My art looks like prints

May 11, 2025 Normal Bob

I like to go to a coffeeshop and read, write and draw as much as I can each day. It’s a luxury I appreciate, having the time and freedom to do this while caring for my 91 year old mother back at home.
A few months ago I was drawing at the barista counter, and I can literally smell someone looking over my shoulder. It’s a flowery perfume, and it’s strong. Sure enough it’s a wide-eyed girl, and she’s pointing at my drawing.
“That looks like a print!”
“Thank you!” I slide my book over so she can see better.
She repeats, “It looks like a print!”
She’s astonished, and I’m flattered.
“Did you draw that?”
“Yes. I drew these too!” Turning the pages back.
“Know who John Prine is? haha!”
“Haha, who? No.”
“No one’s heard of him. How about David Lynch?” showing her the drawing.
She looked blank. “No.”
“That’s alright. He’s kinda obscure. How about Bill Murray?”
“No.”
I’m shocked. I thought everyone knew who Bill Murray was. A few of the baristas were listening, amused.
“Christ, I’m old. How old are you?”
“22.”
I start paging further back in my book. “Amy Winehouse? Aubrey Plaza? She was in the TV show Parks and Recreation.”
“No, no” shaking her head “I never heard of that show.”
“Kurt Cobain? He was in a rock band Nirvana.”
“No. Never heard of them.”
“Do you know who Joe Biden is?”
“I know who Joe Biden is.” Rolling her eyes.
“Oh, how about David Bowie. Everyone knows David Bowie.”
“Oh! He was in Labyrinth!”
“Yes! That’s David Bowie” as I’m showing the drawing on my phone. “He was also the singer in a rock band.”
“Oh was he?” She didn’t know that about David Bowie.
I’m about done. I knew of no-one more famous than Bowie whom I’ve drawn. In fact I had to sit for a while to think of anyone famous she’d for sure know.
“Taylor Swift.”
“I know her! Did you draw her?”
“No.”
I was done. “So what’s your name?”
She tells me but it’s in one ear and right out the other. I’m still stewing over it all, trying to end the pain.
“Well I’m Bob. I’m 56. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too.”
“If you wanna see more people you don’t know that I’ve drawn” I give her my card. “Come back any time.”
“Oh I will!”
I pull my book back to the page I’m working on, and everyone around is greatly entertained. I bemoan my relevance in this world and have a profound reality check.

A couple weeks later I’m here at the same spot, drawing, and there’s that smell again, in the same spot over my shoulder. Fragrance memory brings it all back instantly. That I’m-no-longer-relevant feeling.
“Oh hi! I remember you. I forgot your name.”
She tells me again.
“I forgot yours too. Is it, Greg?”
“No. Bob. Normal Bob.”
Then she points and says “That’s my dad!”
I look to my left and there’s a man’s face about a foot away from mine. He’s leaning forward on the counter looking me dead in the eye. “I’m her father. That’s my daughter.” He has an intense glare, face red with forehead veins bulging. Short, neatly cut grey hair like a Marine, or Christian youth leader. And he looked exactly my age, except exceptionally more conservative.
“I’m Bob. Normal Bob.” I turn the pages back a few and show him my Acid Trip Couch drawing.
“That’s what he was working on when I was here last!”
I lean back so they can see. I’m sandwiched between them both. He looks for a long moment, taps his finger on it and says, “Looks like R. Crumb.”
“I know who R. Crumb is!” I proclaim as he walks away.

He goes and sits at the other side of the cafe and looks down at whatever he’s got there. She’s looking at me grinning from ear to ear delighted that her dad and I got to finally meet.
“It was nice to see you again. I’m going to get back to drawing now.”
“Nice to meet you too!” And she goes over to her dad. As she’s walking away I’m noticing for the first time how she’s dressed. She’d been behind me every time. She’s wearing a black mini skirt, heels and a tight top. She’s got tattoos up and down her legs, rockabilly style. Small ones scattered about. And as she walking to her dad he’s there in a chair looking like he’s about to have a nervous breakdown.

