The Origin of Neville Orange.

It was 1971 and I was living in a tiny apartment on Center Street in Salt Lake City with my friend John. I'd been learning cartography but studying underground comics. H.D. Roberson had shown me a simple way to draw a face and I took it from there. The idea of actually taking a class to learn how to illustrate wasn't even considered. In fact, I didn't think anyone would ever see any of the images I created. They were for my amusement initially, but the character that sprang out of those images took on a life and character of his own. Dan O'Neill had produced a wonderful series of simple cartoons titled "Odd Bodkins" and I loved the simplicity of the design and strange humor in his stories. His things were much better and can be found on the web. I recommend going there now and forgetting this exercise.

My character was a round fellow with hiking boots and derby hat. No arms, legs or other appendage were needed because he was all about attitude. Charming but cynical, Neville Orange was born on my drafting table and found his way onto paper, restroom walls and finally now off into cyberspace. This is probably where he was headed all along, I just never knew it at the time.

In his first and longest adventure Neville takes his ward, all super heros had wards to train and possibly to abuse for their own pleasure, on a trip to visit Mr Sun. I know, it's odd. But remember this was 1971 and I was probably under the influence of a culture where experimentation was expected and Art was a kid I knew in elementary school.

My "studio" was probably a blank door set up on cinderblocks to serve as a desk. Light came in through a couple of small, dirty casement windows that had been painted shut. The stereo was a KLH and my pride and joy. We had my records, John's records and a bunch that had been left with me by a friend of my first roommate when I bought his record player. He didn't have anywhere to store them and no way to play them, so I had them on long term loan. He got them back about 2 years after that but they had given us plenty of enjoyment. I might have been listening to British blues or maybe a live album by a San Francisco band as I worked.

Why did the Sun have a Fu Manchu and John Lennon Glasses? Why did he have a mouth? If I could answer that I would. It seemed pretty neat at the time and I still kind of like it in a dated anachronistic hippie way.

Neither Neville nor myself had any desire to go into dentistry or even to practice better dental hygene. There was a lot of trust there between Neville and the Sun, maybe like those little birds who pick the teeth of crocs in African rivers. Or maybe not. It could be that they were both just a couple of wierdos and this seemed to be something fun to investigate or taste. They do both seem pretty happy when its done.

And there it is. There was going to be a word balloon that explained the Sun had bad breath, but the graphic seemed to be better without it. I can't explain it any more now than I could then. It was a fun experiment and from that point on every Neville Orange cartoon was a single frame with some kind of smart-ass remark. He became one of my characters, an alter ego and I could use him as 'Neville sez:' to comment on the goings-on around me. Neville is a zen gutter philosopher. Don't follow him or believe what he says because he is a version of Coyote and will probably be setting you up for something silly at best.

Murph and St. Patricks Day

It's St. Patricks Day and some of you may remember my Irish stepfather, William E. Murphy. He told me once that he never worked a St. Patricks Day in his life. It was probably a lie, but I believed him anyway. He was born in Boston where he and his brother were given up for adoption by his poverty stricken parents. He went to a few homes but apparently his Irish prevented him from ever sticking in one place during his youth. He ran from the orphanage several times. He learned that the cops would recognize the metal toes of his shoes and cut of his jacket and put the collar on him. He learned that when he was returned to the orphanage the thankful brothers would beat him for running away. It took a few times, but he finally left and didn't return. He learned a lot on the streets of Boston too. He found friends that taught him how to swim by tossing him off the pier into the Harbor. He was stronger than any of us ever realized and he learned how to use that physical gift along with a sharp mind to survive in times that were less than forgiving. He learned from a wide range of experiences and kept the successful lessons close and never forgot the failures. He was in the National Guard, played professional baseball in the minor leagues, worked at the horse track, tended bar, worked as a salesman and drove anything that had wheels. Once while playing ball for the Hollywood Stars he was mistaken by some for Bing Crosby, until they got a little closer or heard him speak.
I was just getting into Junior High when my mother met him. She and my father had been divorced for several years and she was attempting to raise my older brother and me by herself. She found some support and he found something to settle down for. It wasn't me or my brother, just in case you wondered. Their lives improved and although I was clueless, mine did too. He tried a variety of jobs before settling in with Salt Lake City Streets and later the Airport as a Materials Engineer. Not bad for a guy without a degree. He may not have even had a diploma, but he was able to work nearly two decades before retiring. I need to address that "settle down" thing. He still had adventures, he was still Irish and there was this thing about Gin, Horse Races and playing Craps that I'm still trying to understand. He even had a chance or two to run away, but times had changed and he was welcomed home to people who really did care about him. While he didn't invent "Murphy's Law" he was a practitioner of the first order. From picking paint colors that never failed to disappoint to getting to Ireland for his only trip to the homeland, only to spend most of his time sick in his hotel room near the Shannon Airport, he found a way to keep that particular faith.
We thought that when my mother passed away that he wouldn't be around much longer, but he was a stubborn as ever and battled shingles, loneliness, mouth cancer and the NFL on a regular basis for many years after that. One day I got a call from him and went to see him at the hospital. He told me he had cancer again and this time it was a bad one. A couple days later I took him home and a few nights later I slept on his couch in case he needed something. While I wasn't paying attention he left and all there was left for me to do was to say "May you be in Heaven a half hour before the Devil knows your dead."
I learned more from him that I'm really aware of. While it's evident that my streak of bullshit is genetic, I like to think that Murph allowed me the opportunity to put a flower on it. He opened my eyes to some of the worst jokes a bartender ever told and pushed me, in spite of himself, to the left politically. He demonstrated that marriage wasn't a test but a career that required dedication, respect and trust. He set standards high and even now I try to buy good gin and I try my best not to work on St. Patricks day. So I'll drink my morning cup of Irish Coffee today (Bushmills) and wish you all the best as spring begins to roll out in front of us.

May the road rise up to meet you.May the wind be always at your back.May the sun shine warm upon your face;the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

May your horses always finish in the money.
May your gin always be cold.
And may the world smile on you fondly
as you very slowly grow old.