To Draw or Not to Draw

Back when I wanted to make action comics, I had a little vigilante with no name. His original story was five issues, based on Hamlet. I wrote the first five scripts, but they are lost to history (Newcastle destroyed my laptop), and my attempt to make a novel of it failed when I couldn’t make five issues drag on for more than 20,000 words. The book would have been called Tantalus. I modeled the character after Bruce Lee, and I gave him a cane he never needed when he was fighting or doing parkour (symbolism) as well as a scarf that would have been a good visual. The book was always intended to be in black and white. I decided, after fifteen years, to draw the character again, and I went a little more stark than he had been in the past. It would have been called Tantalus.

Here is the one I just did.

Here is one of my earlier sketches from 2002.

A more dynamic one from 2003 I would like to have used as a cover:

As well as a couple of dynamic pictures from 2008.

I think I’m done with this character, but I loved his look, and he’s fun to draw. The one I just did didn’t turn out great, but I should give it another shot.

He Works Hard for His Money

It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes people hear I’m an artist, and they think they could get a custom logo for their businesses. They rarely ever used my art because my style doesn’t necessarily have that clip-art, professional je ne sais quoi that makes it look corporate. What they needed was a graphic designer, but they still paid me, and it is some of my best work. Here’s eight examples.

First was for a post-apocalyptic novel series that I think the author did actually use. It’s a pretty good logo, in my opinion.

Second and third are for a Southern barbecue restaurant that never took off. This guy was never satisfied with anything I turned in, but some of the sketches turned out well regardless.

A friend wanted to write a kids book about a misbehaving kitten, and I mocked up a couple of character sheets, fourth and fifth, and some pages, but the book was never written.

I can’t remember what the sixth one was called, but it was for an indy publisher. This was the one ultimately used on the only book he published, but it took a couple of tries to get it right.

The seventh one came about when a roller derby team asked me to make a figure for their flyers. My style would have been a great match, but they didn’t like my first draft because apparently this is something you’re never supposed to do in the ‘derb.

And finally, the owner of the salon I used to frequent asked me to help with a warning label. The figure chosen from the sixth picture would have the circle/slash signifying “no.” They liked the idea, but it wasn’t slick enough.

Of course, I used to do work for PPC Hero, but my art was never clip-arty enough, and they eventually let me go. The blog no longer exists. That’ll teach them.

I’m happy to be doing my thing these days, with no hope of making money. I may turn in some fantastic work, but it’s usually not good enough for what the client has in mind. As I said, I’m not a graphic designer. Even the ones that used my ideas tended to replace them as soon as something better came along, which is what happened with the comic I wasted 2004 working on, The Book of Jesse. The one I am good enough for is myself. There was a long period of about four to five years ago when I wasn’t, and my art was bad (even my birthday self-portraits), when I was doing it at all (my birthday self-portraits). My renaissance began with a pushy coworker demanding a portrait, but once I shook the rust off, I’ve been amusing myself, and if I can’t do that, then what’s the point?

The Sass and the Furious

I had a brief dream where, in the next Fast and the Furious movie, Vin Diesel’s Dom Toretto gets swept up in the evil shenanigans of his old college roommate, played by some famous slab of beef wearing a fabric baseball cap and a pair of cargo shorts. This is, of course presupposing Dom Toretto, or even Vin Diesel, went to college, much less finished high school. (Considering that it’s in Diesel’s contract that Toretto can never lose a fight onscreen, I’m inclined to think he didn’t.)

Anyway, it got me thinking about my roommates in college, and whether they’d come into my life as bad guys to be forgiven and welcomed back into my family to enjoy a chilled Corona. There’s Will, who’s certainly sharp enough to be a mastermind, but he’s a big softie, and I don’t think he’d take too well to being bad.

Then there’s Jeff. Anyone who knows Jeff knows that he’s got it in him to be a madman. I haven’t seen him in over twenty-five years, but I know he shaved his head, which is a prerequisite to evil. When I knew him, he was perfecting the wicked rubbing together of palms and giggling maniacally while tossing out wicked bon mots like, “When life hands you dilemmas, make dilemonade.”