Blog, Storytime

Scrubbed

April 20, 2025 Normal Bob

In elementary school I was a fairly popular kid. Popular enough to know most everyone in class. I had friends from the neighborhood there, like Oliver, Chris and Jeff. And I had a best friend too – Tim. He was the first kid in the neighborhood I’d met. Out of all the kids I knew Tim and I hungout the most. Our mutual interest in Star Wars was bond. We collected the action figures and ships, and played everything Star Wars as much as possible through grade school. Things changed for us though when we got into junior high. Being a top dog in 6th grade at Green Gables Elementary was a completely different life experience than being a 7th grade scrub at Carmody Junior High.

Scrubs were what the 8th graders called 7th graders. And Tim and I were definitely scrubs. I was a goofy walking stick, and Tim was short. Together we stood out as scrubbable I’m sure. We’d heard the rumors about getting scrubbed- Swirlies in the toilet, underwear wedgies, or just getting shouldered as you walked down the hall. A scrubbing’s only limit was the imagination of the 8th grader up to the task.

“Hey! Scrubs! Hold up!”
It was Tony Sanfalippo. He had a little buddy with him too.
“You two been scrubbed yet?”
Pushed and teased occasionally, but not actually scrubbed.
“No.”
“No, I don’t think so.”

For the life of me I can’t remember his little friend at all. My memory’s replaced him with that kid from A Christmas Story that hung around Farkus. But Tony, I remember. He was a beefed up metalhead with long hair. His bangs covered his eyes, and he was the only kid I’d ever seen who walked around with his shirt off at recess.

So he told us to lay down on the ground, and Tony came over and took my legs and folded me in half, my knees on either side of my head. And he held me down in this position with an arm.
“Now yer gonna count from 100 backwards and I’ll let you go.”

I swear, before this I’d never seen the guy. He wasn’t in a class, or in the halls, or anywhere. But kids knew who he was. I wasn’t crying. I was just doing the best I could counting down trying not to panic so I wouldn’t burst out crying.
“88, 87, 86, 85…”

And Tim had the same thing going on over there. I couldn’t see them. All I saw from between my knees was Tony’s lower face, hair where eyes should be.
“55, 54, 53, 52…”

Counting backwards from 100 takes a while. It’s enough time to think about things. To think about life, and at times even see it through someone else’s eyes. To reflect. And while I was reflecting on my situation, it seemed as if Tony was behaving less like a guy who was enjoying the torturing, and more like a guy tired of his job. He seemed bored. His friend was laughing and relishing every second. Tony looked like he wished he’d chosen a smaller number, like three.

When I finally reached zero he pushed me down into the ground a little more, then he let me up, and we waited there while they finished.

“Ok, you guys have been scrubbed. If anyone else bothers you, just let us know. We’ll protect you.”
And they walked away.

That was it. We’d been scrubbed and we never spoke of it. I don’t even remember seeing Tony or his buddy ever again. Not at school or the playground around the neighborhood. Although I’m sure if I even got a glimpse I would have turned and gone the other direction. He’s in the yearbooks. High school too. Tim and I outgrew our friendship partway through high school. We said hey to each other in the halls, but that was it. And I don’t have any memory of seeing Tony again until six years and a day later when I got my graduation photos developed.

That’s Tony right behind me.

Blog, Storytime

I’ve been to Jail

March 29, 2025 Normal Bob

This is one of those stories that when I look back, it feels unreal. I’ve told it several times to others, but I don’t think I ever shared it with the world.

In 1998 I was living in Chicago and dating a female bodybuilder, Th-resa. I’d written about her before, if you wanna know more.
She lived in Virginia near DC, so our relationship consisted of me driving there, her driving to me, or us driving somewhere to meetup. And on this particular occasion I was driving us both to and from Atlanta Georgia because she was to compete at the annual Jan Tana bodybuilding event happening there. It was a big deal, and an exciting time. She looked great, and there she won heavyweight champion! We were in heaven all weekend. By Sunday morning we were riding high as we drove out. I remember listening to the album Flag by the band Yello, which is music that’s really easy to drive really fast to. It’s the album’s theme, actually. Especially for me who at that moment was living his dream life sitting next to my fetish, having just won contests and driving my new Saturn 2 door coup. A car that could go fast. And the music. We were driving through North Carolina, Th-resa was asleep in the passenger seat when I saw the red and blue lights flashing in the mirror.

