ith the Michael Jackson sex scandal capturing the imagination of America, news organizations at last have gotten over the post-election blues with some impressive ratings. The more ingenious networks have even overcome a ban on cameras in the courtroom by using actors or drawings to interpret the images of the trial for viewers, opening a lucrative new area for television: Reenactment news directors.

As theater directors already know, just because Othello has been performed hundreds of times doesn’t mean you can’t distinguish yourself and leave your own stamp on Shakespeare. The E! Entertainment Network were first out of the gate, with their very straightforward, set-thin adaptation of the Michael Jackson daily drama, nabbing austere actors Jack Donner and Rigg Kennedy, as well as much-sought Jackson impersonator Edward Moss in the title role. But first isn’t finest, as many know.

Other Jackson trial interpretations sprung up immediately, the most lavish among them at NBC news, under the guidance of legendary Broadway stage director Fischer Todland. The production immediately went after George Clooney for the part of defense attorney Thomas Mesereau and Renee Zelleweger as Michael Jackson, but found the actors too busy for the project. The roles were more quickly cast with Billy Baldwin and Fran Drescher, who weren’t doing much. The cost has already exceeded $12 million, but the network says no expense can be spared when going for a hell of a lot more money in advertising revenue.

Literal interpretations are not the only ones to make their debuts in the weeks of the trial. Among the more daring is Bravo’s rendition of the trial, filled with sharp zooms, color-drenched scenes, and elaborate dialogue based loosely on the actual trial transcripts. While it may not have the journalistic integrity of E!’s coverage, it’s received rave reviews from many television critics for its cutting-edge language and daring employment of nudity.

Unsurprisingly, VH-1 has found success by reenacting the trial as a musical, with songs featuring lyrics by Paul Simon and music by Philip Glass. Much of the production is overstated and purposelessly bizarre, but TV Guide praised Pink’s “heartbreaking� portrayal of Jackson, particularly for the song “(Why Do You Need) Photos of My Penis.�

One of the most abstract interpretations of the trial is BET’s all-black reenactment, with half-insane Jackson sister LaToya playing the role of the king of pop.

Media sourpusses have called the reenactments shameless sensationalism, but who cares what they say? Network executives are pleasantly surprised by the response to the creative interpretations and even see a future for other reenactments, with the possibility of extending them into hour-long shows, which might at least prevent yet another version of C.S.I. or Law & Order.

“Can you envision what this might mean for the future of network news?� asked E! News Director Vanessa Holmes, who obviously could, judging by the visible nipple outlines. “No longer would the news be limited to delivering long, in-depth trial coverage of famous people—we could suck in the audiences by casting famous people as nobody criminals! Like that guy who murdered everybody in the courtroom today. Think of all that sweet action, as directed by John Woo! If we had it on tape, some clumsy, shaky footage, we might get an art-house crowd—yuck! But cast Ving Rhames as the defendant, and Robert Duvall as the dead judge. Now that’s real news!�

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Good people, do you know there's a war going on? I trifle not. I just found out about it, much to my astonishment. It's apparently in Albania or Argentina, somewhere in that region, and yes, we are heavily involved. Our fighting boys and their dads and butch sisters are over there as we speak. If only there were some way the public could be informed on the political actions of our leaders.

Needless to say, as a patriotic American second in fervor only to the late Roy Cohn, I went down to offer my skills to the military recruiters. Unfortunately, my skills as an ace columnist and professional dreamcatcher weaver didn't exactly suit the needs of the military at this time. I am unfortunately unfit for active service, due to my height, my age, and a phony backbrace I wore to the recruiter's office, which I assure was part of an unrelated matter I'd rather not go into.

It's sad to know you're not class A cannon fodder material, but I'll learn to deal with it. There are other ways to serve my country, I know, and I was determined to find it as long as my country was under fire and my interest was minorly raised.

I'm proud to say, loyal readers, Rok Finger was the first on his block to organize a rubber drive. I went door to door collecting, but faired poorly; it's a shame how many used prophylactics are just thrown out these days. The few I did collect, well, let's just sum up by saying the federal officials I talked to weren't anxious to take them off my hands. I could barely take them off my own hands, it wasn't a pleasant experience. Until a more concentrated need for recycling pops up, though, I won't be collecting any more materials for the government.

My next thought was to buy and sell war bonds. But I wasn't even sure where to start the purchase of war bonds. I remember the old slogan, "Buy bonds where you work or bank," so I began there. Fellow columnist Omar Bricks was only too happy to sell me the war bonds he happened to have. War bonds are easy to tell from fake bonds, he assured me, by the various colors they are written in. Each one is hand-stenciled in crayon. As the guarantee on the front ensures, they are good "till the shit comes tumblin' down."