He could also get inside the hero’s mind. For example, he never swore. He took to words more colorful than “damn” or “hell” like I take to the N-word, i.e. never, ever, not even alone in a dark room with all the listening devices turned off. That’s why it came as enough of a surprise that I fell off my chair when he caught me by myself and leaned in really close, whispering, “Don’t fuck with me.” He denies it to this day, and to this day, nobody believes me but Tim Lentz, who always knew there was something shady about that guy.  

Jeff kept his cool under pressure, a necessary qualification for an overlord, but he also had little patience for malarkey. Even though we were a matched set through much of our freshmen and sophomore years, he didn’t tolerate my bullshit, and understand there was a lot of bullshit back then. Would he kill a minion for making a mistake? Maybe not at twenty, but certainly as he got older, his patience would dwindle.

The reason I know for sure that Jeff’s got amoral plans for the world is that he never left our room without a slip of paper he tucked into his breast pocket. He showed it to no one, but he’d occasionally take it out, read it, and chuckle darkly. One evening, when I was again protecting the purity of Altman Hall from behind the desk, he chatted with me for a few minutes, pulled out this paper, and opened it up, revealing the title: “Taking over the world checklist.” He crossed out a numbered item, “Befriend Jeremiah Murphy,” and folded it back up before I could read what else was on it.

To this day, I have no idea what my role in a global takeover might be. I’m all but hermit who writes novels and illustrates comics no one reads. I have a feeling we’re going to find out soon because we’re both turning fifty, and fifty’s a good age for world-domination. And if he tried to stop him, Vin Diesel find out that this is a fight even Dominic Toretto can’t win.

Justice Stinks!

In west-central New Mexico there is a humble city. Maybe not that humble. Anyway, this city was a magnet for evildoers, and wherever and whenever crime, mayhem, and naughtiness struck, its humble (or not) citizens would cry out for the fragrant justice of their hometown champions!

            When he was a child, young Barry fell into a radioactive sewer and gained the power and abilities of that sewer! From that day forth, he dedicated himself to the protection of Gallup, New Mexico as Sewerboy!

When he was a child, young Eugene sat down on a radioactive cactus and gained the power and abilities of that cactus! His idol, Sewerboy took him under his wing, and he fought by his side as the Kactus Kid!

Over the years, they developed quite the rogue’s gallery, including The Nitpicker (“You’re going to jail, Nitpicker!” “How can I be going to jail if I’m standing right here?”) …

The Passive-Aggressive Giant (“I guess I could go to jail. I feel bad about my mom, though, who has a bad back and can’t do any of the yardwork.”) …

And Irwin, God of Cannabis (“Perhaps we shouldn’t, uh, talk about Irwin.”)

But never was evil more powerful than with the caffeinated villainy of Major Jitters, who drank a radioactive cup of coffee and gained the power and ability of that coffee, and she chose to use it for nefarious ends. All it takes to unleash her awesome gifts is a wholesome mug full of Joe.

With her army of café-themed goons, she has cut a swath through the innocent (?) city of Gallup.

But when it comes to muscle, none can defeat the Percolator.

When evil is afoot, when all seems lost, you’ll hear the battle cry of Sewerboy and know you’re in safe hands.

“Justice Stinks!”

Does Whatever a Mortal Can

I love drawing comics. The comic book I’m working on, the second chapter of Best Fiends Forever, is not my first comic book. The first chapter of Best Fiends Forever was not my first comic book. The one I worked on nineteen years ago for those smug dudes in New York who badmouthed me after I quit was not my first comic book. My first comic book was MortalMan, in 2003, and I dug up some of my sketches from back then.

You probably don’t know this if you’ve picked up comic reading in the past twenty-five-to-thirty years, but once upon a time, issues were self-contained, and the only thing you needed to know was in a one- or two-sentence summary near the logo. For example: “When Peter Parker was bitten by a radioactive spider, he developed abilities of a spider and learned that with great power comes great responsibility.” From there, you’d pretty quickly catch up on Spider-Man’s specific powers and enemies, usually through narration.

