study done by friends of this reporter and other keen observers everywhere released stunning findings this week: Hip-hop artists, young and old, are now officially safer doing the hard-core gangsta stuff they rap about than being in a studio, awards show, or in any way involved with show business.

The study, mostly performed on couches in front of TV sets or while reading newspapers at desks in the office, listed a number of occurrences in the past month and other events in recent history that, though anecdotal evidence, lend great support to the theory rappers are getting fucked up way too much in the music business, actually making it less safe than the hard-ass streets they struggled for years to get out of.

Among the more notorious public incidents was the stabbing of a man Nov. 15 after he punched gangsta rap founder Dr. Dre in the face. A fellow hip-hop artist on Dre's label, G-Unit member Young Buck, was arrested for the crime Friday, while some speculate the beating was put on Dre by huge motherfucker Suge Knight, who has long had a falling out with his former label artist.

Both the punch and the stabbing didn't occur in Dre's famous neighborhood of Compton in Los Angeles, but in Santa Monica at the Vibe Awards, where Dre was receiving a lifetime achievement award. On the streets of South Central L.A., there's reason to believe Dre might have been better protected and not in such close proximity of rivals like Knight, also attending the show.

The very same day as the stabbing, Wu-Tang Clan co-founder Ol' Dirty Bastard dropped dead in the studio after complaining of chest pains. The Roc-A-Fella rapper's cause of death had yet to be determined, but he had recently served time on drug-related charges and was famous for his notorious history with drug and alcohol addiction. Had he been on the streets of his hometown of Camden, New Jersey, the possibility exists he might have been thrown into rehabilitation early enough to give him a chance against the physical deterioration that well may have killed him.

Excluding the famous shooting deaths of Tupac Shakur in 1996, and Notorious B.I.G. in 1997—which some have claimed as revenge for 2Pac's slaying—rappers have been getting brutalized by assaults and murder attempts in recent years, most frequently by others in the hip-hop business. Among other incidents, the shooting of Eminem protégée and Young Buck's G-Unit homie 50 Cent, the murder of Lost Boyz member Freaky Tah, and perhaps most saddening, the 2002 killing of old school rap group Run D.M.C.'s Jam Master Jay, a serious sucker-slayer who could really cut a record from side to side. Two years later, his murderer remains at large, and the police, as usual, clueless. Rest assured, if a member of ultra-white Bon Jovi got clocked outside the studio, New Jersey police would have descended on the crime with a swarm of teary-eyed uniforms, all humming "Living Under a Prayer" in slow monotone.

While the independent study refused make further comment on its own findings, this reporter is more than happy to do it for them: Rappers, Jesus Christ, get out of the business, save yourself. Pick up a guitar and learn to play bar rock. You don't see Hootie getting shot at every other week.

n a move that market analysts hope will save Christmas for the pharmaceutical industry, American drug giant Pfizer has launched a new marketing campaign this month to promote Heroin™, the company’s revolutionary new “wellness� drug.

Pfizer’s first ad, aired during a particularly painful recent episode of Joan of Arcadia, opted for stark minimalism, featuring a still shot of a satisfied Heroin™ customer, slumped over a very clean toilet, married with the slogan “Heroin™: The Other White Powder.� In addition to establishing their brand in the marketplace, this first ad served to differentiate Pfizer’s new product from rival Glaxo-Wellcome’s Angel Dust™.

Other early ads, run during football games, select MTV programs, and really sad chick flicks, have also been deliberately vague, aiming to raise brand awareness without mentioning the medication’s effects, enabling Pfizer to sidestep governmental regulations requiring pharmaceutical ads to disclose all of a drug’s side-effects. This tactic is especially shrewd with a product like Heroin™, since it’s tough to find a nice way to say “back-alley cocksuck� or “deadly constipation.�

While some consumer advocates have complained in the past that such direct-to-consumer marketing is predatory and harmful, drug companies like Pfizer argue that it’s actually very profitable.

“When there’s just some spaghetti-spined M.D. standing between customers and our products, consumer education becomes more important than ever,� contends Pfizer spokesperson Dennis Tanner. “Consumers shouldn’t have to trust that some kooky doctor is looking out for their best interest. They need a name they can trust, like Pfizer.�

Heroin™ is being marketed as a revolutionary “wellness� drug; one that Pfizer claims will “knock aspirin on its ass� and “make Prozac look like dogshit.� Rather than prescribing numerous non-Pfizer drugs to treat an array of patient maladies, the pharmaceutical giant hopes doctors will turn to their new wellness drug as a cure-all, one that leaves patients with a euphoric sensation of well-being, regardless of whether they are suffering from general anxiety, cancer, or baldness.

