On genius. There's a variety of genius types. There's the mad scientist (Darwin, Einstein), the Renaissance man (Da Vinci, Goethe), the tortured soul (Van Gogh, Nietzsche), the hermit recluse (Thoreau, Salinger), the bohemian artiste (Shakespeare, Picasso), the rabble rouser (Socrates, Rand), the Wunderkind (Mozart, Lil' Bow Wow), and many other fine examples. Like superheroes, you can take your pick on what kind of legend you want to be. Me, I go for the Friendly Neighborhood Genius. The All American Clean Cut Genius Next Door. Yes. I'm very down to earth. All my handlers tell me so. One time, this guy in my entourage, I forget his name, he was like, "Tatsuya, sir, you are so down with the people." And I was all, "Shit yeah. I'm people who am people. Now go get me some nachos."

Another excerpt from the explosive best-seller T.I.: The Man, The Myth, The Mojo:
She left me. She said it was best for both of us, that we were still young and we should see other people, explore new worlds, experience life and grow as individuals. She said she loved me, that she'll always love me no matter what. And maybe, just maybe, if we were meant to be, we'll find our way back to each other again... I just stood there, bawling. Then it was time for recess, so I steeled myself and went out to play kickball. The guys needed me. Even though I'd just been dumped, I couldn't let them down. I was usually the last one picked, but still a vital contributor off the bench.
Ah, third grade... I remember it well.

Star tripping: If a celebrity has a nervous breakdown in the woods and no one is around, would it still make headlines? Which came first, Hollywood or the rehab center? But hey, I'm not one to ridicule addiction. If Congress ever criminalized pez and power drinks I'd be robbing convenience stores to support my habit. Oh, I'm heavy into it, man. I'm like the cats in Trainspotting, only way more intense. No dead babies or anything like that, but I once had a nightmare where a shit load of pez dispensers attacked me. So I know what it's like. I'm so there. Now if you'll excuse me it's time for me to go and get myself exhausted.

Ah, the sting of rejection. The Futility Watch just notched another digit. Nothing like a form letter from a corporation to let you know where you rank in the Great Chain of Being. Somewhere below Ziggy. It makes a man philosophical, it does. It makes you ponder the Big Questions, like "What the hell?" and "Why? Oh Sweet Baby Jesus, WHY?" Which would presumably be the same reaction of people were they to chance upon Sinfest in family newspapers. One can imagine the horror of hapless citizens in Buttville, America as they open their Sunday funnies to find angels getting shot. There'd be rioting in the streets. Women and children would get whisked away in helicopters. And no one wants that. But hey, don't cry for me, Argentina. These are the dues-paying, character-building, dream-chasing days. You can't advance unless you dance.

Less is More. Writing concisely is a difficult thing. There's always the temptation to get all fancy and use flowery language, throw down some SAT words, maybe even drop some Latin. You know, like Hark! My ancient proclivity for the pootius tangus doth stiffen my resolve, or some such shit like that. It's sorta like padding your resume, or stretching out your term paper with footnotes and word spacing. I remember I once took a one page essay and somehow, through the magic of margin adjustments, font sizing, indentation, and quadruple spacing, transformed it into a five pager. One of my finest moments as a collegian. I think the professor was impressed too. It looked like one of those seeing eye charts at the optometrist's office. A work of art, truly.

Life imitates art? I've always thought of art as life lite. It's almost like the real thing, but it tastes better and it's less filling. It's sort of a starter kit, a primer, the gateway drug to a bigger and badder reality. Take superhero comics, for instance. Like Jerry Seinfeld said, superheroes weren't just stories. They were options. I used to flip through comic books like they were catalogues on lifestyles. Do I want to be the wise-cracking do-gooder a la Spider-Man? Or the dark and brooding Batman-ish type? Very tough choice. Of course, Aquaman could communicate with fishes, which would sure come in handy during a tsunami. Speaking of which, they really oughtta bring back the old school Aquaman with the cheesy orange outfit. That ruled.

The San Diego Comic Con was surreal. I actually met some of the alleged humans known as webcartoonists, and it went over okay. They didn't hurl bricks at me. They didn't tar and feather me. They didn't burn me in effigy. So it's all good and gravy. They even said things like "Nice to meet you" and "Let me shake your hand." How about that! I had to do a double take and make sure I wasn't hallucinating. Webcartoonists addressing me with respect and decency? When did this happen? Was there a memo I missed? Did they take their friendly pills? Maybe the water in San Diego is laced with ecstacy. Who knows?

Y'all know by now that I'm a badass. And I'm known to do some pretty crazy badass things. I double dip. I leave the seat up. I wait in the express lane with more than the designated amount of items. And sometimes I even utter profanities. I'm like a wild man. Totally out of control. But as bad as I am, I'm also a force for good. It's one of my endearing contradictions as an explosively fascinating being. Dig it: I don't dog people. I don't slam their work. I don't smear their character. To me these are no-brainers. I may not be the sharpest spoon in the drawer but I know my right from wrong. Yeah, I got me some morals and shit. A badass with a heart of gold. And modest to boot.

