Tag Archives: film

You can Derelict my balls, Capi-tan.

April 19, 2013 by the wuc 13 Comments

Tonight. All is right with the world.

I’ve had happy champagne, ironically with the scourge of my current existence – my coworkers: Sidewinder, Mufasa and Obama.

Sidewinder you know, albeit in passing. Mufasa is the female Lion King to my fastly diminishing kingdom, Obama the beatific bite-sized politician who makes up the set. These are people who daily contribute to my crusty choleric and yet today, I enjoyed their company.

Contributing factors:
  • Champagne. (A cherubic chunk of it.)
  • The likelihood I’ll resign within the fortnight. (Yeah buddy.)
  • The fact I’m on leave next week, working on a film as a Production Assistant! (Unpaid, in case you think I’m a Disney character.)
  • Yep. That about covers it.

Ain’t it funny how people suddenly become warm, caring fuckers the minute you’ve got your exits covered? Or chimera caring, as the day may be. Get a load of this corker …

At 12pm I was told in passing (as one might impart what they ate for breakfast) that I had to move out of my current work desk by 5pm today. Here’s the kicker: they don’t have a new desk for me to move to. Yeah, you read right. I’m being made homeless. In my motherfucken workplace, yo. Not fired, just homeless.

Not only that, they’d known for weeks and hadn’t said a word.

Sidewinder tells me (conversationally over lunch) of the clandestine meeting which took place the moment I left the room this morning – whereby Mufasa suggests they don’t tell me at all. They should simply wait until I leave today and pack up my desk while I’m on leave (presumably to move me to the basement, sans stapler, like moribund Milton of Office Space lore). They actually convened over that shit.

Questions:
  1. Who are these people?
  2. What in the Sheryl Crow?
  3. Is this any way to do business?

And so on, and so forth.

Sidewinder tells me this as I picked out my pumpkin risotto (aka orange opium), then acts askance when I react in the negative. (Insert expletives here, Aussie style.)

Whatevs, yo. Twenty minutes before, as excellent timing is want to do, my old boss rang to tee up beers and confirm my references were checked for the job I interviewed for yesterday. A job within film – as vast and diluted as that industry may be. Not one in the most ideal direction and not where I design to end up, BUT! In FILM baby! I’m their first choice and he’s gonna reference the shit outta that puppy.

BOOYAR. Sock it to you.

So. As my mangled day came to a close, there I sat. Alcoholling with Mufasa, Obama and Sidewinder. Rather enjoying myself, as perversion would have it. Quick-firing quips which neither their political correctness nor intellect allowed them to catch; throwing caution to the westerly winds which phase my hairdo not.

The irony (in an Octomum family of ironies) is that Sidewinder has fought so hard for their good opinion, only to be shunted to the shady corners of the high-school yard; where I warmed those parasites to me as quickly as I emotionally exited, stage left. I foresaw a month of false farewells in my future before I faded into their obscurity, and they became faceless portraits in the Edvard Munch’s scream of my past.

How many times I’ve done this I care not to recall, but I knew the musical steps as surely as Mozart’s prodigy. The beauty of laying it all on the emotional and pipe-dream line was, I very much planned never to do it again.

the department
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the wuc bytes – crazy stupid love

February 12, 2013 by the wuc 9 Comments

I feel full of pith. Like Pithy Longstocking, or Gladys Knight with a lisp.

“Pith it out!” (To be whooped in titillated Tourettes.)

This week, I’m doing my usual gig plus extra duties for the Big Cheese (the boss of my new boss). Or Blue Cheese, as the case may be. For, if we’re grading on the curd, she is indeed pungent, veiny and somewhat of an acquired taste. But! The result of this sojourn into the echelons of the executive set is that, for however brief a bout of flirtatious felicity, I now sit opposite a certain specimen of suave swain (aka the only guy to befall my fancy at work).

That’s right. He’s crotchety yet kind. Cynical yet slapstick. And blows Gay Prince clean out of his softly-scented water. But don’t call your yenta just yet.

Allow me to preface that with this: he’s married.

To him, I am but a waggish wartime distraction in a sea of suits. But that cannot damper my delight! For only once in a whimsical-weighty-while do I come upon a person with whom I own an immediate shorthand. Suddenly, the effort of providing Wuccan context melts away and in its place is a beauteous Bert ‘n’ Ernie kinda kindred.

Pastels of possibility float above my head like the amore borealis
… in shades of electric blue, haiku and breakthrough …

Sure. Experience has taught me to look upon such good fortune as gay giraffes might look wistfully upon the Ark … (that boat has sailed my friends), but. Sometimes it’s enough to find someone on your level, who meets your eyes with understanding before you even speak; who simply sees your subtleties and musicalities. Even if you can’t play happy hippo, bump bits or dance the cheesey ’changa. Even if you can’t keep him as a friend because you’ve already lost in that there lottery of love (and men don’t see the point of platonic).

If nothing else, it proves the impossible merely improbable.

“Fuck. Seriously? It’s like you’re photoshopped!”

the wuc bytes
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the wuc bytes – the switch

August 15, 2012 by the wuc 22 Comments

I’m feeling particularly bipolar, just thought you should know.

