Why do we do it? What compels artists, writers, actors, musicians to dedicate so much of their energy—so much of their very existence—to pursuits that more often then not result in frustration, pessimism, self-doubt and poor credit ratings? What can possibly be the upside to feeling down so often and sometimes so deep? What’s with the miserable, spectacularly disheartening tone of this introductory paragraph? Why don’t I just pour salt in your wounds? Huh? Why don’t I just stop typing right now, open up a big can of Morton whoop-ass and pour it into the gaping chasm that is your soul as I sit back and watch you writhe in incalculable, interminable pain?

Because believe it or not, I’m hopefully going somewhere with this and the result just may very well be encouraging. I can’t say it definitely will be so because, well, I’m also crippled by diffidence. But the mere fact that someone as hobbled with apprehension and irresolution as myself could think even just for one sentence that this might all end on a happy note has got be seen as somewhat encouraging, right? Right? Come on, people. Give me some positive feedback. I’m dying here.

Anyway, why do we do it? I’ve thought about this long and hard for several minutes and I’ve come up with the following three possible reasons, all which I believe ultimately support artists’ career choices (just not in the crucial financial way that involves being able to purchase food minus such cooking directions as "stir in seasons from flavor packet" or "can also be used to make a mock apple pie"):

1. To Know We Exist
At the risk of sounding like Neo struggling with the Monarch Notes to Plato’s "Allegory of the Cave," when you get right down to it reality is but a shared illusion. We don’t feel as if we truly exist unless someone, at some point, turns to us and says, "Hey, glad you could make it! Oh and you just gotta try the dip. I don’t know what Jenny put in it but it’s just freakin’ awesome! Maybe she added chickpeas. Hey, Jenny? Jenny! Did you put chickpeas in the dip? The dip! Did you put chickpeas in the dip?! You did?! I knew it! Awesome, man. Just freakin’ awesome!"

Consequently, most artists only feel truly alive when someone takes note of their work, of their efforts, of their goals. Now many of you might be thinking, "But I know plenty of artists who are loners, who seem to actively shun social interaction, who can’t go five damn minutes in a group without making some fucked-up comment that alienates everyone, even after I went out of my way to vouch that he was cool and wouldn’t bring down the party." But being unable to cope with people is not quite the same as not wanting to be recognized by people. What we can’t say in public without causing people to dismiss us or stare at the table in awkward silence, quietly peeling the labels off their beer bottles and making one feel about as welcomed as a pandemic, we can say in our performance, our drawings, our self-produced EP. Now that might come across as high-falutin’ talk from a guy whose professional responsibilities consist of no more than attaching word balloons to doodles anywhere from one to four panels a day. But my comic strip allows me to connect with people that I would in no other way get to meet or be able to say "Hello" to without freezing up or immediately apologizing. What I’m trying to say is that we all need to find our own way to achieve recognition. I don’t mean at a pecuniary or even professional level but in a manner that lets us have our identity confirmed. You are an artist. Through your art you substantiate such to others. You go from a concept to someone many will love, many will like, many will detest and many will wonder what the hell you’re doing at age 55 still buying all your clothes from a consignment shop in Williamsburg. You’ve joined the party, you’ve got your name tag, now enjoy the dip.

