Tag Archives: Doc Brown

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.”

Paint a portrait of my mystery.

That’s right wood. chuck. chuckers, it’s. Groundhog Day!

In commemoriam, herewith somethan I wrote but ne’er posted which depicts the demise of last year. Followed by something I wrote in the Spring of my soliloquy step.

that was then …

I’m living in an Aaron Sorkin drama.

Except without the rapid-fire repartee and seasons of success. Just a slew of sanctimony and propaganda aplenty.

My boss is back. The supportive and affable father to us all, ’tis indeed lovely to bathe in his calm once more. (Sorry if that sounds creepy.) Such was my faith, I assumed we’d all return to normal under the umbrella of his awesomeness. Turns out, even he cannot stay the bolting horse that has become our collective psyche.

The severe growth spurt which occurred in his absence left an indelible stretch mark, the relationships we fostered now bumpy with scar tissue. The perennial loner, even I believed my team was team enough to survive what became of July (aka Julygate). But in the blink of a pigsty, everyone escaped their wherewithal wardrobes and began freaking the fuck out.

He-man hurdle was the first to fall. Or more accurately – to be felled. Today it became official and he ‘resigned’, leaving in a hail of stunfire. More would follow.

But to tall this tale properly, I must go back to when the boss of my boss quit. (Oh captain, my captain.) No-one gave a crap about Cap, yet. After years spent kissing the dullard’s derrière, it begged the question: what does the exiting of one ass mean for their own?

Following his exit was a flurry of fellow exits. And, in pondering the possible passing of my own delectable patoodi, I surmised the next domino would fall one of two ways: either my boss would step into the Captain’s caste (making me his Governor General), or he’d drown in the political riptide and resign, taking my bureaucratic ballast with him.

It didn’t take a funeral home to see which way this granny was leaning.

Today dawned, pregnant with doom. And, like the roladex clock of Phil Connor’s morn (aka mourn), then came the slow-mo BOOM. The last denial domino fell and my boss resigned.

In this game of skullduggery, I just got skullbuggered.

this is now …

Another day, another hierarchical wedgie (to be said like Prince Charles).

Yet I feel the slow return of my mojo, seeping into my consciousness like the well-written propaganda that is The Newsroom. Dancing into my outlook like a tattler ‘n tap shoes ‘n’ top hat. Creepin’ up the back stairs like a furtive Fratelli. (I could go on.)

Today marks the end of a month-long holiday with my fam. It was grandiose, my friends. Equal measures angst, sanity and comedy. Like a Jewish soup, if you will.

Or a clown car.

The world is bigger among my kindred, where they hear each word I speak without need of amplification. I hear myself better too. Suddenly, dreams scribbled in crayon on the mosaic, prosaic surfaces of my psyche become riotous masterpieces, full of colour and promise. And upon return to routine, like a coma patient waking to discover themselves anew, my life is starkly apparent in all its wasted and waiting potential.

“Please don’t kill me! I’ve got so much to give!” – Howard Moon

Of course I knew all of this before I set out in my ruby slippers, toting my proverbial Toto. But nothing quiets the screams of flying monkeys so well as people who just. get you.

As a result, I return to work resolute and recalcitrant. Unknowing if they’ve found me out, yet uncaring. I hereby lift my metaphorical skirt to the public (not to be mistaken with pubic) once more, mid-plot in my escape from this malaise and its mercenaries. [Insert fist bump here.]


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