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Steven Seagal's Life Like Bad Steven Seagal MovieNovember 25, 2002 |
Hollywood, California Half-Past Dead Press Kit Steven Seagal, ironically playing a prisoner in his latest movie. Fun twist to see
The victim of the terroristic threatening was a Los Angeles Times reporter, Anita Busch, whose name was being held confidential by police at press time. Busch wrote articles alleging a former filmmaking partner of Seagal's used mob connections to extort $700,000 from the actor, who, in one of his own movies, would have likely punched out the ex-partner with one Aikido punch and cracked the mob boss's arm into a severe fracture before kicking him backwards off the balc...
ews just keeps getting better and better for fans of the bizarre and absurd. Friday allegations were made that "actor" Steven Seagal, famous for his chubby-flanked kicking and limp ponytail in horrible action movies, is linked to a private investigator who alleges Seagal hired him to terrorize a reporter.
The victim of the terroristic threatening was a Los Angeles Times reporter, Anita Busch, whose name was being held confidential by police at press time. Busch wrote articles alleging a former filmmaking partner of Seagal's used mob connections to extort $700,000 from the actor, who, in one of his own movies, would have likely punched out the ex-partner with one Aikido punch and cracked the mob boss's arm into a severe fracture before kicking him backwards off the balcony. Instead, the actor paid the money.
Private investigator Anthony Pellicano was allegedly hired by Seagal to scare Busch away from writing her articles about the extortion. Police reports say in June the show biz reporter found a dead fish, a rose, and a note saying "Stop!" on the hood of her smashed car windshield. The monosyllabic note initially led police to suspect Seagal's involvement, but the combination of the dead fish and the rose was just slightly more imaginative than anything that appeared in his films, leading investigators to believe Seagal's involvement was more hands-off.
Just after the incident, Busch was approached by two men and told to stop writing articles about Steven Seagal. Had Seagal not been the perpetrator, and been in the car, and had the whole thing been one of his movies, he likely would have gotten out of the car, leaped upon the hood to deal out a series of bone-splitting kicks before flipping through the air to land behind the larger villain, bending his arm back and forcing him into the car's hood, warning him not to mess with the lady again.
Further, had this been a Steven Seagal movie, the police force would have been under the power of the corrupt Hollywood star/villain—Seagal, in this case—and seeking their help against the threatening would have been fruitless for the victim. However, the victim did go to the police in this case, and Seagal's alleged henchmen were arrested and charged with the incidents. Seagal has yet to be charged, but a paper trail and witness accounts may put Seagal behind bars yet, this time for a crime he did commit.
In the private investigator Pellicano's office, police found a cache of plastic explosive, a detonating cord and blasting cap, two grenades, 15 to 20 bundles of cash bearing $10,000 wrappers and a number of pieces of jewelry—i.e., things you might find in the hideout of the lead henchman in any Steven Seagal movie. Had the police not intercepted Pellicano and his hired goon, according to initial statements, plans were in place to blow up Busch's car, something that would have sent movie-Seagal out in the night, angrily breaking into the top boss's house—his own, in this case—to deliver the final, fatal beating that ended the movie.
In the real world, however, Seagal waits patiently for his court date, when his lawyer will argue fine points and details of testimony to discredit Pellicano's claims of direct requests from Seagal that initiated his actions. There is likely to be little kicking and punching, and Seagal will be referred to as Steven or Mr. Seagal instead of "Jack," "John," or "Mason Storm." the commune news has gotten really worked up by this article, and if anyone wants to watch an Under Siege marathon at their apartment later, we're all aboard. Ramon Nootles is as tough as they come, meaning little girls; please, don't hit.
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 August 5, 2002
Invisible"When I was a young boy, I believed I could make myself invisible at will. Whenever I was stuck in a predicament that called for not being seen, or else was just in the mood to go invisible on a lark, I would squint my eyes closed as tight as I could and hold my breath until I saw multi-colored sparks and small explosions in the darkness before me. Soon after I would hear a loud popping noise, and that's when I knew I was invisible.
I did it the first time when I was four, out of some kind of collective unconscious instinct response. My mother came home unexpectedly from the store to find me naked in the kitchen, covering myself with papier mache made from pictures I'd cut out of the lingerie section of the Sears catalog. In a panic I clenched my eyes shut, and to my surprised delight heard my mother searching around the house, asking "Where's Sampson?" and "Have you seen Sampson?" while I invisibly ran out to the back yard and hid inside a discarded tire.
