Until I Return, Camembert is in Charge

The time has come once again for my annual pilgrimage to Graceland—my first pilgrimage, actually, and I admit I'm randomly selecting the date rather than choosing some important date. And no, I'm not a fan of Elvis Presley, I've never even met the man. I'm a fan of Paul Simon's Afro-themed album, especially the song where he lets me call him Al.

Admittedly, I should have done this earlier, but I forgot to establish house rules during the great Rok Finger absence. This would be better done as a house meeting, say, than a column, but I had space to fill and I'm looking to beat cheeks to the airport as soon as it hits 2 p.m. here.

It boils down to one major credo: Camembert is in charge. Sorry, everybody else—meaning Lee. But somebody had to be picked, and this time it's Camembert. Maybe next time it will be you, Lee. But not likely. It will probably be Camembert then, too. And if he blows it this time, I'll just hire a sitter or something, or allow Stu Umbrage or somebody here at work be Acting Rok in my place.

The fact is, Camembert is the only one who can be trusted not to burn the house down or sell it to immigrants for crystals. In many ways, Lee is superior to Camembert—hell, in most ways. Lee is definitely more fun to hang out with, less scared to try new things, and the fact he can walk is always a plus. If I were looking for someone to take to Vegas or join the Foreign Legion with, Lee would be the only choice. But the simple fact is Lee is somewhat irresponsible, and I'm not convinced that head injury is completely healed.

I can trust Camembert to keep things boring while I'm gone, and that's what's important, right? That there is no fun while I'm gone. Without my level head around to counter Lee's brazen foolhardiness, there should be no fun. And Camembert will make sure of it. Just look at his life before we showed up—sure, he had his apartment all to himself, but he had no rock band posters on the wall, no black lights in the apartment, and it was a smoke-free environment. I'm talking all kinds of smoke, even Lee's peculiar tobacco. It's obviously a lot better with us around, no one would argue, or we'd kick him out of his wheelchair; but with me on the road going to Graceland, Graceland, Memphis, Tennessee, the fun needs to be reigned in just enough to make sure I don't return home and find the whole place owned by some Heaven's Gate cult or something.

This will obviously be a big boost to Camembert's ego, but that can't be helped. I'll be sure to remind him who's the real pharaoh of the temple when I get back, and allow him his little iron-fist Al-Haig rule for a few weeks. Lee seldom listens to me, so I doubt Camembert being in charge will crimp his lifestyle much. But the simple fact is Camembert is responsible and Lee is not. And the new swinging single Rok Finger may not care too much for responsibility, but when I get back and see all the damage and angrily ask, "Who's responsible for this?" I won't have to wait for the answer.

Now, Camembert, this of course does not mean I want you living in my room—your old room—and wearing my pants and/or other clothes while I'm gone. I don't want you fiddling with my things, watching my TV, looking at the naked lady magazine, or using the phone in the case of emergencies. No, you can't take the dress off while I'm gone. I'm still the big boss, as like as I'm alive.

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