For MortalMan, the banner was: “When Joe Branford was bitten by a radioactive spider, he had a rash for three weeks and learned that with no power comes no responsibility.” Joe (first pic) was a good-natured teenager who watched TV and read comics perhaps a little too much. However, this prepared him for some of the weird shit to hit Gallup, New Mexico. For example, he was not fazed when he met a talking dog named Pete, figuring he was just bilingual. Pete is a goth. He sees the world as gray and bleak, he writes dark poetry, and he attempts suicide in the first issue (if I were going to write this again, I’d probably change that last bit). He and Joe hit it off, and they hang out at the mall.

This is Kgnydjll and Fphihln (pronounced “Nigel” and “Phil”) emissaries for the Galactic Empire who come to Earth in the first issue to welcome us to the fold. Unfortunately, they arrive in time for a Science Fiction Convention, and no one believes they’re aliens.

I had a lot of big plans for MortalMan, and I wrote a lot of scripts, but I never followed through with them. Joe and Pete were going to run afoul of a pair of John-Woo-inspired super spies and a mob of Tarantino-esque gangsters at a Mafia Convention being held in Gallup, and they were going to rediscover the long-retired superhero guardians of Gallup, Sewerboy and the Kactus Kid.

One of their rogues’ gallery was Irwin the God of Cannabis.

More on Sewerboy et al on a separate post.

At one point, Joe was going to get sucked into hell and would escape when a pair of little boys, attempting to tunnel to China, dig a hole in Perdition’s walls, leaving Joe stranded in Hastings, Nebraska. On his way home, he’d run into my most ambitious creation, M: the scourge of I-80, based on my dear friend, Emilie. With her sidekick, Pixie (based on our friend Abby), she leaps from car to car and liberates the change from drivers’ ashtrays. To pull her off, I’d have to learn how to draw a lot of cars and some very kinetic poses. Twenty years ago, I knew I had it in me. Now, I’m a little more humble.

I still have the original art for the comic, sans word balloons, but I don’t have the script, nor the scripts for future issues because Newcastle liked to sit on my laptop, and 18 years ago, he was much heavier and broke my hard drive.

And yet, I am starting to look for a projects after I’m finished with Best Fiends Forever

Like No One’s Watching

Something unusual happened to me yesterday, and I’m still not sure what to make of it.

My office takes up five floors of our ten-story building, and on floors 6 through 9, there is an identical conference room. The rooms are made of glass and are not soundproof (which is not important for this story, but is something worth keeping in mind if you work here). They are located in the same corner of each floor as the elevators.

Every Thursday, my boss, my boss’s boss, and my fellow Editorial Coordinator meet in a conference room, very rarely the one on our floor. The table has four sides, but my fellow Coordinator Zooms in because she is disabled and works from home. Her face is projected on a forty-eight-inch screen, and therefore my bosses and I populate three sides of the table, facing her. I like to sit with my back to the window for reasons.

And here is where the event occurred. This week, we were located on the sixth floor. The only thing I know about the sixth floor is that the break room is there. I don’t know anyone who works there, but since I had the best view of the cubicle farm, I people-watched while our department talked amongst ourselves.

There is a really cute girl on the sixth floor. (I call her a girl when she’s in her twenties; also, get off my lawn.) I saw her approach from the far side of the office on a bearing that would have taken her straight through the glass conference-room wall and right into my lap (not in a pervy way; don’t forget I’m ace). It was hard to avoid watching her because my boss and my boss’s boss were seated in a way that I was facing the cubicle farm, but I didn’t want to seem like a creep, so I kept my eyes on my laptop, and eventually, she veered off.

She reappeared in front of the elevators a while later and pushed the button. While she waited, she started to dance. I am the prime audience for people being free and enjoying themselves, so I secretly applauded her. But the next time I looked up, her eyes were on me, and I felt terrible for invading her private moment. She smiled and continued to dance, and she kept turning toward me, as if to make sure I was watching. A coworker joined her, and they danced into the elevator car.

When I go to the elevators, and there’s a meeting, I get really self-conscious. At the same time, I feel like I have to put on a performance for the people who can see me. For me, that means pushing the button and stepping into the car with exaggerated panache. For this young woman, that meant dancing. Who knows? Maybe she was feeling self-conscious. I won’t dance—I have this pathological aversion to dancing—but there’s a show in me somewhere, and if I put it on, it’ll be because it was brought out of me by this nameless blonde in the white sweater.

