Black Wave Rising

Kidney Stones

2008-03-04T11:39:00.001-08:00

Many of you may have noticed that My Nemesis is loosely auto-biographical. Each of the characters is based on someone I know, with artistic liberties taken to maximize the funnyosity of the moment.

Last week, "Rob" went into the hospital with bi-lateral kidney stones. This means he has a variety of tiny, sharp objects made from calcium deposits lodged in each of his kidneys and both of his ureters, which are tubes that connect your kidneys to your bladder. For your benefit, I've constructed this anatomically accurate diagram:

Rob had to undergo a surgery which installed plastic tubes in his ureters to hold the them open, allowing the stones to pass unobstructed. To accomplish this, they had to go in with a camera and other tools up his penis. Fortunately he was unconscious for this. Unfortunately, once the stones are out and the tubes have to be removed, he will be awake for the procedure.

I can't really imagine how scary surgery is. I've never broken a bone or even had a cavity, so my experience with hospitals is minimal. But it takes guts, no pun intended, to lay on a table and let some asshole who deep down probably doesn't give a shit poke around inside me with metal prongs, all the while saying "Hmmm."

I haven't seen Rob since he went into the hospital. I hope he gets his shit together soon. Somebody needs to be doing my taxes.

An Update (Included: Pictograms)

2008-02-09T09:32:00.000-08:00

I guess I owe you people an explanation.

I think I've been avoiding the website.

Oh, there are a number of valid-sounding reasons I could list, what with school in full swing and my job drastically cutting hours to the point that I have to struggle to make ends meet... again. Perhaps it is the vast number of celebrity soirées I am forced to attend. (Note: Any soirée I attend is a "celebrity" soiree if I am there.) These social gatherings require my constant attention, in addition to the non-Nemesis related projects I'm trying to develop.

I have a girlfriend now (made from real human)... Not to mention I always have a keen eye on my ever-expanding wardrobe of little rings and trinkets. (The latest? A Superman pocket watch! Sorry ladies, I'm taken...)

These are the obstacles which help to prevent you, the reader, from enjoying new episodes of My Nemesis, the webcomic. And by themselves, these obstacles could be twisted and turned into the sob story I've already made them out to be. But the truth is that lately, other aspects of having a website have been starting to irritate me. Things not everybody thinks about.

For instance, imagine that you have a blog. A lot of you fags know what I'm talking about; Livejournal, Blogger, MySpace... You know who you are. And because this makes you, deep down, nothing short of self-centered whiny little drama queens who will never know the pleasures of a threesome, most of your friends and family are probably accustomed to checking out whatever your latest rant is between reading their email and looking up the new Dragonball/Green Day fan-made music video on YouTube.

But like you, little bitches, I'm often nagged to update more. And not by fans, no, of course not. Fans of My Nemesis, as far as I can tell, exist only somewhere dark and safe in the furthest reaches of my mind's eye. No, the people who nag me are friends. Family. (Not really, my family doesn't read this. But you get the jist. Do you spell "jist" with a j? Fuck it.) The very people I go to for constant validation and approval on every decision I make, these are the people stirring doubt and insecurity that I am somehow being lazy. That I am somehow not up to the pressures of maintaining a thrice-weekly webcomic read by more than a dozen people, worldwide.

Superman's little brother Jimmy said it best: "With great power comes great responsibilken."

It might help you, slave of mine, to know that I have been deeply involved in the plans for what's to come in the world of Kal and all his cartoon buddies. It might comfort you, sitting there, huddled beneath the sheets of your big, warm bed, when I say that the updates, however sparce, have not stopped altogether. As any devoted monkey will testify, Rob, Atticus and Kal are all undergoing a period of significant change at the moment, and this change deserves nothing less than my full attention, because we ALL know what happens when I rush.

So be patient, little drones. I'm working on it. A good story takes time, and a period of deep concentration. Even when I'm sitting at home playing video games, taking naps or eating cookies. That's just me "getting into my zone." That's just me "meditating."

