Where does one find inspiration? How do you court the coy muse? Just be yourself? Or do you need a really good opening line to catch her attention? "Hey, muse, lookin' fiiiiiiiiine, mama. Oo! I totally dig that tight body on ya. Let's you and me bounce on over to my crib and do it Picasso-style."; Or you could put out a personal ad: "Muse Wanted: For artistic inspiration, spiritual rebirth, and light ego-massaging. Must be able to handle artist's inner torment. No Harpies please." And hey, what about female artists? Do they have man-muses? Do they look like Fabio? Yeah, that's rich. Fabio in a cherub get-up floating around sprinkling fairy dust on... Cathy Guisewite. "Do it, Fabio," Cathy would moan. "Do it to me Picasso-style."

It's a Catch-22: As long as the strip is not syndicated, I figure I might as well make good on my creative freedom and go balls wild; consequently I produce more work that's unfit for syndication. Going "mass market," of course, would entail the cleaning up of content, subjection to the whims of an editor, and the surrender of copyright and license to a corporate machine. Which all sounds pretty terrible until you hear the ka-ching of your internal cash register and meet up with fine-ass groupie honeys, which, according to some hip hop lyrics, is the meaning of life. Making the bigs, joining the A-list, going to the show and pimpin' your muse on the catwalk... that's the dream, baby. But hey, I'm just talkin' here...

I've been working on my acceptance speech, just in case. Check it: "Wow. I am like, so thrilled. I totally did not expect to win. First, I'd like to thank God. Second, I'd like to thank the Academy for letting me wear this thong on stage. And a shout to the Devil, who heads the Academy in disguise. It's been a rough journey, but dagnabbit, I did it for the kids, ya know? Yeah, rags to riches, bags to bitches, smack dat mad booty, HOO HAW!!! Who's the King of the World now, huh? Who's the King?! But seriously folks, regardless of what the U.N. has accused me of, I'm a force for good. Just say no to schwag-- hold out for the good stuff. Hee hee, just kidding. Stay off the brain drain, y'all. Peace and Rapture."

Some of you may be wondering, "Why is this column called Notes from the Resistance? What is it exactly you're resisting?" Well, it's complicated. At first we were gonna call it The Inside Dope, and then we thought maybe The Big Fat Truth, or Spewings of a Yuckmouth (which I was particularly fond of). Ultimately, though, we decided to go political, to give the site that extra edge. Our politics here at Sinfest are pretty darn radical (we believe in Casual Weekdays, mandatory service in the Salvation Army, and blowing up Mars) so we anticipate opposition. And that's what we're resisting, bubba.

On merchandising: It's flattering to hear so much interest in Sinfest product, and yes, I do fancy the thought of a whole line of God Puppets®, so you too can "play God" and talk smack about the Devil®-- available with Redneck Hunting Gear (action figure sold separately). Believe you me, I have every intention of selling out big-time-- cash in on the consumer demand for neat pop merchandise, then flee the country and retire to some remote island. On the other hand, I may decide to have some of that artistic integrity stuff and do the Starving Artist Who Doesn't Compromise bit. Alas, who could resist the chance to pimp their characters on Madison Avenue?

The response has been tremendous. Your letters of support and encouragement make this whole endeavor easier and more pleasant. Mucho arigato! And special shouts to the Keenspot crew who took a chance signing this etiquette-challenged strip. Man, I'm feeling so optimistic I'm projecting a six-month run! Maybe seven! You know it's just a matter of time before the Thought Police come raiding this site and snatch up little Slick away and reunite him with his Cuban pappy, right?

Finally. We have arrived at our new abode. The ever dependable E-haul truck, as it were, has transported all the furniture and china, every prop and miscellany from the old site, even my collection of inflatable alien dolls. In the grand spirit of renewal, the staff made plans for a major revamp & upgrade, complete with a Sinfest Escort Service and a Tweak Exchange Program. You know, to give back to the community. In the end, however, our engineers went with something called the "If It Ain't Broke" approach, prompting a series of jokes about the creator's financial status, which, quite frankly, is no laughing matter.

Welcome to the 'fest.
Activate them senses and
Pray you do your best.
Deadbeat pappy hit the road,
Mammy's outta wack.
Sister be in rehab and
Brother's sellin' smack.
Posin' schoolmate bully pit
They pushin' every trend--
Phony heads they make you wish
The world come to an end.
Sometime life ain't got no cheer,
But don't sweat the hypocrites;
Be none surprised fo' any crime
And misdeed they commits!
Next crop of young 'ns comin' yo
& we gots ta chill, because
Soon be time to welcome them
As long ago we was...

Having been on the air for
a couple months, I've noticed a distinguishable pattern in the feedback.
The archetypal letter would go something like this: "Dude. Your main
character guy, what's-his-name, he looks too much like that kid,
what's-his-name, in <I>Calvin & Hobbes.</I> You should fix that. Plus,
can I have a T-shirt? And lastly, what exactly is it you're smoking? P.S.
The chick, what's-her-name, she's hot. She makes me feel funny down
there." Now, it's not that I don't appreciate these sentiments. I do. I
love feedback. But please, for the love of Mary, don't ask me to
incriminate myself. I can't tell you what I smoke.

There've been some inquiries
regarding the lack of biographical content about the author. Well, we've
contacted Mr. Ishida (via satellite feed, as he moonlights as a field
operative for a secret spy society)and forwarded this question straight
away. The e-mail reply reads in part: "Tell them my real identity must be
protected. Lives hang in the balance. They can't handle the truth! Still
in Moscow. Be back soon." What we can tell you is that he likes it shaken,
not stirred. He has a passion for synchronized swimming, all things plush,
and he hopes his comic will one day be adapted into a full-on ice-capade
spectacular: Sinfest on Ice.

It's an oft-told tale: Young ambitious talent seeks fame, climbs the rungs of success, reaches the top, then crashes with scandal and fades into oblivion. Somewhere along the line (right before the crash), the young star will bemoan his loss of privacy and endlessly lament how his craft is no longer any fun. Not me. I'm a-gonna embrace the punishing, high-octane schedule of superstardom. I will live it, breathe it, be it. Gonna shake my moneymaker. Oh yes I will. Wanna know why? Cuz you like me. You really really like me.

The internet is a strange, quirky, wonderful place. Personal pages beam out to the entire globe, acquaintenceships and alliances are forged through the magic of fonts, hundreds upon thousands of digital websouls stream through the cyberwaves, seeking, hunting, praying for creature comforts in a teeming procession of virtual life. It's a beautiful thing to behold. Now... Pop quiz, hotshot: Equipped with this dazzling technology what do you do? What do you do? I pound on the computer and call the modem filthy names when a download takes TWO WHOLE MINUTES... I mean, come on! That just ain't gonna cut it, dig?