Masked Jackson Still Eludes Authorities

t was another close call when the mysterious Masked Jackson led police on a 2-hour chase through Aspen, Colorado Saturday. In another familiar ending, the Masked Jackson slipped away from the authorities, appearing to disappear into nowhere as the police nearly collided with an entourage belonging to celebrity Michael Jackson, who happened to be in the area.

The event followed a similar incident Tuesday when the Masked Jackson was spotted in nearby Glenwood Springs shopping at a Wal-Mart. Police rushed to the scene and pulled over a vehicle fitting the vigilante’s description, but found only pop star Michael Jackson in another case of mistaken identity. Though the singer could not provide any leads in finding the Masked Jackson, he did tell police, “I’m sorry I missed him. It would have been neat to see him in action!�

The Masked Jackson has been an enigma since the first sighting in the mid-1990s in Hollywood, California, when he foiled a liquor store robbery by a pair of L.A. toughs. The police have consistently sought the vigilante for questioning and warned the public, “Please, leave crime-fighting to the law, good citizens.� But the Masked Jackson continued to lend a hand in criminal incidents over the years, foiling three bank heists, busting up a Van Nuys chop shop, and saving a pair of Siamese twins from a burning tenement building. Public outcry has been favorable, but authorities still insist the vigilante must be brought to justice.

In many cases, police pursuing the Masked Jackson have crossed paths with the performer Michael Jackson, leading many to question if there is a connection between the two. The issue was first proposed to Jackson (the pop star) in a 2003 Barbara Walters interview.

“It seems everywhere the Masked Jackson is found, Michael Jackson is not too far behind,� Walters said in the interview. “Michael, I’m going to ask you point bwank: Are you pursuing the Masked Jackson?�

Michael Jackson dismissed the question, describing himself as “a normal, decent man who has been accused of outrageous lies,� and saying the apparent connection between himself and the Masked Jackson are “mere coincidences.�

Internet conspiracies abound, despite the singer’s denial. Some reverse the popular claims and suggest the Masked Jackson is pursuing the child abuse defendant, hoping to catch him in a trap before he can molest another youth. On the more radical end of the spectrum, some claim the Masked Jackson and the King of Pop are much closer than anyone’s admitting.

“It’s obvious who the Masked Jackson is,� alleged a poster on a Masked Jackson fansite bulletin board. “Masked Jackson? Michael Jackson? It’s got to be LaToya! She might even be using his help to get around all those places, and that’s why he’s always nearby.�

Another poster disagreed with the assessment, claiming instead it was Janet Jackson who was the more likely suspect. He cited the circumstantial evidence that Janet Jackson did not attend the Grammys at the last minute, and how the Masked Jackson stopped the theft of the awards with convenient timing. Michael Jackson, who also did not attend the awards, was presumed by the accuser to be waiting out back in his limo to aid his sister.

Webmaster CaptJacko posted an official response on the site index page: “I sincerely doubt Michael Jackson is helping anyone fight crime. He’s a pervert, and he gets off on touching little boys—just a big disgrace for the Jackson family. It’s a shame he can’t be a little more like the Masked Jackson.�

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The next time you're out fly-fishing on the open sea, and out of nowhere a deep rumbling beneath you swells into the thunderous surfacing of a mighty beast, a whale of elephantine proportions that promptly explodes in a cacophony of catastrophic gore, remember that you have Lewis Captain to thank. If it weren't for one of the greatest and most unlikely American inventors of all time, you wouldn't be frantically bailing dog-sized hunks of hot whale meat out of your boat as it rapidly capsized into the ocean. And as you're clinging to a Styrofoam cooler while what's left of your boat slowly descends down towards Davey Jones' locker, you'll know that you have just experienced the magic of Sonar.

Sonar was invented in 1918 by Captain Lewis Captain, a man who spent his entire life nurturing a powerful hatred of whales. This hatred would eventually lead him to develop the world's most powerful whale-killing technology, which had the unintended side-effect of helping sailors navigate underwater environs.

Captain's last name was actually pronounced CAP-tayne, like it rhymed with plantain. But back then people didn't know what plantains were either, so they just pronounced it "captain" and made fun of the fact that he couldn't even swim. Throughout history, people have had a hard time accepting anyone named Captain who didn't pilot a boat or at least wear one of those white hats around the office.

Growing up, Captain had no interest in the sea beyond his virulent hatred of whales, an animal which he had never seen. His reasons for hating whales so violently are a matter of folk legend, with popular explanations ranging from a whale eating his prized marble collection when he was a boy to Captain being agonized by a persistent stench in his college dormitory, which some passing neer-do-well described as "smelling like a whale's bung." Captain only learned to sail because people were tired of hearing him complain about whales when he had never been out to sea.

After earning a Bachelor of Sailing degree from the Maritime Institute in Massachusetts, Captain set out on several unsuccessful whale-hunting expeditions from 1915 to 1918. Some blamed his lack of success on his aversion to harpoons and his preference for putting various foods that whales might find delicious on a gigantic hook, which he attached to an oversized fishing pole. Captain never did catch a whale this way, though he did land several passing fishing vessels using these innovative methods.

Eventually Captain tired of his inefficient whale-eradication techniques. In 1918 he was inspired by the incessant screech a neighbor's highly-annoying big band record to develop a special underwater speaker, which could be used to taunt whales with big band music, possibly driving them to suicide. He also developed an underwater microphone with which he could gleefully monitor the whales' tortured Chewbacca cries of "Turn down that racket!" and "For the love of God, we're trying to sleep here!"

The system was largely ineffective until turned up to near-deafening levels, at which point it began working like gangbusters. The noises freaked out whales and various other undersea creatures, causing them to surface in a panic and explode when gasses in their bloodstreams, trapped by deep-sea pressures, sought egress like a shook-up Diet Shasta. Captain loved that shit, and soon orchestrated the exploding marine creature displays as if they were Fourth of July fireworks.

During one of these expeditions, or "Safaris" as Captain liked to call them, crewman Paul Langévin noticed that the microphone was picking up reflected echos of the big band music in such a way to allow the virtual mapping of the ocean's floor by timing the reflections received from various directions. Captain greeted this news by giving less than two thirds of a shit, but Langévin filed away the knowledge and used it to develop the world's first functioning "Sonar" system. The system was named for the first narwhal Captain exploded in 1918, and went on to be used extensively in the naval operations of WWII.

Over the next fifty years, Captain did his best at adjusting to a world that grew gradually less open to the wholesale slaughter of marine creatures. Toward the end of his life he was arrested while trying to blow up the trick-performing show whales at Sea World, who were beloved by children and weird maritime perverts the world over. Though he only succeeded in giving Shamu mild vertigo and a touch of performance anxiety with his hand-held Sonar device, Captain was ordered by the courts to attend several weeks of marine abuse-prevention counseling. He stubbornly died shortly thereafter, leaving behind a legacy of innovation and insane nautical enmity that will marvel and bemuse the world for generations.

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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.

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