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the wuc bytes – the rock | guarding tess

Can I just say: what the fuck happened to Nicholas Cage.

I mean, really.

Once upon a Cage age, I would feast upon his flicks like a rabid dog upon Celine Dion. Oh, how I loved his Moonstruck madness and Valley Girl moves. (Like, for sure.) And as a longtime lover of action movies and sweet-ass rides, I have loved The Rock for its patriotic poppycock, magnified machismo and wonderbar wuccadoodies. Ipso facto:

What kind of fucked up tour is this?!

Blessed be thee Rock. Hallowed be thy high-octane thrills.

But in the blink of an eye (wouldn’t do that if I were you), Cage turned into a crazy wild-eyed old man. And not in a loveable Doc Brown kinda way, neither. More like someone performed a rustic lobotomy on him while he slumbered on ketamine and jelly beans, only for him to awake with cheekbones higher than Rihanna’s undies and his wherewithal erased.

I’d be sad about it, really I would. But such sadness is generally reserved for the demise of Taylor Swift’s dalliances (pick a card, any card) and the fact the 80s are indelibly done.

Actually, strike that. Still unconvinced on the latter.

I guess this aged Cage (aka Ca-ged) is what ego looks like once youth has dropped its dazzling disguise (only ever on loan) (despite the deluge of dysmorphia and denial sweeping LA) and all we’re left with is a veritable lunch wagon of regurgitated revenge flicks – as unfathomable and interchangeable as the Mad Hatter’s undies collection.

But, hey now. Let us mourn the salad days no more, my friends. Instead, let our sign off be salubrious in show. Herewith, the first ever BYTES double bill and a classic: Guarding Tess. Much like Clint Eastwood, this movie is gentle in its genius (if you can call a 44 magnum ‘gentle’) and celebrates a time when Nicky-boy brought many a wucca my way.

Meanwhile, in cutting this clip, I’ve inadvertently snap-shot the regnant relationship I share with my soon-to-be-ex boss. Also known as: the noxious nelly who recently tossed me overboard. In case you’re wondering where I stand in said metaphor: I once was the secret service agent catering to her every whim but, now meet my end as Le Sueur baby peas …

“We’ve lost in interest in peas. Repeat: lost interest in peas. Canned goods, out.”

the wuc bytes – crazy stupid love

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 – the switch

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 – dodgeball

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 – burglar

Note to self: do not drop a dry-roasted soy bean down your cleavage. Especially when your boss is sitting be-side you.

Like a pinball boomeranging between two goal posts (mounds de mammilla), it paused above the cleave and then dove forth, with the intrepid spirit of an Olympic diver. And as I sat there in soy soliloquy (shall I dive in after it on a rescue mish the likes of which Hasselhoff has never seen?), my boss turns to me in righteous repose and strikes up a conversation.

That’s right, folks. With the renegade bean nestled betwixt my bosom like Benny Hill on a Saturday night, I nodded professionally and took notes. Mmmm. Uh huh. I like what you’ve done here. And here. And … for the love of almighty Cher, give it up already!

Finally, after he’d killed my will to live with a barrage of Elmer Fudd Rs (or should I say, bawwage) (for weals, yo) and with everyone thusly averted, I surreptitiously scrounged among my bazookas for the bean that Jack forgot. But alas. It was … gone?

I can only assume the gnome took it as a peace offering.

“Oh! NO! I don’t wanna upset you.”

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