An Ode to Team Fortress

2008-01-07T06:34:00.000-08:00

I like to play Team Fortress
I play each and every day
I’ll like it till I’m withered,
Till I’m wrinkly-old and gray

I should like to be a soldier
Running wild through the war
And with rockets at my shoulder
You can bank on blood and gore

Or sometimes I’m a secret spy
I take on other faces
I’ll backstab you, then disappear
To distant, safer places

An engineer will kill you
With a sentry at his side
He’ll teleport and heal you,
And with shotgun, will abide

Demomen are stupid
Armed with silly, sticky bombs
And pryos are all cowards
Who still live with all their moms

A wise man fears the sniper
And the damage he can deal
A fool will choose the medic
Who can go around and heal

Oh, let’s not forget the heavy
With his chaingun booming loud
Screaming laughter over gunfire
Makes all his teammates proud

And finally, there is of course
The scout, who runs with speed
His double-barreled punishment
Will stipulate his lead

Team Fortress is a lover
How I smell her tender hair
A silly game like Shadowrun
Could never quite compare

To the funness of Team Fortress
To imaginative maps
To the fury of raw combat
To the little tricks and traps

That reduce dumb games like Halo,
Shadowrun or Mass Effect
To the generic common drivel
That smart people will reject

If you're all about the graphics
If you're all about what's new
Like a sheep that's being herded
Or a dog that barks on cue

Then you my friend will never
Have an innovative mind
Or the courage to look inward
And to face what you will find

Team Fortress, I am but your slave
To do with as you please
I think it's time to log right in
And pwn some n00bs with ease.

My Parents Go to Europe

2007-12-10T12:23:00.000-08:00

Colodin

2007-12-10T06:49:00.000-08:00

It's finals week, my last week of classes, so I'll be finishing up my last couple of projects. The bad news is, I won't update again until next Monday. The good news is that I feel adequately guilty in shirking my duty as the author of this My Nemesis nonsense that I feel indebted to those of you who grow frustrated with the inconsistency of my updating.

Recently, I had to put together a project for my Sequential Storytelling class. The project was an eight-page, full color mini-comic which tells a story from beginning to end. We were also instructed to utilize reference photographs, so I got a friend of mine to pose in ridiculous positions and jump on a trampoline for my personal archives.

This friend... Let us call him "Richard Metzger"... has elected to post the eight page comic as well as the reference photos on his MySpace profile. I'm not sure if any of you are familiar with this "MySpace", but it's something I invented back in the sixties for bored people who lack confidence in real-life social environments. Today, it's a place for friends, and host of an all-new Krekeler Comic!

You can read that comic here. Absolutely free. I'm just that type of guy. Or rather, Richard is that type of guy... A spineless, attention-starved man-whore, capable of anything he puts his sick mind to.

In other news, I have received a number of emails regarding RSS feeds, asking why I don't use them. The answer is simple: I do not know what they are. I believe they have something to do with making my comic show up alongside a number of other ridiculous comics for the convenience of the reader. Please note that this in no way benefits me; it in fact requires me to learn, which I avoid doing at all costs. I am not oppose to RSS feeds, but in order to have one, the next email I get will need to read something like this:

"Dear Ken,

Your webcomic is the greatest thing on the face of the Earth. If you had sex with my girlfriend, it would make me love her more.

I noticed that your site lacks any sort of RSS feed. Please allow me to take care of this for you. I am such a devoted fan that I am willing to invest hours of my own free time into furthering the agenda of the Kenpire. Gosh, you are so good looking in your MySpace profile. That jaw line. That jaw line is the fucking SHIT."

Professional Gamer

2007-11-19T05:52:00.000-08:00

Whoa, hey, did you just kill me? That’s impossible. I’ve been playing this game every night in the dark for the past two and a half years. I’ve been playing since the beta release; there is no way you could have killed me just now. It must have been a glitch in the programming or something. Poor collision detection. Yeah.

But seriously, you do not want to fuck with me. I’m a professional gamer.

Hey! Why didn’t you immediately flank to the left when that last wave came at us? What are you, some sort of noob? You stupid fucking piece of shit, get the fuck off my server. I do not tolerate noobs any more than I tolerate high ping rates. I’m trying to play a game here! I’m trying bold new strategies, outsmarting the enemy at every turn. I can’t have your rookie ass clambering after me, getting in the way. This is some serious shit you’ve entered into, kid, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna be the asshole to hold your hand through Candyland.

