Davis. 2025. Pen and ink in sketchbook. 8 1/2″ x 11″.
They say never meet your heroes because they might disappoint you—or because meeting them might not be as earth-shattering as you imagine.
Yesterday, I met one of mine: underground comix legend Robert Crumb.
The setting could not have been more ordinary. A quiet art store in Davis, California, The Paint Chip. Crumb lived for decades in nearby Winters before relocating to a remote village in southern France, and I’ve visited the area regularly for the past twenty-five years as a retreat from “the 209.” I always knew he lingered like a ghost in the local orbit, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I suspected our paths might cross one day.
On October 24, they did. My wife and I had come to Davis to take a break, browse a bit, and try a new Mediterranean place we’d seen on TikTok. Our stop at The Paint Chip was incidental; we were about to leave when an employee pointed us toward the elusive 0.9 mechanical pencil leads—those rare essentials of an online tutor’s life.
As my wife and I stood in front of the display, an older gentleman entered the store with a woman and a younger companion. His profile caught my eye immediately—sharp, unmistakable. I’d seen it before. Maybe. I tried not to stare, but when he shuffled past, it was clear: Robert Crumb was in the fucking Paint Chip.
I’ve never been one for chasing celebrities. Aside from a few backstage meetings with rock stars in the eighties, lunch with Burne Hogarth, studying with Barron Storey, and a brief encounter with Maya Angelou, my life has been largely devoid of brushes with fame.
Still, I knew this moment wouldn’t come again.
I walked over, extended my hand, and said, “R. Crumb.”
He looked startled. “Do I know you?”
“No,” I said, “but I know you. You have a very distinctive face.”
That broke the tension, and he smiled—half amused, half unsure.
Had this happened twenty years ago, I might have been starstruck. But those days are long gone. I’ve long since shed the fanboy impulse. Admiration remains, but it’s no longer worship; it’s recognition between artists.
I asked whether his Hup series from the 1980s would ever be collected into a hardcover volume. He said the publisher keeps promising. I almost told him they’ve been saying that for twenty-five years.
Our exchange was brief. Before we parted, the old wheeler-dealer recommended his upcoming comic, Tales of Paranoia.
“Check out my new comic.”
“I’ve seen the cover,” I told him. “The expression on your face is perfect.”
He laughed. And that was it—unexpected, low-key, almost uneventful, yet oddly perfect.
Reverence has become respect between peers.
