Enter G Mod

A cold wind was blowing in through the open window at the MFUJSF offices. Brick was holding a frozen steak to his eye, Shadow was reading “How to make a Lot of Money without Working Too Hard” and Tigerman was replacing the strings on his bass (an activity that is quite common since his sharp claws rip through the strings easily). No one had seen Slate since he knocked out Brick with a sucker punch. The sun was bright but the weather was deceptive like a femme fatale. Oh come on… What? That’s borderline sexist, if not sexist. Really? I was just going for an old school, hard-boiled detective style. You know where they talk about dames with legs that go on for miles. Really? Dames? And you wonder why the ladies don’t like you…I always thought that it was because I was a disembodied narrator stuck writing for this blog. You’re losing the plot here, genius! Oh, Right! Well the weather looked warm but was actually ice cold with an edge to the air like a knife made of ice. Better? Meh… *sighs*

Brick was tapping his foot nervously. He hadn’t seen G Mod since the band finished recording Notes From the Underground, the final track of their 2009 album, Love, Death, Loss & Redemption. It was a rough time for everyone involved. Slate was battling addiction problems, Brick was afflicted with insomnia, Shadow was shedding fur and Tigerman was having night terrors. With their four album contract complete, Brick declined to sign a new contract when G Mod offered it to him. MFUJ was promptly expelled from the gamespot building and thus wandered the streets for forty weeks (give or take twenty weeks). Really? You’re going to make that kind of comparison? What do you mean? You know what I mean. I don’t have time for this.

For a long time, it seemed like the band was dead. Their final song for gamespot records had basically declared in its first verse that Brick, Slate, Shadow or Tigerman were not real. How could you record something after that? After months of directionless wandering, Brick decided enough was enough and declared that even without a record company, the four of them were still a band and they were going to make music, even if it was on their own. From the ashes of Notes From the Underground came their battle cry “I Ain’t Dead Yet!”

Not sure if this was just a onetime thing or a new beginning, the band boldly declared that a new album was coming. That album would be Dead Falcon Rising. Would it be their rebirth as a band, or their last stand? I think we’ve pretty much caught you up with the band’s backstory by this point. What about Tigerman and Shadow’s histories?  Well, we need something to explore during the second half of the season. Oh ok… What’s that noise? Dammit, we’re behind schedule. The story is going on without us.

Without warning, the front door of the MFUJSF office building bursts open and G Mod struts in. With his leathery voice, slicked back hair and creepy thin facial hair, G Mod is everything the boys in MFUJ had tried to avoid in the two years since they quit working for the man. He still wears the same oversized tan shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his dark sunglasses pressed tightly against his eyes at all times, even while he sleeps which is a rare occurrence. Behind him is Slate dragging G Mod’s suitcases behind him.

Startled, the band members rise to their feet (or rear paws) uncertain of what to say to their estranged former taskmaster, I mean manager.

“Well, well…” G Mod says with his typical snarl. “I see that you boys aren’t doing too badly for yourselves. Mazel Tov.”

 “You’re not one of the chosen people!” Tigerman spurts out.

“Yeah, I’m not. But I’ve been dating this gorgeous woman who is. Every time we do it…”

“Ewww!” Brick shouts in protest. “We don’t want to hear about your nasty love life.”

G Mod chuckles, wiping the edge of his nose with the side of his thumb. “There’s nothing more beautiful than the love between a man and a woman, especially on all fours…”

Shadow, with his typical demure tone replies “I think what Brick meant was that the story of intercourse you were describing was repulsive because you were one of the participants in the aforementioned intercourse.”

“Oh?” G Mod asks with sleazy curiosity as he walks towards Brick, looking him up and down like a drill sergeant inspecting his troops. “Well, considering the fact that I’m the closest thing you have to a father, I’d figured you’d owe me a little respect. I did make you a star after all.”

“You’re nothing close to a father figure for me. I have a father…”

“You mean that washed up guitarist from that seventies band that no one remembers anymore? He was alright in his day but he didn’t have any staying power. That’s why he’s a hasbeen. By the way, when was the last time you saw pops?”

“…”

“Exactly.” G Mod declares with gusto. “Nice shiner you have. Having troubles keeping the morale up around here?”

Brick takes the frozen steak away from his eye and lobs it onto the table by the couch behind him.

“Why are you here?” Brick asks G Mod, getting all up in his face with that rebellious attitude he has. Oh snap! You know that’s right!

“Didn’t monkey boy tell you?  I’m here to get to work.”

“What?” Brick looks to Shadow, confused. “What’s he talking about, Shadow?”

With slumped shoulders, Shadow says “It’s true…G Mod is legally allowed to move in here with us and take over production of our current album.”

“How is this possible?” Brick asks, anxiety causing him to tremble.

“Check your lease agreement.” G Mod states with arrogance befitting a man much better looking and younger than himself.

  “Shadow?”

“Apparently one of the clauses of our lease allows him to take over whenever he wants to, as long as we occupy this space.”

“That’s bull!”

“No. It’s an ironclad contract you signed. The real estate agent who sold you this office space works for me. Ah, the Sans Full frontal…”

“That’s not the name and you know it.”

