It goes without saying that all of us, at one point or another, have wondered who or what we would be if things in our lives had been different. What if you did what your parents told you? What if you went out for the football team instead of the debate team? What if you were born five years later or earlier? Things sure would be really different for you if the slightest thing in your past was changed.
So, in doing our Truth issue, we decided it would be fun and psychologically revealing to ask each person here at STIM to write up an alternate identity for this issue. Can you guess who is who?
"Call me anything you want, just don't call me old-fashioned!" says Morgan de la Famaglia with a jaunty twinkle in his eye. Morgan has been on the cutting edge of the art and technology scene since his days at Oxford, where he majored in Advanced Irrelevance. His squat, hunchbacked, three-foot-six frame is no indication of the towering creative giant therein. "It's all in how you think of yourself," he says modestly, making no mention of his brave championship of rights for the handicapped and his weekend work with blind orphans. Although a frequent subject of business magazine profiles, Morgan really comes out to shine at night: "Look out, everybody it's Morgan, the macarena-maniac!" is frequently heard at New York's most popular dance clubs. Friend to the animals and everybody's best pal, Morgan de la Famaglia brings his own special aroma to the STIM offices. The perfume, under the brand name "Hostility," is on sale in the STIM lobby during normal business hours.
My alter ego is a five-foot-two personal trainer with an M.D. in Sports Medicine. She's made it to the Olympic trials in three sports, but never made the team: cycling, swimming, and the long jump (it's hard when you're only five-two). The last time she saw a film was in 1989. Her favorite artist is Joan Miro.
My alter ego is a New-Agey visual artist. She sculpts, welds, makes jewelry, and uses all sorts of weird stuff and different media in her pieces. She has two huge Great Danes, who think they are people, and an organic garden where she grows her own food and herbs. She's also kind of psychic, very spiritual, and into palm-reading, tarot cards, and lucid dreaming. (Fuckin' hippie!)
My alter ego is a musician who has Gavin of Bush's looks, the musical chutzpah of Trent Reznor, the compositional and production talents of Brian Eno, the humor of John Flansburgh (They Might Be Giants), and the sexual appetite of Jimi Hendrix. Think of me as a sorta handsome Jim Thirwell.
My name is Pico. I am from Peru, where I am almost famous as the masked wrestler, "El Queso." I am not sure what that means, since I stopped speaking and understanding Spanish about a month ago. I awoke after a bout with another almost famous, masked wrestler, named "Pero de Bolivar." I cannot remember the last half of the fight. I think I won, though I am still not entirely sure. The language barrier may grow to be amusing yet bothersome.
My mother (at least I believe she is my mother, and she is so sweet and caring, despite not being able to understand what I am saying, that I dearly hope she is my mother) told me that I was born near the top of Machu Picchu, the ancient Inca fortress city in the Andes. The funny thing is, my mother speaks only Spanish, yet somehow I know she has told me this. I guess it is not important, the accident of where one is born. Except if you don't speak the language.
My manager his name is Miguel I believe does not seem concerned with our inability to communicate. His enthusiasm for miming has allowed me to continue training and wrestling despite our lack of a common language. Strangely enough, I seem to have been more successful in the ring since that curious fight a month ago than I ever had been before.
My name is Dr. C.F. "Corningware" Kane. I am sixty-three years old, of medium build, with wild gray hair, mirror contact lenses, and a small tattoo of a golden apple on my left shoulder. Ten years ago I accidentally invented something that has proven to be a time machine. This relatively small device which looks something like a 1960s-era "bong" has allowed me to jump forward and backward in time at will.
My most recent accomplishment with this device was to return to 1963 in order to help the fifth Lee Harvey Oswald escape to 1856. If I did not help him do that, then the second and third Lee Harveys would have been caught and revealed as the clones they were. It's a long story.
Next week I am planning on going to 2023 to help President DiCaprio escape a serious Special K addiction and avoid a nasty paternity suit. After that, I have to locate the reanimated corpse of Jerry Garcia before he kills again. Trust me, 2023 is gonna be fun!
