When you were a kid, did you harbor fantasies (or should that be delusions?) of becoming a comic book freelancer? I know I did. And I know that a fair number of critics out there still cling tenaciously to the idea that they’re the next great undiscovered writing “talent.” One reason I respect the hell out of the way the powers that be here at Graphic Policy run things is because they make it crystal clear when they’ve received a free digital “copy” of a book so that you, dear reader, can decide for yourself whether or not the “generosity” of a publisher has influenced a critic’s opinion (for instance, you may want to know right off the bat here that the book I’m reviewing today, Ted McKeever‘s Pencil Head #1 from Image/Shadowline, is one that I actually purchased with $3.99 of my own hard-earned money). Other sites I won’t name don’t have the guts to do that, and frankly their legion of unpaid critics like it that way because they just plain don’t want readers to know how cheaply their consciences can be bought, but here’s the sad, simple truth of the matter — there are any number of “review” sites out there that will say something nice about a comic — any comic, no matter how shitty it is — just because they got an advance digital freebie. And what’s the payoff, you may ask, for selling your soul at this bargain-basement price? Get ready to laugh.

Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Except the ability to desperately cling to a fading dream that the “critics” in question should have damn well given up on years ago.

Allow me to (briefly, I promise) explain : when an internet critic for, say, “Great Big Comic Book Website That Really Doesn’t Give A Shit About Comics But Sure Does Care About Movies, Toys, And All That Other Garbage” posts a positive review of a lousy comic that they got to look at two or three days before anyone else for free, said critic hopes — but has no actual way of knowing — that the publisher of that lousy comic will notice the nice things they said and consider that critic to be an ally. If that critic then does this same thing repeatedly — say, 100 times, 1,000 times, or even 10,000 times — why, maybe the “suits” at the various publishing houses will even remember his or her name. And when they need a new writer for one of their low-selling titles like, I dunno, Firestorm or Squirrel Girl, maybe they’ll ask their friend the critic to make a pitch for the book. And maybe, out of all 10 or 12 people they’ve “reached out” to, the critic’s pitch will be the one they accept, and they’ll get to be the new writer on that title.

For about six months until it’s inevitably cancelled.

If all of this sounds incredibly pathetic, that’s because it is. But let’s say, just for the sake or argument, that our “friend” the critic does manage to get his or her dream job hacking out contrived, derivative comic book scripts for “The Big Two.” Odds are beyond slim, sure, but it’s happened — once or twice. Guess what? They’re still going to be scrambling every bit as much as they were before. That’s  because they still won’t have anything like a secure job, they still won’t have health insurance, they still won’t have a 401(k) or pension, and they will still be earning poverty wages. You see, contrary to what Mr. or Ms. Critic has always believed, the simple fact of the matter is that working in comics doesn’t pay shit unless and until you become a big-time “superstar” creator — and even then you’ve gotta constantly watch your back because your editor is always on the lookout for some starry-eyed fanboy or fangirl at a convention with a promising portfolio who will do your job for half of what you’re making.

I’m sure that all of this sounds like heresy to a good many of you, even though we all know it’s true. But don’t just take my word for it — ask Ted McKeever, who’s somehow managed to survive, against all odds, doing highly personal, idiosyncratic work for most of the major publishers (including “The Big Two”) for almost three decades. In fact, providing readers with a cold, hard dose of comic book reality is what his new five-issue series, Pencil Head, is all about — among other things.

McKeever’s stand-in protagonist for this tale is a hard-working freelance writer/artist named Poodwaddle, who’s getting a bit burned out over the fact that constant editorial interference is diluting all of his work. His publisher (Marvel’s old Epic Comics line in all but name, for whom McKeever did Metropol back in the late-’80s/early-’90s) seems to think that dumbing down his creative output will make his non-superhero-book appeal to superhero fans, and if he won’t do it himself, then they’ll do it for him — at the 11th hour, of course, right before his latest issue goes to press. Things have gotten so bad for Poodwaddle that by the time his book hits the shelves (or, in his case, his pile of freelancer “comp” copies) he can’t bear to look at it.

What’s a hard-working, disillusioned “independent contractor” to do, then? Why, go get drunk down at the titty bar with one of his fellow creator-pals, of course! The problem is, once there, these two grown men get in a — I shit you not — food fight, and one of the strippers chokes to death on a flying chunk of hamburger meat. Poodwaddle and his buddy then, upstanding citizens that they are, choose to run like hell rather than, ya know, make sure she’s okay, hang around to give the police a statement, or anything honorable and decent like that.

Ugly truth be told, they don’t even seem particularly fazed by the whole thing and more or less laugh it off as they attempt to stay one step ahead of both the authorities — and the toothy demonic entities that seem to be on their tail that they haven’t really noticed yet. So, yeah — they’re obviously a pair of assholes, who work for assholes, and are being pursued by even bigger assholes.

I won’t kid you — if you’re new to McKeever’s work, this probably isn’t the place to start. But then, the same can be said for pretty much any of his projects. They’re all such uniquely warped hellscapes that you’re either going to find yourself saying “hey, I kinda like this even though it probably means I need psychological help” or “this just ain’t for me” within a few pages. For my part, I’ve found something to enjoy in just about all of his comics that I’ve read, and so far that pattern seems to be holding here. I like his broadly-drawn (in the literary, rather than artistic, sense) characters, his deadpan humor, his flair for the absurd, and his nightmarish view of existence. His art style changes quite a bit from project to project, to be sure, yet also remains recognizably his own, regardless of its temporary fluctuations, and so while there’s none of the rich, inky, downright gurgling blackness of his last comic, The Superannuated Man, to be found in Pencil Head, there’s still no mistaking that, yup, this is a Ted McKeever book —so if you generally like his art, you’re generally going to like this. I’ll be the first to admit that it’s an acquired taste, though, and that if I hadn’t acquired it a good many years ago, I’m not sure what I’d make of it, walking into it “uninformed,” as it were, today.

Still — you can say much the same thing for Crumb, can’t you? Or Clowes. Or Bagge. Or Seth. Or Matt. Or Brown. Or Los Bros. Hernandez. Or Deitch. Or Doucet. Or even Ditko. My point here being — comics needs more singular, unique, creative voices. If that sort of thing isn’t your bag, fine — Marvel and DC have got your need for assembly-line, interchangeable comics covered. The fact that McKeever seems to have found a long-term “home” with Shadowline says a lot for Jim Valentino, as far as I’m concerned, and further cements the opinion many have always held of him as being the most fundamentally ethical and, frankly, classy of Image’s founding partners.

Hmmm — maybe he’ll see this and keep me in mind when Rat Queens or Shadowhawk needs a new writer.

Story : 8 Art : 7 Overall : 7.5 Recommendation : Buy