“Until the lease runs out, you all work for me. I own the rights to Mike’s F’d Up Journey. If you release anything, it needs my approval or I’ll slap you all with lawsuits. I know for a fact that you’re not good enough to make it with a change in band name after you’ve established yourselves as MFUJ for so long.” G Mod says victoriously as he plops himself down on the couch. “Don’t fight it, just accept it. Slate has, haven’t you boy?”

 The tattooed vocalist shakes his head like an obedient dog.

“Now go drop those bags off in my room, Slate. Tiger? You fix me a sandwich. My trip has left me a bit hungry. Brick…”

“No!” Brick grabs his denim jacket and runs out the front door, slamming it behind him.

Only Shadow and G Mod remain in the main room. G Mod taps the couch space next to him, signaling for the drummer to sit next to him, which he does, reluctantly.

“Are you satisfied?” Shadow asks.

“Yes, I am.” G Mod answers, cracking his greasy knuckles one at a time. “You’ve been a good little monkey, now haven’t you?”

“I feel disgusted with myself.”

“C’mon now, don’t be that way. You were always my most loyal spy. Don’t start growing a conscience now. You reported on the band’s activities to me all this time and made sure to sign the lease for this office like I told you to.”

“What are you up to, G Mod?”

“All in good time, Ape.” He says as he reaches into his pocket and gets a celebratory cigar to smoke.  “It’s good to be home.”

To Be Continued... (in June when we come back from break)

Prelude to G Mod’s Return in G-minor

It was one of those days at the MFUJSF offices. You know. One of those days. Brick was tuning his guitar while listening to 1977’s Animals on vinyl, Tigerman was in the kitchen making a dish of gazelle tartar, Shadow was composing another book of faux intellectual gibberish that he planned to sell for a tidy profit and Slate was, well, Slate was giggling as he was leafing through the latest issue of Maxim. No one was speaking to one another. The tension in the air was like butter: you could cut it with a knife and too much of it would make your thighs all fat and stuff. Brilliant writing, moron.

Brick was the first to break out of the silence. He turned off the record player, put his guitar down and called for a band meeting. Shadow put down his pen and paper, Tigerman put a plastic cover over his dish to keep it safe from the flies in the office and Slate…he kept on ogling the models in his magazine, I mean reading the fine articles by the amazing staff writers. Shadow slapped the magazine out of his hands and dragged him over to the meeting area by pulling his ear.

With his fellow band members all assembled, Brick began speaking in actual dialogue as opposed to implied dialogue.

“Guys, I know we’ve been going through a bit of a rough patch…”

“You could say that again” Slate interjects with a smirk.

“Really?” Shadow asks, his brow all furrowed and whatnot. “You wanna be that guy?”

“What guy?”

“Why must we always fight?” Tigerman ponders as he checks his OK Cupid profile on his smartphone and finds that no woman is interested in a six foot tall bass playing tiger.

“Enough!” Brick shouts, silencing everyone. “C’mon. We’re not enemies here. We’re a band!”

“Don’t see much of a difference…” Slate replies checking his nails for dirt.

“We have a few more songs left to record for this album and I think it’s our strongest work to date. We’ve all come through with our original compositions here. Shadow. Sugar in the Raw and E-String Requiem were awesome.”

“Thankee.”

“Tigerman. Overkill and Take the Elevator are amazing. I’m sure Tigerman’s Boogie/Shadow’s Waltz will be great when it’s finally recorded.”

Tigerman waves his tail happily. “I’m still trying to figure out a great arrangement for it in the studio.”

“I’m sure it will be just fantastic.”

“You’ve been great too, Brick.” Shadow says with reverence. “I Ain’t Dead Yet! was our biggest single ever. Nightmare Before the Dawn and Drag Me to My Grave were enjoyable as well.”

“Aw shucks…”

“What about me?” Slate asks.

“What about you?” Tigerman asks as he checks facebook for any new friend invites, only to discover that he had actually lost a friend but couldn’t for the life of him figure out who it was.

“What about my songs?”

“Well…I suppose I Don’t Need a Thing (‘Cuz I’m Numb to the World) was alright.”

“Cool. It was based on me. I’ve lost most of the feeling in my hands and feet.”

“Right…”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What about my other songs?”

“Hmmm…” Shadow ponders. “Love is a Riot was well…a riot, in the worst possible sense of the word. Critics hated it. They said it lacked structure and you made it too noisy.”

“Duh! Love is a messy force of nature. It’s not some saccharine feel good ballad on commercial radio. It’s sloppy and it can hurt and it can get very intense. I poured my heart into that song.”

“Maybe you should keep it to yourself next time. People thought we were on drugs because of you. I knew we shouldn’t have wasted our one free focus group on that rubbish.”

“Oh yeah? Like E-String Requiem was SO great! That was like three or four different songs in 4 minutes.”

“You imbecile! You have no appreciation for dynamic compositions.”

“Quit it you two! Hey, Tigerman. Could you help me out here?”

“I’m sorry, Brick. I was just checking to see if anyone started following me on twitter.”

“No one wants to follow a freaky cat creature,” Slate says with unapologetic harshness.

Tigerman switches off his phone, clasps his paws together and quietly weeps.

“What’d you have to do that for?” Brick asks as he pats Tigerman’s head.

