"Who The F--k Are You?"

"Do I know you?

One of my favorite bloggers Jon of "Lone Star Concerto" wrote a blog posting on the lack of spontaneity in his life.  He wrote about one of his experiences when living in southern California:

"Late at night in Hollywood it wasn't unusual to see streets blocked off while scenes for movies or a TV series were being filmed. One night I was walking home and the street I needed to access was blocked by a filming crew.  Annoyed and a little drunk, I simply kept walking - right through the set while they were filming.

The director said "Cut!" and then he yelled (at me) "Who the f--k are you?"

"I'm an unpaid extra," I told him."

The question the direction posed to Jon "Who the f--k are you?" struck home with me.  Isn't that question a great metaphor for our lives?  At least my life.  I liked Jon's answer: "I'm an unpaid extra."

That folks is the STORY of my life.  It seems that all my life, when I encounter someone I don't know whether it be from my childhood to my encounters here in Gayberry (Rehoboth Beach and environs) Land "Who the f--k are you?"  

Doesn't it seem to you (and you and you) that we constantly have to prove that we are somebody?  That we matter?  

Even my own father seemed to pose that question to me even though I was his the first of his three sons; sometimes the way he looked at me it seemed that he was wondering "Who are you?"  More than a few times he accused me of not being his son, that they got the babies mixed up in the hospital where I was born.  No matter that I'm almost the spitting image of him (especially as I grow older) and I have just about all of his physical mannerisms (much to my chagrin).  Sometimes I even wonder to myself, "who am I?"

Then there are to occasions, most recently at my job as the front desk "agent" (clerk actually, the schmoo who checks you in at the hotel) when I come face to face with "important" people.  I remember one such occasion.  A local, self important photographer stopped by the front desk to see the owner of the hotel.  As is my style, I attempted to engage him in small conversation while he waited for the owner to show up.  

I forget what I burbled but I said something innocuous to pass the time.  As the sound waves of my inane talk entered his ear drums and attempted to register, he slowly turned and looked at me with what could only be described as "Who are you?" or more accurately "Who the f--k are you?"  The contempt emanating from his narrowed eyes towards me could wilt a flower (yes, I am a gentle flower folks).  I quickly retreated back into my position of subservience and made a mental note not to ever again talk to this ectoplasm that purports to be a living, breathing human being.

Growing up poor, on the wrong side of town (literally), with a hillbilly (literally) father who didn't want children and who constantly belittled and demeaned me, I grew up learning that the best way to navigate my way through life was to keep my head low and not to say too much lest I offend "my betters"  by daring to speak unless spoken to.

Joining the Army after high school and leaving the negative environment of home was perhaps the best thing that ever happened to me.  Those three years in the Army matured me more than my previous eighteen years of walking and dodging on this planet.  For the first time in my life I wasn't denigrated for the way I looked (skinny, big nose, poor posture) or my humble family background (which is actually very noble once I researched into my family history, my first ancestor landed on these shores in the late 1600's)  

These days I sail through life as my own man.  Either you like me or you don't, that's your choice and if you don't like me that is your loss.  Actually, it really is your loss because I'm a damn nice guy.   

I never cease to be amazed at how many people dismiss me and others like me just because I don't have the pedigree of family or social connections and only consider me worthy of their attention because of my physical attributes (sex) or for what I can do for them (money).  

So to answer the question that anonymous director shouted to my friend Jon "Who the f--k are you?"

I'm somebody, that's who.  Somebody they will never be because never in my life have I ever asked anyone, "Who the f--k are you?"  I accept and judge people by their character and not their social pedigree, sexual conquest, or what I can get out of them.  And that folks makes me the odd man out.  But then I always knew I was odd.  

Welcome to my world.  

Didn't Win!!!!!!

Guess who at 16 years old?
What's with that hand?  Damn, gay from Day One.

Well folks, I'm sure this doesn't come as a surprise to some of you but I DIDN'T WIN THE MEGA MILLIONS JACKPOT!  How about that?  There goes my plans for transporting the entire group of friends attending next year's Bloggerpalooza to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico for the shindig.  Oh well, maybe the next half a billion jackpot I'll be luckier.

Okay, while I pout a bit here over my missed chance I think you will enjoy this little film clip that I produced from my father's old 8mm film.

The clip shows me as a very self-conscious 16 year old (1958) with our family dogs in the front yard of our new home in East Brandywine Township, Downingtown, Pennsylvania.  Up until 1958 our family lived in a second floor, roach infested apartment in town Downingtown and another 2nd floor apartment on Boot Road above the Gindy Manufacturing Company offices.  Quite a culture shock to leave the roaches behind and breath in fresh air.  

This clip shows me at my most self-conscious.  Oh how I remember those days.  I was shirtless because I thought I could get a tan.  HA!  I wanted to bad to be the tan and muscular idols of my youth like Tab Hunter.  WHAT WAS I THINKING!

You know boys and girls?  Looking back on those days I am glad I was the way I was and not the stereotypical, Hollywood manufactured, shallow sex object.  But remembering those days, I was so ashamed of myself.  How skinny I was, no tan, no muscles, no self-confidence.  

