Yes, the rumors are true. I was in fact a candidate for the coveted starring role on ABC's The Bachelor. I was right there in the final rounds of the selection process when the producers called me in for further questioning. They had dug up my rap sheet, my FBI file, my ties to every mafia/yakuza/triad organization in existence, my mutant healing powers and adamantium claws. The jig, as they say, was up. To their credit they were very diplomatic when they let me go. "Mr. Ishida," they said to me, "After careful review we have decided that you are a total freak. We recommend you try out for Fox's Celebrity Boxing. Best of luck to you. Bye bye now." Which is just as well. If I was the Bachelor I would've gone up to each babe and been like, "Say my name, you bag of poon! Say it!" Which, I suppose, is something America is not ready for.

Scenes deleted from the Oscar telecast:
· Interview of me talking about my favorite movie, Pimps up, Hos down.
· Winona Ryder streaking the stage in a blatant attempt to steal the show.
· The elf mosh pit that formed during Enya's musical performance.
· Three Al Qaeda terrorists caught trying to sneak in as Cirque du Soleil performers.
· Another interview of me talking about my other favorite movie, "Kung Pow."
· Whoopi crowdsurfing during Denzel's acceptance speech.
· The intense backstage dance-off between J.Lo and John Travolta.
· Tom Green getting "creative" with Oscar statuettes.
· Ron Howard dedicating his award to "all you crazy mofos out there!"

On imitation. "Imitation is suicide," wrote Emerson. And I totally agree. Ain't no point in biting someone else's style. You gotta find your own voice, do your own thing, dance to the beat of your own drum. Then again, modeling yourself after your hero is part of growing up. Take me, for instance. Back in my junior high school days I used to sport a bitchin' mullet afro like the guy in Hall and Oats. I also had a tremendous collection of pastel T-shirts with slogans like "Radical!" and "This Is Your Brain On Drugs." I had my L.A. Gear sneaks, my Sanyo boombox, my water resistant Swatch (with bendable Swatchguard), and I rocked out the to the musical stylings of Deep Purple. Obviously, I had it goin' on. But I'm past all that now--wiser, more mature, no longer swayed by such silly trends. I have my own unique style now. I got my cornrows, my tats, my ice. Cruising the west side in my suped up Kia. I just gotta be me, yo.

They say honesty is the best policy. Happiness is the best revenge. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. And laughter is the best medicine. They say ignorance is bliss. Knowledge is power. Necessity is the mother of invention. And all the world is a stage. Or a banquet. Or an illusion. Or whatever you make of it. They say you can't fight City Hall. They say every man has his price. Money talks. Sex sells. Power corrupts. Truth hurts. Psychiatry kills. And Time heals all wounds. They say it's a dog-eat-dog world. The early bird gets the worm. The grass is always greener on the other side. And when I was your age I had to walk to school in the snow uphill both ways... So remember to stop and smell the roses. For today is the first day of the rest of your life. And don't you worry about what they say.

As most of you have probably heard by now, I have failed yet again to make Forbes magazine's Richest Billionaires List. Every year I run out to the newsstand to pick up that particular issue, and every year I walk away disappointed. I mean, it's just one minor technicality that keeps me off the list. Namely, the fact that I'm not a billionaire. It's just not right. I oughtta write the editor, demand they come up with an alternate list honoring the slummin'est slackers of the year. I'll be all over that list, boy. They could even launch a spinoff 'zine, Ghetto Forbes, to chronicle the success stories of the zero income bracket. The inaugural issue could feature Kato Kalin on the cover. Hot topics: "Pot: Is it for you?" "I'm a hobo and I'm proud." "Break-Even-Quick Schemes!" And of course, there'll be an annual Golddigger issue spotlighting all the lovely ladies of slackdom. It's a blockbuster, I'm telling you.

After Nietzsche:
Supposing Truth to be a woman--then she must be the hottest babe ever, cuz all these geniuses throughout history can't stop talking about her. Truth this, truth that. The end all be all mother of all abstractions. And the rest of us are what, shacking up with Gossip and Bullshit, the Skanks of Babylon? Hell, at least they know how to have a good time. Truth is so high maintenance. Her standards are so high. And she always gotta be right. On top of all that she plays hard to get. She oughtta lighten up, ya know? Be more like her sister, Dare. Now she knows how to party! But who knows, maybe deep down even the pristine Truth has a wild side. Maybe had a lesbian threeway with Karma and Felicity... Dropped some acid back in her experimental college days... Or got caught exposing herself in "Truth Gone Wild" video... Whatever the case may be, you know it's gotta be stranger than fiction.

Beasties Remix:
I'm sending this one out to all the California girls...
To all the bleach blondes...
Brunettes...
Redheads...
Nubian goddesses...
To the dragon ladies and lotus blossoms from the Far East...
To all the Swiss misses...
To the lower west end nubiles...
Spanish fly girls...
Chicas...
Latinas...
To the film noir femme fatales...
B-movie actresses...
The women of wrestling...
Go-go dancers...
Rock chicks...
To all the punk girls...
Goth girls...
Raver girls...
Riot grrls...
To all the girls next door...
And all the girls gone wild at Mardi Gras...
xoxo,

A Valentine's Day Medley:
She walks in beauty, like the night
Filled with stars and rocket ships;
All that's best of dark and bright
Glisten in her eyes and lips:
Good God.
She's all that and a bag of chips.
So I tells her:
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Oh girl, you're so much hotter:
You're kinder than the kindest buds in May,
Cooler than the hydrant's gushing water;
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
But at my back I always hear
Time's boxcar racer roaring near.
So do me, baby
Like you never done before;
Oh, give it to me
Till I just can't take no more;
Do me, baby
Like you never done before;
I want you now,
I just can't wait no more.

