Claudette Ravages Texas Coast Like Mean-Hearted Woman in Blues Song

weet mercy! Texans are still rebuilding their shattered lives after last week's "just plain cold" brutalizing of the Galveston Bay area by heartless hurricane Claudette.

Like an insufferable tropical cocktease, that hurricane moved in and out of the Gulf of Mexico with threatening promise until attacking the Texas coastline with unrelenting moxy. Damages were estimated easily into five-digits, possibly six with the option for seven, and over 30,000 Texans were left without power. Electric power, not power in the Marx-Engels sense.

It was a double-decker sadness sandwich for residents of the Texas coast, who found their homes and livelihood torn up like the love of a good-lovin' bluesman. Ol' Claudette, she knocked over houses and blew down powerlines with a blow from those puckered-up metaphorical lips of hers and left all Texans lower than low. Some residents were desperate for electricity and shelter again, and even though Gov. Rick Perry promised disaster relief and the American Red Cross offered help to those hit hardest by the storm, it was little consolation after being so brutally used and abused by a hard-hearted bitch with a max wind speed of 85 mph.

"I lived in that wreck that used to be my house all my life," said 10-year-old Bob Phelps, a part-time investment banker and pretend Indian. "Claudette rolls in here like a storm and leaves everything all busted up. A lot like a storm, very much so, really. And all this debris, it's just like the inside of my little ol' heart."

Some grief-stricken residents, like cat fancier Elvin Harper, hoped Claudette would follow earlier predictions of losing intensity before reaching the coast.

"I had friends who said she was just a pretty coastal wind, but I knew better," said Harper, searching through cat debris to salvage what he could. "That hurricane was no good, and she messed Texas up good. It just ain't right, I'm telling you the truth."

Used to being turned inside out by tough-lovin' women, local blues players were among the first to recover from the storm. Though electricity was still out in the town, renowned blues legend Galveston Larry had words none-too-kind for the Category-1 storm in an all-acoustic set at Victoria tavern Benny's.

"That Claudette, she's a tough-lovin' woman," Larry advised, seeking a harmonica affirmation from fellow musician "Luckless" Gary Woodland. "She done rolled in over me, all up and down me—you hear what I'm sayin', Gary? And she flattened my trailer like thousand-pound anvil. Just like in Bugs Bunny cartoon or something."

Despite the poor simile, most residents suffering the aftermath of the tropical storm could identify with Larry's feelings.

"It's just sad, wrenches your insides all up," said steel worker and aspiring dancer Clara Gumption. "You can run into good weather systems every day of your life, it only takes one bad one to ruin it for everybody. But I don't hold no grudges. My main concern is getting on with everything, not cursing Claudette to Hades. She'll get what's coming to her some day, she's going to stroll into the wrong town and get herself messed up like she done to Texas."

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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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It's about time the government dropped the ball, publicly, and proved me right. I told you years ago, in one of my earliest columns, about the top-secret anti-terrorist unit operating out of the Pentagon with free reign to go anywhere and do whatever they want to stop terrorism. The government at last admitted the unit exists, and they're now calling it the "SSB" (or Strategic Support Branch), operating under the direction of the Pentagon's Defensive Intelligence Agency. Their original name, you'll remember me telling you, was the True Badasses.

On Sunday, January 23, the Washington Post broke the mainstream news about the existence of the SSB, while the rest of us who read the commune or report the alternative news just sat back and yawned in a patronizing fashion. Nobody needed to tell me about the super-secret Pentagon anti-terrorism unit—and by nobody, of course, I mean my super-secret embedded Pentagon source, who I'll call Doggie Style. He told me early in 2002, after the unit's creation, that it had begun operating. They were the True Badasses back then, but the scope hasn't changed—they still were developed and hand-picked by Secy. Donald "Rumplestickdick" Rumsfeld, still dressed all in their black ninja outfits, and had the unconstitutional freedom in their mandate to operate any and everywhere they please, if it served counter-terrorism.

How could this happen? Too late to ask now, sir. It would have done us all well if somebody, besides me, had read the Patriot Act. They made it in really small type for a reason, you know. Since no one read it, no one found Clause 631 unusual: "The signing of this Act hereby invalidates all Constitutional guarantees of due process, and promises the creation of a group of elite terrorist-fighters dressed as ninjas and armed to the teeth with amazing ranged and melee weapons, a group herein referred to as 'The True Badasses.'" There it is, in bright red tiny type for us all to have read, and prevented. Damn you, M-TV-generation attention spans.

Nothing to do about it now. Our best bet at this point is to elect some exceedingly liberal leaders (we're talking Dennis Hopper and Karen Finley here) who can sponsor an "anti-Patriot Act Act" that will include the "complete reversal clause" that several of our early amendments cleverly contained. While we're at it, legalizing prostitution wouldn't be bad idea. As Las Vegas and Atlantic City have proven, the worst effects that can happen is having David Cassidy and Andy Williams put on an excessive number of shows in your city. Worth it? I'm not going that far.

That doesn't help us in the meantime, of course. What should you do if the True Badasses, or whatever they're calling themselves now, burst through your window, suspecting you of being a terrorist sleeper cell? Really, this doesn't differ much from the response outlined in my much-maligned self-help pamphlet, "Help! Ninja Attack!"

First, if you are capable of disappearing in explosions of smoke or shadows, by all means, do so. For the rest of us, I'm afraid you're left with stop, drop, and roll—I know this is customarily used to put out fires, but it also works well in Badass, ninja, or bear attacks. Bears run in fright from a clearly insane person, while a True Badass or ninja will often believe you're suffering a seizure, and attempt to put a wallet under your tongue. While they search for their wallet, take advantage of their distraction and wrestle the weapons from their hands. The numbers may be against you, but if you do it fast and well enough, you can at least stage a stand-off likely to last for hours and draw out the FBI and the media. There's nothing ninjas and True Badass terrorist-fighters hate more than public exposure. This will send them back into hiding for sure. Saved again! Now… as for how you can get rid of the media and the FBI, that's a puzzler. If you come up with any ideas, or write your own pamphlet, bounce it my way. I've been working on that one for years.

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