“I’m sorry. I guess I couldn’t sit and listen to this compliment-fest you three were dishing out and no one could say one nice thing about any of my songs. I don’t even get any credit for Dead Falcon Rising. I came up with the arrangement and you just followed my lead, but of course you get all the credit, right Brick?”

“Slate…”

“No…” He declares as he stands up, his hands extended. “It’s always the same bullshit with you, isn’t it? I don’t even know why I stuck around for a fifth album with you guys. You don’t even like me.”

“That’s not true…” Shadow says with feigned sincerity.

“What are we even doing here? We’re a band! Why the hell are we blogging?”

“Because people like to read about our misadventures and rants?” Tigerman whispers with trepidation.

“This is all so stupid. Like Brick and his pointless ‘moonage daydream’ story. What the hell was that even about? Going through some random maze?”

“Hey…that was a real dream…”

“Who cares?  You can go pyramid yourself for all I care! And you, Shadow, with your ridiculous haikus and don’t even get me started on lovesick kitty over here. You think any woman wants to feel that thick fur coat of yours up against their smooth skin? No way, pal.”

“Like your inane rants on trivial news related stories are that insightful…” Shadow counters.

“You know what, screw you all! I don’t care that G Mod’s coming here. He seemed to be the only one who ever believed in me anyway.”

Brick stands up and tries to reason with Slate. “You don’t mean that. G Mod is a manipulative SOB and doesn’t care about anything more than filling his own pockets.”

“I don’t care anymore. Let him come. This whole independent Sans Frontiers, or however you say it, was a mistake.”

“Slate…” Brick says as he grabs his brother’s shoulder. This only enrages Slate who punches Brick, knocking him down to the floor.

 “Let me know when G Mod shows up” Slate says as he walks out of the building.

Tigerman and Shadow lift Brick off the floor and set him down on the sofa. Tigerman runs to the kitchen for an icepack as Shadow makes sure Brick is still conscious.

“He…never listens, does he?”

“No…”

“I think we’re in trouble.”

MFUJ Unplugged. This is what happens when you book a recording studio and forget to bring your instruments.

In a rare moment of cooperation during the somewhat turbulent final recording sessions for their fifth LP, all four members got together to record an acapela blues song all at the same time. Let’s hear their thoughts.

Brick: “This all started after I listened to some classic blues songs by Blind Lemon Jefferson and some other great blues musicians. We were going to record it with actual instruments but someone forgot to bring them so we did it acapela.”

Shadow: “Ah yes, we captured the essence of tragedy through slow rhythmic blues patterns. It was all a matter of calculating the right timing for our vocal chords. Of course it would have been better to record it with my usual percussion equipment however someone forgot that it was his turn to drive the van of instruments to the recording studio this week.”

Tigerman: “It was just nice to be included in this song after being forgotten last time.”

Slate: “What a bunch of whiny bitches… I recorded the demo on my ipod and then played that into the mic. Easiest gig I ever did. What? You wanna go, Brick? I dare you to say that to my face, you damn...”

We'll leave with a classic blues song as the boys at MFUJ take a time-out.

The Sad, Twisted Tale of Slate Man: the Forgotten Brother. Okay, maybe not so sad. He is a bit of a jerk.

Now let’s examine the backstory of MFUJ Vocalist and second guitarist Slate. Yeah, we know you don’t want to but that’s kind of the point. He was always the unwanted one.

We’ve already told you about how Brick created MFUJ. Well, Slate’s story is heavily intertwined with Brick’s. And no it wasn’t just contrived to give Brick a nemesis. Slate wasn’t always the tattooed, foulmouthed, bearded nuisance that he is today. He used to not have tattoos or a beard. Remember how we told you that Brick didn’t remember much about his childhood? Well that’s because he had a twin brother growing up. A rebellious, slightly violent twin who was so jealous of all the attention Brick received that he once tried to smash brick’s skull against a wall. Yeah, that was Slate. Brick lost years of his memory and Slate was locked away in a cell in a place where he could never harm anyone again, Elsewhere.

While Brick was busy with his journey towards becoming a guitar hero or something equally trite and corny as that, Slate was slowly going insane in his dark cell as if he weren’t already crazy.  Of course this wouldn’t be much of a story if he remained that way forever. One day, when he was busy singing bad hard rock songs to himself, a Shadowy Figure snuck into his cell and began filling his mind with thoughts of revenge. It was at this point that Slate gathered enough resolve to break out of his rusty cage song foreshadowing and track down Brick to seek vengeance for losing so many years of his life.

Once free, he attempted to steal Brick’s beloved blue guitar, but was thwarted when he was caught sneaking out of the gamespot building. Brick confronted Slate about the theft and the two of them were close to breaking into a massive melee until G Mod stopped them and got Slate to sign on and be the lead vocalist for MFUJ. Brick was of course upset at the decision. Unfortunately, he was trapped in a  four record contract from which he could not escape. He just had to deal with it.

Recording sessions for MFUJ’s first album did not go smoothly. Brick and Slate split up to record their individual tracks. Slate had Slate’s Theme, Slate’s Reprise, Slate MAn (yeah, he was a bit narcissistic) and Banished? Brick wrote Brick’s Theme, Her Theme parts 1-3, gonna listen to some pink floyd, Rant (portal to the Abyss) and Byzantium part 2. Things were best however when the whole band came together to write the album’s most enduring tracks: Byzantium (lyrics by William Butler Yeats), Cockroach Colored Wings and I Don’t Wanna Be the Same.