“Shit. We’re being pulled over. I was speeding. I’m getting a ticket. It’ll be alright.”
Th-resa was noticably more worried than I. I was naive. The cop approached the window.
“You were going 83 in a 55.”
“I know I was speeding, I’ll take the ticket. I apologize.” as I handed over my license and paperwork.
“No no. Step out of the car. You’re going to jail.”
“Really?”
“Really. You have out-of-state plates. You’re from Chicago? You can’t leave the state until this is paid. So unless you can pay this now you’re going to jail. Step out of the car.”
In complete disbelief I got out and he ordered me up against the car, hands behind the back.
While cuffing me he said, “Does that n****r know how to drive??”
My heart dropped. “What?”
“Does that n****r have a license. Can she drive a car? Because she’s gotta follow us back to the station.”
“Yes, she can drive my car.”
“So you don’t mind me handing over your keys to her? It looks like you got all your stuff there in the back. I could call a tow truck?” He was smiling, insinuating that she was likely to take my stuff. He assumed she was a prostitute.
“She’s my girlfriend. I have no problem with you giving her the keys.”
I was able to tell her to get the money to pay the fine to get me out. She promised.
So there I was in the back seat of that cop car, and he was doing everything he could to get me to admit she was a prostitute. “Where’d you pick her up? Are you sure she’s gonna get you out? I don’t see her following us. It looks like she split. Yeah, she’s gone.” He was delighted. And here’s me in the back seat explaining that we were coming from a bodybuilding event in Atlanta, and she won heavyweight, trying to convince him that we were legitimate people. I was not believed.

They took me in, sat me on a bench, handcuffed me to a black guy whose other hand was cuffed to a bar on the wall.
“What’re you in here for?” He asked.
“Speeding”
“Oh wow. Don’t tell anyone that.”
I was already panicked.
“What do I say?” I’m sure I looked like I was on the verge of tears.
“DO NOT CRY. If they see you crying they’ll take advantage. Say drugs. Act like you’re on drugs. Just don’t cry. Don’t talk to anyone. Act crazy. You’ll be alright.”

Me, this skinny white kid, with pretty dyed hair, tight jeans, looking all wavy. I was terrified.

I was finger printed, mugshot, and asked if I wanted to make my phone call. Did I really want to call someone? Who the fuck would I call? My brother in Chicago? What’s he going to do? My folks? A lawyer? They gave me two dimes and there I was standing in front of an old shitty looking payphone mounted on a cement wall and the only number I could remember was home. I decided to call Rick. My brother/roommate. I clumsily dialed, the ear piece speaker was shit. I thought I heard our answering machine pick up, but the noise at the station, and the shit receiver, I hung up. Left no message. I was on my own.

I was put alone in a cell. 6’ X 12’ cement room with a bench, metal toilet, and a door with a small window up top. I’d never felt so caged and helpless in my life. And time moved very very slowly here. Every so often I could hear the cops out there walking by, joking. Laughing. They’d jingle their keys and pull on the door every 20 minutes or so to make me think they were coming to get me, then walk away.

When they finally did open the door again, it was to bring in someone else. A different black guy who sat as far away from me as possible at the other end of the bench. He said nothing and we sat there in silence together. Then the door opened, this time for lunch. A plastic plate with a baloney and cheese sandwich (one slice of baloney and one slice of cheese) between 2 slices of Wonderbread, some dried up carrot sticks, an orange, all under cellophane, and a carton of milk. I ate mine and he ate his.

More key rattling and door shaking. I even heard one cop say, “You see the one in there with the hair?” followed by, “You see the woman he came in with??” And more laughter.

Hours passed.

