Tabula Rasa? I don’t think so… This Slate might be dim but he’s not blank. He’s a stranger in this town. Where are all the good times? Who's gonna show this stranger around?

Ok, we understand that we have been hinting at Slate’s development as a character in the second half of this season… Hmmm? Could it have anything to do with your haphazard story arcs that pop into your head at the last minute or your attempt to create a fictional explanation for how the band’s songs came to be writte/recorded? Perhaps it’s the annoying voice in italics that keeps trying to undermine my narration. Don’t try to blame it on me. I’m part of you. You’re arguing with yourself. What? That’s what we call a ‘plot-twist’. I know what a plot twist is, but is that really true? Maybe. It’s also foreshadowing. I repeat: Four-Shadow-ING. Whoa! Sometimes I even impress myself. What does all of this even mean? I guess they’ll just have to keep reading to find out, won’t they? Uh….Oh! I see what you did there…clever. You know you’re just congratulating yourself at this point, right? Oh yeah. My mind is blown. Wanna know something scarier? I don’t know. Do I? Yes. OK. You are..we are…totally SOBER! AHHHH!!!!!! You ok? Maybe, I don’t know. You want to continue the story? What story?  You know, the whole point of the blog. MFUJSF: the adventures of the world’s worst rock band. You were talking about Slate. Oh yeah. I remember now. You may want to start a new paragraph. Right.

G Mod’s return to manage MFUJ had drastic consequences for all of the members of MFUJ. Brick began losing what little self confidence he had and even burned the novel he had spent two years writing. Shadow was feeling pangs of guilt for deceiving his fellow band members about the extent of his connection to G Mod (Stay tuned for a Shadow-centric entry sometime soon. Four-Shadow-ING!!). Tigerman had to endure a slew of insults for his lingering longing for a woman whose interest he failed to hold, usually in the form of a jingle or limerick. Of course one member of the band actually benefitted from G Mod’s return, Slate.

Yes, the dim-witted, libidinous beard fanatic that sings on the band’s albums like a pig under… *The following was censored because it contained graphic imagery not suitable for blog readers* … actually reaped the benefits of having a chauvinistic relic of 80’s AOR radio as a manager. At last Slate was given the recognition that he so desperately craved but did not necessarily deserve. With G Mod’s master PR skills, he became a bullet-proof rock and roll cliché. Even the Package-gate scandal did nothing to diminish his status within the band. Some would say that was because the band was a non-entity in the commercial, Indie or any other rock markets that might exist but that would be too logical for Slate to comprehend.

This status proved to be like catnip to Slate. He began to indulge in every clichéd form of self-indulgence that every rising rock star feels entitled to: free booze, loose women and the inalienable right to do some guerilla redecorating to any hotel suite that the band was picking up the tab for, if only in his own one-dimensional imagination. Some experts began to classify him as pure Id, to which Slate would reply that no nerds could come to his after-parties, no matter what their fake driver’s licenses said.

Life has been good for MFUJ’s bad-boy. He gets to confront Brick as often as he likes. Not in the all-out-war way like he sang about in the song Slate MAn from the first album (which featured his best guitar playing btw). No, this has been the pettiest of all battles. He trips him, steals his cold beverages, snickers behind his back as he spreads rumors about him on the band website, etc. Poor Brick, so sullen by his feelings of ineptitude and obsolescence, doesn’t even put up a fight. Slate even went so far as to write a review of Brick’s novel calling it “Way too damn long”, complaining that it “made my head hurt” and finishing off by saying that “it’s the worst crime to happen to fiction since the lame-ass vampire fad of the 2000’s”.

What is the cruel dude up to now? Out on the streets prowling for some sweet ‘tang. Um, are we going to get into trouble with the censors over this? Not if we qualify it by saying we meant a fruit-flavored breakfast drink. Did we? I uhhh… What’s this? A video?        

Making music is easy! Vocals + Guitar + Bass + Drums + Samples + Megalomaniacal Producer = Win? Next thing you know we’ll end with an Opeth song. Oh wait, will we? That’d be awesome.