What’s that? Did you just type a question of some sort, asking how to play? OMG, I can’t even believe it. What an idiot you are. What a stupid asshole. I hate you. I hate that you ask questions. I hate you so much that I’m going to stop playing and take a moment to type out a description of how much I hate you. Look, if you can’t be bothered to put in six to eight hours of gameplay a day like the rest of us, then spare us your lag and kill yourself.

Honestly, the game is really quite self-explanatory. If you took the tutorial, you should know exactly what to do, even though the tutorial only covers a rudimentary understanding of the goals. Basically, what we’re doing now is advancing in on the jack in point. I’m a Class 3 unit, so I don’t have decking capability, but you’re a Class 2, so you have to be the navigator. Hey, you got the “enhanced” cyberdeck, right? What’s that? No? You idiot. Now you don’t get to play the mini-games.

Anyway, we need a decker to jack in to the decking point and disable the auto-turrets, so we can get past the main ramp and access the cooling tower. Just BoostJump over the pit (and watch out for sentry guns), then ScubaRoll toward Alpha Sector and BAM! Just two more objectives to go.

Remember, if you run into any stealthers, all’s you gotta do is use thermal vision.

What? Did you just ask me to define some arbitrary gaming term I used? Oh, no you didn’t. Oh, no you didn’t. OMG. What are you, sixteen? Man, if you don’t know what an “hx-xa68or +8 l33t pwn” is, you’re in the wrong stage of life. Get out of here, kid. This server’s for the big boys. And the big boys aren’t here for fun. They’re here for victory.

I am the elite. I am the future.

I am a professional gamer.

Reach Truck

2007-10-07T17:44:00.001-07:00

Part of my job is driving a reach truck. It's a large machine you pilot through the store, used for heavy lifting to and from overheads. You can always tell when one's being used because it emits a specific beeping that echoes through every aisle, incessant, triumphant, dangerous.

Last week I'm closing down my department. This is a monumental task, and it is only by the grace of Ken that it is accomplished each night. I'm in an Adderal-induced state of total focus, and I'm on a roll. I sweep. I pick up drywall. I knock out returns. I do not make eye contact with customers. They are but objects to me, floating objects with colorful clothing. I am a drone. I am a robot.

I am wearing a hat. It is baseball hat, with the brim facing forward. I don't usually wear hats, because everyone knows hats are stupid. But on this particular night, I am wearing a hat.

With an hour left to close, I get a guy. Comes in and says he wants a palette of concrete loaded onto the back of his truck. This is not a big deal, but it delays me. Stupid petty human filth, griping about this or that need, stupid, sweaty, heaving masses of drooling sheep, so self-centered, so egotistical... So I grab another drone in my department to spot me, and together, we load the concrete and bring it to the contractor door, where the customer sits in his truck, waiting.

I'm driving.

How you drive a reach truck is, in one hand is a knob. This is the steering mechanism. The other hand is on a kind of joystick, which controls a series of actions such as speed, forward/backward, fork tilt, fork extend/retract, raise/lower, etc, and of course, the horn. How I loved that horn. How I loved to honk it...

You stand on one foot inside a kind of vertical cage, while your other foot works the brake. The cage extends up and over your head a good two feet. This means you're using three of your four limbs, operating what is essentially a Mechwarrior robot, capable of large-scale destruction, but I'm getting to that. Needless to say, this is a hell of a lot of power in this thing; and as my uncle told me once, with great power comes great responsibility.

I'm standing there, waiting at the contractor doors: a huge sheet of heavy duty steel, like the kind used in warehouse operations. I'm inside the truck, a giant load of concrete behind me.

I am wearing my hat.

My spotter is in front of me, off to the right. A spotter is the guy whose job it is to make sure you don't fuck up. He protects you by waving a pair of bright flags around and quietly gesturing if a small child runs past. While I'm standing there in the truck, my spotter, he strolls over to the contractor doors button and hits in. There's a loud screeching sound, and the door begins to roll up and open.

It's just then that I start hearing the cashiers laughter. I look at them and they're gesturing at something behind me. I look back and am surprised to see a trail of concrete leading from me all the way back through the store. One of the bags had been torn, and had leaked its sharp, sandy contents in a misery path which led right back to my ass.

The door is still rolling up, the gears screaming.

My robot brain starts processing information. "Giant mess. Means trouble. Damage control. Blame Spotter? Later. Immediate needs: Minimize mess. Load palette. Load palette. LOAD PALETTE."

The door is rolling up.

As my brain works, all the while, I swear, I am singing the Little Mermaid at the top of my lungs, word for word, except for where it goes "Poor Unfortunate Ken."

"LOAD PALETTE."

I better load this here palette.

I look ahead of me, and because of my hat, I don't see the door. It's out of my peripheral vision. I can't see it. It looks clear.

It looks clear.

Not many people get to know the sound metal makes as it shrieks in pain, bending and contorting, pulling at the metal chains which have suddenly fallen loose. It's not every day you steer a vehicle at full speed into what is essentially a non-moveable object. There's a strange kind of awe. It's one thing to see it, to watch the mayhem happen... But to stand there, looking up, knowing that YOU are responsible, and knowing the chain reaction of crap that YOU have just set off...

I get off the truck. One of the cashiers, she can't stop laughing, and she's saying the word "Sheeeit" over and over again.

I'm staring up at this door, this great shield we all depend on, torn at its frame, wrecked. The cashier pats me on the shoulder. "You don't smoke, do you?"

"What?"

"Smoke." She makes a gesture, sucking in air between her fingers. "You know, smoke, smoke."

"What?"

"Cuz they gon' drug test you. Fo' DAT shit? Hell yeah, you goan' to the clinic, boy."

I look at my spotter. He shrugs. He's trying real hard not to smile.

It's one week later now, and I'm not fired, thank Ken. I've been waiting all week for it, but it looks like I'll be alright. I was very lucky not to be fired, and I'm grateful for that... I believe that from this, I can recover. But I can't drive reach trucks anymore. I can't drive HiLos. They pulled my license. No more vehicles. No more robots.

Never, not ever again.

I'll only be a spotter, now. Waving my little flags.

But the point that I'm trying to make here is, stay away from hats. They are dangerous. They will fuck with you.

Tender Kenversations

2007-08-30T07:38:00.001-07:00

Ken Krekeler : What if saving my life meant drinking your own pee? Would you do it? COULD you do it?

Blond Girl1 : Yes I could.
Blond Girl1 : i dont know if i would

Ken Krekeler : What if it was MY pee?

Ken Krekeler : (I have to know, it's for a school project)

Blond Girl1 : maybe not
Blond Girl1 : yours

Ken Krekeler : It's not a little bit, it's a big ol' gallon. Big ol' jug-o-pee.

Blond Girl1 : well no then
Blond Girl1 : thats a bit much

Ken Krekeler : well, hey, that's fine, hey. glad to know where you stand. glad to know it.

Blond Girl1 : plus unsanitary

Ken Krekeler : my pee, though? I piss excellence

Blond Girl1 : have you tried it

Ken Krekeler : No, but I have imagined it many times, and it would be a lucious cider warmth which tickled the palate in shades of deep violet and ocre

Blond Girl1 : oh really

Ken Krekeler : anyway, you're kinda grossing me out with this, so I'm gonna go now

(Three minutes elapse.)

Ken Krekeler : hey do you still have the conversation we just had?
Ken Krekeler : like to copy and paste

Blond Girl1 : yes

Ken Krekeler : okay um, can you copy and paste that and send it to me?

Ken Krekeler : i'm like not even kidding

Blond Girl1 : to ur email

Ken Krekeler : yes yes

Blond Girl1 : or aim

Ken Krekeler : email. kentopia@ameritech.net

Blond Girl1 : ok

Ken Krekeler : also I'll be using your face picture on my website briefly
Ken Krekeler : just you know fyi

Blond Girl1 : ok
Blond Girl1 : why

Ken Krekeler : ha! so trusting. excellent. SEND ME THE THINGY

Blond Girl1 : ok
Blond Girl1 : ok
Blond Girl1 : i sent it

Ken Krekeler : I'm awaiting its arrival. Ken Krekeler appreciates your co-operation!

(Nine seconds elapse.)

Ken Krekeler : fucking bullshit's not coming!
Ken Krekeler : okay, send it over AIM. it's important!

My Girlfriend's Pizza

2007-08-23T23:36:00.000-07:00

I'm going to eat my girlfriend's pizza.

In my bed, she sleeps, safe and sound from the world. She is peaceful and serene. All wrapped up in dirty sheets.

And while she slumbers, I will sneak ever so loudly downstairs, where the pizza she purchased with her own money waits patiently for me. Waiting to be put in my belly, to be ravenously consumed and forgotten in minutes.

