Riding the bus from Denver International back to Boulder, I noticed that the young fellow sitting across the aisle from me was so ruddy of face, so florid, that I thought maybe he’d been in a fire. His hair was pale nearly to the point of transparency, so I figured he’s probably just one of those very fair-complected, nearly albinic people who can’t tolerate sun in even the smallest doses. I gave this guy a pretty good once-over because he kept looking up from his scholarly-looking hardback book in order to glance at me. Finally I caught his eye and smiled, inviting him to explain his evident interest in me. “You look just like Robert Fripp,” he said. Really? “You know Robert Fripp?” Yes. “I mean, you know who he is?” Yeah, sure. “And no one has ever told you you look like him?” No, can’t say as they have, although after all I am a twenty-first century schizoid man. “I know the song,” the red-faced fellow replied, “but mostly I’ve come to know his newer stuff, since about 2000.” When at last the bus arrived at my stop I nodded amicably toward the musically-inclined scholar. “Check out Robert Fripp’s picture on the internet,” was his parting remark, and, disembarking, I promised to do so.
So here’s an image. I suppose I can see the resemblance, although Fripp is far older than I am.
By way of contrast, here’s a recent photo of me taken at the circus. I think you’ll agree that the differences are striking.