Of course tension did not decrease when they worked on their later albums, but eventually the band was able to keep Slate sedated enough that he was only a danger to himself but not others. Once they were free of their contract after they finished their fourth LP, Love, Death, Loss and Redemption, Slate seemed to have mellowed out. Or had he? With former manager/producer G Mod on his way to MFUJ’s new independent record label, MFUJSF, who knows what that might mean for the members of MFUJ as they now seem on edge for some reason.

Stay tuned…

To My Future First Wife Part 2: What if we never met? Or what if we did but got so caught up in a platonic friendship that we grew old and never acted on our love? What if we hated each other? That would suck.

And now resident romantic, Tigerman, addresses his bride-to-be, whoever she might be.

Dear lady that I love so much and/or have not met yet,

I just had the most dreadful thought the other night when I was brushing my fangs and getting ready for sleep. What if our love were to never happen? It’s a ridiculous notion, you might say. Our love is or could be one of the greatest of all time, right? I have no problem with that, my brown, er…blue…er, green eyed beauty. However, the thought, once planted in my head, grew and grew until I could no longer ignore it. Here are some of the scenarios I saw where our love might be thwarted by the cruel hands of fate and society, preventing you from being the first of my many non-simultaneous wives.

Scenario (he pronounces it as Seh-Nah-Ree-Oh ) Number 1: We never meet.

This is a frightening possibility. So much so that I worry that if I think about it for too long, the stress will make all my lovely striped fur fall out. The sad truth is that it is entirely possible that this might happen, if it hasn’t already. The world is so vast and there are so many people. It’s possible that we might be born on opposite sides of the globe and never cross paths. Is it my fault that I’m a big city tiger and you were born and raised in small town in Greenland, never moving more than twenty five miles from where you were born? Or what if it’s more tragic than that? What if I get out of an Iron Maiden concert at the Garden and stop by a Duane Reade and pass right by you and your girlfriends as I buy a water bottle to rehydrate myself. My head is still echoing with the riffs of Hallowed Be Thy Name while you tell your girlfriends that you can’t seem to meet a nice guy. I of course don’t hear this (my ears ringing from being next to the speakers all night) and I leave the store without ever seeing your beautiful face. It makes me want to cry…in a real masculine, ferocious jungle cat way of course.

Scenario Number 2: ‘Just Friends’.

Another terrifyingly possible situation that might hinder us from being the greatest lovers of all time. Perhaps we met in high school or college or somehow met through mutual friends at a party or something. We had a few laughs and had plenty in common but somehow we never quite had any real tension between us or at least never acted upon it. Suddenly you’re telling me about your job, your boyfriend and everything else about your life. I of course care about you so I listen and respond with witty lines and we have a good time when we get together. However we get trapped in the Platonic zone. I never get to know the taste of your presumably sweet lips… ¡Que Tragedia! Imagine if someone you cared deeply about thought you were invisible? Makes me wanna write a mournful bass solo. Of course they won’t let me put it on the album… The fools!

Scenario Number 3: Mortal Enemies.

Now this possibility almost made me take a razor to my throat. No, actually it did not. I was never what the kids might call ‘emo’. Yeah right…Could you imagine how dreadful this would be? Imagine. We work together or perhaps have rival bands. We never take the time to get to know one another. Bad blood happens to build up through our competition with one another. Somehow rumors start that I called you a cold hearted witch with no soul. In turn you start accusing me of using bass samples on the record and that I couldn’t play a single note in the right key if I wanted to. This all escalates until we start leaving flaming bags of excrement on each other’s porches and pull other pranks in an ever escalating rivalry until eventually one of us is gunned down and then, months later, the other is as well, in retaliation. Both cases remain unsolved and people wish we had never gotten caught up in such an antagonistic relationship. If we had only taken the time to know each other, we could have realized just how right we were for one another… but it was too late. *sighs*

These are just a few examples of what could prevent us from making sweet love by starlight with Al Green playing on the stereo. Ah, my fragile feline heart! My gruff tiger exterior conceals the heart of… of… Oh never mind. I must go express myself through my bass.

Stay gorgeous you lovely lady, whoever you are.

Sincerely,

Your first husband

Tigerman


Tigerman is a self-taught bass player as well as a six foot tall anthropomorphic tiger creature. He spends all of the time he isn’t playing music talking about his future wives. So far he has had no girlfriends. Maybe it’s the sharp fangs and claws that turn them off or maybe it’s just the fact that he’s a bass player.

Brick’s Backstory: A Pictured Life from Yesterday? Ooh…

Hello. This is your friendly neighborhood narrator… you’re ripping off Spiderman… No I’m not. Yeah, you are. Never mind. You may be wondering who the hell these characters are that you keep reading about week after week, the colorful and borderline psychopathic band members of MFUJ. Each member has a long and sordid history and you’ll probably need to know where they’ve all come from before the big mid season finale rears its ugly, ratings hungry head. Since Brick is the obvious lead character, being the lead guitarist, chief songwriter and founder of MFUJ, we will begin with an abridged version of his life story.