My talent for going invisible came in handy over the years. I used it sparingly whenever mom caught me with a girl in my room or I was pulled over for driving under the influence. I'm sure mom and dad had to wonder why naked girls kept sneaking into my bed while I was out, or how my car drove itself into a ditch so many times, but I don't think they paid it much mind since they had their hands full with Goose's Tourette's Syndrome, which at the time was known as Sailor's Mouth.
When I...
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"When I was a young boy, I believed I could make myself invisible at will. Whenever I was stuck in a predicament that called for not being seen, or else was just in the mood to go invisible on a lark, I would squint my eyes closed as tight as I could and hold my breath until I saw multi-colored sparks and small explosions in the darkness before me. Soon after I would hear a loud popping noise, and that's when I knew I was invisible.
I did it the first time when I was four, out of some kind of collective unconscious instinct response. My mother came home unexpectedly from the store to find me naked in the kitchen, covering myself with papier mache made from pictures I'd cut out of the lingerie section of the Sears catalog. In a panic I clenched my eyes shut, and to my surprised delight heard my mother searching around the house, asking "Where's Sampson?" and "Have you seen Sampson?" while I invisibly ran out to the back yard and hid inside a discarded tire.
My talent for going invisible came in handy over the years. I used it sparingly whenever mom caught me with a girl in my room or I was pulled over for driving under the influence. I'm sure mom and dad had to wonder why naked girls kept sneaking into my bed while I was out, or how my car drove itself into a ditch so many times, but I don't think they paid it much mind since they had their hands full with Goose's Tourette's Syndrome, which at the time was known as Sailor's Mouth.
When I was seventeen my brother Goose, who I'd just caught in a compromising position with a bottle of Coke, broke down told me that I'd never really gone invisible. Turns out the family had always humored me and played along because when I closed my eyes, mom would run and empty out my piggy bank while she was pretending to look for me. Later, she'd use my allowance to take the family out for ice creams while I was at school, which explains why Goose never finished the tenth grade." º Last Column: Poemsº more columns
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|  November 26, 2001
Fortune 6I present to you, the King of throw-away island. Slicing a trench into the past, dogwoods spread their sprays like drifting clouds, the most wasteful member of the tree family. "King Trapper of the North" is how they'd like to be remembered. Hardly. Tubers, seeds, runners, corms, bulbs, rhizomes, roots and spores fan out like chuck wagons clattering in a figure eight. A boy sets out; a man returns, chromosomes aligning. Less secret are the lichens, and the groundhogs are without good cause, like spoiled vultures. Shaded by the cursed dogwood. Among the toughest of living things, A.L. van den Brandeler makes quick with the axe to help me single-hand her.
You will feed during summer's abundance, mate, lay eggs and die. Try again...
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I present to you, the King of throw-away island. Slicing a trench into the past, dogwoods spread their sprays like drifting clouds, the most wasteful member of the tree family. "King Trapper of the North" is how they'd like to be remembered. Hardly. Tubers, seeds, runners, corms, bulbs, rhizomes, roots and spores fan out like chuck wagons clattering in a figure eight. A boy sets out; a man returns, chromosomes aligning. Less secret are the lichens, and the groundhogs are without good cause, like spoiled vultures. Shaded by the cursed dogwood. Among the toughest of living things, A.L. van den Brandeler makes quick with the axe to help me single-hand her.
You will feed during summer's abundance, mate, lay eggs and die. Try again later. º Last Column: Fortune 5º more columns
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Milestones1993: Ramon Nootles graduates from San Dimas Community College with a degree in Questionable Journalism, the first degree of its kind offered in America, and a minor in Poontang Studies.Now HiringIron Monkey. We saw the movie and thought the ancient Chinese legend might be the guy to get the ninja we hired out of our offices. Lame-ass ninja, poison-darting Lefty the mail clerk and skittering across the tops of the computer towers.Top Shit That's on Fire Right Now| 1. | Ted Ted's ulcer | | 2. | Iraqi fireworks stand #5 | | 3. | Lousy gag candles | | 4. | Old love letters/most of Colorado | | 5. | Salsa music. No, seriously. | | 6. | Apparently some part of Bruce Springsteen | | 7. | The sun. Pretty sure. | | 8. | Richard Pryor-model Jiffy Pop | | 9. | Dad? | | 10. | You obviously lied about those being asbestos pants. | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 5/16/2005 Great Googly Moogly, America. I'm not kidding, this is the best Googly Moogly I've ever had, my compliments to the chef. Don't ever let anyone tell you that you can't get good Chinese food from a place that also recycles athletic equipment. One stop shopping is the word of the future, according to something I read somewhere like eight years ago. Speaking of the future, we've got a batchload of new movies to review, and they all stink like the future.
