Costume Drama

Posted on October 29, 2024 by Jeremiah Murphy

It’s seven thirty in the evening. I’m usually in bed by eight. I took an Adderall at ten a.m., and I think it’s still going. This could be bad. Last night, I slept like Santa Claus after an exhausting Christmas Eve. The night before, I slept like a little kid waiting on Santa Claus. I’m worried I’m going to sleep like the latter tonight. I am in a state where marijuana is legal, so I’ve taken steps to ward off the tossing and the turning, but they may not be enough.

Emilie did not take the entire time I am here off from work. I would be kind of upset if she had. We have dinners together on work days, and she is a phenomenal … Doo doo, doo-doo doo! Phenomenal! Doo-doo doo-doo!

Sorry. That got out of control.

Emilie is a really good cook. We talk, I fondle her ceramic flowers, we tell stories, I confessed something, and we call it a night. It’s good to do this in person.

Today was the first workday while I was here, so I needed to entertain myself. I started by sleeping in for an hour and a half. I sleepwalked through getting up, making coffee, and getting clean, and I went to breakfast at the same diner as yesterday. I overheard some fun conversations, though everyone was quieter with a smaller crowd of customers.

“I’m not a boat fan. I been on a few boats. I don’t like ‘em.” I also heard my waitress call out, in the tone of voice of a fed-up mom, “Tell him to stop bein’ such a tree-hugger!” (Shortly after this, a guy entered, wearing a hoodie that said, “I’m voting for the prosecutor, not the convict.” My waitress and him did not have a violent confrontation over this because we, as human beings, are capable of treating each other with respect.)

The most baffling one was, “How do you want your eggs, scrambled?” In a strangely erotic voice, she continued, “You got it. You gooooootttttt it.”

After breakfast, I went back to Corvus, the coffee roaster with a remarkable grift, and I ordered an iced coffee. The barista asked, “What kind of cold brew would you like? There’s Nitro, N’awlins, and Tokyo.”

Ninety seconds passed before I said, “Huh?” She explained the differences in the way that aficionados do. (“It has just a little nitro in it, so it goes down smooth.”) I went with Tokyo because they brewed it with the machine.

I took my Adderall, and I got to work, drawing up a storm for hours, until I realized I should probably go to the bathroom, but only after I finished doing one bit, then while I was here, another bit, and I wouldn’t want to stop when I have this bit to do, and another hour passed. When I had been in there four hours, I decided to move on, and I went to the bathroom finally.

I drove around a bit. The area around my airBnB is loaded with shopping centers, and one of them had a store called Disguises. Emilie had told me about an amazing costume shop we weren’t going to visit because it was Halloween. I was going in. This is the biggest costume shop I’ve ever been in. I’d stroll along, enjoying things like the Kenny Rogers wig and beard called “Gambler Costume,” and wander into separate rooms selling more intricate costumes. I turned right into an aisle, turned right at the end of the aisle, turned right at the next aisle, then right again. But instead of walking in a circle, I stumbled into a section of the store devoted only to tutus.

The store is some kind of tesseract.

I haven’t dressed up for Halloween since 2002, when I shaved off my mustache and went as Norville Rogers, with the nom de guerre of Shaggy. That was a repeat of my 2000 costume, with which I broke a haunted house with a well-timed “Zoinks.” I thought about maybe getting something and half-assing it (“You can see by the eyepatch that I am a bohemian pirate.”), but I saw nothing that grabbed my attention.

Overwhelmed by the fact that there was always someone behind me, and exhausted by not looking at the shopgirl’s cleavage, I somehow found my way to the exit. By the time I made it to home base, the Adderall would have left my system. I had no problem sleeping for an hour. But I woke up clear-headed and focused, finishing a drawing before Emilie could invite me over for dinner.

She made butter chicken with Indian cayenne pepper. The conversation was very funny (the story of my hubris meeting a Thai ghost pepper) and very personal (a bad thing I’d done that I don’t talk about). And we called it a night.

After writing this, I can feel the crackling potential energy fade, and I think I’m going to sleep well.

Guerilla Art Fair

Posted on October 28, 2024 by Jeremiah Murphy

Something happened to me today that has happened to me an alarming amount of times in my life. It’s difficult to explain.

But first, the context: thanks to the vacation calculator on my HR platform, I discovered that I had to use up sixty hours of vacation before the end of the year or risk losing it forever. I don’t really want to go anywhere right now, and I don’t have that much money. I do however, have some intimate friends I love to see, so I came out to Colorado to see one. Another reason I decided to come here was my sister is here, and I have presents.

