Angel Of Deaf.

I haven't written much lately. I have been busy pursuing my alternate career. It came about, when I discovered an egregious hole in the musical universe. It sickens me to realize that in a world where you can find country rap or gay hardcore punk there is simply nothing for fans of death metal who also happen to be devoid of hearing. I set about to rectify this situation.

   I have been busy writing songs for the debut album of my new band Angel of Deaf. I have been designing the artwork and the layout for the CD. I have been working on band costumes and set pieces for the stage. I have been busy setting up tour dates and writing ridiculous riders for our concert contracts. And next week I go into the studio to finish up recording.
   I would tell you to order my CD, but it's crap. Completely unlistenable. It's worse than a flaming bag of cats playing disco on bagpipes. So, so bad. It will probably be against the Geneva Convention to even own a copy. But since my target demographic can't hear a thing, I didn't really put a premium on practice. Or working on the songs. Or even learning how to play our instruments. But we look great!

Ask A Theoretical Physicist.

My name is Dr. Reginald Eugene Harolds and I am the foremost authority in the field of Theoretical Physics. I am a Rhodes Scholar and a Fellow from MIT. I teach String Theory and Advanced Quantum Mechanics to the brightest students in the world, and I am known for making complex quantum theories accessible. The kind folks at HBV have provided me a forum that avails me the chance to answer your questions on how the universe works and why. I am giddy with anticipation; so please, ask away.

Dear Dr. Harolds,
If regular girls wear shirts that say, "HEY! My eyes are up there!", do strippers wear hats that say, "What are you looking at? My boobs are down there!"?
     -Curious in Detroit
Dear Curious: Uh, uhmm. Much like Higgs bosun, I cannot confirm the existence of these so called boobs, you speak of. But, if you strip an electron from a hydrogen atom, it is possible to create a particle beam weapon. I hope this helps.

Dear Dr. Harolds,
If you have ever been to a party on Halloween you have surely noticed that all the girls dress like strippers. Does that conversely mean, that strippers dress up like accountants and dental hygienists on Halloween?

     -Curious in Gross Pointe
Dear Curious: I don't know. I am an expert in Physics, not strippers! Does anybody have a Physics related question?

Dear Dr. Harolds,

According to to the prevailing thoughts on the string theory, there are infinite Earths with infinite possible histories.

     -Curious in Ann Arbor

Dear Curious: That is not a question. But, yes that is one theory.

Dear Dr. Harolds,

So you're saying that there is an Earth out there, populated entirely by strippers? 

     -Curious in Kalamazoo

ARGHH!

Rambo: The Criterion Collection

Zimbabwean Prince Scam.

 I think the key to making money, is to... oh hell, I don't know. If I knew what the key was, I wouldn't be on my zillionth job. I almost think I should just get a regular nine to five job. Nah, that's for suckers. Not for an enterprising young guy like me. I just need to rework a classic, the Nigerian Prince Scam. The problem with the Nigerian Prince Scam is that: one, people are aware of it, and two, there is no reason to trust the scammer.

   What you really need in order for a scam to work, is a reason to trust. So instead of asking for their social security and routing number, I give them mine, that way they can just deposit money right into my account. Also, I send the person a small amount of money first. I may be paying out $50 of my own money, but when I get thousands (or hopefully trillions) of dollars back, it will all be worth it.


Dear Sir or Madam or Other, 


     I am an actual prince from Zimbabwe. Not from Nigeria, those guys are totally fake, and are giving all of us African princes a bad name. To prove I am a real live prince I have enclosed a $50 bill. From your America. I am in need of your assistance. I am being held captive, and your name came up. I thought it would be super fantastic if you held onto my money while I try to escape from the evil money hating zombies who are holding me captive. And then when I escape you can give it back and I will give you another $50. 
     My social security number is 987-65-4320, and my routing number is 0114584906. You can electronically access my account with Bank of America. My password is, Not_a_scam_REALLY! Just make sure that when you are there, you click the deposit button and not the withdrawal one, because they're really close and it's easy to get confused. 


Sincerely
Zimbabwean Prince John Smith

Yes-Man.

 I think the key to making money, is to be a sycophant. Professional athletes, movie stars, and musicians are infamous for having posses that follow them around tell them how great they are. I don't know what kind of degree you have to find this kind of employment, but I want some of that. Mike Tyson is the epitome of this type of excess. He gave millions of dollars to his yes-men. But Mike Tyson is now considerably less wealthy, and he lives somewhere that isn't here, so I guess I need to find another person to affirm.

   I found a guy with a face tattoo and gold teeth, just like Mike Tyson, on the street corner by house, I bet he's rich. I'll be his posse. I followed him around for several days, giving him the full flunky treatment. We picked up cans off of the gutter, postulated that Elvis was abducted by space aliens, discussed how unreliable public transportation is, railed incoherently at cellular towers, and found the best places to dumpster dive for dinner. I wholeheartedly agreed with every thing he said.