The next time the doors opened it was to toss in two drunk guys, white, that’d been in a fight. Fighting each other actually. But they were also buddies. They both stood at the wall across from the bench and were still complaining to each other about their situation. They looked moderately beat up. Swollen cheek. Half closed eye. Dirt on the elbows, etc. It’s at this point I thought I should start acting a little crazed and drugged, so I kept my head down, swayed forward and back. Occasionally rubbed my arms.
“You’re jonezen pretty hard, huh?” The main one directed at me.
“Yeah”
“What’re you in for?”
“I dunno.”
“You eat already?”
“I dunno.” I said again.
We were sitting next to our empty plates.
“You didn’t eat? Did he take your food?” Pointing at the black guy.
“I didn’t take his food.” First words I’d heard him say since he arrived.
“Shut up. Did he take your food??”
“No, I ate my food. He didn’t take it.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. I ate my sandwich, orange and everything.”
“I told you. I didn’t take the guys food!”
Luckily we were believed, and the drunk went back to harassing his buddy about their fight earlier.

Hours passed.

Then they had to move us to a different, bigger cell because they were bringing women into this one. They cuffed us all again, led the four of us to a new cell. And time, like ourselves, sat still again there.

The black guy with us was saying nothing. Trying to turn invisible, I assume. While the other two were livelier, gabbing about shit that’d happened outside of here on some other shitty day. I don’t know why I said it, but out of nowhere I asked the group, “So, anyone seen any good movies lately?” It sounded witty and common-folk enough to ask.
“I don’t go to the movies, dude.” Said the main drunk, giving me a dirty look. His buddy and him both. God, I felt like a douche. I really had no idea where I was. I shut the fuck up.

Then the door opened and they took the black guy away. While doing so the cop said to me, “You know that woman you were with? She’s gone. She split with your stuff. Your car and everything.” Shut the door and left. All eyes were on me. I knew it was BS. I knew where they were coming from by then and what they were trying to do. But it still had the effect they wanted.
The drunk said, “Someone bailing you out? You’ll be alright. You look like someones gonna bail you out.”
And he was right.

After who knows how long, the door finally opened, “Hain. Robert. You’re leaving.”

And as I left the drunk exclaimed “AAND THERE HE GOES!” waving his arms toward the door like he knew this would happen all along.

My fine had been paid. But the cops don’t tell you shit. They just tell you what line to stand on, hand you a bag with your wallet, chapstick, wrist watch or whatever, make you sign something, and push you out into a lobby crowded with sad people in folding chairs waiting for their jailbird to come flying out. Th-resa wasn’t here, so I exited out into the parking lot, and there she was standing at my car with those giant muscular arms spread wide. She was way more emotional than I. She squeezed me hard and long. It was exactly what I’d wanted to walk into after leaving jail. I’d been there 6 hours. 1pm to 7pm Sunday, July 25th, 1998. And as I drove us the exact speed limit out of North Carolina she told me about the day she had. How much trouble she had finding a cash machine, but there were some helpful people. She’d actually paid the fine within an hour after I got there! $200.
“I was so angry!” she cried, “I was telling them, ‘DO YOU KNOW WHO HE IS?? HE’S A FAMOUS PHOTOGRAPHER ARTIST! HE’S FAMOUS!’ I was so upset! I kept telling them who you were and no one would listen!”
Ahhhh. I understood now.

I drove her back to Virginia, and the next day I headed back to Chicago. On that drive I had a lot of time to think about everything, and concluded that my adventures, for now, were done. I’d had enough. It was time I got a real job and tried being normal in Chicago again.

I was inspired by Bukowski to tell this story. The specifics were taken from my journal entry written the following Tuesday.

News

The NORMALS are in!

March 19, 2025 Normal Bob

NORMALS™ magnetic alphabet set 8.5″ X 11″

AT LAST, my shipment has arrived! I’m very happy to announce the NORMALS™ magnetic alphabet sets. They look fantastic!

Have you ever wanted to spell out a word on your fridge with some funny looking magnetic letters using the alphabet of the English language? Well, that’s my idea. And because some of you might wanna spell words that have the same letter twice, or sometimes even 3 TIMES, there’s a discount if you buy more all at once.

Each darling little letter stands about 1 3/4″ tall and has a personality all its own! They can make even the dullest words interesting.
Make spelling fun again!

I’ll ship out each order the next day.

Thank you for your continued dependence on me for your fridge magnet needs.