2. To Know We Are Free
As far as subtitles go, "To Know We Are Free" is about as down-to-earth and humble as "To Know We Duly Possess the Inevitable Facet Crucial to Soul and Sapience" or some other quote I’m certainly misstating and surely misinterpreting from Rousseau. But nonetheless, I’m going to stick with it. Why? Because who among us, even those not in the arts, has longed not to have to work for others? How many of us here today have wanted to say, "You know what? Screw this. And screw you, Mr. Big-and-Mighty Company President! Just who the hell do you think you are, Mr. I’m-All-That-And-Oh-So-Much-More CEO?! Not everyone was lucky—oh, I’m saying lucky, you no-talent, empty suit—to have your economic and educational advantages! Some of us didn’t graduate from the Ivy League. Some of us graduated from The School of Hard Knocks…otherwise known as DeVry. Of course, ’graduated’ may be putting to fine a point on it. Classes were chosen. Teachers were challenged. Security was alerted. Apparently knowledge is only for those who fill out an application form and are formally accepted by the institution. But that’s perfectly fine. In fact, it made me the man I am today! After all, some people learn best in a structured environment from accredited professors, others on a slowly sinking oil derrick at knifepoint. I don’t quite remember the particulars of those fateful three days at sea but I do recall being rescued just prior to drowning—not from the oil company who thought it best to cut their losses—but from a tuna ship, which was oddly named considering the sheer number of dolphin the crew regularly hauled aboard. But when I brought up the subject of their ’additional captures’ they—like the teachers at my unofficial alma mater or the guy from the gas company who checks my meter—seemed uncomfortable with having their actions challenged. And so without concern for my well-being or how I would survive in a foreign environment they dumped me off at their very next port…which, fortunately, was San Francisco. Eventually I made my way back across country, taking odd jobs that mostly involved delivering unmarked packages, collecting ’dues’ and stuffing envelopes. But with each employment opportunity I learned something about myself. I also received more bruises than a melon repeatedly struck with a ball peen hammer. Sure, I left each position minus any la-de-da ’benefits package.’ And sure, that means I now have nothing in savings, nothing in checking and no income coming in with the exception of rebates from Crest and Disney DVD purchases. But I’m a survivor. Or at the very least, a breather. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Boss Man!"

Clearly we’ve all been there. We’ve all felt the desire not to have to report to people we don’t particularly like or respect, fulfilling tasks that often fail to satisfy us. Your art is your key to accomplishing that goal. Sure, that may sound like a specious argument at best, especially given that most artists have to work for someone else because their craft cannot pay their bills, their college loans or even their parents back. But just knowing that you are in charge of something outside of some manager’s grasp is in itself liberating. Just knowing that you are the key decision maker in a project, a dream, that is not beholden to countless approvals and being dragged through endless meetings or having everyone input their thoughts and objections through some sort of corporate wiki has got to make you feel emancipated from others’ whims and rules. Working on your art is the very moment in your day that you are, in fact, free. That you are speaking for yourself, fulfilling your mandates. True, to achieve your dream of working full-time in art you will actually have to work with others, but at least they will be working on your project, the way YOU conceived it. Unless, of course, they have notes. And, oh boy, do they always have notes.

3. To Know That You Can Just Plain Deal with It All
Every decision we make says in some small way how we’ve chosen to cope with this little riddle we call life. Accept a job you don’t particularly like but may prove financially advantageous? You’re saying, "I put the greatest value in personal security." Opt for an "everything bagel" for breakfast? You’re saying, "To hell with carbs and halitosis, I deserve a little personal pleasure." Decide in childhood to dedicate your life to becoming a professional cartoonist? You’re saying. "I’m through with sports. Oh, and forget girls until college. Just forget them. But at least I’m not one of the AD&D kids. Oh God, tell me I’m better off than the AD&D kids."

I’ve known cartooning was my calling since junior high school. Alas, that was way back in 1981, when Quarterflash topped the charts and mustaches were the tonsorial choice of more than just undercover narcotics officers, so you know it was an era rife with poor decision-making skills. I mean, come on, who bases their entire life on a career selected in a decade that opened with the question "Who shot J.R.?" and closed with the query "Who the fuck is The Escape Club?"

So why did I stick with it? Because cartooning—and writing—are the only ways I know how to cope with the world and my place in it. It’s a means through which I can address problems both personal and public, organize my thoughts and ultimately offer some response (or, when I’m feeling snide, retort). That’s not to say I’m coming up with any great solutions to mankind’s problems. I’m not. I can’t. Hell, you’ve read this article. It’s a discursive nightmare! If this were a high school report I’d get an "F" for effort. And what the in the world was that nonsense about DeVry and oil derricks a few paragraphs back? I actually graduated from college and the closest I’ve ever gotten to the oil industry is when driving past the refineries off the New Jersey Turnpike. Seriously, that’s the sort of circuitous logic that’s supposed to crack open the mysteries of the universe?!

Well, no. But life isn’t about breaking the code. It’s about putting two and two together and finding out what you believe in and what you need for a happy existence. Through cartooning and humor I’ve been able to draw my own conclusions about politics, relationships, religion, death and 70’s TV programming. Every artist uses his or her talents as a prism through which to see the world. And every artist is fortunate for that gift. Not every person has a means through which to determine what is right, what is wrong, what is true and what are talking points. True, you may never achieve conventional success. You may never even be able to live solely off your art. But if you keep at it you’ll be recognized as an artist, you’ll enjoy the freedom that can only come from pursuing your own dreams and you can find not only a voice but also a belief as you go through life.

Well, what do you know? I ended on a hopeful note after all. Somebody beer me.

Following today's revelation today that the critically-acclaimed memoir Love and Consequences by Margaret B. Jones is in fact a complete fabrication--which comes a scant week after it was revealed the best-selling Holocaust memoir Misha: A Mémoire of the Holocaust Years is a fake and two years after A Million Little Pieces author James Frey had deceived a nation and, even more egregiously, Oprah--I feel I must finally come clean to all my friends and Sally Forth readers.

My name is not "Francesco Marciuliano." In fact, there never was a "Francesco Marciuliano." And, most importantly, there has never been a strip called Sally Forth.

I am actually Lou Stanton, a building contractor in North Bend, Washington who simply wanted to achieve some recognition and a satisfactory level of renown by pretending to be a cartoonist with an unpronounceable surname. Or I'm Henry Ribar, a strategic sourcing manager in La Jolla, California with a lovely wife, two adorable kids and a cute-as-a-button Yorkshire Terrier. Or I'm Miss Anna Mae Lumpkin, clinical diabetes researcher in the Woodhall Mountains of Mississippi. It doesn't matter, really, since like I said I don't exist.

My story started to unravel last Thursday when a person kept calling me "Francesco Marciuliano" straight to my face for a full 45 minutes and I had no idea they were talking to me. They then reached out to shake me into awareness, only to discover that I am imaginary and they were throttling a Hear Music display at Starbucks (which would be a nice place to enjoy coffee if only there ever were such a place).

Further investigation revealed that while a "Francesco Marciuliano" had graduated from Duke University in the late 80's, he did so at age 21 and since I am age 40, we clearly could not be the same person (this leading to the possibility of identity fraud, which will easily be dismissed when it is learned I just created the phrase "Duke University"). I should also note that any and all pictures of me on the Internet ("Internet"--where do I come up with these words?) are complete fabrications and there is only one extant photograph of the real me, which I used as my "author photo" when I wrote Gravity's Rainbow and V. (also a lie, since neither book--or any book, for that matter--has ever existed...just like the previously mentioned but unreal photograph and supposed "me").

As for Sally Forth, a cursory search Google and Wikipedia (two funny names I just made up) reveals that while there was indeed a comic strip by that name it revolved around an oft-nude action adventure character, was targeted to a male military readership and was discontinued back in 1974 (or so I just wrote, since reality is but a shared illusion and as long as I can get a handful of people to believe such a strip existed then we can say it did). Had I known this I would have certainly named my imaginary comic something else to avoid confusion, returning to my original fake idea of a strip called Bring Home the Bacon, focusing on the life of a wife and mother who works full-time work at an abattoir. I apologize to all my readers and fans who made the strip a daily part of their lives for the past 26 years only now to realize they had never done such.

In response to my disclosure about the true nature of Sally Forth, I'm pretending my fictitious syndicate King Features released the following made-up statement:

"We have no idea what he is talking about. Ignore him. He clearly is a sick, sick man...Wait, if the syndicate doesn't exist then I am clearly writing this false statement, so why on earth would I call myself 'sick'? Couldn't I say that I'm 'charming' or at least 'not prone to warts'? How about 'doesn't stink to high heaven'? That would have certainly been better than 'sick.' Hmm...I wonder if I'm having some sort of mental breakdown right about now. La dee da, la da da..."

Once again. I deeply regret my deception and apologize to all those who think they are reading this nonexistent blog post right now, since in addition to both me and the comic being complete fabrications, so is the blog, Blogger and your computer. Everything you have perceived is in fact an all-encompassing hallucination due to crippling Lewy body dementia, In fact, you are currently running naked and screaming through the Delta hub at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, trying to outrun a Cinnabon. Please stop, take several deep, cleansing breaths and let the nice men with the billy clubs take you to a place of rest and prolonged examination.

