ock musician and poet Bob Dylan received the ultimate honor Friday night from an unknown fan believed to be under the influence of several chemical substances. For all his years of service in changing the face of modern music, Dylan was knighted in a brief ceremony behind the Homebrew bar and grill that took only a couple minutes.

Dylan, who was performing an unannounced set at the Homebrew promoting his new album, was extremely surprised and delighted by the honor.

"It was very cool," said Dylan. "You don’t get into this life with thought of major rewards like being knighted. You do it for the music, or maybe the money. This is quite a big moment for me and I’d like to thank the drug-influenced guy who bestowed this upon me, wherever he is."

Dylan was on his way to the parking lot of the club with friends when the unidentified high guy stopped him in the alley, proclaimed Dylan the man, and knighted him with a very quick tap on each of his shoulders with an empty Thunderbird bottle, pretending it was a sword. He then pissed his pants and stumbled back into the club. Surprised but happy with the honor, Dylan continued on to his car.

"I thought about trying to find the guy, but I didn’t want to insult him after he had just done this very great thing for me. I was also a bit shocked by it all. Even if you expect this sort of thing is going to happen, some alley behind a club is about the last place you’re ready for it."

Columbia Records, Dylan’s label, has jumped all over the high-press event. New releases of all Dylan’s previous albums are being issued with a royal seal on them under the artist heading of "Sir Bob Dylan."

"Everyone at Columbia has always known America has a special genius in Bob Dylan," said Columbia V.P. of Advertising John Bonlee, "and now people everywhere will know that. The dude on heroin or crack or whatever behind that club knew it, and recognized Dylan for his years of service to the music industry and world as a whole."

Sources report that if the blitzed night club rambler can be found, Columbia Records would like to have him knight Dylan again, just for the sake of press, on a two-hour TV special with friends and fellow musicians playing songs in Dylan’s honor. Dylan, who has written rock ’n’ roll and folk staples like "Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man," "Blowin’ in the Wind," and "Like A Rolling Stone," could not verify the possibility of a two-hour TV event, but said he would definitely not want to air opposite Friends and Survivor.

he major news media again claimed victory over the world itself by creating news from nothing. The so-called story this week revolved around a 25-year-dead white boy named Elvis Presley.

Presley, the king of rock and roll, died August 16, 1977, which is news thanks to the lack of real stories this week as fans and the media celebrate the 25th anniversary of his death. Born in Tupelo, Mississippi, Presley was the first attractive white person to bring rock and roll to the nation, and obtained the title "king of rock and roll" in some undisclosed media ceremony.

"Elvis touched everyone," said an unidentified modern rock star pretending to be in touch with music history. "He was the one and only. There will never be another like him."

Fans flocked in presumably record numbers to Graceland to see the place where Elvis lived in strange, hermit-like seclusion until his death on the toilet. Presley was extremely popular in his lifetime, though that popularity peaked and waned over the years, ultimately leaving him most popular after his death.

"This here's Elvis week," proclaimed a Los Angeles classic rock station disc jockey named Danger Bob. "Celebrating the king of rock and roll by playing 'Hound Dog' every hour on the hour. Elvis was one of a kind, he invented it all. There will never be another like him."

His legacy in rock and roll already firmly established, Presley added another accomplishment to his resume this week, as he helped provide filler for news programs, networks, and magazines all across the nation, despite being dead for a quarter of a century.

The face and name of Elvis Presley have graced the covers of magazines, news footage, and news websites, as if some new event had occurred to warrant his coverage. CNN has been airing specials covering the history and influence of the King, Time named Elvis their Person of the Week, and VH-1 has even been playing Elvis videos during the rare hours they play videos.

"The news media owes Elvis a ton of thanks. He's saved our hash from the fire once again," said CNN correspondent Muffy St. Clair. "The president's on vacation and unable to supply us with the usual amount of ignorant quotes. The War on Terror sure hasn't gotten any more interesting—nobody knows where Osama bin Laden is or if he's even alive. Hell, even the celebrities are boring this week. What's new? Anna Nicole Simpson? Puh-lease. A dead Elvis is more interesting than an alive her any day."

While the media has been working overtime to bring Elvis back to national attention, the public at large is invariably unchanged.

"Elvis?" said man on the street Carl Ginser. "Yeah, I like some of his stuff. That 'Suspicious Minds' song is kick-ass. I think the Fine Young Cannibals did a cover of that or something. Oh, and he would, like, raise his lip and snarl. And he always left the building and some guy would announce it, I think. I'm not sure why he's on the news so much lately, though. He's still dead, isn't he? Not a zombie or nothing?"

This reporter, for one, is thoroughly convinced he is. However, until Red Bagel agrees to spring for the plane ticket to Memphis and a shovel, we'll never know for sure. But whether he actually breathes or lies very quiet in his grave, thanks to all the needless media sensationalism, Elvis is still alive today in some way.

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.

º Last Column: Rok Shall Overcome
º more columns