My Memoirs Are Not Coming Along Well

Good people, you've caught me on a bad day. I'm going out of my well-confined mind trying to write my memoirs.

As I may have mentioned before, but certainly didn't, I have been approached by publishers in the past on the occasions I have stormed into their offices and demanded they print my columns. They have found my columns unsuitable for publication—certainly it's a good thing that they do not run the commune—but they have said, after hearing me rant for a while, "You are quite a character, Mr. Finger. Have you ever considered writing an autobiography."

Yes, I have, since they said something about it. So I immediately went home and started writing the story of my life. Unfortunately, there are huge gaps where I don't remember anything at all, like childhood, and last Wednesday. My memoirs have been stopped right out of the gate.

Presidents are lucky. Like actors and other people of importance, people write biographies about them for them. Plus, their entire public life is captured on videotape or through snapshots. Ol' Rok Finger has to rely on memory and the accounts of friends or co-workers. And memory is even less reliable than friends and co-workers.

For instance, I had a great memory about the time I spent in a German prison during World War II, where I became the leader of an escape attempt of 200 men at once. It was an incredible venture, which I recalled in vivid detail and had all the tragedy, action, and fulfillment of a Hollywood film. Then smartass Camembert told me that it was a film, and according to his Aunt Arvelyn, my ex-wife, I had spent the duration of World War II attempting to build a wooden submarine to help in the war effort. I didn't remember much about that, except for I could never get the thing to quit taking on water. Which is a damn shame, because that might have made a decent chapter or something in my memoirs. Instead it doesn't even make up for losing that fantastic story about the prison camp, that could have made two or three chapters at least, maybe even the whole book. I'm still considering throwing it in, if I'm able to disguise it sufficiently.

So I'm stuck with bits and pieces of my own life to try to sew together in some sort of suitable book. My commune columns are no help at all. Have you ever noticed I tend to ramble on about the most insignificant thing? The minor hassles and ridiculous opinions I hold, ranting and raving as if any of it mattered. I've never read my own stuff before and I can't say I'm chomping at the bit to read it again soon. If it's your taste, fine, have at it. But either way there's nothing I can use for my book among that pile of tripe.

I've gotten so desperate lately that I'm even considering going out and doing something exciting, like hang gliding, or starting a riot. It's too bad I waited until so late in life to get the idea to do something exciting to write about. But then again, since I remember so little I may have been the first man to walk on the moon. It would certainly explain the painful fallen arches in my feet.

I've gotten a little more help from my co-workers and family. Omar Bricks pointed out that my face indicates I've been in some sort of train wreck or something, but without more details I can't put that in the book. Ramon Nootles says I have the walk of someone who's done a lot of experimenting and swinging from the other side of the plate, but I don't remember a scholarly background or a life as a baseball player at all. Camembert remarked once I could've been a stand-in for Napoleon, but I've calculated there's little way I could be that old—thanks for nothing Camembert.

My last chance is to make peace with Arvelyn at some point and get her to help me on my memoirs. She used to remember things expertly; there are some things from twenty years ago in our marriage she wouldn't let me forget, like the year we followed the Grateful Dead, mostly for tax shelter purposes. But I'm afraid a reconciliation seems a long way away at this point, even on friendly terms. So my autobiography will have to wait. Which is fine. Life can only get more exciting in the meantime.

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