Would you believe I could not re-sell any of these? Some even told me they were fake. I know that is not the case, but perhaps being from the foreign province of New Jersey Mr. Bricks' war bonds are not good here. So I simply took orders for them from various friends, neighborhood associates, and vaguely Mafioso types. Well, without getting into the fine details, what I was doing was not quite "bonding" and was actually referred to as "illegal betting" by the federal agents. They would not cover my bonds, even though I made it clear I expected America to win the war by April or I would not collect on my bond. The charges are still pending, I'm sure we can once again sort everything out without any jail time, my attorney Morrie is quite the mouthpiece.

With all else failing, I tried to assemble a Rok Finger calendar to sell to my fans, with all proceeds going to the war effort. I was thwarted, however, despite all my guarantees to the photographer they would only be semi-nude photos. Damn spineless photographers and their weak stomachs.

In the end, I decided my only real outlet was to go about my daily life. My regular business. Go to work, come home, use the bathroom as needed, spend time with my friends and family, neighborhood associates and vaguely Mafioso types. And spend like a monkey with winning lottery tickets. So I have. New S.U.V., board games by the dozens, a widescreen HDTV, and a new George Foreman grill. The soldiers in Aufvedersehn are doing their part the only way they know how; and here at home, we're doing ours.

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51. 2? That's what constitutes a rating from you, my loyal readers? I would say "go to hell," but I'm bigger than that. Not much bigger… that unwashed rabble Omar Bricks receives more readers than me? I would cry recount, if I were not staunchly conservative. But forget the injustice… I already am. Let's forget my poor readership and likelihood of losing my job forever.

Not much can clothesline my good mood today (though 51.2 came awfully close). I am in love, good people! An event that happens very rarely for me, every three or four months at the most. The moon goes crescent more often than I fall in love. And I think this is the real deal. Ginger Baker is loud, opinionated, and not very tall at all—can you think of a more perfect match for yours truly? Or myself? I think not.

Good people, love is like the pollen that keeps flowers and bees doing obscene things to each other. It is a sweet nectar, the very blood of life itself, except you can get it out of carpets. And I am so in love I'm ready to throw up. No joking. She is like the wife I've been married to twice before. A little more like Arvelyn, my second wife, than my first wife—Wyfe. And boy, does she have a hot body. Built like a brick ship.

Perhaps I've become a little arrogant with my hip new relationship. We keep kissing in front of Camembert, holding hands, rubbing our noses together—he's even started locking his bedroom door so we won't wake him up in the middle of the night just to do that stuff in front of him. His girlfriend Elvis isn't very happy about it either, and threatened to put the karate to us. But our love is stronger than karate. Melee attacks, that's another question. I'll have to evaluate it in closed conditions.

You're probably thinking, "But Rok," as all 51.2 of you is apt to say quite a lot, "Don't move too fast. I've had my heart broken by a Bangkok hooker, who also stole my wallet, and I don't want that to happen to you." To which I say: That's a little more information than I needed! And then I laugh in a forced manner. But I assure you, I'm moving at my usual cautious romantic speed. I have yet to even book the place for the wedding, I'm still shopping around. Heartbreak won't catch hold of me again.

This is the most unusual relationship I've ever been in, not quite "traditional," but hey—I'm mod. I know for whom the bell tolls, cat. So what if Ginger makes more money than I do. I'm cool with that. I've even taken an interest in her career, as a veterinary talent agent. I've been scouting several local stray dogs, who all seem to have a pretty impressive screen presence, judging by my novice eye. I'm also in negotiations with a math-savvy peacock. Not that I'm naming names—I don't think it even has a name, and I'm not entirely sure it's anything more than a lawn ornament. But cut me a break, I'm not doing this to get rich (but if it happens, I won't complain). This is all in the name of love, as any number of songs might say.

She's into all the same things I am—lifts, non-professional wrestling, home ownership, chasing new interests with maniacal fury, complaining, and not paying a lot of money for things. In the short time we've been going out, we've already done all the "relationship things"—getting drunk at family reunions, accusing each other of infidelity, arguing about having kids, and of course, miniature golf. She is quite the lady, and looks less like a man than any woman I have ever dated. And it goes without saying the sax is great—we're both altos.

If you never hear from me again, don't fret, good people—I am being bound and gagged and abducted by the greatest of all terrorists… love! And it shouldn't surprise you, with low numbers like 51.2. You complete shits.

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