Tag Archives: film

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.”

Once more into the breech, dear friends!

Ah, Wuccans! How to build a bridge across the vast butt-crack of time; to create a proverbial g-string so that we may traverse what has passed and is past with words, wucs and euphemisms? To appropriately update you on what the fuck I’ve been up to while my blog grew hair and mould in the most shady of places? I know not where to begin.

When last ye loyal folk virtually saw me I had jesuit jettisoned my cynical self from a life I loathed and was set to embark upon a new journey. Not unlike that of plucky Bullock in Gravity – ‘twas a journey of unknowns, rabid fear, hallucinations and eventually … hope.

Translation: I decided to pursue THE DREAM.

Well, dear friends. I did. And I do. Pursue.

In the time I’ve been away – I wrote and directed my first short film and entered it into competition where, much like James Franco’s dulcet dignity, it sunk quickly from view and was never seen again. I worked on a plethora of short films as an assistant director. I moved from my beloved flat into a hovel de freedom and decorated said sows ear with craftiness and cheer. I started my new job on the goatee’s chin of the film industry and proceeded to meet all manner of fantastical humans who have worked with the likes of Jackie Chan, Billy Zane and Brad Pitt. (Sure. It would’ve been better to have actually met Jackie Chan, Billy Zane and Brad Pitt but THIS IS REALITY, PEOPLE!) Said humans would systematically lose their shit and visit vomited emotions upon my head in a tangy technicolor rainbow where the only gold to be found at fairytale’s end was metaphorical chunks of upchuck corn. But, hey!

Progress.

To be said with some irony.

Imperative to note while sketching said vomit for you to technicolor in is this: the first year in pursuit of contentment was the most confronting, blunt, traumatic and rewarding I can ever remember. Each growth spurt and subsequent proverbial stretch mark ran deep in discomfort, and yet. I became the happiest version of myself I’ve ever known.

I was a misanthrope no more and instead found a well of peace within while my exterior life continued to swirl around me in shades of ambition, growth and disquiet (for each inspires the next when living in actuality over the fantastical). I became a sunshine Sally who annoyingly argues for heroes and humanity with staggering sincerity. I made friends at the rate of an affluent and effluent Bieber and spotted nary a gunslinger among them.

Life was good.

If that all sounds a little too Disney to be true, I recently discovered t’indeed it was. Or. That is to say: the peace I found was not a resting place so much as a transient barge regularly encumbered by unwanted callers … one of which recently tossed me overboard.

So! If we could map my traverse through said universe via gift of movie metaphor (of course): what remains is a mix of Private Benjamin mired in boot camp, broken to the core but set to rebuild into a stronger, sinewy self; followed by a Dead Poets Society drama of tears and triumph; and ending with the Karate Kid where I’m surrounded by loveable characters who lift me high as the music swells, heralding of hope and happiness ever after.

But, no.

Happiness ever after requires constant maintenance, dear Wuccans. Villains who refuse to be written out. Sad days. Dead days. Wucked days. In truth, as we circle back to this chump two years on, I am but a phucken phoenix one more.

Yep! This pretty much sums up my life right about now:

You can Derelict my balls, Capi-tan.

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 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.”

Who you tryin’ to get crazy with, esé?

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.

%d bloggers like this: