Bob is an odd writer cursed with an unusual blend of wild imagination, poor penmanship, and nagging call to humor. Armed with the gift of written gab, Bob has entertained his little planet for years now with witty theatrics, clever word play and a substantial sense of immaturity.
The son of Bob and Bobbie, Bob, if anything, was blessed at birth by a crazily creative first name, the precursor to the rather robust imagination he would uncork while in the throes of spotty recollection.
Bob, while most recently was up to his eyeballs in a book project with publisher, Storypeople Press, is now freed from that burden; a positive way of saying they went in a different direction. Bob continues to author Cranelegs Pond (the blog), after a two year hiatal hiatus. He also tweets at Cranelegs and HCaulfieldLives occasionally.
Prior to these current adventures in writing, Bob busied himself with writing two full length screenplays, a TV sitcom script, a collection of stories about growing up in the Sixties, sixty mediocre e-zine articles, a Christmas story novella that is still being tuned, and an assortment of dead blogs, his beloved Cranelegs Pond being the oldest, surviving sibling. His hobbies include: deer-spotting, vacuuming, sophomoric phone calls to Oprah's office, and acoustic guitar.
Bob lives in New Jersey as: 1) the humble servant to and constant suitor of Keaton*, 2) the in-over-his-jumbo-head, pseudo-step-dad to Alix*, and 3) personal chef/assistant to 14 year old blind/deaf Lab, Annabel. Not far from this little piece of rural paradise lives Bob's son, who thankfully keeps Bob up-to-date on every HBO series and Sit-Com worth watching, as well as faithful companion in the hell known as a NY Giants/Rangers fan.
[In the spirit of full disclosure, Bob does not normally talk about himself in the third person. He is not sure why he is doing it now to be honest, although he suspects it might have something to do with how Bob is addressed and conversed about at the dinner table and in general.]
* Not real names as requested by the people with the real names. Can you blame them?