There are two ways to find Blueberry Hill: You could search each door along Delmar Boulevard for the address 6504. Or you could scan the horizon for the two-story sign of a jitterbugging couple. A thought bubble reading, "I found my thrill," floats above the man's head.

Artist Bill Christman created another Blueberry Hill sign, the trademark neon-blue logo above its picture window. The sign was one of the thousand-plus he designed for local developers, architects and restaurants during his 13-year tenure as a professional sign maker. He left the business in 1987 to pursue a career as an artist and, a decade later, he debuted the brilliantly bizarre Museum of Mirth, Mystery and Mayhem in the City Museum.

By then, Christman was disillusioned with the sign-making industry. Cheap vinyl signs, designed by computer programs, had replaced hand-painted windows, neon signs backed by enamel and animated 'spectaculars," multistory signs of trailing lights and moving parts.

"Anything that can be done by a computer, as far as I'm concerned, will one day be done by prisoners because that's where the real cheap labor is," Christman said. "You'll see these at a million-dollar restaurant with a cheap vinyl banner that the liquor company threw in. The public doesn't care or notice, so why bother?"

Greg Rhomberg cares. He is the owner of Nu Way Concrete Forms, a successful business that sells and rents construction equipment. He also is a collector — actually the collector — of local signs. He manages a database that lists every old, publicly visible sign in the metropolitan region. He knows when he last talked to the shop owner and the sign's original owner and what the sign is worth.

That shared passion for signs has sparked a deep friendship between the quiet, buttoned-down Rhomberg and the slightly manic, occasionally profane Christman. Together, Rhomberg and Christman have teamed up to create "Art of the Sign," an exhibit of signs that will arrive from collections across the country.

"We're trying to show people the incredible art and craft of sign making, which is somewhat in decline but not lost," Christman said. "If people knew the difference, maybe they would ask for it. That's part of my demented state of mind — that people really care about this when, in fact, the evidence is people don't even notice."

The exhibit is scheduled to open at Christman's art gallery, Ars Populi at 6010 Kingsbury Avenue, a storefront next to Joe's Café in the West End. It is Christman's quasi-private club, where friends meet on Thursday nights to listen to music and relax in his garden of signs and folk art. Ars Populi keeps the same hours as Joe's, but Christman and Rhomberg dream of operating a sign museum there one day.

But first things first. When will "Art of the Sign" open?

"I wish you hadn't asked," Chistman sighs during a recent interview. "We were supposed to open in October."

Rhomberg meanwhile pulls out his smartphone.

"March 1 is a Thursday," he tells Christman.

"That would be good. March 1 it is," Christman says.

And so it's done.

'THE ODD COUPLE'

Jim May, the third member of this sign-obsessed society, laughed when he heard about that exchange.

"That's why I call Greg 'the General,'" May said. "He keeps Bill on track. Greg is the businessman and a perfectionist. Bill doesn't have any business sense and is only a perfectionist when it comes to his art. They are the odd couple."

Years before meeting, Rhomberg's wife, Ann, pointed out a story about Christman in Mary Engelbreit's magazine. Rhomberg dismissed the story, telling his wife, "I hate artists." He did, however, enjoy Christman's Museum of Mirth, Mystery and Mayhem, frequently taking his four kids there to see Christman's signs, corn dog memorabilia and the world's largest pair of underpants. Eventually the two did meet at Joe's Café in 2003 and discovered their affection for old stuff.

Rhomberg grew up in south St. Louis County collecting arrowheads, marbles, coins, anything that was free or cheap.

"My mom would say that I always would walk around with my head down," said Rhomberg, 47, of Frontenac. "I was always looking for something. I loved signs early on. I just didn't realize until later you could have them for yourself."

He bought his first sign, which said "EAT," for $450. He keeps his finds in a warehouse stuffed with vintage campers, barber chairs, a fire truck and popcorn wagons.

"I don't know why, but I feel like I'm saving something. For what, I'm not sure," Rhomberg said. "If nothing else, I'm saving them from destruction. I get a lot of signs before the wrecking ball."

Predictably, this odd couple disagrees about plenty. Rhomberg, for instance, would never allow the original Gaslight Square sign in the garden of Joe's Café to remain exposed to rain. Christman, however, sees beauty in the rust.

"I wouldn't want to sandblast it and make it look brand new," Christman said. "The history is partly contained in its state of decay."

They also are drawn to signs for different reasons. To Christman the artist, the signs are objects of beauty. To Rhomberg the construction executive, they are the city's earliest building blocks. Rhomberg is a frequent visitor to the Missouri Historical Society, where he searches for photographs of the signs and information about the businesses the signs once promoted.

But they also share more than a passion for signs. Both men are good Catholic school boys (Rhomberg went to CBC, Christman attended St. Louis University High) who are happily married with four kids. They like diner breakfasts, live music and helping others, delivering casseroles together to the needy at the Rosati Center in St. Louis.

