Tag Archives: movies

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:

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.”

Follow me or perish, sweater monkeys.

Random thoughts which peppered my head today:

I dreamt that Stephen Fry asked me to live with him, to make pale British love and give heterosexuality a red-hot go. It was a confusing time. For both of us, baby.

Why were the seventies so goddamn brown? Anyone?

I once had some dude travel an hour to my party, only to knock on my door and tell me that he wouldn’t be able to make it.

My mortality kept me awake last night.

If I were rich, I’d build a Bill Murray theme park in my backyard: with every ride a different movie and entry counting on congruent quotes. There’d be Murray mandy floss, a Ghostbusters haunted house and a Punxsutawney Pit Stop. Good times.

I hate people who say goodbye five minutes before they leave, then turn to you expectantly (like Lassie about to lead you to the well where Timmy lies) hoping for another round. Umbilical cord, much? Fuck off already.

Noah Wyle’s nostrils are simply ridiculous.

I hate it when I go to the loo and accidentally pick the stall of the chick at the sink, her flush still hanging in the air. It’s a lucky dip with a warm ass-print as my prize.

I preferred Simon Pegg when he was English. (You’ve got red on you.)

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.”

the wuc bytes – high anxiety

I love this movie like the most dogeared page of a well-travelled passport.

It remains one of my favourite holidays. A place my parents took me as a kid, intrinsically tied to my rapscallion youth and favourite laughs with my sibs. A place we’d revisit time and again, in person or phrenic photo, quoting the lines until they became ours first.

It was on this trip that I first met Madeline Kahn (who made me happy in my comedo bone, long before there was any Tina of blessed Fey); and the vested-uncle to my levity, Mel Brooks (aka dude who put farts on the map). And Brophy. My buddy Bro-phy. Good times.

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