I will not move the box. Oh, no. It will remain in the fridge. My girlfriend will have to remove the box, feel its weight, before any suspicion is aroused. Then, hungry and confused, she will open the pizza box to find it empty. Empty! Save for the disgusting cheesy remnants of what remains, a legacy to a most delicious meal.

And then, as this shock hits her, as she reels with anger and depression, I will appear in the doorway, cloaked in the same dirty sheets she slept in. I will appear, and I will point, and I will laugh! I will laugh at her. HA! HA HA HA! HA HA HA HA HA HA! YOU FOOL! YOU THOUGHT YOU'D EAT THAT PIZZA, BUT I ATE IT INSTEAD! ME! KEN! HA HA HA! SUCH A FOOL YOU ARE! WHAT A FOOL! FOOOOOOOOL!

I'm not sure what my day will consist of after that. I haven't thought ahead. But already, I can feel the wheels turning.

Comic Kenvention

2007-05-25T04:27:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-05T06:29:00.000-07:00

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

Finals Week

2007-04-26T20:27:00.000-07:00

This past week was finals week. One of my classes is called Illustration in Design, which is some computer class where we use Illustrator to manipulate letterforms or some such nonsense. My final consisted of two questions:

1. Define Hierarchy.

2. Explain the unique characteristics of each of the six classifications of typography.

My answers are as follows, copied and pasted verbatim (except for the typos which I altered to make myself seem more intelligent):

1.
The definition of hierarchy is a system of ranks and castes that separate people, places, and things into an order of importance. For instance, each morning, I myself have a personal hierarchy. Each morning I (1) pee, (2) eat, (3) go back to sleep until noon. This is how I view the needs I immediately feel around me. It has led to problems in the past.

However, in a different context, say, oh, I don’t know, layout design. Here, the eye will traditionally read an image top to bottom, left to right. This is why headlines and movie posters are usually modeled like this. A hierarchy is most often found in the contents pages of magazines, which love to display photos of celebrities surrounded by obnoxious neon borders, whilst tucking away that irksome story “War Drones On – Thousands Dead” in the lower right hand corner, where it will be safe.

As far as typography goes, the simpler a font, the less important it seems. Logos will almost always be stylized, because everyone knows what LOOKS good, IS good. Thus, products and companies will boast whatever product they’re pushing this week in huge block letters, and then, almost hastily, scrawl in bland white justified Ariel text all the poison and danger that product contains.

2.
OLD STYLE – Hey. How’s it going. I’m Old Style, and I’m from the late 1400s. Yes, I’m old. My letters always look big and swooping, and there’s a lot of thick-and-thin going on there, kinda like handwriting. You’ll see me if you go to the Renaissance Festival and look at all the cheap signs painted by hippies dressed in costumes and eating Taco Bell from a cloth.

ITALIC – Hey! Whoa, I am so totally important! Dude, you have no idea how important I am. Every time you see me, I seem really urgent. And it doesn’t even matter what you’re saying… If I’m around, people’s ears perk up. Say you’re at a funeral and a guy says. “The chicken was undercooked.” But if that same guy says “The chicken was undercooked”, then like, what did he mean by that? Chicken, as oppose to something? Seriously. Makes you think, right? Anyway, I’m all slanty. Most modern fonts have some version of me. I’m pretty POPULAR. But you know what? Wasn’t always this way. Used to be I got used all the time, just so they could fit more letters into the book. Stupid Aldus Manutius. What a cheap-o. That guy owes me like twenty bucks. If you see him, tell him for me.

TRANSITIONAL – Oh hello. Didn’t see you there. My name is Transitional. It’s a pleasure to meet you, old boy. Couldn’t help but notice you admiring my distinctly wider letterforms, wider in fact than that of Old Style. He’s a good bloke, mind you, but a bit single-minded. He’s a previous generation, you see. A different place. A different time. Did you know he’s Italian? Anyway, I’d also like to draw your attention to the more static aspects of my letterforms, they way they lock together in an almost perpendicular strokes. And while we’re on the subject, you’ll observe how much greater the contrast between my thick-and-thins is than Old Style’s. I beg your pardon, old boy. I have business to attend.