The following is a transcript of security footage from the MFUJ recording studio

*Enter G Mod*

“What you four lack is discipline. Three years to complete 1 measly album? Pathetic!”

*Enter Slate*

“It’s not my fault. These three have been holding me back for a long time, G Man.”

He strikes a confident pose. G Mod shakes his head.

*Enter Brick, sullen*

“What do you have to say for yourself, kid?” G Mod asks. “What happened to that hungry young guitarist who knocked on the doors of all the major labels even though he could barely play guitar, let alone carry a tune with his weak voice?”

Brick, with arms crossed, says nothing to defend himself.

*Enter Shadow*

“Give the guy a break. He’s been through enough as it is.”

“What’s wrong with him?” asks the producer.

“I know” replies the cocky lead singer with the dragon tattoos. “He’s still acting like a little wimp over that novel of his. I don’t get it. He works on that piece of tripe for two years, finishes it and now he acts like someone ran over his dog.” He shoves Brick, who catches himself before he falls on the rather expensive console that G Mod brought with him from Gamespot Records. “Pathetic!”

“Enough!” yells Shadow as he gets between the feuding twins.

“The ape is right” G Mod says with a snarl. “Let’s get some work done, you lazy jerks. Now where is that freakzilla with the social network addiction?”

*Enter Tigerman*

“Hey guys. Did I miss anything?”

“What took you so long, cat nip breath?” asks Slate, expressing both disdain as well as an unfounded sense of superiority and machismo.

“I was looking for that demo tape me and shadow recorded a while ago.”

“’Dog on a Leash’?”

“Yeah. I barely found it.”

“So what is this?” asks G Mod as he looks at the old tape cassette (Tigerman still relies on old school tech).

“It’s just a rhythm track the two of us were working on but could never get Brick or Slate to be able to figure out what to do to finish the song.”

“Hmmm…” the seasoned producer pondered as he shushed the band and listened to the tape on an old walk-man (wow, really low budget at MFUJ studio). “I can work with this. You guys have forgotten the age old tradition of filling up album space with filler. Not every track has to be a home run.”

“Actually,” Shadow says in a scholarly tone, “in the age of digital downloads, the album as a medium has become obsolete when people can just make their own playlists on their mp4 players.”

“Listen, ‘professor’, I’ve been making records for a long time. I know what I’m doing.” He takes the tape to the console and plugs in the key board. “Silence everybody,” he says as he plays an organ part over the bass and drum tracks.

“Keyboards, I don’t know…” Tigerman says as he scratches his head.

“Hey! Slate replies. “It worked for I don’t Wanna be the same and the intro for the alternate version of Samantha. Don’t underestimate the keys!”

“Well?” Shadow asks G Mod.

“One more track for the album finished. You guys can’t do anything right without old G Mod around.”

“Can we hear it?” Slate asks with sudden earnestness.

“Sure. Here you go.”

“Not bad, boss man” says the sycophantic Slate. “What do you think, Brick?”

The lead guitarist’s face scrunches up with disgust but he says nothing.

“Ok, girls, we still have time to record something else. What else do we have on this list that hasn’t been finished….What’s Give Me Love or Give Me Death?”

“It’s nothing…” Brick mutters.

“Slate?” G Mod asks his favorite lackey.

“It’s this song that we tried recording but couldn’t decide on how to approach the song. I wanted to do it all alt-rocky but kinda sensitive but he wanted to make it an extended jam song. Problem was his cut was too sloppy and boring.”

“Hmmm…” The producer ponders again as he listens to both demos. “Shadow! You go record some percussion for that solo section.”

“But G Mod… That solo meanders around aimlessly. I can’t just record a rhythm track for a song with no rhythm.”

“Yes you can! And you’ll like it!”

“Ok! You’re the boss.” Shadow goes into the recording area, picks up his sticks and begins playing along to the extended jam sequence.

G Mod, meanwhile, approaches Brick and, with the most annoyingly paternalistic tones, begins patronizing him.

“See, Brick. Four years you’ve had this band and I’m still cleaning up your messes for you.”

