Bob was a force like no other. When you expected him to Zig he ASAP'd; when you thought it'd be best for him to remain silent, he'd rattle off a lengthy soliloquy of nonsequitor bob-speak and look at you with the eyes of a baby chimp whose mother had just been poached.
I remember Bob pushing Thomas to the limits of patience and receiving the only in-office mooning I've ever witnessed. I remember Bob's constant attempts to assert his heterosexual masculinity by referring to his body and his penis around other guys. I remember Bob telling Thomas they needed to "grab some wood," before heading out of Park City.
Bob once asked Austin and me to write a short marketing film featuring him which would be shown on the Best Buys intranet for the benefit of their statewide sales staff. We wrote a brutally mocking film which featured Bob adrift in a dinghy on the canals near Short. He gave a silly speech about the wonders of DVD and then begged an unseen cameraman to toss him a paddle, which was not forthcoming. Against our better judgment we presented the script to Bob. He loved it. It was never made however, and we suspect that he showed it to his girlfriend who was freelancing at Short at the time. She seemed to be moderately intelligent at least and would have understood the not-so-subtle sarcasm in the piece.
One of the reasons Austin and I felt the need to vent our frustrations with Bob was that he controlled purchasing for Short and, for whatever reason, he wouldn't buy neither one of us a chair. For weeks we needed chairs but every time we approached Bob with this request he'd look at us with the chimp eyes and launch into bob-speak about how on his plate, the readers digest definition of insanity was expecting different results from identical actions.
At Sundance I drew the short straw and shared a room with Bob. While it is true I had a bed, it is equally true I had no means of taking my own life. Night after night I tried to concentrate on stopping my heart but never with any success. I've heard Bob say, "All right then. Good Night," fourteen times, and that's too damn many.
It's not that Bob was a bad man, nor evil, it's just that his attempts at understanding our reality were frustrated at every turn, and the fact that he held some power over us was a lesson in how absurd the cruel irony of the universe could be. Let's face it, a man with a limited vocabulary and a scant grasp of English syntax probably shouldn't have been in charge of marketing, and yet he was. And most of us had to, at one time or another, listen to and follow his instructions despite the fact that, to us, the clarity of those instructions was in constant flux.
Finally, when preparing this page I decided to do a google search for Bob and see if I could find any new info. The only thing of interest came from Almanac of Women's Body Building Page (which is part of, sigh, Getbig.com) and it says this, "Bass-Fuchs, Nicole: Nicole is 6'1" and weight around 225 pounds when in shape. Nicole is married to Bob Fuchs. "
If you have reflections on Bob you'd like to share, please e-mail them and I'll post them here.
Fellow SHORT-timers,
I‘d first like to thank Doctor Caulder for brining this matter to our collective attention. The truth is, we HAVEN’T thought much about Bob lately, if at all. And that strikes me as, well, just a little disconcerting. After all, have we ever come across another human being as weird as Bob? Even half as weird? Could such a bizarre freak of nature really be so easily dismissed from our minds?
I’m going to take this opportunity to suggest that we all owe Bob a lot. His contribution to our development as human beings is substantial and has gone woefully unheralded until now. He’s shown us in so many ways what not to say, how not to act, WHO NOT TO BE? and he’s done all that without even knowing it.
Examples, you ask? Let’s start with terminology. Bob must surely be given credit for being the first human to describe sexual arousal in terms of "getting’ the folds out." His routine mangling of universal catch-phrases like "dead on arrival" and "through the roof" have become the stuff of legend. While such linguistic mix-ups could in most cases be attributed to dyslexia or simple stupidity, in the hands of Bob they took on the aspect of performance art. And what about his physical appearance? Has a man ever strutted through the hallways of Corporate America with such blind confidence in his own fashion sense while sporting a haircut resembling the handiwork of a retarded child using garden shears?
Still not impressed? How about the way Bob would boldly and mindlessly slaughter sacred cows of political correctness, à la Lenny Bruce, by performing brutally exaggerated imitations of a co-worker stricken with polio? I can still vividly picture Bob twisting his body up like a corkscrew, staggering across the floor and screeching, "HEY, STEVE!!! GOT A CIGARETTE???", then glancing around furtively in hopes of catching some approval for his repulsive display. Back then, I thought he was a fucking idiot, plain and simple. Now, I see him as? something more.
In light of these any many other unique traits, hopefully to be shared by the other recipients of Doc’s e-mail, doesn’t it strike everyone as a bit strange that we have so callously shunned Bob to the hinterlands of memory? Isn’t it just a little unnerving to think that in the past five years no one has suggested a Bob Fuchs Appreciation Day? Would that have been so wrong? Has he not earned our recognition?
I think what we owe him is a simple acknowledgment, and I’ll be the first to make it.
-Austin
via e-mail
Thank you Austin. I think it's appropriate to tack on a specific rememberance of Fuchsism at this juncture: Who can forget the time Sandra was taking her time driving back to LA from Sundance and she missed a few days work without calling in; well ol' Bob stands up at a company meeting and decries her, repeatedly, as being "AOL! Has anyone seen Sandra? She's AOL!"
I don't think I could ever forget the time I kicked Bob on the stairs. I barely touched him when he went yelling to all who would listen that I was dangerous and to stear clear of me; that I might hurt someone. But perhaps I should begin this little story with how it was that I came to blows with Bob.That morning I was pretty insistant on seeing the books. As he ascended the stairs he shoved me to the side. Not caring much for the physical manuvering by a minor authority figure I was beginning to fume. I had not asked to see any accounting to that date as it was agreed that we should stick to our appointed duties and trust that the other person was doing their job. However ,things were beginning to get a bit twitchy before Vaugh came and as you can imagine I was pretty curious. It turns out that the books were in shambles, I hastened to think that old Bob may not have passed 5th grade math. A debate ensued and thus the stairway incident as we descended the stairs. I barely got my big toe up his bum when he whirled in faux defense . Bob could be a little dramatic.
In his defense, one night he helped prevent me from getting towed by the Hollywood Parking Enforcment. He gallantly handed the officer $100.oo in cash to stave off the bileous consequences. I was truly grateful.
-CK
Via e-mail
Oh CK, you're in good company as Bob thought everyone was dangerous. After Thomas mooned him I remember him telling anyone who'd listen about how he feared for his life because he was afraid Thomas was "going postal."
Hell, he even dragged me to the boardwalk to have a chat after I blew up at him for his constant interruptions when Austin and I were trying to proofread the back of the packaging in like twenty minutes before it was sent for production. There's nothing like proofing three thousand words of 8pt. black text on a blood red background whilst Bob shouts down from his perch, "Hey Austin, do you have a minute?" "Not right now Bob, give me a sec." "Okay big guy," and then ten seconds pass, "...Cause the thing is did you call that woman?" "Yeah, she said she got the check." And another ten seconds, "She got the check then?" And on like that for a few minutes until I blew. Three hours later Bob and I stood on the boardwalk with Bob telling me he finally felt safe now with Thomas gone, and I have to go and become the "new Thomas." Bob fell in that category of "Just because he's paranoid, it doesn't mean he had nothing to worry about."