Having done my time in Corporate America, I happen to be in a position to offer a few pointers on putting your best foot forward when first entering a office. But why listen to a simple man opine on business comportment when you can hear what the Almighty Lord has to say on the subject? Or, to be more precise, the Lord as interpreted by the Christian Stewardship Ministries, an organization dedicated to utilizing the Bible to teach career management. Think of it as your MBA by way of the G-O-D. Or perhaps as the business bestseller Who Moved My Cheese? with the subtitle God Did, and He Won't Give It Back until You Stop Touching Yourself. Or maybe the Left Behind book series as written by Dale Carnegie. Or as Tony Robbins with the gift of transubstantiation.

The following are just a few of the highly instructive examples from Christian Stewardship Ministries' purportedly helpful manual, "How to Make a Good First Impression." As you read each quote remember to keep asking yourself, "Do I feel bad enough about who I am?" According to the CSM, your answer should be a healthy and hearty "Oh man, not even close."

1. Posture and Carriage
"While posture and carriage may not seem very spiritual, they are definitely a critical part of a first impression. Work on one area at a time. For example, maybe you need to deal with excess weight. If so, you need to know how to do it. If you know God wants you to lose weight, then recognize your failure to take charge of this problem as disobedience. Confess it as sin and ask God to help you change your behavior."

So you know those ten extra pounds that you've been carrying around? The ten pounds you needlessly knock yourself about again and again only to make something completely inconsequential now seem utterly insurmountable? Well, apparently they're an affront to God. Yes, according to the wise folks of CSM, God wakes up in his--oh, let's say duplex since he'd probably enjoy the light from the 14' tall windows--and gazes down upon your form only to shake his head in disgust and perhaps mutter something along the lines of "Ewwwww."

In other words, it's religion as it was always was meant to be--in the guise of a jackass junior high gym teacher calling for "one more lap from the fatties."

2. Keep Grooming and Clothes Appropriate
"A somewhat controversial grooming example is length of hair. Some feel that the Bible disapproves of long hair on men. Others feel no such constraints. The critical question is: What does God want you to do? If you run the risk of causing others to stumble, the question may become not what your rights are, but what your responsibilities are. You may have the right to have long hair and still find that God wants you to surrender that right. And certainly, if you are trying to make a good first impression on someone for God's sake, and they would not be favorably impressed, you might want to rethink your position."

Upon first reading, one cannot help but wonder how late in the editing game was the word "hippie" removed from the first half of the paragraph. Upon a second reading, one cannot help but notice that the focus is solely on men. Apparently the CSM believes good Christian women should spend their time not in an office but rather at Wal-Mart or, if they are not so blessed, McRae's. And upon a third reading, one cannot help but ask just how long can one man's hair be to "run the risk of causing others to stumble"?! Has the Crystal Gale look suddenly become the must-have 'do for today's fast-rising male executive? Is the CSM given to hyperbole? Is it just being snarky? Or do they honestly feel that long hair on men is not only a threat against decent society but also one step closer to people engaging in sexual congress with machinery?

3. Converse with Genuine Interest
"Our conversation includes not only what we say, and, equally important, what we do not say, but how we say what we do say."

To which one can only say, "What did you say?" But the advice continues unabated and unprovoked:

"To the extent you can identify and share common interests with the other person, you will likely leave a good first impression. And to the extent that you can comfortably identify your relationship with the Lord in your conversation, you are likely to solidify a good impression. Even an unbeliever will be left with a good first impression if he senses that you are comfortable in being casually open about your relationship with the Lord."

For who among us has not quickly warmed to a new acquaintance who felt comfortable enough to say aloud, "If we're all going in on a pizza I'd like ham because God put us in charge of all the animals in His dominion, especially the tasty ones." Perhaps the only thing that could provide greater comfort would be if a stranger were to walk up to you with his pants around his ankles, holding a funnel and a ferret, and said, "Little help?"

In conclusion, should you truly wish to succeed in business, apparently you would do well to let God be your mentor...or wing-man or whatnot. Or, to put it in the words of the CSM:

"You cannot just decide to have God shine through you to another person. You have to concentrate on being who He wants you to be, so that He can make Himself visible through you."

