Back in junior high school I used to cut my own hair. People would gently hint that it looked awful but I was too proud to even admit I did it myself. It was ridiculous. I looked like Calvin when Hobbes cut his hair. It was that bad. There were patches sticking out like weeds, bald spots peeking through, errant strands all over. I would try to gel it down, mousse it up, make some parts spikey, but it was no use. My head looked like a carpet exploded on it. Looked like a chia pet that stopped trying. People must have thought I was in some horrific accident or my barber was blind and malicious. I had serious hangups about this, and it probably had something to do with the fact that I couldn't afford a haircut. Yeah, I was just a poor boy from a poor family. Now that I'm huge and successful I go to Supercuts all the time, two, three times a week, and sometimes, not often, but every once in a while when I'm feeling really uppity, I even go to Fantastic Sam's. Please don't be jealous. I worked hard for these privileges. I can hear people gasp in amazement every time I walk into those fine establishments, and I think to myself, "Tatsuya, you've made it, baby."

Some speculation on Tatsuya's recent disappearance:
· Offends gay mafia by wearing pink after Labor Day. Pursued cross country by an angry Elton John, Tatsuya seeks sanctuary in the Playboy Mansion.
· Auditions for the "Asian guy" role in Lost. Shows up to the casting call dressed like Gilligan. Gets banned from the ABC studio lot forever.
· Is stalked by Jessica Alba and Scarlett Johansson. Because women love Tatsuya. They really really do.
· At long last meets his arch nemesis, the dreaded Anti-Tat. He looks just like Samuel L. Jackson from Unbreakable and calls himself Mister Ass.
· His testicles finally drop. Voice changes, gets pubes, develops desires for females. Holds a press conference to announce his manhood.
· Willy Wonka declares war on Sinfest Nation. A battalion of Oompa Loompas raid the Resistance compound, but the invasion quickly reaches a standstill as neither the Oompa Loompa's fabulous musical numbers nor the Resistance fighters' hilarious one liners seem to do much damage to their opponents.

Dear audience, let me explain. Baby please. Don't shut me out. I was... there was something I had to do. No, there isn't another audience. I'm not seeing another fanbase behind your back. How could you even think that? You're the only readership for me. I only draw for you, you know that. What? These ink stains on my collar? That's nothing. White out smudges on my boxers? Okay. I was trying out some new material for some test audiences. But they don't mean anything to me. It was just a one time thing. Entertainment, that's all it was. Meaningless entertainment. With you I make art, baby. You and me, we make fine art. What about you? You been reading other cartoonists while I was away? Who? That hack? You've been reading that impostor's work? Good lord. Did you laugh? Don't tell me you laughed. You did. Over and over and over again... He made milk shoot out your nose... You rolled on the floor. You laughed harder than you ever laughed at my... Stop. Don't tell me anymore. I'm so upset I don't know what to do with myself.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
Hell yeah
If they were assholes to you and left you in the lurch when you needed them the most
Then by all means forget them
But you can't
Cuz they're all you think about And you seethe with resentment and anguish
And you plumb the depths of your emo soul
Where your every thought is:
How could you do this to meeeeeeee?
You wish there was a memory deleting service like in "Eternal Sunshine" and you'd delete that motherfucker right outta your mind
Am I right?
Huh?
Anyone?
Okay, so maybe it's just me
Fine
I can handle it
Happy new year.
Fuckers.
*sob*

On legacy. There comes a time when a man seriously contemplates his place in the cosmos, his life, his work, his legacy. Did I do anything at all worth remembering? Did I live up to my potential? Did I wrestle alligators and kill the six-fingered man who murdered my father? One might think that being a webcartoonist, charged with the awesome responsibility of bringing shits and giggles to dozens of people worldwide, would erase such anxieties. Not so. Doubts and worries abound. Why do I do what I do? Do I make a difference at all? Maybe there's a kid out there at the end of his rope, on the verge of doing something terrible, whose tragic path could be averted with a well-timed pimp joke. Like Schindler, I wonder: How many lives could I have saved with one more punchline about bitches and hoes? How many lost souls, how many broken hearts, desperate for a laugh, could I reach with a shake of Monique's ass? What more could I have done? And for the love of Zeus where in the world is the six-fingered man???

