Mike's F'd Up Journey Sans Frontières

Mike's F'd Up Journey Sans Frontières

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

MFUJ is coming to a youtube near you! Wait, does that sound dirty? We're trying to advertise the new MFUJ short film series that is going to be made soon, but I'm not sure I'm digging this blog title. It has let us all down. Just play Hayling and call it a night.

Everything that has a beginning has an end. Every hero must face his darkest hour. All journeys must come to a close. You reap what you sow. Every cliché must be said with a deep voice set to a dramatic score.
So when does the Dark Knight Rises premiere?

That’s not what we were talking about… you know it’s getting to the point where I can’t write anything without someone…

Bane is going to be so awesome! Not lame like he was in that 90’s film where the lady who was mad at Bill had her hair dyed red and the governator was blue and that doctor from ER was pretending to be pointy ear man with those things on his costume’s chest…

Oh no, here he goes.

…And the guy who had to get married in order to inherit millions of dollars played red armored guy and the girl who was in the Clueless movie but not the TV show was also wearing a cape and mask even though she was related to the butler instead of the police commissioner…

*sigh* Are you finished?

…and the butler was the only guy to be in all four movies even though they had a bunch of different dudes playing the rich guy who liked beating up crooks and driving fancy cars while dressed in his Halloween costume.

Actually, we were just going to announce a series of short films that we are producing about the members of MFUJ this summer.

Huh?

Before MFUJ was even making music or writing ridiculous escapist blog posts, they were in a short film series that got cancelled after 7 episodes.

Didn’t no one watch those?

No, and that was some atrocious grammar. Double negatives, WTF? Just because the original Guitar Hero satire (that was mostly improvised and poorly acted) didn’t do well, doesn’t mean the concept was flawed.

Doesn’t it?

Anyways, we’re starting the films with series protagonist Brick and his coming to grips with the fact that the band he started is no longer his own… Drama! Too much? Probably. I think the exclamation point gives it a certain tone that may be misleading. We’ll just walk away slowly and pretend that never happened. That’ll probably be for the best. The last thing we want is to be associated with THAT crowd… Oh, I mean Reality TV stars not… oh nevermind. I’m getting word that our PR person is very angry at us so we’re going to have to wrap up this block of text.

MFUJ films coming soon. Stay tuned.

And now an awesome song to distract you.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

MFUJ reaches an unimportant anniversary; band members are underwhelmed by the lack of media buzz but say “celebratory cupcake was good while it lasted.”

Yes, the boys at Mike’s F’d Up Journey recently celebrated their fourth anniversary as the world’s worst fictional rock band. Due to budgetary restrictions, the celebration was largely scaled down from last year’s epic display of pure decadence. Yes, that party was legendary. It was a regular who’s who of rock royalty and you now it was a good party since almost everyone who attended was arrested for, let’s just say, having a good time, so good it’s banned in 48 states. Really? No. It just sounds better. Oh… This year, the four band members split a small vanilla cupcake four ways while the press focused on such unimportant stories like newspaper scandals and the war. Boring! Yes, times are tough for MFUJ. Um, you’re using the whole “yes, …” structure too much. Leave me alone. What’s wrong? I didn’t get any cupcake…what am I, chopped liver? Really? We’re resorting to old sitcom humor?

Anyways…MFUJ is now 4. Whooo! Uh, yeah. Whatever. See you next time.   

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Before you start thinking the rest of the blog is going to be all gloom and doom, let us assure you that it’s not. Let’s play a happy song. How about Keep on Rockin’ in the Free World? That’s upbeat, right? It isn’t? Well, just ignore the lyrics then. Pretty please?

Yeah, Brick’s character sure has been going on a downwards spiral lately, hasn’t he? He sure has been. Get it? He’s a has been! I don’t think you’re helping. Oops. Carry on. As I was saying, we get it. The season arc for Brick has taken a turn for the pathetic… Or lame… but it does not reflect the overall tone of the rest of the blog, you see. We’re not going to cop out and say the whole thing was a dream or that it never happened… Are you sure? It seems like that’s the only way to bring him back...because that would undercut the development of his character. We will continue to explore the lives of the other characters as well… even though Brick is the most human character out of the four. Literally. Half of the band is made up of anthropomorphic animal creature things as well as a one dimensional narcissist posing as a singer.

The last thing we want to become is some sort of … downer? We like to experiment with genre and play around with characters in different ways. Why are we apologizing? I don’t know; it just seems like we may have begun to irritate some folks, that’s all. That’s assuming people read this. Well obviously they read this, look at the page view meter on the left.  Whatever, just say what you need to say. Thank you. Now where was I? Oh yes. Just because we’ve been following the downfall of the main character doesn’t mean we’re going to become a tragedy. I mean, look at the Great Gatsby where James Gatz’s zombie reunited with Nick and they went and had a great time cruising down the highway looking for adventures in their automobile. You didn’t read the book, did you? I did…a long time ago.

