Public Abscess

I am back, good people, and I am 100% as good as before. Maybe even less.

It was a ragged and wearisome climb back to right where I was before, but I made it at last. For the greater part of 2006, the commune stopped publishing, as you and the other guy who reads it might have noticed. If you did, commendations to your amazing perception. I myself continued to show up to the office even when they weren't publishing my columns, and I kept writing them all the way through even when the paychecks stopped coming. In fact, when Red Bagel called to announce he was restarting the commune with the few staff members he had left on payroll, he was kind enough to explain that I had not been receiving any money and none of my columns had been published since early last year. My readers, let me tell you, I was outraged by what had transpired without my noticing.

Well, knowing I had not been making any money for most of 2006 meant I could no longer sit idly by. While most of our bills and the house payment could be suitably covered by my wife's more than ample income (and breasts) as a real estate agent, it didn't mean I didn't need to be top breadwinner in our family. And since all those "Win a Lifetime Supply of Iron Kids'" contests are rigged, I had no choice but to get out there and seek new employment. Last week.

As the ghetto people say, Brother, it's tough out there! Sure, you can find a low-paying job working at a fast food restaurant, or as a tenement manager, or a bike messenger, or executive administrative assistant, or songwriting bassist, but where, I ask you, are the jobs for political commentators? Where are the positions for the bemused observers who critique the ludicrous foibles of everyday life? Nowhere, I tell you.

And don't let anyone sell you on these "guest speaker" positions at colleges. None of them have heard of the commune so they demanded many references to my other previous jobs, and those who had heard of the commune told me they were closing down the college forever starting tomorrow. I'm starting to think maybe it was just a way to politely get rid of me. Which was preferable to the dean who said he would eat all of my children if I didn't get out of his office. Joke's on him, of course—he'll be eating for years.

Despite all that early negativity, I did find a job. When all the traditional employer outlets were closed to me, I took a rusty knife and carved out my own place in society's ribcage. Yes, that's right—public access television. You may have seen me already if you live in the Flatbush, New Jersey and surrounding areas cable community. "Rok the Finger" "roks" the broadcast airwaves between 11 p.m. and 5 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, at which point it has to clear the channel for "Kool B's Get the Fuck Up Show." Kool B may have the market corner on reggae-jazz fusion, but it's my show that provides the longest and most in-depth analysis of all things Rok Finger hates, and don't let anyone tell you different.

At first, my wife was less than impressed that the new "job," as she says it (she can actually pronounce quotation marks), doesn't pay anything. But then I explained to her by any civilized culture's definition, a job is something that takes you out of the house for more than five hours. Like my previous job, guarding my desk at the commune, or my son Ira's job at Leavenworth Penitentiary.

It's only a matter of time before I get myself another job, since that 8 p.m. to 11 p.m. slot is bound to open up when they find out Father Mike from the "Touch Therapy With Kids" show isn't really a priest at all.

Reunification
Few of you would have guessed who is the greatest peacekeeper in the world, if I didn't tell you right now it's me—Rok Finger. I do not own this title simply because I've bestowed it upon myself, and am too big and intimidating to keep people from... (3/27/06)

Headlice Fading
Ginger Baker, my long-loving wife, had the brilliant idea of donating our time to charity. I was happy to do it—you know me, anything for a cause of some sort—until I learned donating time was a lot harder than donating money. Then I wanted to... (2/27/06)

Riding the Crime Wave
The streets are more dangerous than ever. This is not only the basic premise for every movie Charles Bronson made in the 70s and 80s, it's an undeniable fact. And since I've been bored the past couple of months, I decided to see what I, Rok Finger,... (1/30/06)

The Other Wedding of the Year
It's the end of an era, good people. Note the lowercase nature of the letters; it's not the end of a proposed Equal Rights Amendment. No, this is even greater, and something Christians would even approve of. My loyal roommate Camembert has gotten... (12/12/05)