Oh, and always make eye contact when conversing with a business associate. That way God can see directly through your eyes into the other person's soul to know if that individual is truly worthy of the Henderson account.

According to the article "You Are What You Post" in the March 27th issue of BusinessWeek, Googling is "becoming a way for bosses and headhunters to do continuous and stealthy background checks on employees, no disclosure required." So for the purposes of any future job hunt, I hereby input the following information into the search-engine matrix should I ever wish to add "Francesco Marciuliano, Senior Marketing Director" next to such previously-earned titles as "Francesco Marciuliano, Nobel Prize Winner for Nuclear Economics," "Francesco Marciuliano, MacArthur Genius Grant Recipient, 1999-2003" and "Francesco Marciuliano, Justice League Founder":

Francesco Marciuliano only engages in alcohol consumption at Communion, when toasting the sanctity of marriage and while infiltrating sleeper cells in Napa Valley.

Francesco Marciuliano speaks fluent Cantonese and Mandarin, but never utters either for fear of showing favoritism.

Francesco Marciuliano is an exceedingly inquisitive employee, but not to the point that he could prove of any assistance during a Securities and Exchange Commission investigation.

Francesco Marciuliano knows why the caged bird sings—because it realizes the true joy of working in a highly-structured corporate environment.

Francesco Marciuliano is well aware of the difference between "personal" and "professional," having proven himself quite adept at spelling.

Francesco Marciuliano once took a bullet for a Christian puppy.

Francesco Marciuliano fought for his country time and time again in Stratego, Electronic Battleship and numerous "G.I. Joe vs. Stretch Armstrong (Evil)" battles.

Francesco Marciuliano understands that humor has its time and place—during opening remarks at a company presentation, while securing the trust of a potential sales client and as "best medicine" in lieu of stem cells.

Francesco Marciuliano knows that the surest way to achieve success in business is by building a great business team. Hence his research in robotics.

Francesco Marciuliano is an exceptionally opinionated and strong-willed individual who graps the importance of going with the flow.

Francesco Marciuliano has never missed a day's work, a project deadline or an opportunity to help the homeless build corrugated strongholds against their alien enemies.

Francesco Marciuliano has written several books on business leadership under the pen name "Jack Welch."

Francesco Marciuliano is a devoutly pious man who nonetheless does not discuss religion in the office, since few can pronounce the name of his god.

Francesco Marciuliano coined the term "market branding" after realizing the term "market searing" was just too graphic.

Francesco Marciuliano is never too busy to lift a bus off a baby.

Francesco Marciuliano is indeed the guy who created that thing you can't live without at your place of business or worship.

Francesco Marciuliano is a "very big picture" guy, to the point that time and space have lost all meaning to him.

Francesco Marciuliano may have played a significant role in the recording of "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band," depending on where his mother was during his first and second trimester.

Francesco Marciuliano can handle multiple tasks at once, having double-majored at Duke University in "English" and "Cloning."

Francesco Marciuliano is a remarkably creative type who nonetheless will never cajole the rest of your staff into attending his gallery opening, recital or haiku slam.

Francesco Marciuliano came up with the idea of Google after standing on a toilet to hang a clock only to slip and bang his head on the sink.

Few cultures have as rich of a literary tradition as the Irish (except yours, dear reader). And few literary traditions are as steeped in abject sadness, soul-crushing squalor and pub-related fatalities as that of the Irish autobiography. Yet each year we continue to be enthralled by books from authors that by all accounts should not have lived past birth. So in honor of St. Patrick's Day I present the following template to help you pen your own award-winning Irish memoir. Simply fill in the blanks as instructed and soon you'll have a childhood account that will bring tears to the eyes of Dick Cheney.

I Can't Find Me Legs: A Tale of Growing Up Poor, Catholic and Eventually Blind in Ireland
By (Your name here)
It was day three of the Blessed Feast of the Prolonged Consumption and Father O'Hurley had just finished (gerund) me in the abbey. I put on the coat my dear, defeated mother had fashioned me from discarded (vegetable) and quickly ran back home through the falling (animal)--past the abandoned (town's sole economic lifeline)--only to learn that my (dearest and only childhood possession) had been sold to help pay for the removal of my wee brother's (body part of which there is only one).