Brick began his life as most characters do, as a baby. Well, he was a fetus before that but let’s not get hung up on details. His father was a legendary guitarist from a now forgotten 70’s hard rock band. It was his collection of great records that eventually inspired Brick to follow in his footsteps, though that wasn’t necessarily the path his father wanted for him. Details about Brick’s childhood are not well known. Hell, even he can’t remember much about it.

We jump ahead now to his teen years where he was forced to attend an elite private high school filled with soul crushing schoolmasters and future corrupt businessmen in training who cheat their way to the top. Unable to cope with the sinister academic machinations being forced on him by the lackluster teaching staff, Brick delved further into rock music for comfort and hope. On his 18^th birthday, he received a mysterious gift in the mail, a blue guitar from his long absent father. With a single run through of Smoke on the Water, Brick caught the guitarist bug and his days at the academy were numbered. After a particularly gruesome encounter with the most jaded, rock-n-roll-hatingest professor, Brick was expelled and he left the school to find his own way in life.

After wandering the streets, Brick was accidentally drafted into the military. Although he had immense respect for the men and women of the armed services, he chose to spend his time learning how to master his guitar rather than practice combat skills. His abrasive drill sergeant certainly didn’t take kindly to Brick playing Rocky Raccoon instead of doing push-ups. Again, there was a regrettable altercation between Brick and his superior that resulted in Brick being dishonorably discharged.

Penniless and homeless, Brick wandered around trying to get a record contract but kept getting rejected in favor of artists who were more attractive and had access to auto-tune. Depressed, Brick began spending all of his time slumming in the halls of the OTU, a haven for those who liked talking about random stuff. It was there he met characters like Jrodsly and Vipa, who would help him form the OTU band. They went on to record some demos and tried looking for a record deal. One day, they got the offer a lifetime: the chance to audition for legendary Gamespot Records producer/manager G Mod (who gained fame for his work with groups like legendary 80’s band Super Mario and the Koopa Troopas).

Descending into the bowels of the Gamespot office building, complete with marble tile floor patterns and 80’s recording technology, Brick met the gravelly voiced glutton, G Mod. He expressed that he enjoyed the band’s sound but if he were to sign them to the record label, they would have to ban the outspoken co-lead guitarist Vipa. Having already signed the papers, Brick regretted selling out his comrade for a chance at fame and fortune but the damage was already done. Vipa went into exile, leaving no info of where he was going. Eventually the other members of the OTU band either left or were dismissed by the manipulative G Mod, leaving Brick as the sole musician in the band. It was at this point that Brick grew his hair out long, stopped shaving and developed an affinity for plaid. The band changed its name to Mike’s F’d Up Journey, as a tribute to Brick’s mysteriously absent father.  

Of course this was only part of the story. We’ll get to how the other three became involved with the band in a future installment. Now enjoy vintage Scorpions, before they sold out.

Rainy Day Blues: Where are you, Sun?

It was just another one of those days at the MFUJSF offices. It had been dark and rainy outside all day; the only light you could get was from the harsh fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling that made you see how much dust was flying in the air. If you looked out through the cheap venetian blinds, you saw a world swirling in grey mist. Trees with budding leaves were dancing in the wind, cats hid in their corners, biding their time. Uneven drops of water peppered the ground in either tiny droplets or vertical streams. Through all of this Brick saw his reflection stare back at him, a dark grey translucent version of himself staring back at him with an equally bored glance. Behind his reflection he saw Shadow walk behind him, soaked and miserable.

“Some day we’re having, huh?”

“What? Oh yes, I suppose it is.”

“You alright?” Brick inquired after finally taking a break from window gazing and began stretching his tense limbs out.

“The downpour outside is just horrendous. Do you know how annoying wet fur is? Be glad you only have it on the top of your head. It’s no picnic, believe me.”

“Can’t you just shake it all off?”

“What do I look like? A golden retriever? No, I’m going my room and get my hair dryer.”

“Don’t you mean a fur dryer?”

Shadow gave Brick one of those glances that a fed up teacher gives to an unruly student.

“Yes. Hilarious. If anyone needs me, I’ll be drying myself.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes! Please, just let me be. Go bother Tigerman or Slate.”

“Tigerman went across town to the farmer’s market and I don’t know where Slate is.”

“He’s probably out on one of his binges again. Let’s just hope we don’t have to come pick him up at the local precinct again. Sometimes I wonder if he’s more trouble than he’s worth. We could always make it as a three piece band. It’s not like we need a frontman who can’t even carry a tune.”

“He’s my brother...” Brick sighs as he plunks down on the couch next to the vending machine.

“Yes…family, huh?  Always disappointing us.”

“You have any family, Shadow?”

“That’s a story for another time…”

After wringing out the water from the fur on his hands, Shadow notices the melancholy slump in his bandmates expression.

“Is everything alright Brick?”

“I was just wondering if there was something more to this life. We work hard on our music, I work hard on my novel but somehow there’s this voice in me that tells me it’s not enough…”

“Well, it’s understandable that someone your age might want to have more to their life than just their art. You should try getting out of the office once in a while. When was the last time you went somewhere?”

“There’s nothing out there but darkness and hurt feelings…And before you say it, yeah that sounds totally emo and I don’t care. What? Are we supposed to be emotionless automatons? **** that. I’m better off working on my projects here. The rains of the world would just wash the real me away until there was nothing left, diluting who I really am into just another schmuck. If I stay here, my potential is unlimited.”

