fter the excitement of the sports-dominated weekend, Americans faced a rush of new programming afterward, with the exception of some repeats, most notable among them the State of the Union address Tuesday night by President George W. Bush.

Controversy has surrounded the address, as Republicans are quick to agree with Bush's support of tax cuts and military action against Iraq, Democrats aim to poke holes in the president's poor domestic policies, and most Americans convinced the speech is the same one given at the last State of the Union.

"I don't know," said Indianapolis, IN shop teacher Milton Haig, "they kept telling me it was new. I keep thinking I saw some people who weren't there last time, in the audience or in the background… but I'm pretty sure I saw it last time it was on and it was the same thing."

Some would not even entertain doubts about the broadcast, which the White House claims was entirely new material written and beamed live to America Tuesday, January 28, 2003.

"Of course it was a repeat," said Kitty Wong, Big Tobacco publicist. "I remember it clearly when it first aired. Bush said something about terrorism, then he said Saddam Hussein was evil and the U.S. was ready to go to war. Oh, and he said something about tax breaks because the economy can't grow unless people are out spending money and such. Yeah, sure I remember it well—I've seen it at least twice, probably more than that. That's like the Christmas episode or something they drag out whenever they need to fill a slot."

The Bush White House insisted the broadcast was a brand new speech.

"Of course it was a new State of the Union," said antagonistic press secretary Ari Fleischer. "The president, no president, has ever run a repeat of the State of the Union address and President Bush would not be the first—and quit making those little hand 'quote' signs whenever you say President. Tuesday night, despite these rumors and claims, the president put forth a new agenda to lower taxes and stimulate the economy, while clearly outlining his plan to hold Saddam to the disarmament promise he made years ago. And if that takes military force, then we'll use it. That's all new, folks."

The confusion is understandable, said former Newstime editor and quotable commentator Reg Sallad.

"Sometimes news doesn't move as fast as expected, and particularly in a down economy, the president likes to keep attention on foreign issues and potential enemies, and Saddam Hussein has been the outstanding villain for Republicans for more than a decade," said Sallad solemnly. "During periods of prosperity or extreme economic desperation, Americans feel there is no excuse for increasing military spending and sending American troops into war. Americans may be confusing the repetition in party soundbytes since they haven't really changed for either party in at least ten years. Or, it's entirely possible it was just a lame repeat."

Despite the assertion by most politicians that the speech was new and worth discussing, there doesn't seem to be much call for Americans to care either way.

Johann Regal, a Butte, Montana soccer coach: "At least the new TV shows are back on. There's an all-female Fear Factor that looks really hot, and that new Survivor, too. It's about time, those networks were stretching for filler programming lately. Did you see Tuesday night? They were running some 1989 speech by Bush, like right before the Gulf War started."

n the battle of post-game celebrations, the fans in Tampa Bay have nothing on the spirited Oakland fans. Sunday night, following the Raiders' loss to the Bucs, East Oakland sizzled and burned with young rowdies demonstrating their loyalty to the hometown team by trashing and looting stores, burning cars and spinning doughnuts in intersections all up and down International Blvd. More than 80 people were arrested in the melee, most for vandalism, destroying public property, or public drunkenness.

Meanwhile, in Tampa Bay, Florida's "Bay Area," exactly one person was arrested: a dyed-blonde Miss Thang who was baring her implants to the crowd gathered to celebrate the Buccaneers' first-ever Super Bowl championship.

Asked to comment, Oakland riot-participant Hector Barbazino said, "They only had one arrest down there? Day-um, bro! And it was for what? Some bitch flashin' her titties? Oh, that ain't right, yo."

"That ain't cool at all, man," added Barbazino's cousin, Ricky Ledora. "Shee-it, they ought to come to Oaktown and see how we get down here, yo. Look at Carlos over there in the chopped Toyota, yo, his bitch LaShanté be hangin' out the sunroof all damn night, and she butt-naked, man! Butt-naked!"

"Oh, yeah, bro. Bitches be throwin' they titties on my windshield for hours, yo. Pressed titties on glass, what I'm talkin' about." Barbazino commented, as he poured lighter fluid all over a parked Subaru station wagon and set a match to it. "Word, homes. If Ray-Ray didn't had to take my ride to go pick up his baby-mama before ten, we'd still be gettin' it, them titties on glass."