And both are reckless, said May, who owns the Cherokee Street antique shop Purple Cow.

"I need to check my brakes in the morning," said May with a laugh. "They become like 8- and 10-year-old boys when they're out for a sign. They do some crazy stuff, like go on private property. I'm like, 'We're going to get shot,' but they don't have that fear. I have that fear. We're not always in the best neighborhoods."

'A SIGN PAINTER'S SCRAPBOOK'

Many of the photographs from those trips appear in Christman's new book, "A Sign Painter's Scrapbook." Since 1969, Christman has taken about 5,000 photographs of signs across the country.

"You would always find the old signs in the beat-up part of these towns," Christman said. "When my kids were little, they would go with me on these expeditions to the wrong side of town, but when they got to be about 10 they started objecting strenuously, so I'd go on my own."

Many of the photos feature signs long gone from the St. Louis landscape, such as the North County Big Chef Burger, a 10-story Falstaff 'spectacular" with chase lights "filling" a glass of beer and the precursor to the giant Amoco sign on Clayton Road, an even bigger Standard Red Crown sign with thousands of light bulbs.

The book also features Christman's work, including the sculpture of the American Indian at Jefferson Avenue and Cherokee Street and the pink sax player above Vintage Vinyl. Famed cartoonist Robert Crumb is a fan, calling the book "a gold mine of graphic and lettering ideas."

Christman still makes signs for projects he likes. He's making signs for Ferguson and a car repair shop. But he got out of the business once he realized he stopped taking pictures of his work for his portfolio.

"The work kept on getting crappier and crappier. I had gotten so sour," said Christman, 64, of University City. "Though I'm not much of a businessman, I was making $100,000 a year in the '80s, which shocked me. But I didn't want it written on my tombstone that I made a lot of money kissing a lot of developer (butt)."

Christman's father also loved art but never pursued his passion. Christman would buy him sketch pads, but his father just pushed them away.

"It would depress him to get art supplies and I thought, 'God, I don't want to end up like that,'" recalled Christman, who graduated from the University of Missouri-Columbia. "So when I turned 40, I decided if I don't take a stab at this, I'll be sad. My wife (Mary), being the good egg that she is, said she would go back to work teaching physical therapy. I sold my BMW motorcycle and other stuff, but it was worth it."

Friend and downtown developer Tim Tucker reconnected Christman to City Museum founder Bob Cassilly. The two shared an appreciation for the odd and the discarded, and Cassilly invited him to open a museum within the City Museum. However, he balked at Christman's idea to host a sign exhibit. Christman didn't argue; he is not convinced anyone wants to see a bunch of old signs. Even pal May has mocked the show.

"May, in order to cut us off at the knees, was like, 'Congratulations. Your exhibit is starting to look like a Cracker Barrel.' That was unkind and uncalled for," deadpanned Christman.

'A GOOD SIGN TOWN'

Christman gives as good as he gets, calling May "the lowest life form" because he works in the crass world of retail sales. The truth is May stopped seriously trading in signs once Rhomberg got in the game.

"I'm the little guy now," May said. "I blame Rhomberg."

Rhomberg has the deeper pockets, but even he has trouble competing in the market he created. In this down economy, quality antiques have held their value.

"You can't earn anything on your savings; the stock market is flat," Rhomberg said. "A lot of people, if they have the money, will buy something, put it in their home and enjoy it."

St. Louis boasts an especially rich sign history, said Tod Swormstedt, founder of the American Sign Museum in Cincinnati and former publisher of "Signs of the Times," the industry's lead trade magazine. He notes that two of the field's pioneers, E.C. Matthews and Alf Becker, lived in St. Louis in the early 20th century.

Matthews — his easel stands in Christman's studio — was the author of about two dozens books and guides to sign painting, including the 1920 classic "How to Paint Sign and Sho' Cards." He died after a gas explosion at his shop.

Alf Becker was a close friend of Matthews and the author of the 1941 book "100 Alphabets," though, in actuality, he designed several hundred typefaces.

"St. Louis is a good sign town, and those guys were true artists," Swormstedt said. "Know what the difference is between fine art and commercial art? The number of zeros behind the dollar sign. A lot of these old sign makers created fine art for commercial purposes."

Swormstedt is lending a hand-painted sign from the 1930s to the exhibit.

"It's a pretty neat sign. If (Christman) breaks it, I'm going to kill him," Swormstedt said.

Swormstedt recently raised $2.5 million for a new building to house the American Sign Museum's 4,000-object collection. Apparently, an audience does exist for old signs.

"Most businesses are branded franchises, so you see the same signs over and over, repeating every few miles," he said. "But the old signs — the hand-carved shoe or the gold-leaf lettering on a window — were iconic and what made each neighborhood unique. People miss that."