Today, I subsist on the upward swell of a wayward zephyr – with spring poking its salty nose out, sniffing the air like a groundhog, deciding whether it’ll grant me my yenned renaissance.

Yesterday, winter was in full force, wedging my emotional undies right up into the butt crack of au fait accompli. Confused? So was I, dear friends. So was I.

What can I tell you? I am simultaneously devoid of art and yet feel an intense need to create. To be recreated. To stop the endless cycle that is the laundry of my dirty psyche. I could mark this spot where I stand in defeat and exhaustion as if it were new, but I been here many times before. Each time, I stuck stick in that wheel like a grubby kid, determined to trip the cycle … only for it to reinvent itself rather than me. Alas in augura, amici.

I want to fuck that cycle right up. Take it out back and beat the crap out of it. To release the guns, Tito and Sally Field upon it. I wanna moontag that puppy in front of its girl crush and rub its spokes in the dirt. Kick it and shout, you’ll never be a BMX!

The crux is work, as per. The foundations I rest upon are being eroded like a sandcastle built at high tide. It’s as if someone cast a handful of spaghetti high into the air and I can only watch as the once-unified mass splits apart in slow-mo, scattering in separate directions, before plummeting down, down. Dust. Yes, along with my working brethren, I am the pitiful pasta in this scenario; though I can’t decide if my boss is the hand that tossed it or merely the hand in absentia, which could’ve outstretched ‘n’ snared us. But instead, let us fall.

Details will be forthcoming when I can rest them from my mind box, where they lie entangled in vine and whine. Until then, I look to the groundhog, wood chuck-chuckers. For whilst he’s an ugly little mother who drives angry, he holds spring in the palm of his claw. And if I can’t rest my thoughts from me, I’ll surely rest possibility from he – imaginary little bedfellow.

And, now. To all the beady-eyed little man boys out there, this one’s for you.

If you’re tempted to rise above this movie, thwart the tempt. For you’d miss out on the genius of Goldblum and brilliance of Bateman. They make me happy in my finespun bone. Peptone.

“It was like a Tourette-style truth serum, and I was caught right in the cross hairs.”

the wuc bytes
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Who you tryin’ to get crazy with, esé?

January 11, 2012 by the wuc 28 Comments

Insomnia. What a golden gift of goob. Like a world without Stellan Skarsgård, it may seem a candy concept of poetic pathos and manumit minutes. In truth, it’s a little more like this.

With only two hours sleep, I now resemble the Swedish Chef (replete with muppet mullet).

Hurdy gurdy, flip the birdy.

In other news, I think I just crapped my career shorts (and not in a good way, people). My boss just dropped the bomb: in addition to working for him, I must now report to THE BEAST. This devil of diarrhea is news to you because, my work being a veritable vineyard of villains stretching beyond the pen’s decree, I distilled my disillusionment for thee. In chivalry.

But this crop o’crap just grew ripe enough to harvest.

Word on the street: Le Bête has slept with many a management man, the last of which befell blackmail by booby trap. (Ipso presto. Promotion!) What I know for sure: lying in her wake are my corporate counterparts who resigned rather than remain in her employ. That, and whenever we’ve crossed path or proverbial, she’s left me with wind-tunnel whiplash.

Yah! She could use a little passive in her aggressive (to be said like Miss Piggy).

On the manic-depressive upside, my boss is a pretty nice guy! I’ve grown relatively fond of the fucker. Even though, like a pound puppy grown wary of new owners, he makes me nervous. And whenever I speak, he eyes me like I’m Baxter about to poop in the refrigerator.

“Heck, I’m not even mad. That’s amazing!”

The rest of the time he’s Reese to my Ricky Bobby: an absentee father who only shows up for birthdays (performance reviews), bat mitzvahs (Beast behest) or Christmas (Christmas).

So there’s that.

the department
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the wuc bytes – dodgeball

November 17, 2011 by the wuc 30 Comments

I think GP broke me.

Not in a wild horse kinda way, understand. He aint the Wuc Whisperer, for cryin’.

Nor, for the record, have I sunk to Bridget Jonesean lows (all by myself in earnest and epilepsy, my undies big enough to house a troupe of transient midgets).

Neverthemore, lassy. Much like little lost Ledger on his mountain of gayness, or the pink boom box which fell from my teenage hand one Bangled day in June, I’m broke back good.

Blessed be my boom box. May you rest in Iko Iko an nay.

Where inspiration once flowed, as hot and steady as Ryan Reynolds on roller skates, now here I sit. My synapses on dolt delay. My thoughts as restless as the audience of any given panto. My literary light as wayward as a Lohan firefly.

GP, my figurative Fat Bastard, has stolen my motherlovin mmmojo (to be said like Autistic Powers). He took my, baby back, baby back, baby back ribs. (He ate a baby.)

What am I to do, you ask? Well, there’s only one thing you can do when life gives you a wedgie so profound, your children are picking the cotton from their cleave for generations.

the wuc bytes
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