The word from Tampa Bay was that, other than the breast-baring incident, not a lot of carrying-on occurred. City residents marched a few times around the three blocks of the downtown area, some of them carrying American flags and singing "God Bless America," and a few people were observed drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade from bottles hidden in brown paper bags. After an hour of this, most of the crowd dispersed and went home to watch Alias.

In Oakland, however, it was a different story. The large crowd merrily jumped on moving cars, broke windows and set fires for hours. When the mob energy began to wane, police fired tear gas, rubber bullets and wooden dowels in an attempt to further incite the crowd and egg them on to new heights of destruction throughout the night.

"Come on, you miserable bastards!" shouted Sergeant Arnie Cocklip at the crowd, as he fired his service revolver in the air. "Let's show the world how we kick heiney in Oakland. We're number friggin' one, goddamnit! Break something! Burn something down!"

Reluctantly, the worn out crowd complied with police orders and thoroughly trashed a nearby McDonald's, a Kelly-Moore paint store and the Gomes Tire and Service Center. Said one young reveler, Jose Chingamadre, "After we burned the three Chevys over on 151st, and threw bricks through the window of the day-care center there, I was ready to go home and watch Alias. But then the cops made us stay out here and keep going. Man, those dudes are like hard-asses, you know?"

Damage in Oakland was estimated at over $100,000, with the police that were present throughout the night gathering the day after to vote on which of the rioters would receive a full share, and which only half shares. "Them little slacking sonsabitches that only broke a couple windows or just missed a pedestrian while they were spinning doughnuts think they're getting a full share, they better think again. Punk-ass bitches gotta show me something special to get that," Sergeant Cocklip explained.

Rok Finger is back in the dating pool, good people. So he better not feel any warm water around you teen-agers, because I get violent when standing in piss.

You read right—violent standing in piss. True, too, before the piss part: I'm playing the field again. The outfield, and it's lonely out here. Truthfully I've been available since being split from my wife last year by my own indignation, outrage, and paranoia, but I'm actively seeking female companionship for coupling now. And I mean now, as we speak. I might be getting around to your neighborhood soon, so you pretty single ladies meet me out by your mailboxes. And you pretty unavailable ladies, just make sure your husband's at work, or at least smaller than 4 foot tall and unable to kickbox.

I'm no homewrecker, despite what those repair people and Camembert say. But it's about time Rok Finger got "serviced," if you know what I mean. Yes, of course: intercourse. Or at least simple female companionship, as long as some genital contact is involved on some level. I'm a little "hot under the collar," that's how we used to phrase it in the neighborhood I grew up in. I could use a little "loosening up," especially as provided by "hours and hours of animal-like fucking." I read the last part in a book once, or it was something Lee said.

I'm a private man, as my national column often attests, and it's difficult to express your feelings sometimes, especially tingly below-the-waist feelings, but I've been waiting too long for companionship and when the mystery enigma charade doesn't draw in the ladies, I figure honesty can't do any worse. I can always say I was lying about that, too. But it's high time Rok Finger met a good woman to spend time with, horizontal time, and my definition of "good" opens a little more each day. Give me a few weeks and attractive drag queens may apply as well.

There's something about sharing an apartment with two men and a shit-filled catbox that makes you question the single life. Fun has been fun, except when it hasn't been, but after too long you begin to desire a sense of order, and breasts. My past wives have all been bitter harpies, even before I married them, but all have brought that much-needed discipline to my life. Let's face it, I'm a mess alone—I need someone to encourage my moral snobbery, to heal the wounds on my bruised ego, to convince me to quit shitting in the catbox.

As you can see, it's not just any woman I seek—though I will accept any woman on a short-term basis as earlier implied. No, it takes a woman of strong character, like Eleanor Roosevelt without the socialism, or Blondie. Are my standards too high? Prostitutes tell me that. And maybe it's true. But sometimes it's necessary to set high standards, for ourselves and especially for others, and make everyone meet them. Unless you're talking brief sexual contact, at which point my standards are still slipping. Another month and farm animals with convincing attire will be able to sweet-talk me.

Have no fear, good people. Rok Finger will continue to report on everything that matters in life, including his own private feelings that make others extremely uncomfortable. This little mental sidetrack has proved to me I've gotten a little off-course since leaving Arvelyn (did you read that, Arvelyn? I left you. Now it's in print). But it's only a matter of time before this high-flying hot air balloon has the baggage needed to ground it, and I return to my fine form. Of course, I'll never pass my 1970s columns. Man, those were sweet top-of-the-game editions. Except for the muttonchops; I'm ready to admit now they were a bad idea.

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