Stay tuned for future episodes where we might see Slate pursue an online degree in business so that he can finally open that Starbucks franchise he wanted to, Shadow has to help G Mod build a go cart to win a local competition and Tigerman finally gets that date he’s always wanted. That’s the beauty of fiction…anything can happen. Of course Brick is still trapped. Dream, coma, purgatory…we’re not sure yet but don’t focus on the negative. The world is perfect and everything always works out the way you want and nobody ever ages or dies and you’ll be beautiful forever. Yes we can be happy. Look at how we bare our teeth for an uncomfortably long time. They get it. Oh thank god. Just listen to the song and we’ll see you next time. Owww…my face muscles are so sore from all that fake smiling.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

And if your head explodes with dark forebodings too, I'll see you on the dark side of the moon. Half of the time we're gone but we don't know where. Two song references for the price of one.

And when the feelings of pain faded into numbness, Brick found himself in new but familiar surroundings. He was no longer clutching his heart and dealing with a minor concussion at the bottom of a bathtub that was slowly filling up with water. He was standing in front of his childhood home, a very American place. The neighborhood breathed with the lives of those that nested there, old, young and those caught in between. It was a relatively peaceful autumn day only interrupted by the occasional car driving down the hill or pedestrian walking down the cracked and crooked slope of concrete that the locals often tread on during their daily rituals.

Brick looked at himself. He was no longer adorned like a grunge wannabe. His long flowing hair was now shorter, wavier and slightly thinning. He wore faded secondhand jeans, a cotton t shirt and denim jacket that had loose threads hanging from some of the button holes. He lost his beard, gaining only stray whiskers as a replacement. His gut protruded, his posture slumped. He held an old broom in his hands, whose wooden handle made his palms red and swollen. He was a shadow of his proper self and yet he felt at home as this schlub. He was no longer the Brick he had known.
Being as he was a creature hell-bent on pursuing the parameters of his character, he got to work. As a troubled artist, he had spent his days writing and recording while also lamenting the toll that creation took on his soul. As this directionless slob, he set out to clean the driveway and sidewalk until he could sweep no longer. He began sweeping every minute particle, branch or leaf that he came across. As much as he labored, the debris kept falling from above. His work would never be done.

As he swept the piles towards the road in order to more easily collect his burdensome bounty, a brand new luxury car purred along the downward curve in front of him. The driver was an old classmate of his. He was dressed in only the finest of suits and would dare not degrade himself with manual labor when others could be paid to do that on his behalf. Though they had spent many hours in the classroom together, learning the same lessons, time had made the two unrecognizable to one another. The familiar stranger honked at the man on the street, not out of recognition but merely to ensure that not a drop of sweat tainted his precious vehicle. He stepped on the gas and left the man on the street coughing in an exhausting cloud.

Once humiliated, the former Brick scooped the first pile of fallen nature into the large trash bag he had brought with him before returning to the sidewalk to begin the second round of his mundane ordeal. A pleasant sight caught his eye. Down the street walked loveliness. Though he tried to avert his gaze, he could not help but stare at the woman walking down the hill. Her short brunette hair, which only reached down the frame of her perfect face, shined from the sun that slipped through the clouds, as did her vintage aviator sunglasses. The closer she got, the more and more she resembled the woman he had fallen for so easily a lifetime ago. He stood paralyzed as she passed him by, dumbfounded and uncertain whether it was really who he thought it was or just a cruel facsimile. The memory still stung him as it had years earlier, not losing an ounce of venom.
This whole routine would soon become a loop as he watched those around him grow and live as he stood still, trapped. Eventually he stopped thinking at all and simply began going through the motions mindlessly, for his body and mind were no longer his own as he believed. In the back of his head he could still hear the faint echoes of music and falling water. They seemed so distant that he questioned whether they were not merely an escape from his prison of apathy and self-loathing. And when it seemed like years had passed before him in a single breath, he heard the word “Brick” repeated again and again until it no longer resembled a word at all but became like the monotone buzzing of a deaf man’s existence plaguing him in the crater of his decaying mind. Both worlds became as threatening as a lie to him and he no longer cared which lie pleased him more.    

   

Saturday, July 2, 2011

"Perhaps the only true dignity of man is his capacity to despise himself". Whoa... I think we're getting a little too deep with the quotes. Did you know that rust never sleeps and it's better to burn out than to fade away?