“Potential that isn’t realized, is just that. Potential. If you want to do something, you’ve got to get out there and do it.”

“I guess.”

“Don’t worry” Shadow says with a somber but encouraging tone as he pats Brick on the back. “You’ll figure something out. You’re not the one I’m worried about. Slate’s been going out of control again. I’m afraid he’ll drag us all down with him.”

“Yeah….”

As Shadow starts walking towards his office, Brick mumbles “I got a call from G Mod today.”

Shadow pauses in mid-step, clenching his paws. “Our prodigal ex-manager? What did he want?”

 “He plans on stopping by the offices soon.”

“Suddenly the wet fur doesn’t seem so bad.”

“You alright, Shadow?”

“I don’t know if any of us are going to be alright with that jerk back in town.”

Shadow heads into his private office and closes his door as Brick lies on the couch staring at the windows streaked with rain waiting for the sun that wasn’t going to come.

Wait, we still make music together? I should have known...

After months of inactivity and laziness, the boys at MFUJSF (still accepting applications from female musicians by the way) have finally produced some new music.

Here is what the band members had to say:

Brick: "This song was just the beginning of a major jam session we had planned.... It all came together when we discovered the Em7 chord and played it throughout the song in order to create a menacing vibe. We like ending all of our albums that way... who took my water bottle? Who took my ****ing water bottle?"

Slate: "We almost tore each other's throats out writing this song. I don't care what the other guys say. This song is about a cat named Desdemona. The truth is out there, mofos. You just gotta find it. *Drinks from water bottle*"

Shadow: "This concise expression of remorse is perfectly complemented by the earnestness of the vocals and acoustic guitar. The percussion throughout is exemplary and sets a gold standard for recording artists everywhere. The guitars and vocals are adequate...No Brick, I did not take your Poland Spring. Why don't you ask Slate?"

Tigerman: "I have no comment about the song. I was busy trying to find someone who could tune my bass for me so I could record some bass solos for Tigerman's Boogie and they ended up recording Drag Me to My Grave without any bass in it. The single edit is dead to me. Wait for the extended version where I'll take it to groovy new levels with the extended coda. It's gonna be epic...Brick! Stop choking Slate! It's just a water bottle! Ouch! Who pulled my tail? OH, IT'S GO TIME NOW, BITCHES!"

There you have it, insight from the people who recorded the song. And now we leave you with a song from one of our inspirations, the Foo Fighters. They have their act together. We clearly don't...

El Presidente Been Caught Stealing

And now, a Haiku by resident artiste, Shadow (the drummer turned poet).


*Clears throat*

Ode to Václav Klaus by Shadow

See that pen right there?

Sneaks it into his pocket,

Cameras be damned.

This has been a Haiku by our resident kleptomaniac poet, Shadow. We didn't have the heart to tell him that a haiku doesn't count as an ode. For more of his poems, short stories and elementary school book reports check out his latest anthology "Words I put Together on Paper and Sold for Money: vol.3", now available in paperback.

Slate Vs. The Cafeteria Lady Mafia: Ketchup is a vegetable?

We interrupt your normal web surfing to bring you this burst of insanity from MFUJSF's resident pundit, Slate.

What is the deal with schools trying to make cafeteria food mandatory? Whatever happened to choice, people? Some schools are not only taking away the lovely sugar filled beverages and desserts that you and I enjoyed in our youth from the menu, but now they are also trying to take away the parent’s right to provide a homemade lunch for their kinder. This is outrageous! It’s the latest in a series of battles being waged in our schools. The rich, not wanting to pay more taxes, turn their hounds on the teachers’ unions. Now the schools are taking out their frustrations by forcing their unhealthy gruel down the throats of the students. This is not just!

I know who’s behind this campaign. No, it’s the administrators trying to squeeze as much money as they can from their students. It is in fact the cafeteria lady mafia, sometimes known as the lunch lady mafia. Forever angered by the inventions of the lunch box and brown paper bag, this cutthroat band of culinary geniuses have been struggling for years to cut Mom and Dad out of the picture when it comes to lunch. For years they’ve struggled against the exciting options kids have enjoyed from having the freedom to smuggle in contraband dunkaroos, lunchables and, the worst offenders of all, sandwiches made with love!

This group of hairnet wearing slop peddlers have had to endure the humiliation of not being able to serve every single student in their school… Until now. They’ve begun plans to try to make homemade lunch illegal, thus creating a convenient lunchtime monopoly for them. For you see, it’s not about the money for these queens of the kitchen with their glamorous lifestyles and opulent workplaces. No, it’s a matter of pride. They want the satisfaction of forcing their cooking down your children’s throats. No more will your kids have the option of eating your wonderful packed lunch or at least having something to barter with their friends at the table.

Can’t you see? A lunch lady monopoly is bad for the free exchange of sandwiches, beverages, fruits and crackers. Our forefathers fought and died to free us from the oppressive taxes on tea and other goods imposed on us by the British. Now the lunch lady mafia is trying to force you to lose the right to feed your own damn offspring.

Resist the cafeteria monopoly! Fight on!