In Theaters Now:
Domingo: Presequel to the Exorcist
Who knew Pavarotti knew so much about demon exorcising? I'd have thought any word so similar to "exercising" would have scared that tub of tenor right out of town. But instead, Domingo Pavarotti sticks around long enough to work up a forehead...
Great Googly Moogly, America. I'm not kidding, this is the best Googly Moogly I've ever had, my compliments to the chef. Don't ever let anyone tell you that you can't get good Chinese food from a place that also recycles athletic equipment. One stop shopping is the word of the future, according to something I read somewhere like eight years ago. Speaking of the future, we've got a batchload of new movies to review, and they all stink like the future.
In Theaters Now:
Domingo: Presequel to the Exorcist
Who knew Pavarotti knew so much about demon exorcising? I'd have thought any word so similar to "exercising" would have scared that tub of tenor right out of town. But instead, Domingo Pavarotti sticks around long enough to work up a forehead sweat liberating a devil-infested bucket of fried chicken and then proceeds to sweat straight through all eight layers of a tuxedo singing a song about it. I assume the song was about chicken, anyway, from the way he kept taking chicken breaks every few lines, but it was in Italian so it could have been about Domingo being in love with his mother for all I know. Was the movie scary? Did you see that tux? Yeah kids, you'll get your nine bucks worth.
Mimehunters
Hunting mimes for sport and trophies: a cruel but fun hobby, or just a fun hobby? It is far beyond the scope of this column to answer such questions, so we'll stick to the question of whether or not the movie makes mime hunting look as fun as it actually is in real life. And the answer is: damn close. True, no film can adequately translate the visceral joy of hearing a mime scream from across a beautiful mountain canyon, but Mimehunters does a fine job regardless. As a side note, the producers of this film wanted to get the word out early that no real mimes were injured during the making of this film, since professional mime hunters were used to insure that each mime shot was a clean kill.
Munsters-in-Law
Don't you hate it when you get married to a blonde hottie and at the wedding you discover that your new wife is the freakishly normal daughter from the Munster family? God, that really chaps my nuts. And apparently, mine weren't the only ones chapped, since Hollywood saw fit to make an entire feature film about the same. Robert DeNiro combines his twin talents for playing freaks and overbearing fathers-in-law with his turn as everyone's favorite reanimated collection of cadaver bits, Herman J. Munster. And rumor has it that Angelina Jolie didn't even need make-up to play his dead sexy wife Lillian. The corpse of Jack Lemmon is especially refreshing as Grandpa Munster, the sly old vampire codger who talks like there's an electric gear in his mouth making his jaw move in synch with a voiceover from Dave Coulier.
Perhaps the only disappointing bit of casting was the odd choice of Mel Brooks in a tall stack of pancake makeup playing little Eddie Munster. Brooks gives the role his all, but the difficulty of emoting through fourteen pounds of prosthetics eventually shows through when Brooks quits the film on-camera halfway through, and for the rest of the movie little Eddie's mysterious away at "Sexual Reassignment" camp.
Star Wars: Revenge of the Smiths
Finally, the final Star Wars movie is here and finally, it's got Morrissey in it. Fans have grown impatient waiting for the big haired Brit to make his smooth debut in the science fiction opera ballet that is Star Wars, and the years of watching child actors hamming it up and extras in rubber dog outfits has finally paid off. Morrissey is here, looking suave, kicking Jedi ass and crooning about the girl who dumped him at the county fair when he was twelve—all at the same time. How'd they do it? CGI? Beats the shit out of me.
Way to go, America, you've made it to the end of the column, and now you get a bacon cookie. I'm not kidding, take one. Please, I've got to get rid of these things before my office gets permanently stanked up like bacon. I don't know what I was thinking even buying these things, the pig on the package doesn't even look all that happy. Lesson learned though, and I'm really glad I didn't get any of the oyster pudding. Until next time, America!   |