“He never did have any talent or vision” Slate chimes in as Shadow switches to his bongos.

“C’mon, leave the guy alone” Tigerman says in defense of the disgraced former leader of the band.

“Who asked you, freak show?” Slate snorts at him. “”Why don’t you go post depressing status updates and make what few friends you have uncomfortable and second guess knowing you at all.”

“Low blow, Slate… low blow” says Tigerman as he begins typing a melodramatic update using his smart phone’s web browser.

Shadow emerges from the recording booth and G Mod listens to the two versions and is still not satisfied. “Damn” he exclaims as he tosses his headphones onto the floor.

“No good?” asks Slate.

“No… Looks like I’ll have to fix it myself.” He sets up the faux brass instruments and jumps into the recording booth as Shadow takes over the console.

“Wait…what’s he doing?” Slate asks.

“Didn’t you know?” Shadow asks the confused singer. “G Mod used to sing.”

“With that gravelly voice?”

“No… he can sing like an angel even if he’s far from being one.”

The band members drop their jaws as G Mod belts out some serious vocal heroics on the third and final version of the song. With his final line finished, G Mod simply smiles as he walks back to the main room to dish out more verbal abuse and gloating. He exudes pure malevolence and a sense of talent that far exceeds his actual accomplishments.

Never cheer before you know who's winning. So true, so true. Huh? Oh we're supposed to come up with a blog title? Oh no. I was not prepared... uhhh, what's in a name?

In yet another somewhat dramatic (or at least not primarily comedic) installment, we return to the MFUJ offices that have now become nigh unrecognizable after G Mod’s rapid and seemingly unnecessary remodeling job. That’s ok; the readers didn’t know how it looked like to begin with. You don’t exacty describe settings that well, genius. Argh…the interior became much more corporate and less grungy/cozy. Good enough? I’m trying to picture what you’re saying but it's way too vague… Imagine the snootiest modern office building you’ve been to but subtract the billion dollar budget. Does that help you picture it? Nope. You’re giving me nothing. Literally nothing. Are you going to be one of those people who overuses the word ‘literally’? And are you going to be one of those people who says ‘those people’? Hmmm? You just used it yourself. Well, I uh… Exactly. Just get to the conversation scene already. Fine.

Brick was sitting by himself having come back recently from a long road trip. Of course he was being all moody and contemplative as usual, especially after reading a poor review for the band’s cover of How Soon Is Now?  (originally by the Smiths.) “Is this Hell?” With wit like that, I’m surprised the person isn’t pitching a sitcom pilot to ABC rather than trolling youtube for obscure covers of Smiths songs.

Shadow emerges from the kitchenette after having consumed his second powdered protein shake of the evening. Seeing the distraught leader of the band, the drummer walked over and began conversing with him. Began conversing with him? Shhh. They’re talking.

“…you, Brick?”

“What? Oh, hey Shadow. I’m uh, I don’t know, I’m just thinking about stuff.”

“Really?” asked the sage ape percussionist (Not our words. That’s from his business card.)

“Time keeps on slipping…”

“Have you been listening to Tigerman’s Steve Miller albums again?”

“No… I just, I see all the people I knew when I was growing up and the kinds of lives they’re leading. Climbing the corporate ladder, travelling abroad to help educate the less fortunate, going out to clubs, getting married…What have I accomplished? There’s the band, but we’re awful. Have you listened to us?”

“Oh, this again…”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to complain. It’s just that I thought things were going so well for us these past two years. Most of the stuff we recorded for Dead Falcon Rising was some of our best material yet and the best part was that we didn’t have G Mod hanging on our necks like an albatross.”

“Yes, having G Mod return into our lives was most…unfortunate.”

“Can you believe that song he had Slate record the other day? Refined Sugar? Damn…”

Brick stands up, his feet still raw from running around the night before. He caught a brief glimpse of his gut and mug in one of the mirrored panels that G Mod had installed and winced at his reflection. Shadow, cautiously trying to avoid the subject of the much maligned (and rightfully so) manager of the band, shifted the conversation to something else.

