Comic Kenvention

I will acknowledge the distant possibility that there might be a sort of update at some point next week, but until then this will have to do.

Okay, let's jump right in.

If you've never been to a comic convention, imagine Cedar Point and Home Depot mixed together, only everybody loves anime and dressing up in costumes. And the costumes are rarely original; they tend to be the same tired favorites like Aquaman or Cloud or Princess Leia in a gold bikini. Why waste time being creative when you can achieve that sought-after validation through easy recognizable icons? Drop twenty bucks at Halloween USA and bam, you're a ghostbuster. Scott free.

People don't like trying new things.

People like what they know.

This is how I spent my weekend.

Most artists, when they set up at a comic con for the first time, they use a lot of cheap gimmicks and tricks to get people to look at their work or buy their latest book. You get your neat little table, your plastic white drop cloth, and you start slapping things down on it: A portfolio case. Original artwork. A neat little stand. A bowl of candy. Anything to grab the attention of whatever passing moron, anything to interest him enough so that he saunters up to ask if you could please draw him a sketch of Wolverine.

I knew going into this how it would be. I've seen what comic cons have to offer: embarrassing memories. I was prepared to sit there as the hours dropped away without selling a single comic. I was ready to face failure. But I wasn't going to face it alone.

Right away, I could see the other artists setting up their little gimmicks; the candy, the displays, the black tarps showcasing their finest pieces. But I had something they didn't. Something that made me stand out, that drew attention and positive energy.

In war, you must examine your enemy closely. A wise general plans his attack around weaknesses, around intelligence he's gathered through study of his opponent. Ask yourself: What will catch the nerds off-guard? What will draw them in like moths to a flame and keep them distracted while I work my subtle wonders?

Answer: Girls.

Meet my dear friend, KrekelersLittleHelper. She's been with me since it all began, and when I offered her the opportunity to make a difference in the world by utilizing her vagina to help me boost sales, she jumped at the chance.

Unfortunately, she didn't quite look the part. Something was off.

The Ken: "Take off your wedding ring. Dorks don't like a challenge."
KrekelersLittleHelper: "What? I'm not taking off my wedding ring."

The Ken: "Come on, girl. You're killing me here. You're killing US. Take it off."

KrekelersLittleHelper: "I will not."

The Ken: "Fine. Wear this little hat, then."

KrekelersLittleHelper: "Ugh. It smells a little."

The Ken: "Yeah, I wore it to the bar last night."

KrekelersLittleHelper: "It smells like pee."

The Ken: "So what? I piss excellence."

See what I mean? Much cuter.

The Ken: 1

KrekelersLittleHelper: 0

As the first day of the convention dragged on, it became clear it was going to be a slow start. After nine minutes had passed without anyone asking me for an autographed copy of Stardom, I grew insane with rage. To calm myself, I do what I always do when I feel I've been greatly wronged in some way: I start drawing.

The Ken: "What do you want a picture of, KrekelersLittleHelper? Give me a character, I'll draw him."

KrekelersLittleHelper: "Anybody?"

The Ken: "Anybody."

KrekelersLittleHelper: "Cyclops."

The Ken: "Anybody else."

KrekelersLittleHelper: "Why not Cyclops?"

The Ken: "Because Cyclops is gay."

We settled on a mutual favorite, Poison Ivy.

Not long after I finish this, some asshole walks up to me:

SomeAsshole: "How much for the Poison Ivy?"

The Ken: "What?"

SomeAsshole: "I really like that. How much?"

The Ken: "Tell you what, buddy. That one belongs to my girl here, but I'll draw you your own... for a price."

As it turns out, people are a lot more interested in your art when they feel it's a personalized drawing crafted uniquely for them. We are all of us ego-maniacs. And never mind that they'd rather pay five bucks for a shitty marker sketch than $3.50 for the forty-page, full color experience that is My Nemesis: Stardom. Didn't bother me one bit.

People like what they know.