Learning to Draw Comics: The Tatsuya Ishida Tutorial. Many of you have asked me to provide a step by step guide to creating comics, so here it is. First, get a writing utensil you feel comfortable with, and a piece of blank paper. Now, think of someone who made you feel like utter shit. Someone who shattered your world into a million pieces and you can't bear to even be in the same zip code as them cuz they tore you apart so thoroughly. Now the only way to put your world back together is to get revenge. That's right. You must become famous. You must become adored by strangers and make obscene amounts of cash and drive cars you can't pronounce and light fat cigars with rolled up hundred dollar bills, and that'll show her, the bitch. And when you have your own toy line and three film studios competing for the movie rights and Leo on your cell inviting you to join the Pussy Posse, maybe then those feelings of worthlessness and despair will forever disappear. Or maybe not. I don't know. But it's your best bet. Now pick up your pen and start drawing.

Confessions of a Teenage Messiah. Today I healed a bunch of lepers and ministered to sinners and whores. At Sunday school that Mary Magdalene sure was looking fine. If I were normal I would so hit it. But I'm not. So I won't. Life is so unfair. Why can't my dad be like other dads? Mine's perfect. And all powerful. You know what a pain in the ass that is? I'm scared shitless here! He says I have to go to camp. In the desert. For 40 days and 40 nights. And the camp counselor is THE FUCKING DEVIL. And he's gonna offer me cool things like money and power and fame and I have to turn them all down. WTF? I heard this Eastern dude, Bubba or something, did the same thing under a tree. What a weirdo. Gawd, my life is so lame. I have to save the world cuz daddy told me to. I hate you Dad! I hate you! JC <3 MM 4eva. Megadeth rulz zomgbbq1111!

As you may have already guessed, I was away on my annual spiritual retreat to the Scientology Celebrity Centre for my Purification Rundown and upper level OT IV training. My auditor took my electropsychometer reading and I was relieved to learn my reactive mind and its influence on my Thetan soul essence were waning. Making such strides on the bridge to total freedom is a heady experience, and I momentarily felt my astral self break free from the bonds of MEST. This, I mused, is much better than getting hooked on crack by my psychiatrist. It was during this fine reverie that the wicked overlord Xenu attacked the compound. Bullets and laserbeams ripped through the glass windows, as an army of Potential Trouble Sources poured into the once placid palatial retreat. Alarms blaring and ammunition spraying, the invaders looked poised to take over. Then, on a cylindrical hydraulic platform near the north wall emerged alterna-rock sensation Beck clad in a shimmering polyester leisure suit. He belted out several obscure tunes from his eclectic oeuvre, and his invocations to "Sing along!" seemed to confuse and paralyze the alien army into submission. Needless to say, the bad guys are now safely detained in the Phantom Zone and justice prevails.
Oh, and Book 3 is out. Available through Cafepress and Amazon

On disappointment. Life is full of disappointment. Like, I'm still really ticked off that I'm not a superhero. I thought if I waited long enough I'd develop superpowers and start going on adventures. I'm starting to suspect that it may never happen. Where is my mutant healing factor? Where is my web-slinging ability and my own private batcave? I am very very very disappointed. Now look at me, some goofy webcartoonist doing funny drawings and shit. What the hell? How did my dreams go so terribly wrong? Then again, maybe the superheroes of the world are pissed that they're not webcartoonists. Maybe they're like, "How come I never developed any fantastic drawing skills? Where are my life drawing capabilities? Where is my command of composition and color, my lyrical storytelling and deft comedic timing? Oh cruel world, why oh why must I wear this gay costume and fight assholes in the streets day after day after day? Being a superhero sucks. Webcartoonists got it good! Luckyyyy!"
-T.

You know how when rock stars play the guitar they make all sorts of funny faces cuz they're really into it? Well, when I draw I do  the same thing. When I sketch I got that easy breezy too cool for school look. When I do inks I whip out my focus face, all intense and burning with concentration.  When I mess up I get the angry Shit-I-Fucked-Up-Now-I-Gotta-Use-White-Out Scowl. Very sexy. Sometimes I get that  pained expression when I'm doing ultra fine detail work. As I gear up for the big finish my strokes get quicker and quicker, my eyes bug out, my hair explodes like Yahoo Serious, I'm totally insane. Energies reach their breaking point. I can taste the final crescendo as it all comes together, all my skill and talent, my genius, my love, my truth, laid out there on what was once a clean white sheet of paper. Spent, I sit back, light a cigarette, wipe away the last remaining bits of eraser dust  and purr, "Was it good for you too?"