“That’s the miracle of Heroin™,� explained Tanner. “It doesn’t matter what’s wrong with you. From erectile dysfunction to agoraphobia, Heroin™ makes it all better.�

Due to FDA hang-ups regarding such a revolutionary new treatment, Pfizer has opted to avoid the usual years of getting-monkeys-high testing usually necessary to release a new drug. Instead, the drug giant has followed the lead of Merck’s Crack™ and AstraZeneca’s LSD™ by bypassing the usual established network of doctors and pharmacists, and is offering the drug through a network of authorized Pfizer representatives nationwide.

“Heroin™ will not be available in stores, but instead through a special network of independent distributors. It’s sort of like Amway,� claims the company’s latest ad. “Ask your dealer about Heroin™.�

Okay, I've been accused by my screenwriting teacher of writing movie scripts without plots. This would be forgivable if I could work in some major special effects, or maybe the illusion of a really complicated plot (what they call "Matrixism" now in Hollywood) but apparently I can't do anything like that. My screenplay is a small indie movie, meaning that I only have three car chases and I'm casting actors nobody's ever heard of—besides myself.

My first screenplay was the shark thing, but I got tired of being laughed at every time I read the shark's lines in class—and I admit I didn't think much about it, how hard it's going to be casting a shark who can act. Then I changed him to a bear, but "never work with bears" is, like, Hollywood rule #5, so that didn't help it at all. Then I found out Paramount and Dreamworks are both working on their own underwater bear-attack movies, so I dumped that puppy quick.

Next Nancy suggested I work on something more autobiographical, which I thought meant about the life of my car, but apparently it's a fancy word for just writing what I did today. I'm thinking easy street! But it's a lot harder than it sounds.

Most of the scenes are like: "Fade in. I'm going to the store and shit, just to get hamburger meat because I'm sick of eating at fast food joints because the burger is 90% bun, which is just their way of ripping you off. I also bought a big jar of hamburger-sliced dill pickles, because I'll eat those fuckers like Pez. Anyway, I get to the store and the meat guy—what'cha call 'em? Butchers? He's giving me the eye real funny, because it looks like I'm wearing just a bra and underwear in the store, but it's really a swimsuit, and if it isn't, what the fuck, he can't tell. So I say: "Why don't you do a wall-carving, caveman? It'll last longer."

The script is really flying now. It's just like writing for the commune, because no one's editing me. I figure, 89 more pages of this and I'll have the summer's feel-good comedy all banged out. But I take in about 30 sample pages and, the way everybody looks while I'm reading it, you'd think I brought them Hitler's book. What did he call that? Mein Kampf and Musings. Everybody thinks it's all over the place and not going anywhere in particular—like how I drive. That kind of crack is real personal, and upset me bad, but they had a point about the screenplay. I might watch a movie about me flirting with a mechanic to get out of paying for an oil change job, but you make it somebody not me and I'm walking out.

So Nancy introduced me to plot points. If you can point to a script in a couple places and say, "There, that must be the plot," then that means you've got a plot. You should be able to do it at least a couple of times. The first plot point is where you say, "Aw, shit, what's this asshole getting himself into?" Then the second plot point starts everything toward the resolution, or as the French say, the ending. It's when you can point at the screen and say, "Hey, asshole's got a plan to get out of this!" It's like the two plot points in a Scooby Doo episode are when the gang meets the old caretaker or whoever who tells them to stay away from the old amusement park. The second plot point is when Freddy comes up with the plan with the roller skates and beer barrel to catch the ghost. It's amazingly simple when you explain it in Scooby Doo terms, but that goes for just about everything.

I'm going to have to go back and fake a plot point in my script, and I'll see if that doesn't trick everybody into thinking it's good. If that doesn't work, I'll have to sketch out a new idea. It's a shame, though. I would've loved to act out that part in the script where I catch the drug dealer and break his arm for selling me cheap stuff. But fuck it, as the French say. Hollywood isn't ready for a true Coleman film yet.

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