G Mod’s relentless recording schedule included covering other people's songs as well as reviving old demo tapes. He took out his old Neil Young record and demanded that the band perform the classic 1979 rock anthem Hey Hey, My My (Into the Black).

“Record this!” he snapped as he snapped off a piece of beef jerky he had been carrying in his jacket pocket all day.
Like dogs trained through classical conditioning by some dude named Pavlov, the four misfits calling themselves MFUJ picked up their instruments and cranked out a by-the-numbers cover of a beloved song by a legendary songwriter/guitarist using the same robotic recording style that G Mod had used ad nauseum back in the early 80’s when everyone thought nose candy was fun and nobody used protection when they, uh did the horizontal tango. The vocals were thin, the guitars metallic (but in the cold, lifeless sense) and the rhythm section seemed completely off. Of course, perhaps with his mind addled by all those decades of nose candy and unprotected dancing had rotted away G Mod’s sense of what made good music (yes, we know this isn’t accurate medical science here, whatever). He listened to the take, processed it while chewing on the half-finished beef jerky in his hand.
“I think we’re done. The song’s ready for release.”

“It’s terrible…” Tigerman said. “Can I rerecord my part? I can do better than that.”
“No!” replied the manager/producer/jerky enthusiast. “People have come to expect mediocrity from this band, so we give them what they want.”
“You mean we’re not even going to try to get better?”
“What’s the point? You can’t do any better.”
“Well that’s upsetting. I think I’m going to have to tweet about this.”
The tiger creature took out his smart phone and began typing away. Brick placed his guitar back on its rack and walked out of the room without saying a word.
“What’s with him?” asks G Mod as he cracks his knuckles.
“Oh, you know Brick” Slate answered, admiring his own beard. “He’s probably gonna go mope about something or other. You know he’s so ****ing annoying! Why can’t he just accept things as they are instead of constantly acting like a total ***?”
Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the universe.”
“Whoa, look at Shadow trying to be all deep.”
“It’s Einstein, you moron,” said the drummer as he exited the studio to try to catch up to Brick.
“Hey! Make sure he doesn’t slit anything with my razor! I don’t want him getting it all dirty with his ***** *** self! Oh Yeah? Well **** you too, Shadow!”
The foulmouthed singer turned to the producer.
“Can you believe that guy?”
“He does have a point. You are one dumb sunova*****.”
“Well, if you say so boss.”
Tigerman shook his head in disapproval.
“You wanna go, furball? Nobody messes with Slate Man! I am the…”
“Shut up, Slate.”
“Ok, boss.”
Meanwhile, in the hallway Shadow stopped Brick in mid pout.
“Are you all right, Brick?”
“Can we not get into this now, Shadow? I’m really not in the mood.”
“It’s just that…”
“I’m not going to hurt myself” Brick mumbled. “You can tell Slate not to worry about his precious little razor. Not that he even uses it, that fat bearded ****!”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Really?” Brick asked as he got a soda from the hallway vending machine. “Did you not hear what we just recorded in there? It’s a joke.”
“Well, I’m not going to say that it was our finest hour or anything but…”
“Why am I still doing this?”
“Brick?”
“MFUJ…it’s become a ****ing joke. We used to have fun doing this. We recorded music that meant something to me. Now…now we’re just going through the motions, and for what? No Money. No recognition. We’re working ourselves to the bone working for that jerk, G Mod, and his new golden boy, Slate. I might as well quit. Yet I can’t. I hate myself, Shadow. I’m not an artist. I don’t know what I am. I’m just a hollowed out husk.”
“Nice to know you still have your sense of humor.”
“You know, that wasn’t good when you said it in that production of Glass Menagerie that you were in a few years ago, and it doesn’t work now. I’m just going to take a quick shower and then go to bed.”
“Whatever makes you happy, Brick.”
The depressed guitarist left the drummer standing there with his half finished orange soda.
Brick locked the wooden door of the bathroom behind him and climbed into the tub/shower combo and slid the plastic divide closed. He switched on the hot water and let the steam saturate the room with cleansing heat. His hair flattened and the aroma of hard water splashed down from the wall. Brick pressed his arms against the tiles and let the water take its course.
“What the hell am I living for?”
After about a minute or so, he began to feel strong surges of activity flowing through his left arm. Brick pulled back. Tiny rivers of electricity pulsed inside the recesses of his forearm. Fear caused him to begin to tremble before eventually he felt the real jolt hit him in the chest, causing him to crumble to the floor. He lay there on the cold, hard porcelain, the burning stream of water crushing him from above. Speechless and hopeless he stared at the ceiling, the steam obscuring the design of the tile, making it impossible to recognize its true self.