“How about that book of yours? You finally finish it?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, I’d love to read it.”

“Yeah, right,” Brick sighed with a melancholic inflection.

“No really. I would. How many pages is it?”

“Over 500.”

“What?”

“Yeah…”

“Wow…that’s quite the feat…”

“I know.”

“Are you happy with how it turned out?”

“Actually, after two years of working on it I realized that, much like our music, my writing is not meant for a mass audience. I put all my effort into these lost causes and what happens? I end up nowhere while some lazy jackass with a six-pack becomes a star for some ridiculous reality show and gets a book deal for some lowly ghostwriter to work on for him. There’s really no reason for me to go on like this. You hear the news? G Mod is planning on making Slate the new bandleader. Even after that whole scandal with the packages and the tweetage. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother. I burned my book so no one will read it. Everything is getting so dark and distorted that’s it getting hard to make any effort at all…”

“It’s not that bad, Brick.”

“I can’t even freaking play! Four years and I still play like a robot on low power. It’s true what everyone’s been saying. I am an embarrassment. All hail Brick Man, King of Fools!”

He does a quick salute before recognizing the futility of his joke. He tears off his maroon falcon bandana.

“I’m a joke. Did you see that commercial for dairy queen? They stole my whole image and made it a punchline. I’d sue but they’d drain our bank account with all the legal fees.”

“Brick, you’ve just got to ease up. Things will work out. You can’t be so negative about things all of the time. No one ever got anywhere by being negative and sour. Clean yourself together, get a job and you’ll be back on the right track.”

Brick’s brow sinks from its heightened position into a relaxed low, brutally calm.

“I don’t even know if it’s worth it anymore. I just want to record that last song for the album and be done with it. There’s no point in keeping MFUJ around any longer. I’m no good at it and I guess I’m sick of pretending everything is alright. Slate can have the band. I just wish I knew how G Mod was able to get to us like he did.”

“Who knows” Shadow whispers, his arms folded behind him. Brick resigns back to his own quarters while Shadow breathes out a deep sigh. He could barely keep his hands from shaking the whole time. It is becoming more and more difficult to keep hiding his allegiance to G Mod from the other band members, especially Brick. He can see his friend spiraling down but he has to keep silent or risk massive retribution from the malicious band manager. He could only hope that Brick would not implode before the album was complete.

Packagegate Scandal: Slate tweets blurry photos of his package to female fans; news organizations seem unimpressed by cardboard, barcodes and Amazon.com label

The following is a letter from MFUJ Manager, G Mod.

Dear Bleeding Heart Media, MFUJ fans and random blog reading junkies,

As you all know, the lead vocalist for Mike’s F’d Up Journey, Slate Man, has been caught up in a controversy recently due to some risky behavior on social media sites such as facebook and twitter. It has been confirmed that as early as January of this year, Slate has exchanged hundreds of messages with female fans of the band (instead of going to band rehearsals), who contacted him through the band’s twitter account wanting to talk to him about music and entrepreneurship. On occasion the conversations have gone on to take more shall-we-say lascivious directions. At this point certain photos would be sent out by Slate along with remarks containing various double and even triple entendres involving packages, boxes and bubble wrap.

Photos such as this one are an embarrassment to Slate who has always been a valued and respected member of the band. Some have commented on the impressive size and heft of the package based on the pictures while other, more cynical critics merely scoff and say they’ve seen bigger. This controversy diminishes the impact of his impressive contributions to the community, like helping to construct a new neighborhood center using only popsicle sticks and rubber bands. Many have called for his immediate dismissal from the band. While we cannot currently say whether or not that is a possibility, we would like to say that Slate has apologized profusely for sending images of his package and admits that it was "a stupid and arrogant thing for a respected member of the community to do" as well as "a totally douchey thing to do in general".

Mike’s F’d Up Journey has and will always remain a family oriented organization whose mission is to pair inane/melodramatic lyrics with amateurish musicianship. That is what our fans have come to expect from the band and it is what we would like to be known for. This event is unfortunate for all those involved. All the immature talk about packages on network news and talk shows has been shameful enough and we’d like to move past this as soon as possible.