Oh My Gourd

I have been unusually social lately, which is to say I’ve been a little bit social.

It started when my desk moved to the other side of the office, closer to my boss (and farther away from the constant gossips who never acknowledged my existence). Sitting nearby was the new girl whose neo-eighties look I admired from a distance. And, completely unlike me, I introduced myself and engaged in a few long conversations with her.

As an introvert who becomes more of a hermit with each passing day, I’m fine not talking to people, and in fact, I prefer it. But there’s a difference between my new neighbors giving me space and my old neighbors not even acknowledging I exist.

For example, I overheard one of my new neighbors say, “… for when you rip your arm off …” I turned around and said, “What the HELL are you talking about?” And they laughed and included me and filled me in. My old neighbors would have laughed and carried on like I wasn’t there. I may be quiet, but I’m not opposed to conversation.

Anyway, eighties girl was not alive in the eighties, but like 80 percent of the girls I knew who were, her name is Jennifer. She moved desks a few days after I met her, out of sight, out of mind.

What typically keeps me from introducing myself to people is that I feel like I need an excuse. I don’t want to be (anymore awkward0. With Jennifer, it was telling her I liked her style. However, with the other new girl who just started last week, my excuse was she was my counterpart at the other journal we publish. I made myself available for questions, and I did the unthinkable: I asked her out to coffee.

(I don’t think I should have to say this, but I’m going to say this anyway to clear up any potential confusion: this was not a date. I’m ace, and she’s getting married in March. This was a friend date at the most.)

But what really alarmed me was when the boss’s boss’s boss put out a call for the Pumpkin Carving Committee. I volunteered, only to find out that all of the other volunteers knew I was an artist. (I photocopy pages from my sketchbook and hang them up in my cubicle, but I didn’t think anyone noticed.) So not only am I a part of a work-related fun activity, but I kind of took charge. I gathered everyone’s email addresses and contact the group with updates. Naturally, I designed it, marked it up for cutting, and also walked to the art store with the corporate credit card and bought paint. (Based on the recommendation of the gurus there, I purchased paint markers, which don’t dry out and are more convenient if I want to graffiti the place on my last day.)

I’m not going to do anymore to the pumpkin. As I told the committee, I’ve been hogging up the fun. My boss volunteered to gut, but no one is stepping up to give it a face. I am reasonably sure the pumpkin will go unfinished. But I don’t care because look what I did!

That begs the question, what has gotten into me?

Call It A Draw

I’ve been prepping for a while now, and I have one more pre-production task to do, but this weekend, I’m going to start working on my third comic (technically my seventh, but the other four were done roughly two decades ago). I’m looking forward to this. I’ve got a script that’s been broken into pages and panels, and a lot of the obnoxious stuff has been edited out. All I need to do is finish layouts before I pull out the Bristol boards.

I learned some lessons from the last two comics I did, and I want to incorporate them into this one:

  1. Don’t rush. I’m not on a deadline, and no one is clamoring to see it. I need to take my time on each page.
  2. Don’t settle. I have an eraser, and I can use it as much as I need to. I’m never happy with the art I finish because I’m frustrated or I just want to get it over with.
  3. Watch the eraser. I’ve come to realize that the larger erasers I’ve been using are smearing the paper. I need one I can control.
  4. Backgrounds, backgrounds, backgrounds. I need to put as much work into those as into what I’d rather be drawing. A good background is invisible, and an over-simplified or missing background is glaring.
  5. Most importantly, practice. If I don’t know how to draw something, I shouldn’t learn on the page.

On the last point, the first page of my new comic focuses on children. When you’re used to drawing adults, it’s tough to remember that they’re not miniature adults. Take this panel from acclaimed comic artist, John Byrne. These are toddlers.

Mindful of this, I gave it a try for myself (while also practicing how to do a playground and mountains, both which also feature on page 1). I did way better than acclaimed comic artist, John Byrne.

On the left is Max Fuentes, Criminal Mastermind of the Third Grade. To the right is his enforcer, Lisa Green.

Another problem I have is likenesses. My former neighbor, the eccentric bombshell Cleo, guest stard, so I gave that a shot (while also working on backgrounds). I still need to do her roommate, Brandyn, who also puts in an appearance, but I have plenty of time to practice until I get there.

