ollowing former chief U.S. weapons inspector David Kay's admission pre-war intelligence was practically "all wrong," officials in the Bush administration came forward with announcements everyone was, ostensibly, "shocked."

Staff members ranking as high as the vice president and "president" issued statements on how "shocked" (quote-unquote) everyone in government was about the lack of chemical or biological weapons in Iraq after the fall of Saddam Hussein's regime. Press secretary Scott McClellan said the president himself sort of "dismayed" and "curious" about the "failure" of prewar intelligence. When asked by reporters if the White House planned a probe into the intelligence problem, McClellan restrained a smile and promised someone would get on that "right away."

Conservative news agencies posed questions to McClellan on how the president viewed intelligence and homeland security in the wake of the discovery, while more liberal news agencies questioned the press secretary on the legitimacy of the Iraq war if intelligence has proven faulty. Meanwhile, in the back of the room, one man screamed at the top of the lungs that the president knew, of course he knew, goddammit, everyone in the administration had to have known and they rode into the fucking White House looking for the first excuse to head into Iraq with guns blazing just like daddy did, Jesus Christ, has everyone else on the fucking planet gone so deaf and blind they can't even see the president's a lousy fucking liar? But McClellan did not take questions at that time.

Statements from the White House were seen by many as damage control after Kay's Wednesday admission to a congressional committee early Iraq intelligence claiming Saddam Hussein was developing a program of weapons of mass destruction (or WMD, as the kids are saying) was incorrect. Kay described the "lapse" as a massive intelligence failure, and painted the president as much a victim of the fuck-up as the hundreds of Iraqis lying dead under rubble and blown up by landmines.

"Boy, did we screw the pooch on this one," laughed Kay, to an unforgiving congressional audience. "Yikes. Tough room. But seriously, folks, you know who we should give it up for? Mr. Bush. That's right, the president. I know it's not popular to say so, but I think he's doing a bang-up job and plainly he just wanted to do the right thing and had no idea how shitty this intelligence was. Really, we're talking Pig Latin intelligence or something. Waaaay off, no kidding. I think they were even in Iceland—hey! You gotta give me that one. C'mon. Show the love."

Friday Bush followed the administration's campaign for getting over this as quick as possible by releasing an official statement ripe with quotation marks.

"Obviously we would have done things 'differently' if the intelligence had been more accurate. Assuming that it was accurate—I still say, really, there's no way of telling if anybody's got weapons of mass destruction on them or not. You can hide them anywhere. I've got mustard gas, hidden in a tree house from when I was 12 years old, little gift from dad, nobody ever found it. You telling me Saddam can't hide something in all of Iraq? But I'm getting off message here. We're obviously facing a 'failure' of intelligence here. Everybody here in this administration wants 'peace,' no one more so than me. But if I had it all to do over again, knowing the 'threat' Saddam Hussein poses to the world, I would have done things very much the same. Our 'coalition' in Iraq is 'ready' to 'hand over' the 'country' in the 'next few months,' give or take two or three years."

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I have never before been interested in music. Music is like water, as far as I'm concerned, and me being mostly oil, we do not mix. But this has changed recently now that Lee is part of my scene.

In addition to all his other talents, Lee is, as he put it, a wicked bassist. Some thump the bass, Lee says, some prick it; Lee makes love to it. He has been thrown out of numerous bands for this, especially Christian rock bands, but he sees it as an asset. And whatever Lee sees, Rok sees, good people. That's why I have decided to form a rock musical band.

It's a good idea—anybody can see it's a good idea. Building a sharp power trio around our infallible bassist Lee. The only problem is that the other members of our power trio have, how Lee phrased it, "absolutely no musical ability." Not that this will stop us, it merely slows us, like the molasses swamp in Candyland.

I thought it was genius to put Camembert on drums, since you always see drummers sitting down in musical videos, and Camembert is always sitting down because he is paralyzed. Well, guess what? Drummers use their feet for something. I believe it's some kind of big drum they kick or something, traditional in rock music. Camembert informed me we could avoid this by playing bluegrass, but if you think I got into music to end up on some Coen Brothers film soundtrack, you're dead wrong. Rok plays rock, or nothing at all. So right now we're playing nothing at all. But Lee said Camembert can rig up some electronic cheat like the drummer from Def Leopard who only has one arm, or John Bonham, who was drunk into oblivion most of the time he played.

Which leaves me as the problem spot on this hard-to-clean sofa. I play nothing. I do not even play video games, which is just as well since that would be the strangest band since Devo. So while Camembert has a chance of playing drums in our band very well, I have no chance of playing anything. True, I own a grand piano, but that's always more for lying seductively on and enticing the ladies rather than playing piano-style. I tried playing it once and the neighbors sealed all exits and set the apartment on fire, which doesn't bode well for trying to learn again. And the last time I tried playing a guitar I tightened the strings too much and lost a finger.

My best luck so far has been in reading my spoken-word poetry while standing in a box full of cats. I find that if I do a little two-step in the box I produce noises, in no certain order or tone, but it is a sort of tenor that sounds good with the bass and drums, at least how I imagine the drums will sound. Our sound is sometimes defined as punk, post-punk, proto-punk or alternative. At least that's how Lee defined it, our neighbors say it is pure shit, post-vomit, proto-garbage or gangrenous cock.

Not that we're letting it stop us. You don't let a little thing like a horrible sound stop you from forming a band with a tremendous bass talent. I'm not ashamed to say with our big drumless drumming and cat-stomping poetry-reading sound that Lee is carrying our band. Without Lee, there would be no band.

In fact, this is so true that, upon reflection, the band has no need for me. I think I'll hang up my box of cats strap and call it a career. That still makes my time in the music spotlight longer than Taylor Dayne. Camembert can do what he wants, but since I forced him into this venture with thinly-veiled threats anyway, he'll probably drop out as well. Which leaves Lee to carry on with the band, a band only in namesake, basically a front to showcase his talents.

That bastard. The least he could have done was meet with Master C and me before kicking us out of the band. Screw him. Camembert and I will form our own band. He thinks he's the big talent, eh? That we're not the spirit of the band itself? We'll show him.

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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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