Again we do not know if we will be replacing Slate with Bon Scott’s zombie but we shall see in the coming weeks whether that will be necessary or not.

Thank you for your attention and please keep listening to the band and stop picturing Slate’s package.

Sincerely,

G Mod

MFUJ Manager

    

To My Future First Wife Part 3: Is that you calling on my cell phone when I’m not around? No? Oh, well. Maybe fate will bring is together some other way... Stop laughing at me Slate!

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

Dear the Future Mrs. Tigerman,

I know we’ve been playing games for a long time now. You liked something of mine on facebook, I sent you a nicely worded text or an embarrassingly candid love letter, you don’t speak to me for two years, I nearly hang myself on my own bass strings, etc. You don’t need me to list the rest of the details of our little mating dance. It breaks my heart to think that even after two of these entries I still have to keep talking in the future tense about you being my lovely first wife instead of the enticingly present tense or even the acceptable past tense.

This time I want to ask you a simple question. Are you the one who keeps calling my cell phone whenever I’m away from it? It would warm my heart to know that you were thinking of me. Of course Brick pointed out that it’s a different number every time and Shadow said that it’s probably justtelemarketers or some other type of low-life crooks, but that would just crush me if that were true. You’ll let me know if that was you, right my sweet lovely excellence?

Oh, oh! I forgot to mention but I was playing on my bass and I wrote you a bass line. I hope you like it. I couldn’t record it so I’ll write it out for you:

Bmmm dowdoda Bmmm dowdoda dowwwwwww bmmmm bmmm dododooo.

So what did you think? Well you can let me know what you think. I have to go sharpen my claws and have my tail cleaned. Hope to hear from you soon my love…

You are sooooo lame!

Shut up, Slate! Aren’t you supposed to be doing errands for G-Mod or something? Can’t you see I’m busy here?

Busy being lame!

I think you overestimate your own cleverness.

Oh yeah? Well, you…overestimated…your own cleverness-ness

*facepalm* Could you please go?

Are you still pining over that same broad? Give it a rest! It’s been two years. She never liked you and she’s probably screwing someone else by now. A whole bunch by now.

You shut your mouth! Don’t speak that way about her, you tattooed jerk!

Whatevs. Later, mofos!

Sorry about that. Hugs and kisses to you, my darling bride-to-be.

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. At this point all this talk about his future wives is getting pretty pathetic. We’re sorry to bore you but we’ve already signed an agreement for at least five of these. Bear with us. Here’s a twenty. Buy yourself some nice songs on iTunes. You know you want to. Tigerman stinks, Slate rules!

The Persistence of Memory: A Writer’s Requiem. Wait, if it’s for a writer, why are we referencing a Dalí painting? And no one’s gone. I’m confused.

In the gloomy offices of the MFUJSF, after a month long renovation done by G-Mod’s ruthlessly corporate interior decorators, Brick sits alone clutching the only copy of his carefully annotated manuscript. The dreams of childhood and adolescence reduced to a 500 page tome of middle aged discontent, the alliteration-loving Brick brooded over the brilliance of his achievement. Or was it just the brine that kept his eyes burning by harsh fluorescent light into the abyss of another insomniac night? His fingers were callused and cut from constant leafing through the coarse pages protected by the brittle red plastic of an old three ring binder for hours, days really.

Having achieved his goal, often sacrificing many things one might consider important in the process (love, happiness, sanity), the author stared at his work, its pages covered with his own sweat, skin and blood. “I have finished my creation but know not what lies next for me.” Having lost faith in everything he had held dear due to years of disappointments and the growing allure of jaded cynicism’s purr, his gaze was filled with fear. Fear of obsolescence. While he had whittled away his youth with crafting fiction, the world around him and those he’d known and loved had long since passed him by, crafting a fiction much stranger than anything his mind could conjure. Maturity, progress, life. These were myths and truths that he could only feign an understanding of.