Everything about the Superbowl is so over the top you gotta love it. That pregame show was a riot. Barry Manilow and Patti LaBelle! Hundreds of kids dressed up as red, white, and blue Lady Liberties! Former Presidents quoting Lincoln! Mariah Carey straight outta rehab! What the hell is going on? Who cares? I could almost see the director gesticulating wildly, imploring: "More outrageous! I want more OUTRAGEOUS!" It was like a big F.U. aimed at anti-American sentiments, a message to all the haters and perpetrators. You don't like our way of life? You think we're shallow and materialistic and prone to excess? Watch this. Yes. 'Twas a big overproduced glitzy star-spangled middle finger in the face of terror. And there's even a moral to the whole thing: Patriots win. Pure Hollywood. You gotta love it.

Please Stand By. Looks like the e-mail subscription list got wiped out a couple weeks back. I know this because I felt a great disturbance in the Force. It was as if a million voices cried out in terror, "Where's my Sinfest?" as citizens started rioting in the streets, razing landmarks, torching their cities. Sinfest Headquarters has been flooded with distress calls from various heads of state, community leaders, the Pope, and other fanpersons. Naturally they're all quite concerned. Please do not panic. We have the situation under control. Interpol has activated their most elite trouble-shooting task force and the Commissioner has turned on the Tat Signal. Help is on the way. (This just in: Sign up again and you're good to go. Thank you for your patience.)

The pessimist says the cup is half empty. The optimist says it's half full. The pragmatist says its liquid contents are at 50% capacity. The ironist says it's half full of air. The plumber says the cup must be leaking. George Carlin says the cup is too big. The Starbucks employee says it's so you have room for cream. The conspiracy theorist says aliens took the other half. The baseball player says his cup is definitely full. MacGuyver says he can build a powerful explosive with it. The psychoanalyst says the cup is your mother. The punk sitting next to you also says the cup is your mother. The romance novelist says the cup is a willing receptacle to the wild gushing torrents of pure passion from the hard chiseled urn. The zen master says, "There is no cup." Pamela Anderson says her cups are definitely full. And me, I say, "Waitress! Refill!"

More Sinfest headlines of the future:
· U.S. Postal Service takes a poll on whether the new stamp should feature the young thin Slick or the old fat Slick.
· New Euro currency to feature Squigley dressed up like Napoleon.
· Popular children's program The Pooch and Percival Show put on indefinite hiatus when Percival checks into catnip rehab.
· Fort Lauderdale selected as site for First Annual Ms. Sinfest Pageant. Bring your own thong!
· Winona Ryder caught stealing bandwidth from sinfest.net. "I just had to have it," says klepto celebrity.
· Tatsuya Ishida's cameo appearance in Star Wars: Episode 18: Your Mom's a Sith ignites flurry of internet protests.

Resolutions for 2002:
· Learn how to play air guitar.
· Bungee jump from the Eiffel Tower while screaming, "Ouiiiii!"
· Get a butler and call him "Alfred" even if that's not his name.
· Produce my own biopic, Tat Cometh: Hide Your Women. Directed by John Woo, starring Rob Schneider in a breakout action role.
· Write sequel to my memoirs, TI: Episode 2: Clone This!
· Continue with my Jedi training.
· Start a one man rave, go on world tour.
· Visit a nuclear facility, freak out people by saying, "Hey, what's this button do?"
· Retire. Play baseball. Make glorious comeback.
· Do a little dance.
· Make a little love.
· Get down tonight.
Okay. Let's get to it.
-T.

Should old school homeys be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should old school homeys be forgot,
And days of auld lang syne?

We have carved our names on walls
And tagged up freeway signs;
We've hit up all the mini-malls
Since days of auld lang syne.

We rocked out to pop radio,
Thinking we was fly;
We did not know the dilly-o
Since days of auld lang syne.

So here's a hand, my trusty friend
And give a hand o' thine;
We'll take a toke o' kindness yet,
For days of auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my friend,
For auld lang syne;
Do the Safety Dance and the Cabbage Patch,
For days of auld lang syne.

'Twas the night 'fore Agnostica, when all through the city not a rapper was rhymin', not even P. Diddy; The malls were all empty, department stores closed; The gifts were all wrapped, the greetings composed; Streetlamps were dimmed then darkened entirely, as Gen-Xers mourned the passing of irony; When out from the stillness came a phat funky beat, and shook the foundations of the once peaceful street; 'Twas the spirit of punk god Joey Ramone singing "Twenty twenty twenty four hours to go-o-o-o..." Oh! Then Aaliyah bust in like a superstar, while George Harrison jams on electric sitar; He slows it down and she strikes a pose, singing "There's something in the way she flows." When it's time to bounce they shout from above: "Happy Solstice to all and to all One Love!"