   - Slate Man is not an actual pundit or expert on how schools are run. He is merely an overly opinionated alter ego that sometimes erupts in nonsensical though occasionally humorous rants. The views expressed by Slate Man do not reflect those of MFUJSF or Google. If you would like to send hate mail, do not bother. Slate cannot read. It is against his beliefs. He takes his lunches very seriously. Very seriously!

Brick’s Moonage Daydream: I guess we’re really telegraphing what the song at the end is going to be, aren’t we?

Depressed that Shadow bad mouthed his novel so viciously in the previous blog entry (Editor’s Note: how’s that for continuity?), Brick fell asleep at his desk watching re-runs of Everybody Hates Chris.

After a confusing sprint through a fictional composite of Bed-Stuy and Times Square, Brick found himself on the Upper East Side where, for some reason there were medieval Scottish ruins instead of central park. He approached a small crowd and found out there was a ‘maze’ contest where contestants had to get to the center of a ruined castle and out quicker than anyone else. Intrigued, Brick signed up. The contest began and he wandered through the cracked halls of the old estate. Ancient oak doors, crumbling limestone and rusted iron chains hung from the walls as he stepped over and through the broken sculptures and archways. He reached an opening where the sun shined on an exposed patch of grass covered in smashed monuments from a long forgotten era.  

Once he crossed that open area, he felt light in the head and collapsed on the stone road. He was awoken by a ringing. The second part of the contest had now begun. While he was unconscious, Brick’s dream avatar had been moved to an unknown part of the castle ruins and it was his job to make his way back to the entrance before anyone else did. He scrambled to his feet and opened the rotten wooden door and sprinted down the corridor, looking around every corner for a familiar landmark. You know how it is when you get lost, you try to find a familiar point of reference to navigate your way back. Am I repeating myself? Oh no. I’m lost in my own rhetoric. What was I saying? Oh no… I’m lost. I need to find some familiar landmark. Hmmm… Last thing I remember, I was running for the door. I had to find the passage back to the place I was before…

Franticly he ran, breathless and exhausted until he saw the sunlight in the cracked garden he had passed through before. His mind was racing for he didn’t see anyone else running around. Had they all finished? Were they still asleep? Were they… you know? He found the hallway that he had been in earlier that day. He opened the door, forgot about the Eagles’ 1976 album and raced across the street to the front office. He searched through the rooms and saw ornate collections of gold and onyx but no people. In one room he found a cartoonish helmet of blonde hair and tinted goggles and put it on. Suddenly, he started to see people in the rooms, which were now just ordinary offices.

“Congratulations!” they yelled. “You won.”

“Was I the first?” he asked.

“No, you were the last. But you were the best.”

He went down to the bursar’s office to redeem his prize. While waiting on line with the other contestants, Brick ran into an old classmate of his, a lovely woman with blonde hair, brown eyes and a wicked sense of humor (Editor's Note: of course you'd have to meet her to know that, since this is a dream without much dialogue so you'll just have to trust me. Us. Them?). They both joked about the ridiculousness of the contest. She told him how they both would have died had he not found that helmet lying around the front office. Caught up in a sudden realization of the fragile, fleeting nature of their directionless lives, they kissed, and what a kiss it was! (Editor’s Note: obligatory romantic ending that was tacked on to make an otherwise boring story somewhat sexier.)

Brick woke up and saw Tigerman standing next to his desk, arms crossed, tapping his foot.

“Huh?”

“You were supposed to drive me to the vet, Brick.”

“Oops. Sorry. Must have dozed off, what a dream. It wasn’t lame or poorly written in the least.”

“Slate had to take me. You know what riding a motorcycle at high speeds does to my fur?”

“No…”

“You don’t even want to know!” he said as he stormed off.

Brick sat at his desk, stunned. “I’ve got to get a job. I can’t stand these guys anymore.”

Will Brick get a job? What was Tigerman doing at the vet’s office? Will Slate continue driving a motorcycle without a license? Will Shadow’s next poetry anthology contain any new dirty limericks? And why does everyone in the band hate one another all of a sudden?

Stay tuned!

And now, I give you, Mick Ronson! Oh, and David Bowie too.

The Long and Winding Road to Adulthood part 2: Who You Gonna Call? Say Ghostbusters and whoever got this outsourced job will smack you.

With the early spring showers over, at least for now, April was now officially underway. The  MFUJSF band members gathered in the board room, which was really nothing more than a space no bigger than a Manhattan studio apartment with a dry erase board on the wall and a table with faux wood surface and recycled aluminum base . Brick, Tigerman and Slate were seated at the aforementioned environmentally friendly table as Shadow stood at the dry erase board commanding as much respect from the other three like a substitute teacher would on the last day of school before summer vacation.

Shadow cleared his throat as he pointed to what he had written on the board.

Act 2: Choosing the Right Job

“Well, class, you’ve all had plenty of time to work on your résumés.”

Slate raised his fingerless gloved hand in the air.

“Yes, Slate?” Shadow asked.

“Since when were we in a class? I thought we were a rock band?”

“Since you wasted the last of our savings on stocking up the snack machine with junk food rich in sodium and cholesterol, thus making us unable to afford next month’s lease payment.”

“Oh…huh?”

“We need to get jobs, moron?”

“Got ya…Carry on wayward ape.”

Shadow smacked his face with comical disappointment. He had not published so many quasi-successful self-help books and poetry anthologies just to end up lecturing these three screw-ups.