   Things are working out better than I would have hoped. My main man, keeps me in tin cans and cardboard boxes. He even let me have his old blanket, now that he got a new one from the salvation Army. I get second pick of all dumpster food, and occasionally I get to decide which underpass to sleep under. Me and Cockroach Joe are tight, he totally looks out for me, his only peep.

X-TREME MIMING!

I think the key to making money, is to jump on a bandwagon, and ride that sucker. I have always been interested in extreme sports, sorry X-TREME sports. Why when I was in High School I participated in X-TREME free running, we called it hurdles. I also was into X-TREME bike vert, we called it making sweet jumps with a 2x4's and a cinder block. But now I am old, and all the good X-TREME stuff is dominated by 20 year olds with neck tattoos. I needed to come up with something X-TREME, that I could dominate and thus get sponsored for and thus make money at.

   I was walking back from the unemployment office when inspiration struck. A band of young ruffians were beating the crap out of one of those mimes in the metallic suits. They took his donation bucket and threw him in a dumpster, and as he sailed past, locked in his imaginary box, I realized I had found it. X-TREME Miming.

   I would do the regular mime bit of being locked in a box or going down stairs or walking into the wind, which quite honestly is boring as hell, but I would do it while jumping off of a cliff or at the bottom of the ocean or in space, which would make it much more exciting. I just needed to get some attention for my new "sport." I dressed up in my best mime garb, went up to the top of the tallest building in town, attached a bungee cord to my ankle and stepped up onto the ledge.
   And then I stood there forever. Nobody noticed me, and you can't exactly draw attention to yourself when you're in mime mode. I did the living statue thing for like 8 hours and not one person even glanced my way. I was about to give up, when a window cleaner on a nearby building saw me and started yelling to the crowd below, "Hey there's a suicidal mime up there. He's gone jump." The crowd cheered. Eager for the show. It was time to X-TREME mime.

   I used my best pulling on a rope mime to step off into nothingness. There was a roar of applause. I walked into the wind, down the stairs while trying to get out of a box. It was very X-TREME. The assembled onlookers continued to cheer. I launched into the living statue part of my routine, I chose Rodin's The Thinker. I hurtled towards the ground with alarming speed, the crowd leaned forward anxious for the conclusion of my performance.
   And then the bungee cord caught. The crowd gasped, shocked that I had stopped falling. Many seemed openly angry that I wasn't going to splat on the sidewalk. I began to pantomime putting on a pair of pants when I discovered why people don't generally bungee off buildings. The recoil from the bungee cord slammed me into the building with enough force that I performed the famous hanging limply upside down pantomime, which was convenient because I was knocked unconscious.

    I awoke a week later in traction. My days as an X-TREME athlete are sadly over.

Writer of Headlines.

I think the key to making money, is to use exploit the fears of your fellow man in order to sell advertising space. It used to be that when a tragedy struck, the newspaper or TV station would simply report on the story. Even the headline would be bland: "President Kennedy Assassinated", or "Titanic Sinks. 1500 Dead." No snap, no pizazz. Who wants to read that story, or hear that report? Nobody. That's who. Especially not precious advertisers who are the life's blood of the news biz.

   I needed to make the news more titillating. The FCC frowns on actually changing the news to fit your needs, but there is no rule about making the headline as dramatic and fanciful as you want. I started slow. It was post-Nixon and there seemed to be evidence that Reagan had sold weapons to anti-communist guerrillas in Central America. I should call my story Reagan Sells Weapons To The Contras. Iran Is Involved. Or I could drop a suffix on it and call the story Iran-ContraGATE. See? Now every body wants to read about it because I tied Nixon's past transgressions to the current situation.

   And it works for everything. If a politician had hired and illegal au pair, it became "NannyGATE." An exposed breast at the Superbowl is NippleGATE. A pay for injury scandal in the NFL became BountyGATE. About the only thing it doesn't work for is a water related story. If there was a drought and the mayor of the town was wasting water, you could never call that story WaterGATE. Because people wouldn't be able to tell the difference between the new Scandal and the original Nixon one. Which brings us to another tool I used.

   Labeling everything a Disaster or a Massacre or a Catastrophe or a Tragedy or any other synonym for Crisis. The above story about the mayor could read "Tragedy At The Mayors House. Water Use Catastrophic. And this is where the TV News has the advantage. You can create a logo for the event that will really stick with the viewers. Any kind of shooting is called a Massacre and is attached to bold, scary lettering and sniper sights.

   But then, I was just too good at my job. Pretty soon, every Tom, Dick, and Harry thought he could drop GATE on a word, or include Disaster with a geographical location and write their own headlines. Newspapers stopped... well, everything. TV producers created events for the breezes, Cataclysmic Spring Winds. Story at nine. And soon nobody would pay my exorbitant fee anymore. And by exorbitant I mean a Starbucks Frappuccino and a pair of clean socks. And that is the absolute true story of how I don't make a living writing Headlines. I titled it Headline-ocalypse. Oh great! They're stealing that one now too.