It's interesting to look back now and realize how screwed up I was, mainly because I grew up in a small town, was constantly belittled and mocked by my father (probably because I wasn't the butch, deer shooting and gutting, eldest son he wanted.  Well, guess what Pop?  Neither of his two succeeding sons ever accompanied him on any of his hunting trips either.  But I was the only one who turned out to be gay…..and from Day One.  Check out my hand to my face.  What was that ALL ABOUT?  No wonder he didn't take me hunting. 

My Double?

My double?

Have you ever been told you have a double?  I have.

In fact, I've been told quite often that someone has a brother-in-law, uncle, cousin, friend and/or co-work who looks EXACTLY LIKE ME.  Of course the first thing I think is "Lucky guy!"

The real me.

Yep, I unashamedly admit that I envy any guy who looks just like me.  Wouldn't you?  If someone told you that they know someone who looks exactly like you, wouldn't you take it as a compliment?  Well, I guess maybe if you had a low self-esteem you wouldn't be too thrilled with that little bit of news.

Me and my best "assistant football coach" stance

So it was with some amusement when I came across this photo on the Internet a few days ago.  I first thought it was a photo of moi.  After all, there are THOUSANDS of photos of moi floating around on the Internet.  But I couldn't remember this one.  It looked like I was an assistant coach on a football field.  Folks, the only time I've been on a football field was as the member of my high school marching band.  Obviously, this wasn't a photo of me.  However, the resemblance is remarkable.  His eyes are a little bigger but other than that, the face, especially the mouth is the same.  In fact, I think this guy is rather attractive.  Another funny thing, anytime I meet or saw someone like me and tried to make a connection, they were never interested in me.

The Essential Ron

Yes folks, this is "The Essential Ron."  Yesterday my friends Paul, Jack and I visited the Old Time Photo shop in Rehoboth (yes, I went back) and I have to tell you I am very pleased with this photo.  I think it captures my essential core just right.  I am convinced now that I was a cowpoke in one of my previous lives.  I am so comfortable in this getup.  Not for me the typical gay pride getup of femme drag, I go for Cowboy Drag anytime!

Smile!

Ron - Yearbook picture 1959

Today at 10 I have an appointment at the Milford Walmart for my annual portrait photo.


Who is that above?  That is me, my yearbook picture, sans smile.  I remember clearly when this picture was taken.


 I was 16 years old.


I was petrified .


I was shy and backwards.


I was too tall and too thin.


I had very low self-esteem because up until this point in my life I had been constantly reminded by my father that I had a big nose.  His nickname for me was "beak." Maybe he didn't mean anything by it, but his lack of respect for me was a big part of my life at that time.


Of course the other big part of my life was that I knew I was gay.  In 1958 gay wasn't a word to describe homosexuals.  Queer was the word of choice.  I was heavily in the closet.  No one must know.


So add all that baggage on this young man's head and this is the kind of yearbook picture that is produced - a sour faced, frightened, self-conscious 16 year old.


Like so many teenagers, I hated my yearbook picture.


Fast forward to some years later, when I had some disposable income, I tried to right this wrong.  Over the years I periodically went to a professional photographer to have a portrait picture taken.  When I couldn't afford a professional photographer, I would get my picture taken in one of those cheap photo booths.  By the way, whatever happened to them?  I though they were the coolest contraptions.


Last year I had my "official" portrait picture taken at J. C. Penney's in Dover.  It was a somewhat traumatic experience because of two little screaming little girls who were doing cartwheels behind the photographer while my pictures were being taken.  The strained and annoyed look showed on my face in my photos. I didn't want to go through that experience again. 


I was racking my brain this year to decide where to get my annual photo taken.   Last month I checked a Rehoboth Beach photographer called "Images in the Sands" or something like that.  Two lesbians own the company.  I liked their photography but as is too often the case with gay owned businesses in this area, they are very expensive.  A minimum of $175 just to walk in the door. Since I'm not a retired government worker collecting a near six figure retirement pay (many of the gay retiree Rehoboth residents are retired government employees), I couldn't afford them.


I do know an excellent portrait photographer but he lives in Scotland.  His name is Kim Ayres and he is one of my favorite bloggers.  Kim is my first choice but unfortunately I can't afford to fly to Scotland or to fly Kim here to Delaware.  Meeting Kim and having my portrait photo taken by Kim is one of my Bucket List items but until then I had to find another place have my photo taken.


Yesterday Significant Other and I were shopping at the Walmart in Milford.  As I was checking out I saw the young girl who runs their portrait photo studio leaning over her desk, making phone calls, with an empty studio behind her.  I was quite aware that Walmart has a photo studio but I had ruled them out because the studio is almost always crowded with screaming kids of the lower socio-economic order.  Yesterday that was not the case.  Why?  Oh, it was after Christmas and before Valentine's Day and Easter.  Time to schedule my appointment!