Soon afterwards my father stumbled in through the (entrance other than door), reeking of whiskey and (woman's name other than "Mom"). "Damn the cursed English!" he yelled at our pet (inanimate object) before his (gimp extremity) gave out and he crashed face first into the (colorful Gaelic colloquism for "open cutlery drawer").

With my father now dead, it was up to my mother to raise me and my (double-digit number) brothers and sisters, which she did by getting a job in (imagine the worst job possible for a woman, then imagine it occuring inside an underground factory). Unfortunately, a few hours later while walking back from the prostitute cannery she was struck from behind, both sides and above from (oh hell, you decide). She eventually died from (medical term for "the sniffles").

Twenty years later I moved to America.

Over the years my father has routinely insisted that the great innovations of the latter half of the twentieth century have been the products of one fertile mind alone...that of my dad's, Frank Marciuliano. Through my childhood, adulthood and as of last week Dad has steadfastly claimed that one groundbreaking concept after another has been purloined from his stash of million dollar ideas and unfairly credited to other, "less worthy and less handsome" individuals. Although his complete list of "creative infringement" claims are is far too lengthy to spell out here, I would like to take this opportunity to share with you some of his more significant and unrecognized acievments:

MTV: Since the advent of music television my dad has repeatedly protested at great length (and, alas, volume) that it was he and he alone who had first come up with the concept of marrying video to music. To strengthen his claim, he points to the late 50's/early 60's, when as a patron of New York City diners he would oft ponder what it would be like to have not just a mini jukebox but a "Video jukebox" at your table. Naturally, one could not help but be impressed by this notion...until further research revealed that such units in fact did exist in the late 50's/early 60's, in NYC and Paris diners, called "Lumierevisions." My dad dismisses this by stating one day the true story wil be told and the applause will be his.

Hagar the Horrible: In the late sixties, my dad drew a series of comic strips featuring Vikings (as well as drunk angels, foul-mouthed devils and nude knights) and proceded to shop the idea around to the various comic strip syndicates. Then something happened. I'm not sure what. Dad's not sure what. Details are smudgy at best. But somehow the end result was my father marching up and down our hallway yelling, "Those thieving rat fuck bastards at King Features Syndicate stole my idea and turned into Hagar!" To further illustrate his point, he cites my current Editor-in-Chief, Jay Kennedy, as the very man he "probably met with at some point" who eventually ran into the night with his concept. My argument stating that according to my dad's timeline Jay could not have been older than four at the time of the "theft" was soundly defeated with the counter-argument, "Then maybe it was his father!" Attempts to explain that very few comic strip syndicates--or comapnies for that matter--award editor-in-chief positions on the basis of primogeniture have yet to dissuade my dad (Side Note: When I got my gig at King Features to write for the comic strip Sally Forth, my dad stressed that at my first meeting I should make it known Frank Marciuliano was onto them and, in his own words, "would get even with them in their sleep.". Oddly enough, that topic has yet to come up in any discussion with my boss).

Designer Paper Towels: The story goes that when my dad was toiling on the Bounty account while working for the advertising agency BBDO, he would kill time by doodling women fornicating with dogs on the paper towels. According to my dad, a Bounty executive no doubt saw the artwork, took the idea to his superiors and now thanks to one uncredited Frank Marciuliano we can all mop up a spill with two-ply paper towels generously decorated with, well, flowers or kitchen utensils. Bounty might have cleaned up the original premise but my dad firmly believes it is he should be cleaning up in profits.

The Novel Shogun: The true authorship of James Clavell's epic novel was initially contested a few weeks prior to the first airing of the Richard Chamberlain miniseries based on the work but several but several years after the book had been translated into 16 languages. Apparently my Dad had always wanted to write a TV series about an Englishman adopting the Shogun code (with George Peppard in the lead) and the fact that someone else had the same premise was all the proof he needed that his idea had been swiped right out from under him (although he had never shared said idea with editors, colleagues, family etc.) Had my dad wanted to make a movie about the Shogun instead no doubt Akira Kurosawa would have been served with papers.