For breakfast my first day, I sat down in a greasy spoon diner, the kind you have to go out west to find. The waitress called me honey when she took my order. She engaged in a loud and animated conversation with a fellow waitress about menopause. Later, the second waitress yelled into the kitchen, “Hey, Pablo! You know Men at Work? The band! Liz and I are going to see them next weekend. The band!”

I ordered chicken fried steak with two eggs over-easy, wheat toast, and hash browns. It was delicious.

Emilie and I hung out on the couch my first day, until we moved to a coffee shop called Corvus. She informed me that Corvus offered a class in pour-over coffee for sixty dollars. While I formulated an opinion on that, my mouth delivered a standard disclaimer, “Look, I don’t want to judge …” I paused because my brain hadn’t caught up yet. Emily’s latte evacuated her face through her nose, and she laughed hysterically.

This is a very relaxed vacation. This is why I came here as opposed to New York.

Today, after a walk in one of Denver’s many beautiful parks, Emilie found me an art supply store. Because it opened at noon, we stopped at the best coffee bar in Colorado, apparently, and were greeted by the world’s most eager barista. When he finished my smoothie, he turned and asked me, quivering with joy, if I wanted whipped cream on my berry smoothie. I considered it and decided no. He accepted my choice with a shrug and a grin. Our drinks were made with two pumps of sincerity, and you could really taste it.

After another stop in a park, it was noon, and we drove out to the shopping center where a large, flat building, covered in colors, waited. And this when I entered familiar territory. For some reason, I don’t know why, I tend to wander into art galleries when I’m not expecting it. There are worse Eldritch horrors than “Suddenly: art!”; but you can’t deny it’s weird.

There were five galleries, with names like “Edge” and “Core,” and they each had their own approach to art. One gallery was full of parasols. Another had tiny little pieces, another had vast, geometric canvases. There were sculptures, collages, paintings, jewelry. One place had merch, including stickers, but they were all of babies wearing dark costumes, so I passed.

I started conversations with two attendants, which is not like me at all. All of the galleries are different, but most of them were co-ops. That meant all of the attendants were artists, and they had a lot of insight in the process. One of the attendants even encouraged us to play with his sculpture.

There was another gallery/tattoo artist in the complex, but they were closed. There was also a store, called “POP Culture,” that I investigated, only to find it was a Funko Pop store. Wall-to-wall Funko Pops. I fled. Funko Pops are an invasive species, and they appear where they are not invited.

Maybe one day I’ll understand how art just kind of sneaks up on me, but until then, I might as well see what it has to say.

Jacket Off

Posted on October 19, 2024 by Jeremiah Murphy

I apologize for the title, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. Now back to our regularly scheduled essay:

In 2002, my friend Katie and I went to Andy’s Cheepees, a vintage clothier in the SoHo neighborhood of Manhattan. I had been living tough in New York Adjacent for four years by that point, and I had acquired a new personality. I felt cool. I had cool friends, and we did cool things together. But there was something missing.

I haven’t been to New York in ten years, but when I first arrived, and through the six years I spent there, everybody had a leather blazer, black with a medium-to-narrow lapel. You were practically issued it. And the thing about those jackets was, they were pretty cool. Even though everyone had one, they were cool. It wasn’t about conforming, it was about being as awesome as your peers.

I went to Andy’s Cheepees with the sole purpose of getting one of those jackets, and I quickly found one that fit (40L at the time). However, the guy at checkout wouldn’t sell it to me. Instead, he took me to the back and found me one in a dark brown with a wide collar, looking more like a pea coat than a blazer.

Most people who know me as an adult know this jacket. It was comfortable, it was awesome, and it was vintage. It made me more confident and sexy. It was around that time that I came up with Jack Murphy: Cop on the Edge, who became my alter ego. You all know Jack, he doesn’t play by the rules. He drives his beater through fruit stands. He violates the Bill of Rights. He was married once, but not anymore, as he lives in a shitty apartment by himself. He may or may not have a dog, whom he feeds people food. He says things like, “You don’t get it, do you? You just don’t get it.”

Upon meeting Jack Murphy, Rita called me Jackass Murphy because friends don’t want your head getting too big.

I retired the jacket in 2013 because it was pretty beaten up. I never got rid of it—it’s in my closet right now—but it’s not wearable. I replaced it with a similar jacket, almost the same color. This one looks like a leather safari jacket, but it’s as cool as the original, and I’ve worn it around Germany, England, and DC.