MODERN – Check me out, homies. You ain’t never seen anything like ME before. You thought Transitional was extreme? Sheeeeit. He ain’t nothin. Check my thick-and-thins! Look at those narrow strokes! They HAIRLINES, baby! You can’t hardly SEE ‘em! And my verticals are like BLOCKS! I drop a vertical on you, you be squashed FLAT. Fo’ real. And check it, I be mixin’ it up, yo! Check my capital letters; some of them be expanded, while others be narrow! I be totally looking elegant! You be seein’ me at the MALL, yo! All them fancy jewelry stores? All them places be sellin men’s suits? They use ME, homes. For SERIOUS.

EGYPTIAN – Uh… Hello. I’m… My name is Egyptian. I, uh… I’m not very interesting. I’ll be honest about that right now. I… I know you were probably expecting something… I don’t know, fancier. Like Old Style… He’s fancypants. Or Transitional. That guy’s AMAZING. I’m kind of different, though. I don’t have a whole lot to offer. My letters are all made out of slabs. That’s right. Slabs. Big ol’ rectangular slabs. There’s no different in the weight of my strokes. I’m… I’m practically a robot. I… I don’t do a lot of in my spare time. I play a lot of World of Warcraft… I haven’t had a girlfriend since 1922. Probably cuz of my slabs. I used to be all the rage, back in like 1815. Man, what an awesome year that was. I was in so many books. Man, if I could travel back in time, I’d go to 1815, without a doubt. Without a doubt.

SANS SERIF – Egyptian was a fool. A pathetic, sentimental fool. Here was a letterform classification that had it all. The beginnings of the minimalist font, the rumblings of a legend that would spawn a family, a UNIVERSE of typefaces, and what does he do with it? Nothing. He complains and he whines and he bitches and moans about how great it was in the early nineteenth century. And why? Because he had no VISION. Egyptian had no vision, and that is why he is all but forgotten now. Only I, Sans Serif, had the potential for this greatness. Only I had the clarity of heart, of mind and body and spirit, to see my own destiny. My flexibility is my greatest strength; although typically I am vertical and geometrically sound, in a flash I can transform to the organic, and become a fluid font of fame and fortune. I took the foundation Egyptian had laid down, and took it one step further: While we both retain a lack of weight change in stroke, MY genius was to lose the seraphs entirely. I am simple. I am pure. I am the next stage in evolution. I will scour the internet. I will show up in emails, websites, chat rooms. Everywhere you look, I’ll be there. Waiting. Watching. Faith through unity; unity through faith. I am Sans Seraif. Here me roar.

Greater Things

2007-04-09T16:39:00.000-07:00

So Friday night, my friend Valentine calls me and says he wants to go see Grindhouse. I say okay, because he's been dumped, and because I miss my buddy, and because Valentine is very persuasive and can pretty much convince anybody to do anything at any time, ever. So I rest, fuel up on leftover spaghetti, and we go.

Because we are both idiots, we get all the way into the theatre before discovering we have the wrong time, and we've missed the last showing. We go to another theatre and decide to wait an hour and half, sitting on a metal bench where high school kids in red vests bark orders at each other, pushing mops around in a bucket-on-wheels.

When we finally get into the theatre, Valentine moves immediately front and center. I sit down next to him, and we chat for a bit about some stupid nonsense I can't remember. And then he hands me a little metal canister, and on that canister it says the word "Skoal."

And I go, "Yeah, okay."

If you don't know what chewing tobacco is, picture a little nugget of leaves wrapped in paper. Very small, the size of a fingerprint. And what you do is, you take this little nugget and you tuck it into the pouch between your lip and your teeth. The fiberglass in the tobacco seeps through the paper and creates microscopic cuts in your skin, allowing the nicotine to be absorbed rapidly into the bloodstream. And you can't swallow any of it, so you spit. You spit into a cup, a little plastic cup you got from the idiot running the popcorn machine, until it's halfway filled with your foul-smelling saliva.

Before the movie even starts, I'm fighting vomit. During the coming attractions, I'm getting hot and cold flashes. I'm twisting in my seat. Valentine's sitting next to me, "What the fuck's the matter with you?" It's bad, but I've got it under control... until Grindhouse actually begins. We are sitting so close, so obnoxiously close, that I can't help but watch; there is simply no place else to look. So just as the puke is climbing up my throat, here's Bruce Willis with some boils on his face. Here's ten guys who get there faces melted off. Here's an up-close flesh wound. Here's a guy missing a brain.