The test of a vocation is the love of the drudgery it involves.
-L.P.Smith
Artist Meets Muse. Artist Loses Muse. Artist Wins Muse Back. The creative process is often characterized as a romance, and in my case it's a torrid affair, a dangerous liaison, pure 100% unadulterated passion. Me and my Muse, we're the stuff of cheap romance novels. We're like a Red Shoe Diaries movie. Or, dare I say it, an episode of Baywatch. It's that good. Sure, sometimes it's like a French movie where I don't know what the hell's goin' on. Or a student film that makes no sense. Other times it's like a slasher flick, and I think the bitch is out to get me. But that's inspiration for ya. It ain't always smooth, but it's worth the ride.

Give me a beat

Buddha and Christ
Long been iced
Loungin' afterhours at Club Zeitgeist

Confucius on the bongo
Krishna on the mic
Moses at the turntable spinnin' what he likes

(deejay scratches)

Serpent do a lip sync
Messing up the mix
This is how he got his ass 86ed

(sample chorus from Milli Vanilli's "Girl you know it's true")

So keep it on the upswing
Keep it goin' live
You can jam and slam and then STAGE DIVE!

Ungh! Too funky!

The Way of The Hero Artist. As a force for good, I battle all sorts of villains and wrong-doers, like the Legion of Critics, Biter-Man, and Bizarro Tat. You know, clowns who talk trash, rip me off, even impersonate me. It's just one thing after another in this business. Life as a cartoonist, as you can see, is certainly fraught with peril. Hell, I may soon be dodging assassination attempts. Find my rabbit boiled and my thoroughbred decapitated. I could end up like Tupac: "Cartoonist slain in Las Vegas shooting. Jealous rivals seen fleeing the crime scene. News at 11." But these are the hazards of my profession, so it's--Woop! The Tat Signal! I'm needed in Gotham. Probably Imbecile Boy or StalkerChick is acting up again. To the Tatmobile!

While reading over some old Resistance entries, I thought to myself, "Whoa. That is one cocky sumbitch. Who the bloody hell does he think he is?" Fortunately I, like Madonna, have the uncanny ability to reinvent myself. Like a chameleon, you might say. So I've decided to take a crack at this "modesty" thing you speak of. You know, mix it up a bit. But before I do, let's say good-bye to the Tatsuya of old. (Roll video montage of Tatsuya running through a cornfield in slow motion, sipping pina coladas with the Bush twins, clutching the Stanley Cup awash in champagne, while "Don't You Forget About Me" by Simple Minds plays in the background.) Standing ovation. Not a dry eye in the house. Truly a moment for the ages. Aw, damn. There I go again...

Not to brag or anything (y'all know I don't like to brag) but I know how to treat the ladies. I'll show you what I mean: A typical date with the Tatman ain't your average dinner-and-movie deal. Oh no. I go all out, baby. First I drive up in my tricked out '82 Datsun hatchback with my ABBA eight track blasting. I honk twice. When she comes out I immediately shower her with compliments: "Girl you smell nice. What is it, Lady Speedstick?" Then we hit a drive thru where I super-size our extra value meals without even asking her. This always impresses the honeys. It says, "Hey, for you I'm going first class." Then, after she pays the tab, we're headed for my favorite sports bar to catch the NBA finals. Woo hoo! Pass the beer nuts, wench!

Sinfest-related headlines to look out for in the new millennium:
· Tatsuya launches new clothing line: "T. Diddy." Says he is no longer bitter about breaking up with J.Lo.
· Slick hairdo becomes hot fashion craze.
· Grand opening of Comic Strip Cafe. Celebrity cartoonists team up to start global franchise. Among items on display: Matt Groening's hair piece.
· Blaxploitation Funk Bible goes into eighth print run.
· Sinfest Theme Park opens. Lawsuits filed after the giant Hand of God malfunctions and flattens several patrons. Reached for comment, park officials say it was "ironic."
· Pooch and Percival dolls outsell all that Disney crap.
· Jerry Bruckheimer announces plans for live action Sinfest movie starring the Rock, Missy Elliot, and the guy who played Mini-Me.

The meaning of life, the reason for being, the purpose of all the cosmos is...

We interrupt this column with a message from the emergency broadcast system.
(Run test pattern)
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
Had this been a real emergency, storm troopers would have busted into your house, declared Martial Law on your ass, and confiscated your hard drive. Then you would have been shuttled off to a secret underground base at Area 51 for immediate deprogramming, then get hooked up to the Matrix to serve as a power source until we solve the energy crisis. Thank you for your cooperation. We now return you to the column already in progress.

...and that, my friends, is the key to happiness.