In a couple of hours I will be sitting at the Walmart photography studio getting my 2011 portrait photo. Hopefully there will not be a gaggle of screaming little girls doing cartwheels in their velveteen, crinoline puffed dresses when the photographer says to me......"Smile!"

Ron smiles 2010

The Beard is Back

The Beard this morning at 8 am (big schnooz and all) 

A few weeks ago a friend of mine suggested that I shave off my beard.  He said it would make me look younger.

I shaved off my beard.  I did not look younger.  I looked every day (and then some) of my 68 years.

The suggestion was made because I have a white beard.  I no longer had the luxurious dark brown beard that I had when I first started to grow a beard in 1972.

1980 - Phillies World Series celebration in center city Philadelphia

Twice before I have shaved off my beard only to be confronted with a face that I did not like.  I could not imagine spending the rest of my days looking at that face in the mirror during my daily shave.  Oh no.  Not that face.  Gravity had taken its toll.  I had a saggy face. I had jowls.

White first began appearing in my beard twenty years ago.  A white whisker here, a white whisker there.  I wasn't alarmed because the "little bit o'gray" gave me a distinguished look.  However, all too soon my whole chin was covered in white whiskers hairs.  My chin had disappeared.

The White Chin appears - 1986

I am fortunate that I have an angular face with high cheekbones.  A well trimmed, dark beard completes my look.  To those of you who think I am too narcissistic, get over it.  I don't apologize for caring about my appearance.  I don't apologize for having a healthy self-esteem.  After having spend the formative years of my youth constantly berated by my father for being "stupid looking", I am thankful that I got away from home at an early age (joined the Army) and came to the realization that I wasn't any "stupider looking" than many of my fellow soldiers.

My Pop 1991 - Tough Love

Self image and self esteem is so important to mental health.  There is that fine line between self esteem and conceit.  I am not conceited.  I know the difference.  I know conceited people.  I know good-looking conceited people and I know not so good-looking conceited people.  I also know people who have a healthy self-esteem.  I notice that those people who have a healthy self-esteem aren't necessarily good-looking in the Hollywood measure but they are very attractive none-the less because of their healthy self-esteem.  I've also noticed that the so called good-looking conceited people aren't so attractive once you get to know them and their conceit.  They are very unattractive.


Having said all that, I look better with a beard.  I look even better when I color my beard.  Now where did I put my Just For Men?

By the way Pop, I'm still "stupid looking" but a cute stupid looking.

November 9, 1976 (my birthday) Stupid looking me with my stupid looking hat

The Bearded One

July 9, 2010 - with the beard

The beard is back!

A week ago I took the advice of a friend of mine and shaved off my beard.  My beard is almost all white.  Everyone was telling me I looked like an old man with the white beard.  Well, uh.....I am an old man.  I will be 69 years old this November.  There is no getting around that fact.  But, if I can shave a few years off of my visage why not.  What's good enough for Joan Rivers is certainly good enough for me.

So I shaved it off.  I didn't like what was hidden beneath my beard for the past thirty or so years.  There was an OLD MAN with jowls (JOWLS!) beneath that beard.  Oh no, this would do at all.

June 28, 2010 - without the beard

No I was a pale faced white OLD MAN.  I noticed that people didn't seem to pay as much attention to me. I don't know if this was my imagination for what was really happening.  I suspect it was a little bit of both.

So I decided to grow it back.  It doesn't take me long to grow a beard.  I can get a good growth in seven to ten days.  The only thing is that my beard comes in almost all white.  I can count the dark brown whiskers. There just aren't that many folks.  My mustache is still dark brown with a few white hairs but the beard on my chin?  All white baby.  ALL WHITE.

No, this wouldn't do at all.  Plus, I am getting hounded daily by my partner to grow my beard back and color it.  He says my beard takes years off of my face.  Plus, my dark beard brings out the blue in my eyes in addition to framing my narrow face.   Without a beard or a white beard, my face seems to fade in the background.

Yesterday I noticed that I had enough stubble to color it.  I got out my Just For Men and applied the medium dark brown (Just For Men is very good with the subtle shades) and applied it to my newly grown beard.  Viola!  The Old Ron (or Young Ron) is back!

Sure, I have more wrinkles (living baby, living) and less hair that I did 20 or 30 years ago but I still have the same panache with my dark beard now that I had back in my heyday.

So I go into work last night at the hotel with my new beard.  My new look was immediately noticed by my boss and co-workers.  He asked me if I colored my beard.  I told him that I "grew a new one."  He said "Uh huh.  It looks like you used Just For Men."  He had me.  My boss is only 30 years old and he has a reddish brown beard with nary a gray hair.  Just wait until his beard turns and it will.

I checked in my first guests.  I noticed that they took more notice of me unlike the guests I checked in the night before.  Those guests hardly paid attention to me.  that was because with my white stubble of a beard I was fading in the background.  Not now, I was out there with my restored Dark and Mysterious Look.  It felt good.

My surprised "Miss Richmond 1980" look (it's an inside joke) 

The beard stays.  That reminds me, I have to pick up some more Just For Men the next time I go to Walmart.