“As I was saying, you had the assignment to write up your résumés. I’d like to have a look at them.”

He walked around the table, starting with Tigerman on the left hand side.

“Let’s see what you’ve done, TM...” He picked up the paper and skimmed it. “Very nice. I love the formatting and how you highlight all the important  information. It’s concise and powerful. A. You get a gold star.”

Tigerman happily clapped his paws as Shadow put the shiny sticker on his résumé. Shadow moved to his right over to where Brick was nervously wringing his hands. Shadow noticed his nervous look and all the sweat on his forehead.

“Brick, let’s see what you wrote…”

He looked inside Brick’s folder and took out a piece of loose-leaf with an outline scrawled on it in chicken scratch, I mean falcon scratch.

“What is this? Chapter 8? ‘…And the vampire-werewolf from Mars opens his mighty jaw and shows the crowd its fangs just as they began throwing their knives and pitchforks at his awesomeness…’ What is this tripe?”

“My…” Brick began but hesitated, recoiling like a flustered child being confronted by their parents.

“Your what?”

“My novel… I was working on chapter 8 of my novel instead of working on my résumé.”

“Seriously? You’re still working on the crappy third-rate piece of garbage-core fiction?”

“Hey! My novel is very important to me.”

“Trust me, Brick. The only way someone like you will get something published is if you ghostwrite Justin Bieber’s autobiography.”

“NEVER!” He shouted as he shook the table with his fist. “Oops. Sorry.”

“Well, Your résumé gets an incomplete. Your novel gets a D+.” He took a frowning face sticker and placed it on Brick’s handwritten novel outline, leaving him to weep in his own shame. Shadow walked over to Slate who ws busy looking at a girly mag, for the articles obviously.

“Well, what do you have to us today?”

Without looking away from his magazine, Slate simply replied “It’s on the desk.”

Shadow, hoping for a pleasant surprise after Brick’s terrible abuse of the English language, picked up the neatly typed document.

“Hmmm… 20 easy ways to please a woman… Goodness! What kind of rubbish is this?”

“Huh? Weren’t we supposed to write a Maxim article?”

“No! Résumés! I told you guys to write résumés!”

“Oops.”

“You get an F.”

“What? But I worked hard on that article!”

“I seriously doubt that the #1 way to please a woman is to, as you so eloquently say ‘stick it in her ear like a q-tip’.”

“Hey! What two consenting adults do in the privacy of their bedroom is their business…”

“When was the last time you even had a woman, Slate?”

“Well, uh, there was that chick back in Omaha…or was it that dame in Little Rock…or that broad from Frisco…”

“You’re just making people up now, aren’t you?”

Slate dropped his magazine, crossed his arms and started whining. “You know, you take the fun out of everything.”

“Trust me, Slate. Ladies don’t like that whole tattooed ZZ Top on acid look you have going.”

“Shut up, Tigerman!” Slate yelled. “Let’s just finish this info session, already.”

Shadow returned to the dry erase board at the head of the classroom, I mean boardroom.

“To be honest, I’m disappointed in most of you. I gave you a simple task and two out of three of you didn’t even try to do it. Let’s just get to the steps for finding the right job for you.”

Step 1: What is your area of expertise?

When looking for a job, it’s important to find something that you are both qualified for and interested in. What did you study in college? If you didn’t go to college, what are the skills you may have picked up in your life? Are you good at manual labor? Typing? Making phone calls to total strangers asking for money? Knowing what you like and what you are good at doing can help you find a job that’s suited for you.

Step 2: Be realistic.

Not everyone can be an astronaut, rock star or play the lead in the next remake of the Hulk. Sure when you’re young it’s nice to try to reach for the stars but eventually you’ll realize that some things are just beyond your reach. My advice? Find something in the related industry. Try being a stagehand or a casting director’s assistant. You might be able to claw your way into your dream job yet. But don’t be too disappointed if you don’t. You’re still a star in Shadow’s eyes. Except you, Slate. **** you!

Step 3: Research, research, research.

Before you apply make sure you know who it is you’ll be working for. Check their website. Check out their Wikipedia page. Check out news stories about this large, faceless, soulless corporation that you want to sell your soul to for the next thirty-forty years of your life (if only we could get that kind of job security in this economic climate). You wanna make sure you’re not working for the next Umbrella Corporation, unless of course you’re evil. Resident Evil.

Step 4: Contact the company.

It’s a ballsy move for sure, but you should get to know the place you might be working in ahead of time. Try to get a lay of the land, see who the alpha dogs, cats or apes are. See what you can find out by making some contacts on the inside. Give yourself the winning edge.

Step 5: Apply, dammit!

You’ve got a résumé. Send it along with the cover letter and whatever other bull they want from you. You can’t get a job if you don’t try... unless you’re an heir to some large family business. Well, then you pretty much have it made in the shade with pink lemonade.

“Well, that’s it for today. Now it’s time to choose the song for the ending credits. Tigerman, since you’re the only one who actually did the assignment, you get to choose.”

“Call me by Blondie” he said cheerfully.

“No way!” Slate protested. “Children of the Grave! C’mon, Brick! Back me up.”

Brick, still in a daze of self pity just mumbled: “Take me, Spanish Caravan. Yes, I know you can…”

Slate sat down again, arms folded, cursing to himself.