No more excuses. Time for layouts so I can get started. Wish me luck!

$&*#)%!#$&^$#%^&!!!!

An Essay by Jeremiah Murphy

This is something that’s been low-grade bugging me for a while, and I’ve decided that I’m going to come right out and complain about it. I know several of you do this, which has stopped me from saying anything.

Before we go on, I want you to know that there are certain words I’ll never say, and they are all slurs. Most of them, I just don’t say at all. For example, there’s a seven-letter word that starts with W that refers to a person of Mexican heritage. I don’t say “W-word.” I don’t hint at it at all. There is no reason for me to say it, ever, so there’s no reason to bring it up, even obliquely.

In the case of a very bad word to refer to Black people, this one is so rooted in this culture that occasionally, you have to refer to it (hopefully without using it as intended), and “N-word” will do. There’s the case of the “R-word,” an attack on people with certain disabilities, I don’t use that word either, neither in its pure form or the abbreviated version. (Confession: in a moment of anger a few years ago, I used the real word to refer to Senator Tom Cotton, but that’s because he was acting like an R-word. I apologized to my audience immediately.)

There’s the “C-word,” the one that’s not that big a deal in the United Kingdom but is the worst word in America. I’ve never said the word aloud, but I’ve written it a few times in my novels, for shock comedic effect (like when I had a prim and proper mother call a ten-year-old girl a C-word). It’s best if you limit it to one C-word per novel. Other than that, there is no need for me to even say “C-word.”

You may have figured out my point, but I’m going to spell it out. If you’re not going to say or write it, don’t. It’s one thing to bleep out a word on Arrested Development. It’s another thing to bleep repeatedly for comedic effect. It’s yet another thing to be bleep out movie clips because YouTube’s draconian ratings system won’t let you monetize unless they can control your language. (There was one video I couldn’t get through because they bleeped out the word “sex.” In an essay about Ezra Miller.) But the people I’m complaining about aren’t even bleeping.

The aforementioned video about Ezra Miller put transcripts on the screen. When the word “sex” came up, which it did because it’s Ezra Miller, they spelled it like this: “s*x.” Why didn’t they just say sex? Are the potentially offended people supposed to read that and think, “That Ezra Miller person sure loves the saxophone”?

And that brings me to you. I see posts from friends and relatives where they will write f**k, and there’s no reason to censor the word “fork.” Sometimes they will go so far as to say “f*ck.” Why? I mean this sincerely, why? First off, why are you censoring yourself in the first place? Is it because you don’t want to say a bad word? You’re saying it. There is no difference between “fuck” and “f*ck.” It doesn’t fool people into thinking you’re not a bad person. You wrote “fuck.” Are you worried about offending someone? You said “fuck,” and they will be offended anyway, even if it’s a quote. The same goes for “s**t,” “a**hole,” “c*ck,” “d**k,” and, yes, I’ve even seen “c*nt.”

I have a potty mouth, and I have since I was a kid. In the musical Guys and Dolls, they extoll the virtues of the past by saying, “Good authors too who once knew better words; now only use four-letter words writing prose; anything goes.” I had a teacher in high school steal and read my journal and write in the margins that I cussed too much. So many people have told me that it’s a sign of laziness to use swear words. Well fuck all of you.

I can self-censor. I’ve don’t use the word at work. It is rare that I will make a Facebook post that has foul language in it (not counting my essays, in which anything goes). But I don’t understand what is so taboo about bad words. They’re a part of our language. They have rich meanings, and they’re very descriptive, not just in their literal sense or shock value. They even have very specific rules. For example, if you want to insert the word “fuck” into “absolutely” for emphasis, there is only one syllable it fits between. Otherwise, it’s like trying to say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious after you’ve had a root canal. I fantasize about using the word “fuckery” in a work email because there’s no other word that describes what I’m dealing with.

I’m not trying to turn you into potty mouths. I have friends who don’t swear, ever. (I did have a friend who never said fuck until the time he whispered it in my ear with no witnesses around, then denied it, just to fuck with me.) Most of the time, I don’t notice until they are about to say a swear word (mostly when quoting someone) and bleep themselves out. They don’t call me foul-mouthed for saying bad words, I don’t call them prudes for not. But one thing they don’t do is shut the “f*ck” up. They’ve made their commitment.

The people who write “f**k” understand the value of the word. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t use it. They’re not fooling anyone. You won’t commit to swearing, you won’t commit to not swearing, and that’s pretty weak. Say it or find some other way of expressing it. It’s time to sh*t or get off the pot.

The Limits of New Relationship Energy

In the summer of 2000, I had grown apart from all of my friends. I was then, as I am now, socially anxious, but one day, I set a goal: I was going to have a conversation with one stranger every day after work in Manhattan before I went home. I succeeded, and a couple I chatted with about the band The London Suede (or Suede in their native England) invited me to a party. Then, as now, I couldn’t imagine a worse place to be than at a party where I knew literally no one, not even the hosts.

I made myself a deal: if I would go to the party and stay for an hour, minimum, I would go to the free concert with Mike Doughty, formerly of Soul Coughing. (There was another band playing after him, a little group no one’s ever heard of called They Might Be Larger Than Average? They Might Be Enormous People? They Might Be The NFC Football Team From New York? They Might Be Something.)

I went to the party, and I went to the concert (Mike Doughty was a huge disappointment), and keeping with my goal of talking to strangers, I forced myself to talk to the really beautiful woman dancing to the intermission elevator music like she was a marionette and her puppeteer had the hiccups. I walked up to her and internally smacked myself in the head when I said to her the following, “You must really like this music.” After a brief chat, she told me that my liking and wanting to illustrate comics was a deal-breaker, and she would not go out with me.

During our first date, she kissed me. Our second date, she tested me, and I passed. We saw X-Men in the theaters. Her last boyfriend, the reason for the deal-breaker that wasn’t, would not have found the humor in the movie that was unintentionally pretty goofy. (She tested me again later with my favorite movie, The Matrix, which has a surprising amount of comedy between the grab-you-by-the-lapels philosophy and the pointless bloodbaths.) Our third date found us on the Brooklyn Bridge and led to her falling off the bed when she was taking my pants off.

Her name was pronounced AND-ree-uh, but I pronounced it Ahn-DRAY-uh. I don’t know why.

Speaking of goofy, she was really goofy. That was one of the things I loved about her. Our honeymoon lasted the first six or seven months we were together, laughing, holding hands, being horny, and just having fun with each other. Unfortunately, the summer of 2001, I lost my job and sank into a deep depression, which led to me being unforgivably unpleasant, which I usually am between Memorial and Labor Days. Literally the day the heat broke and I started to recover was September 11, 2001. Unfortunately, her thirtieth birthday was September 13, 2001. We limped along as a couple until February 2002, when we were heading in different directions socially, and I put our relationship out of our misery.

The thing about her was that her last relationship was the worst relationship she ever head, followed by the one before it, so she exited us hating my guts. I had friends who had mutual friends with her, and my name could not even be mentioned around her without a meltdown. And that makes me sad. I’m one of those people who sees the past with rose-colored glasses (despite knowing how miserable I was through much of it), so I knew it was over, and I understand why, but I still remember how good it was when it was good.

For a long time, I thought the was “The One,” and she’s still one of the most important relationships I’ve ever had, even though we didn’t even last a year and a half. I remember walking with her through Prospect Park, listening to her laugh when we watched an episode of The Muppet Show for the forty-seventh time, spending a Halloween party dancing like we were the only people in the apartment. I was really, really in love with her, and that was a good feeling. I will never forget it, no matter how much she hates me.

That brings me to twenty-one years later and the Doctor Who fanfic I’m tinkering with. I’m not sure why, but I decided to base the Nth Doctor’s companion on her. Like my Andrea, she’s impatient, self-righteous, enthusiastic, and goofy. She’s also a gifted collage artist. When it came time to illustrate her, I found an album of pics that her professional photographer brother took and tried to use them as a reference. That did not work at all. So this weekend, I tried again, but did it entirely based on memory. This time I think I nailed it. Only a handful of people, including my parents and Barry, have any experience with her, and they have likely forgotten what she looks like, but this is how I remember her. I just wish there was some way to share it with her.