The latest rumors on Tatsuya's whereabouts:
· Checks into Shoplifters Anonymous; last seen stuffing his pants with shampoo bottles at a local 98 cent store. "I am the male Winona Ryder," he announces at his hearing.
· Sucked into a space-time vortex and converted into pure energy like that albino guy in Powder.
· Auctions himself on E-bay. Bitterly retracts his posting when the bidding plateaus at $4.35.
· Wakes up from the Matrix. He is heralded as The One, saves the world, gets with Trinity, settles down in a suburban section of Zion and raises mini-Ones.
· Decides to form the International Coaliton of Indecisive People. Then changes his mind.
· Meets with four other high powered beings and together they form Tat-Tron, the super robot soldier of justice.
· Watches Before Sunrise and Before Sunset back to back. Unable to withstand this brutal onslaught against his manhood, he jumps off a cliff, commits hara-kiri and detonates a pack of C-4 strapped to his body.

As you may have already guessed, I am constantly under government surveillance. Like Cat Stevens, I am a seething cauldron of hardcore revolutionary fight-the-power-ness. A thorn on the side of The Establishment. A fly in The Man's ointment. Almost but not quite as incendiary as Kevin Bacon's dance stylings in Footloose. I'm that hardcore. In fact I'm so hardcore the military industrial complex now dedicates a large chunk of its annual budget to combatting the liberating effects of Sinfest. Several agents, disguised as "critics," write negative reviews and send me discouraging e-mails as part of a broad psy-ops campaign to dampen my spirit and derail the revolution. They've even brainwashed some civilians into thinking my strip is less than total complete genius. Do not be fooled by them. They are pawns of the power structure programmed to spread lies and misinformation. So remember: Read Sinfest. It is most brilliant and hilarious. Otherwise, you're a filthy nazi whore. You don't want to be a filthy nazi whore, do you? Of course you don't. Okay. All right, then. I'm outtie. Viva la Resistance!

I believe most Americans voted for John Kerry. I believe the exit polls that indicated a massive Kerry landslide. I believe Americans saw through the Republican propaganda machine and rejected it. I believe the heart and core of America is guided by a deeper and better wisdom than what the cynics tell us. All interpretations of this so-called Bush victory brand us as cowards, bigots, or idiots. I don't believe their analysis. I don't believe their results. I don't believe that gender panic and "moral values" caused Americans to vote for more war, more torture, more corporate power. I don't believe Americans turned their backs on the world. I don't believe Americans care only about American casualties. I don't believe we have closed our hearts to the suffering of others. I believe Americans have a capacity for compassion and generosity, for heroism and self-sacrifice that puts to shame all the warmongering and fearmongering of the current regime. I believe the great legacy of 9/11 was the immediate sense of community and connectedness and willingness to understand the rage against America. I believe that glimpse of universal brotherhood, not the march to war, was the true face of humanity. This is my article of faith. This is my faith-based opinion. This is my gut instinct.

Election news:
· Slim Fast Veterans For Truth attack Whoopi Goldberg's dietary record. "She never really drank any of that stuff," says the group's spokesperson. "She is unfit to lead fat people."
· Dick Cheney insists on link between Al Qaeda and Kevin Bacon. Al Qaeda was trained by the CIA which was created by Harry Truman who dropped the bomb which was conceived by the Manhattan Project which was a movie starring John Lithgow who was in Footloose with Kevin Bacon.
· Face Lift Veterans For Truth attack Teresa Heinz Kerry's cosmetic surgery record. "Sure she had Botox injections," snarled spokesperson Michael Jackson. "But did she have full blown reconstructive facial surgery? I don't think so."
· George W. Bush unveils bold new "compassionate bombing" philosophy in his nomination speech. "I believe in compassionate air strikes, a compassionate war, compassionate torture with a good heart."
· Martians invade Earth after receiving intelligence that Bush was plotting a Mission to Mars. Although they find no Weapons of Mars Destruction they insist we had the capacity to build them. Alien war profiteers reopen Alcatraz, rename it Abu Probe, proceed to "interrogate" humans.

When I was little I thought adults had it made. They were much bigger, first of all, and they had all this cash to buy all the candy and toys they wanted. They went to these mysterious things called "jobs" and they could drive those car machines. What's more, they seemed to know things I didn't know. Important things. Meaningful things. Like how come sometimes they left the turn signal on after they'd already made the turn? There must be some reason to leave that bink bink bink sound on. But under what circumstances? And for how long? And why does monetary currency come in 1s and 5s and 10s but not 3s or 7s? This was especially crucial because I had big plans to one day utilize this money stuff to purchase large amounts of candy and toys. What if I went up to the cashier with a batch of Now-and-Laters and Transformers and he rang me up and it came out to $7.32? I'd look pretty foolish standing there without a 7 dollar bill. Or a 32 cent coin, for that matter. Anyway, these and other questions filled my childhood, but I had faith that, once inducted to the hallowed space of adulthood, the answers would come...