Once I realized that the only way I'd start making any money off this investment was to whore myself out by drawing other people's characters, I went into overdrive. I started getting stressed out with requests before I was ready. People began coming up to me, asking for sketches of Strong Guy and Multiple Man. Moon Knight. Fucking Moon Knight!

Once you've drawn the Joker four times in a row, you start to question things a little.

By day 2, I was pretty sick of the whole thing, so I decided to enjoy myself a little bit, leaving KrekelersLittleHelper behind to man the base. I grabbed a few copies of my book and began walking around the convention, meeting all kinds of weirdos.

The Ken: "Hello sir! I wonder if you'd stall your Imperial duties for just a moment and take a look at my comic book. It's chocked full of non-stop hilarity and violent murder! Ha ha ha!"

Storm Trooper: "Um..."

The Ken: "Look! Here the characters are smoking pot! Nobody else has ever thought to do that before! I'm such a riot!"

Storm Trooper: "Uh, why is he a black octopus thing?"

The Ken: "It's symbolic, you virgin."

The Ken: "...really trying to push the envelope as far as webcomics are concerned. A lot of other characters in webcomics don't really change over time, but here they are constantly challenged, constantly betraying and undermining one another, in the same way we as a society--"

Batgirl: "Is this supposed to be you?"

The Ken: "What? No."

Batgirl: "Are you sure? Sounds a lot like you."

The Ken: "I don't know what you're... You know what, just give it back. Give it back, if you're gonna be like that."

Batgirl: "Ugh, what IS this?! 'I feel like I'm inside my period?' This is disgusting. And the art is terrible."

The Ken: "I don't think you realize who you're talking to, Babs. I'll let it slide this time. That'll be $3.50, please."

Batgirl: "Huh?! I'm not buying this!"

The Ken: "But I'm giving you the chance to own a piece of history!"

Batgirl: "I don't care, I'm not buying it."

The Ken: "...You're a dirty whore."

There were other special guests at the convention; apparently they managed to book other celebrities besides myself, including Jonathan Frakes and Lou Ferrigno (who, incidently, is quite bitter about the turns his life has taken lately). Even the Knight Rider car, KIT, made an appearance. But the highlight of the day was when I managed this:

Leia-On-The-Left had a boyfriend, I think, who watched helplessly as this photo was taken. His rage was conveyed only through speechless mannerisms, and normally I'd be afraid because I'm a coward. But he was also wearing a green Imperial Admiral uniform, so I kind of had an advantage.

The Ken: 1

Imperial Admiral: 0

All in all, the convention was a lot of fun. I didn't sell a lot of books, but I had a really good time. A lot of my friends came out to support me, and to them I say thank you. To those that didn't, your days are numbered.

Comic conventions are like concerts; you're all there for the same reason, to bask in the weirdness inside of you, to express it outwardly in any way you choose without fear of judgment. Who you really are stays at home, and for a little while you get to live like a child in make-believe.

Some of us pretend we are warlocks and wizards, burdened by heavy quests of peril. Some of us pretend we are super heroes, with moralistic ideals that guide our mighty actions.

Some us pretend we are famous. We draw pictures for people who light up when we hand it to them. We sign books and shake hands and say "Thank you" a lot.

Who you really are stays at home.

-Ken Krekeler

4:27 am

Everything's Coming Up Krekeler

It's true, I've been slacking in updates this week. But I have reasons. Hear my reasons.

On Wednesday I had my year-end review. All the students at my school have to go through them. It's when you get a couple of twenty-something illustrators to come in and look at all the projects you've completed over the course of the past year on a wall. And then basically you listen to them talk about themselves and what they think about the world for twenty minutes. And then you're done. It's actually very brisk and harmless, but there's a hype generated by students that it's the most important thing ever; that the school will kick you out unless your shit is the best of the best. This is of course because the students like to feel important; everyone is their own main character in the sitcom/drama that is their lives. I'm ashamed to say I bought into that hype, and couldn't sleep the night before, which totally fucks up my schedule. As I write this, it's like five a.m.

