said Michael Jackson lookalike had had multiple surgeries to achieve the look).

After the event, the various fake celebrities decided to decompress at a bar in the MGM. The bar was on an elevated platform and was open to the interior of the building so that everyone who passed by could see us just a few feet away. Mike and I found a table for four and sat down with President Clinton and the Pope. Jack Nicholson, Robert DiNiro and a few others grabbed nearby tables.

Soon enough, we drew a crowd. It started slowly and then mushroomed to at least sixty people. Some took pictures, some clasped their hands to their chests, and one woman started to cry. Most were focused on our table. Someone held up a baby, finally passing it forward to the fake Pope for his blessing. And then it struck me. These people really thought the Pope and the President of the United States were having martinis in the MGM Grand with a TV star and some random woman. This was the America I had come to know and be perpetually confused by.

Waiting for our departure at the airport, I realized I still had $5 left of the $20 I'd set as my loss limit. Somehow, I'd lost sight of the fact that the goal was to win, not to lose. I stayed at the slot machines near our gate until I had lost the last $5 and went home satisfied.

Once home from Las Vegas, we settled back in to a normal life of raising children and running a business as a new realization crystalized for us both: being a celebrity lookalike was an actual career, and actual people did it. A whole world of lookalikes existed, knew each other, appeared for meet-and-greets, or had comedy "bits" they were prepared to deliver when hired. Agents knew who they were and would call to book them for various reasons.

There is an old proverb that reads "everything comes to those who wait." But what if you haven't waited for it and suddenly it's just thrown at you? Having thought about this, I looked up the proverb and discovered that it dates back to the early 16th century and actually says this: "Good things come to those who wait but only the things left by those who hustle." Having had a taste for free airfare, the limelight, and being paid for nothing more grueling than just looking like someone else, Mike leaned in fully to the hustle.

The agents started to call. Can you be in New York City on the 23rd for an NEC Convention? Can you do a gig for Lifetouch in Minneapolis on August 28th?

The lookalikes themselves started to call. I'd answer the phone. "Mike, Jack Nicholson is on the phone." "Hey, Mike. You have a call from Cher." When they called, they identified themselves by their celebrity's name. Marilyn Monroe, who was apparently also an agent, called Mike regularly to offer this or that gig. K.D.Lang called all the time just to chat.

During his lookalike heyday, he appeared on Regis and Kathie Lee with fake Sylvester Stallone, helped Target open a new flagship store in New York City as fake David Letterman, and roasted real Jeff Gordon at a Nascar event. Finally, the pinnacle was achieved: an appearance on Late Night with David Letterman for a bit named "Top Ten Guys Who Sort of Look Like Me, Dave." Another segment of the show was "Dinner with Dave," during which Letterman chatted uncomfortably with all of the lookalikes while the meal was filmed by his crew. During dinner, Letterman leaned in to Mike and asked, sotto voce, "how much do you get paid for an appearance?" When Mike told him he usually got between $800 and $1,500, Letterman relaxed and moved on.

Ultimately, the hustle and bustle and goofiness of it all started to wear thin. Marilyn Monroe would call with an offer. Mike would refuse. She'd press. He'd cave. And off he'd go again.

Mike is a person who doesn't like to say no to anybody. "What should I do?" he'd ask me. "I can't figure out how to say no." I suggested he just keep raising his price until it was too rich. That they'd give up. "Ask for $5,000," I suggested - a big step up. He asked, they agreed immediately, and he was on his way again. He was a man in demand. Between 1994 and 1998, he made more than 30 appearances.

Eventually, the press of his real life and his waning interest helped him withdraw from the strange world of being someone else. The calls from Jack and K.D. and Marilyn Whoopi stopped and life returned to normal. It was fun while it lasted and, we both have to admit, an extremely strange period in our lives.

It's 2024 now, more than 25 years since his last Letterman gig. Now, the real Dave Letterman and my Letterman look nothing alike. They've moved on from their earlier lives. Both have aged and are handsome in a different way. The other day, we happened across the video of Mike's appearance on Letterman's show and watched it. One thing was clear to us: he was the one person who most looked like Dave.

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