I bail. I calmly get up, and very casually make it into the bathroom. I am lucky, because it is empty. I disappear into a stall, bend over a toilet, and jettison puke which comes forth not in streams, not in the peaceful babble of a water brook, but as a spray... All directions, all at once. This is uncanny. But I do not question it.

When the vomiting is over, I look at the toilet. It is a train wreck. Everything is coated in the thick, brown sludge of spaghetti meat. What isn't solid is juicy-gold, leaking down the sides of the porcelain. The walls of the stall, painted virginal white, are runny with the contents of my glorious belly. And it smells exactly the way you'd expect pasta mixed with barf to smell.

Do I clean it up? No. No, I'm far too horrified at what's happened. I'm too ashamed and what I've done. So I go out into the hall and sit back down on the bench. I just sit there and wait for this sickening, awful feeling to go away. Five, ten minutes. And as I'm sitting there, the high school kids in vests keep passing. One of them stops to ask me if I'm all right. So does another one. Then another. And then the kid with the mop strolls along, pushing his bucket-on-wheels. And he's giving me this look.

Stardom!

2007-03-12T20:07:00.000-07:00

The books are in.

40 pages of face-rocking, miscarriage-inducing hilarity, cover to cardstock cover.

I have received some emails stating difficulty in trying to order My Nemesis: Stardom from IndyPlanet. Their website has been down for the past week fixing bugs in their system, and it looks like the ordering service is back online and ready to go. So I don't want to hear any more bitching out of you.

Now that the monstrous task of producing the book is over, I now plan to undertake the the monstrous task of selling it at a convention. The Motor City Comic Con, to be specific, which begins in May. I have never done this before. Massive crowds of sweating, screaming humans make me... anxious. I'll have a lot of stuff to sell besides the book, including posters, original artwork and concept art, so I hope to see a few of you there. Fuck, I hope to see anybody there. At all.

The good news is: With the comic finally done, you fools can have your precious Monday, Wednesday, Friday schedule back. No, your eyes do not deceive you; expect regular updates, three times a week, just like the old days. Remember the old days? Things were simpler, then.

Private Investigators

2007-03-10T18:12:00.000-08:00

Recently, as part of another character project I'm working on, I started doing research on private investigators. How their job works, what they charge, in which ways their lives differ from their glamorous fictitious counterparts.

My first venue, Wikipedia-- the all-seeing Eye of God through which all facts are purified into cold, sleek, solid truth-- gave me a few decent tips, but I needed something more. I needed to talk to someone with real professional experience in the field.

I called around to local agencies, explaining that I was a famous international celebrity working on his latest masterstroke of genius. Luckily, the president of one particular agency was a comic book fan, and said he'd be happy to sit down for a chat. He was even good enough to let me get the whole thing on tape.

And let me tell you something.

I am a lot less hilarious when listening to myself on tape than I am in my head when I actually speak.

A Red Letter Day

2007-02-26T08:24:00.000-08:00

As I write this, I haven't slept in twenty-four hours. I have had three meals in the last forty-six: Two-bowls of cereal on separate occasions and lasagna flavored Hamburger Helper. Today I went to work hungover from last night's bar adventure, which was not so much an adventure as it was an onslaught of human misery. I have class in the morning with nothing prepared, and I made plans with like eight different people and no intention of following through with any of them.

My Nemesis: Stardom is out, finally. Forty pages of full-color hilarity. This disgusting pictograph, or "comic book," features new jokes, unused strips and never-before-seen art; even more vile internet filth to be pushed down the throats of America's youth.

BWR has forged its own MySpace account. Now... I am not sure what this "MySpace" is. It's a computer or something, like pornography. I know a lot of you have MySpace accounts, and I want you to know I think you're awful. The new BWR MySpace features original artwork such as character designs, concept sketches, and other blurbs which have sometimes made brief appearances on here.

Are you chewing gum? Spit it out. Spit it out right now. No gum.

One other announcement before we get started: I, Ken Krekeler, billion-dollar oil tycoon extraordinaire, will be making my first public appearance in over eighty years this May at the Motor City Comic Convention. The convention, May 18 - May 20, will be a rare opportunity to meet me in person, so that we might better discuss the direction of the American economy as a global superpower. There will be copies of Stardom on sale, as well as a horde of original artwork including comic book pages, concept sketches, and finished paintings for other projects.