Another thing is, they transferred me at work. I used to work in the paint department, but now I'm in "Lumber and Building Materials." I always thought the guys in lumber were the coolest baddasses I'd ever met. You'd see them walking around in "stealth mode" (which is when you don't wear an apron), looking like hardened soldiers of war. They're mostly black guys, with lots of tattoos and huge tree-trunk arms and constant, impervious scowls etched into their faces. They are often required to operate a HiLo, which is basically a really fast fork lift. This shit is fucking awesome. People who drive HiLos are the coolest people there are, and I want to be one of them. Because you are scooting around this like, this big giant robot, and these stupid peons have to get out of your way. You’re too powerful and strong to bother helping customers answer idiot questions. You take down huge crates carrying literally tons of merchandise, using controls that are set up like a video game. And nobody fucks with you. Not the associates, not the customers, not the managers. Nobody.

Naturally, when I heard about the transfer, I thought "Hey, this is awesome. Pretty soon it'll be me driving those HiLos, refusing to wear my apron, and staring straight ahead with look on my face that says 'Talk to me and I'll kill you.' Plus, I need the exercise! Why, it'll be good to get the ol' guns back in motion."

Things are different now. So very, very different.

I understand now why they scowl. It's because there lives are fucking horrible. Because they get up every day and go to a job that is the most labor-intensive, grueling job there can be.

Imagine that you’re standing in Receiving, which looks and smells like the back of a grocery store, throwing away piles of dirt and filth and dust down a dark hatch way for an hour and a half. You can feel tiny particles of stone in your nose, your throat, your lungs. Blinking just makes it hurt worse. So you ask for a mask and safety glasses, and everybody just laughs.

Imagine heaving eighty pound bags of concrete onto a pile you’ve made that’s so high it reaches your waste. Imagine sweating and aching with every movement as you shamble toward Garden where the manager has asked you to figure out a way to move six 180 pound concrete porch steps onto the third shelf by yourself. Imagine, if you'll just humor me here, that you stand before a vast city of wooden sticks that stretches as far as the eye can see, while on your right, some asshole says "Stock that."

Yes, pretty soon it'll be me driving those HiLos, taking long breaks, earning respect. But being cool comes with a cost.

Subject change! While I'm excited to a questionably girlish degree about doing the Motor City Comic Con, it requires a huge amount of planning. A lot of my spare time goes into thinking it through and getting everything together. I'll be there with a friend of mine, and with her there I'm sure it'll be a blast, but still... I hear things can get stressful.

I got a ticket today. Asshole said I was speeding. I tried to explain who I was, but he didn't understand. He said, get this, he said he "didn't recognize the name." What a dope! He'll feel like a heel later when his pig buddies at the head pig office of Pigopolis figure it out for him! They'll laugh at him! They'll laugh at him good! So I let him write me the ticket. Because it amused me.

Still, that's money I don't have. Because let me tell you, I have like, no money. I recently learned that I make 22 cents off every book sold online. I've sold something like fifteen copies. So that's like five billion of you left who aren't doing your part. So don't think I don't notice, and don't think I don't blame.

There's other shit, too. The inspector is coming to look at the house soon, and we don't have that shit painted. I have an enormous new comic book project which has proven to be a mass undertaking of elaborate photographs and computer design, but will be pretty cool when it's done.

Oh, and this morning-- which I guess is yesterday, now-- I didn't know where I was. I woke up in a house I'd never been to, and the first thing I saw was this huge window, and outside that window is an emerald plane of grass far too radiant to be natural. The sun is shining brightly and there's just this beautiful landscape all laid out, and later, I found out it was a golf course. A golf course in Brighton. I was in a house so big that it was practically a mansion, full of endless rooms and priceless art and a giant black piano, all shiny. Just this totally fucking amazing house. And all of that was outside the room; what was inside was even more interesting. But I think that's getting a little close.

The sun is starting to come up, so that's my cue to go to bed. I just wanted to let you know that the comic will be back next week. I think. Hopefully. Just... We'll see what happens. We'll see how it goes.

Yours,

Ken "The Con-Man" Krekeler, 6:37 am