Narrative is what it came down to. Who decides the direction of where things go and who people become. He had attempted to be a part of that grand human discussion while still rebelling against the inevitability of error and corruption. His revolt led him to be washed away and left to spend his remaining days swimming through the back currents of his poorly led life, looking for a return. Every time he had a glimpse of a life beyond his shameful exile, he was reminded only of how far he had drifted, each glimpse pushing him further and further off.

And so he held the book in his hand. The achievement was solely his, a product of his imagination and effort. It was a document of the last two years of his life, something no song or show could ever fully capture. It was then that he faced his true problem. He had invested everything into the book but would anyone care? Was the investment of time worth the attention of those he had grown distanced from while writing? Of course the novel, its characters and ideas were all woven from the threads of his subconscious, lines invisible to all but himself. Would others grow to love them and hate them as he had on those cold miserable nights he had spent with handwritten notes in front of a sparse computer screen? Would he be able to grab an eraser and take it to his own words like a surgeon to flesh and correct the flaws that others might find with his life’s work? The joy of creation was over and now came the difficult path towards completion.

As an errant moth flapped in and out of the unfriendly light fixture above, singeing itself on the heat of the bulbs,  Brick set his book upon his lap. He had caught the big fish he had wanted. Could he be able to bring it back intact or would the sharks tear it apart? He reached for the nearby waste basket and began tearing the pages out of their three ringed shell and dumping them into the trash, before snapping the old binder across his knee. Like Konstantin in his favorite Chekhov play, Brick realized that his pursuit of achieving new forms were proving fruitless. He lacked the talent and vision to achieve such things and the world lacked the freedom for him to do so. He had lost faith in the last thing he could believe in and so lit a match to purify his flawed words and free him from the final disappointment which would now remain purely hypothetical.

As his fiction turned to ash, Brick rose to his feet and leaned against the window, drained. Beyond his own reflection, the road stretched off into the shadows, eventually being consumed by them. Brick wondered if he too would disappear into the dark vacuum of night if he stared into it long enough. It had been too long since he’d seen the sun, felt her warm, compassionate glow. Only the memory of her would keep him tethered to this world of melted sense, if only just to see her one last time.  

Brick finishes his novel but spends another two years thinking of a title. *Insert cheesy rock anthem title here*

And now a letter from Brick, MFUJ founding member and lead guitarist.

Dear loyal fans of Mike’s F’d Up Journey Sans Frontières,

You’ve probably been wondering what’s been going on with the band since G Mod returned into our lives once more. Well, you’ll find out in due time. The second half of MFUJSF’s inaugural season is still in the works. Expect more of the same great (or lame, depending on your opinion) content from the four of us: short stories of various degrees of quality from me, rambling rants from Slate, lovesick pleas from Tigerman and Haikus from Shadow the master wordsmith. Also expect to find out Shadow’s and Tigerman’s origin stories as well as what happens during the final Dead Falcon Rising recording sessions. Will Tigerman’s Boogie/Shadow’s Waltz ever get a studio version? Will the final two original songs on the album kick ass? What will happen when they try to record an epic version of Drag Me to My Grave? Will G Mod ruin the album just like Phil Spector ruined Let It Be? Stay tuned. Please do, we need the ratings, page views, whatever.

Anyways, I wanted to let you all know that I finally completed the novel that I have been working on for two years now…No one wants to read about vampire werewolves from Mars!

Yes they do.

No they don’t.

Anyways, I’ve spent so much time writing that I haven’t thought of a proper title for my book. How about “The Freaking Vampire Werewolves From Mars”? Here is my list of potential titles:

Stone in Love

Wheel in the Sky
Any Way You Want It
Don’t Stop Believin’

What the hell? *Slate snickers in the background* Freaking Journey songs? And not our brand of incoherent, poorly played Mike's F'd Up Journey songs but rather the cheesy Journey of yesteryear. Where’s the real list? Hmm… I think this is it:

Bed of Roses

Blaze of Glory
Bad Medicine
Livin’ on a Prayer

Arghh! Bon Jovi!!!! Where the hell is my list? I'm out of here. See you soon.

Sincerely,

Brick

And now the least annoying song from that list.