I hope some of you can make it out there. I've never done a con before. In my head, I imagine tumbleweeds rolling past my lonely booth. I imagine James O'Barr and Jonathan Frakes laughing at me from their celebrity panels. I imagine all my ex-girlfriends lined up in a row, throwing pudding and ketchup, hooting.

Of course, that's probably just my insecurities talking.

Besides, I won't have time to get upset. I'll be drunk.

Playing the game

2007-01-31T16:56:00.000-08:00

A few days ago I mentioned that I'm doing another crime scene for a school project. Here's how that turned out:

Now, anyone with a brain can see how many corners I cut here. I basically just took a photograph, converted it to black and white, and then painted behind the already-established values with Photoshop. I only had to draw the dead security guard, and even THAT was just me tracing a photograph I took. All in all, this project took me about two hours.

Last week was the day of the big crit. A crit, short for critique, is when all the students post their work on the wall, and the instructor, who is always a formerly successful artist him/herself, will flitter from piece to piece, droning on about what he/she would differently, back when they were working in the field a thousand years ago. Since these crits can last up to three hours-- three hours of one man or woman's self-centered monologuing in a lifeless, hallow voice; three hours of bad jokes and nervous stammers and gross miscalculations in itinerary-- no one is usually interested in growing from them. They just want to survive them.

Most of the other students had worked tirelessly on their projects. Fully rendered paintings in oil and acrylic. That kind of thing. They'd worked three weeks straight, and only I knew how many needless hours went into every detail.

I still got an A on my piece.

My advice to anyone going to art school is simple. Good grades are easy if you follow three simple rules:

1. Throughout the duration of the class, act frustrated with everything around you. Nothing seems to go your way; everything is challenge. You can't get the values right. You have difficulty with acrylic. Form and shape are just vague concepts. Straight lines? Forget about it.

2. When you present your piece, act disappointed. Not as if you are angry at yourself, just deeply saddened; as though you're not sure if art is how you want to spend your life. There's no enthusiasm in your voice as you explain your project to the class, only a helpless, hopeless call from a lost, little person.

3. Finally, when speaking directly to your teacher, act as if that teacher is your hero and role model in all of life. Agree with everything they say, and appear as if those ideas had never occurred to you before. However, it is important to remember that it is not necessary to follow through on their advice. If they question you about it, see rule number one.

I've been going to college for nearly eight fucking years. If there is one thing I've learned about school, it's that your grade has nothing to do with your work. It's not like math or science, where you fill out a form and a computer calculates it for you. Art doesn't work like that. Art is subjective. Untalented idiots get A's all the time, and why? Because in art school, your grade is just a judgment call made by your teacher. If a teacher believes a student is putting forth their best effort, and if that student seems honest and hard-working, then why SHOULDN'T they pass with flying colors? And on the contrary, if your teacher feels stupid around you, if you make them feel small or trite or neurotic or trivial, as though they didn't live up to nearly the potential they thought they once had, isn't it logical to assume they'll be inclined to fail you, given that they have that power?

It is a mistake to think that college professors are somehow above you, somehow famous, because they stand at a podium before a thousand youthful eyes. Often, it is the professors themselves who make this very mistake; it's why they're so comfortable with their own endless voice. At the end of the day, though, teachers are just as common and flawed as any of us. In real life, they whine and complain, or they're control freaks, or they're struggling with identity, or they're seedy and two-faced and pathetic. And it is in the classroom that many of them choose to vent their frustration. They will try torturing you with boring lectures. They will command perfection in every mindless, beaureaucratic detail. This is because in that arena, they feel superior.

In art school, you really don't have to concentrate on learning. You learn when you're trying to improve who you are; you learn when you want to grow as an artist. In school, though, you aren't trying to learn. You're trying to pass. You're trying to earn that piece of paper which will arm you in your war against the world. Your efforts are wasted on work. The only way to succeed is to concentrate on the professors; and on making them feel like they're the heroes they wish they were.

My Nemesis: Stardom is printing as we speak. The books will hopefully be arriving within the next few days. Once I have them, I will announce where they can be purchased online, and which convention I'll be attending.