My alter ego lives in the south of France, where she is involved in a women's empowerment project. She teaches local women who have been laid off from the pâté factory to use the ancient looms of their town. These women create beautiful, expensive luxury objects for France's ruling class, and experience the joys of artisanship while earning a nominal wage. My alter ego got a big UNICEF grant to do this and is hoping to get another one to help former spaghetti-making women in Italy start a sculpture co-op.
Bucky Saunders (a.k.a. Bucky Sanderson, a.k.a. Bucky "The Buck" Sanderino) is a motorcycle mechanic and short con operator. A master of the "Jake," the "crumble bum," and the "Sleazy Lisa," (all variations on three-card monte played, respectively, with out-of-state driver's licenses, food stamp IDs, and Charlie's Angels trading cards). Wanted in six states on charges ranging from impersonating a taxidermist to driving without pants to contributing to the delinquency of a quadruped. His whereabouts are currently unknown. He is also the author of the now-banned, Let's Be a Neurosurgeon! series from Time-Life books.
"Here comes the dismount
it's a perfect landing AND THE JUDGES GIVE HER A TEN, A TEN. This is a new Olympic record folks. No one gymnast has ever received a perfect ten on every piece of apparatus." As John Tesh uttered those beautiful words, the crowd leapt out of their seats, chanting my name: "OLGA, OLGA, OLGA." With tears swelling up in my eyes I had only one thought: "Bite this, Kerry Strug."
Well, as you would expect, the product endorsement deals came rolling in Wheaties, Nike, even my own FOX series. But even with all this money and fame, there was just one thing missing purpose. I thought to myself, "Olga, you must use your gymnastics for good."
From that day forward I focused all of my efforts on coaching the Special Olympics Gymnastics Squad. Things were going very well for me personal appearances with the "special" people, an autobiography on the New York Times best-seller list my life was finally (well, excluding the choosing of my life mate) complete.
However, just when all is going right, something always goes wrong. As I was coming out of the gym late one night, my eyes beheld an eerie sight. It was one of the old coaches (he had been kicked off the staff for uhhhh "spotting" the girls). He was holding the entire team hostage at gunpoint. I had to think fast. Having left my pepper spray at home, I ran inside the gym, called 911, grabbed a rosin bag and a jump rope and headed back out. As I was casing the parking lot for the optimum point of attack, I spotted an old vaulting horse that we had thrown out. Knowing now what I had to do, I tied the rosin to the rope and looped it around my shoulder. With the power of all that is good, I ran toward that horse, and, with one giant leap, I vaulted my way into the front pike that made me famous and landed directly on his shoulders, knocking him to the ground and his gun into the air. Just as I began pounding his face with rosin and tying his arms to his feet, the police and the camera crews arrived. As the police were arresting him, I freed the girls from the van. The girls hugged me and thanked me profusely. No gold medal, no perfect ten could compare to the feeling of capturing an armed gunman.
For my act of bravery and courage I was named the new Goodwill Ambassador to the United Nations and praised by Mother Teresa as being the most courageous, giving, loving, talented, and humble person in the world.
My alter ego is a redheaded college professor. She wears Dolce & Gabbana suits and seems very mysterious to her students. She is a professor of art history but as a side job she moonlights as a CIA operative investigating the black market in stolen art. She speaks Russian, French, Japanese, and several African dialects. Museum curators operating on the dark side, or wealthy collectors attempting an insurance scam are the first lulled by her fancy demeanor, but then she whips out the cuffs and arrests them! Her specialty is Rembrandt, and she was recently instrumental in exposing a few members of the Rembrandt Committee (an international group of art historians who determine provenance for Rembrandts and pseudo-Rembrandts) who had been "turned" and were authenticating fakes, then insuring them for large amounts of money and arranging to have them stolen.
She is rarely thanked for her work. Her job is best done when no one notices it is even happening. This makes her sad, but she knows she does what she does for the good of the world.
After making an apple pie from scratch, my alter ego goes to turn out the gas lamps in the house. Then she mounts the ladder to the loft where her twin babies sleep
they are fine. She descends and creeps into her own bedroom where she brushes her hip-length hair and thinks about the calico dress she is going to start making tomorrow or should she work on her natural abortion herbal recipe? Outside, the palms sway with magical meaning.