Tag Archives: The Rock

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.”


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