There’s just one problem: I’m not sure I want to wear it anymore. Why am I making such a big deal about this? That jacket has been a major part of my identity for twenty-two years, and the weather right now is perfect for it. As soon as the temperature made it to the 40s in the morning, I knew the time had come, and I slipped it on, and meh. No joy was sparked.

I don’t feel cool anymore. I’m self-conscious about my weight, I haven’t had a good haircut in years, and I’ve forgotten how to smile. I do feel cool sometimes, but it has nothing to do with my jacket. Most of the time, I wear the denim one and layer it with a hoodie when it gets chillier. I only wore the leather one twice last year.

I’m a completely different person than I was twenty years ago. I’m a different person than I was ten years ago. One year ago. Six months ago, I didn’t have a cat. Change is the only constant. I think of it as regenerations, as in Doctor Who. Twenty years ago, I was the Shenanigan. Today, I’m the Bohemian.

In a few years, who knows? I might strut around the nursing home in my vintage leather jacket and bust some skulls. In the meantime, it’s waiting for me, if I’m so inclined. It’s my history.

Ex-Con

Posted on September 22, 2024 by Jeremiah Murphy

I went to the Baltimore Comic Con this weekend. I had to stop going to cons for a few years because money was tight, but I really need to leave my apartment, so I took the MARC train into Baltimore. I left after two hours, basically spending more time commuting than wandering the floor. And the fact that I got swindled for $100 as I was exiting the building didn’t improve my mood any.

Right before this, on my way out the door, as I was starting to feel overwhelmed, I noticed there were only about ten people in line to see Ben Edlund. A fellow comic artist once called him “the god who walks among us.” He wrote and illustrated indie comic The Tick, which was adapted into a popular cartoon, and then a live-action show which lasted six episodes, and then another live-action show which ran for two seasons. He was the head scriptwriter for Supernatural and Angel for a time, and he wrote an episode of Firefly. These are the ones I know of.

However, as I was standing in line, awkwardly carrying all the books and stickers and prints independent creators had been throwing at me, this guy two people ahead keeps looking at me, like, really intently. His expression is that of a person who mixed up salt and sugar with his breakfast cereal. He’s in a generic Jedi costume, and he seems to believe he is Jedi, in the way he comes up to me and starts speaking quietly, like he didn’t want to escalate this. Condescendingly, he tells me I was in the wrong line. The real line stretched over the horizon. No Ben Edlund for me.

The whole experience was like walking on a swimming pool full of Lego, and then I met the swindlers. I decided that this was my last con. It was a bust, as far as I was concerned.

That is until I started thinking about it. Everywhere there were artists and writers I admired. Sometimes the only thing they were selling were original pages for hundreds of dollars, or I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I hovered away. People were wearing cool costumes, though I lost interest in taking pictures after a few minutes. Vendors were vending, which is where I found several issues of The Incredible Hulk that I’d been looking for for a while.And Artist’s Alley, always my favorite part, was vast and full of interesting people.

I did talk to some artists. I met Amanda Conner for the fourth time. I called her a filthy degenerate, and she agreed wholeheartedly. Her art is raunchy, but at the same time really sexy, with a cartoony aftertaste.

Her husband, Jimmy Palmiotti, is a writer and inker of exceptional talent, and he sat next to her. They’ve been married forever. The thing about comic artists and writers is that you don’t often see photos of them, so you have no idea what they look like. In the case of Jimmy Palmiotti, he looks exactly like you’d expect a person named Jimmy Palmiotti to look like.

Speaking of not knowing what an artist looks like, I also found Amy Reeder. Amy has got a real fairy-tale style about her, which she showed off in Madame Xanadu, which is about a powerful fortune-teller whose origins were in Camelot. I’ve gotten her autograph two times before this, and I can never remember what she looks like. There’s always the same woman in there with her, and I can’t recall who was who. I spoke to the empty space between them when I talked about how “Amethyst is the perfect book for your style,” and the one who uncapped her pen was Amy.

Likewise, I stood in line to meet Terry Moore. Terry Moore writes character-driven comic book epics in black and white. He pencils and inks his own work, and he hand-letters it. I wanted to talk to him about lettering, so I waited. I was beyond irritated that I’d been standing there for five minutes while this older woman chewed his ear off, especially about how superstar artist Frank Cho was never in his booth. And it wasn’t until Terry Moore said something to her that I realized that this was not Terry Moore, but rather his assistant. Terry was at a panel. I didn’t stick around because I was planning on leaving soon anyway, a path to the door that would take me by Ben Edlund’s booth. And you know how that went.

I had a great time in Artist’s Alley. Lately my obsession is with stickers—I’ve been decorating my sketchbooks like I’m a thirteen-year-old. This led me to a lot of tables to have brief chats with independent creators. My policy is this: if you call me over to your booth and tell me all about your comic or your book or even just your characters, I will buy what you’re, even though I hardly ever read. It’s what I’d want if I was on the other side of the table.

I think I will try this again, maybe next year at Awesome Con, DC’s comic book convention. It wasn’t worth the trip to Maryland, but the DC convention center is only a couple of stops from me. Maybe I’ll feel less awkward around the talents I admire. Maybe I’ll meet all sorts of young, creative people who are really putting themselves out there. And maybe next time I’ll bring a tote bag.

I also got these.

A Day in the Life

Posted on September 11, 2024 by Jeremiah Murphy

I woke up about ten minutes before my alarm this morning, and it still pissed me off. Oscar slept on the floor because I’d rolled over onto him at about 2:30. He knows my alarm means breakfast, so he bullied me into getting out of bed and feeding him. I brushed my teeth, cleaned out his litter box, made my bed, picked out my clothes for the day, and showered. Since it was super-early, I worked on a drawing until my favorite café in the DMV region opened at seven. I took the Metro the two stops and huffed and puffed it up some very Bay Area terrain. When I arrived, I enjoyed a breakfast sandwich while reviewing the proofs for my novel. I then continued working on my drawing and watched people for the next three hours, until the art store opened. I didn’t need paint, ink, or paper, so I just browsed. I also found the comic book shop Nicole had shown me years ago, but it wasn’t open yet. In this beautiful, late-summer day, I explored Silver Spring, Maryland and went home to open up my social medias.

The one and only post I could find that acknowledged what’s on my mind today was the car salesman meme, this one selling a plane that can crash into two buildings for the price of one.

I’m done until tomorrow.

Trapped in Amber

Posted on September 4, 2024 by Jeremiah Murphy

I’ve been thinking lately about perfect moments. There those events in your history that aren’t weighed down by the stresses of life. You can start your day anxious and cranky, and you could end your day depressed and disappointed, but in the middle, time stands still, and everything is as it should be. I’m almost fifty, and I have so many.

I can remember with clarity my first kiss (in the back of a GATE van, fist-bump), even if I can’t remember the reason we were in Albuquerque, or the fact that I figured out shortly after that I didn’t even like this person. I can recall what she was wearing, and the fact that she had to make the first move before I noticed.

I remember walking by a canal in Florida with my parents, who were married forty-four years by this point and were still holding hands. I recall the yellow-green of the grass, the fence to the left, and trees in the near distance.

I remember Newcastle chasing me through the apartment until I jumped onto the bed, and he joined me, and we snuggled together on the green sheets.

There’s so many.

I have a favorite. It’s stuck with me for over twenty years because it was perfect. It’s an unremarkable moment, and I feel safe in assuming that all of my friends, including Facebook friends, experience this. There was something about this time, though, that didn’t fade.

In January or February, 2003, I had spent the night at my girlfriend’s apartment. We had known each other as long as we’d lived in New York, but we were still in our honeymoon period. Work beckoned us, so we bundled up and walked to my subway station in the cold and snow, surrounded by drifts of dirty ice. She lived on 210th Street, so the trains were all elevated, so we hid from the precipitation under the tracks, with the painted girders. Casually, she kissed me goodbye before heading off to her own train.

And that’s it. That is the moment that sticks out to me the most. I remember the black belt of her black coat and her debutante gloves. I remember the leopard print lining of her hat. I remember her hand on my heart, a gesture she made a lot with me. I remember that it was the most natural thing in the world.

She had kissed me goodbye before, but something had changed. This time I felt like I was an important part of her life, not just some guy. She seemed a little more relaxed. And for the first time, I felt like I was good enough for her. She and I had dated twice before this, and we felt hopeful that the third time would be a charm. There was a lot of hope in that kiss. We were really good friends, even before we started dating (again), so there was comfort.

The third time was not a charm. A few months later, I had a depressive episode and broke up with her over the phone. We stayed friends, though not as close as before, and then we became really close again long-distance. Unfortunately, I was cut off from most of my friends during my marriage, so we drifted apart, and our current lives are about as opposite they can get. I don’t expect she even remembers this because it was so mundane. It was my moment.

Why is this my favorite memory? I think it was the intimacy of it.

So many lifetimes later, I will always have that moment, that kiss in the snow, when everything was perfect.

Jeremiah Murphy and the Journey into Darkness

Posted on August 24, 2024 by Jeremiah Murphy