To My Future Second Wife Part 2: Once upon a time, I could have loved you. Once, Once...

And now resident romantic, Tigerman, addresses his second bride-to-be, whoever she might be. Yes, we haven't hung ourselves yet.

Dear love of mine that seems so far away,

In case you still don't know who I am, I used to play bass guitar in a band called MFUJ, I currently work at a large television network (which I recently found out was just a front for a megalomaniacal record producer with a pocketful of deus ex machina, whatever that is) and I'm also your future husband, although I've been having my doubts.

Sure, there's the whole threat of imminent danger that I'm facing from G Mod and that mysterious tower being built. I'm not sure if that plotline will ever be resolved in a meaningful, non-convoluted mind****, but perhaps everyone's mind needs to be ****ed every now and again. My apologies.

I'm starting to lose hope that we will ever meet. Maybe a 6 foot tall tiger creature had no right to expect to find love not just once but twice. Perhaps it was hubris that has led me to this point. I was so blinded by my expectations for the future that I couldn't see that my present was being pulled away from beneath me. Isn't that just like life or fiction. You get swept up in the little everyday things that you miss the slowburn simmering in the background until you're on fire.

What does this have to do with us? Well, Everything seems so wrong. I haven't even met my first wife and already I have an evil plot looming over me with the possibility of ending my feline existence with a few typed paragraphs.

Is that all it takes to wipe away feelings and emotions and thoughts and ideas...?

Woman of unknown origin, I just want you to know that I would have loved you like the ocean loves the earth. If all I am is but a one-note joke that has gotten twisted up in some massive conspiracy that will most likely end in disappointment (Matrix Revolutions-style), then so be it. I've worked hard to get this far and I'm not about to give up now. And If you're not willing to give up either, then, maybe, you really are my future second wife. The one with whom I finally get it right with.

Love,

Tigerman

Your future husband?

Tigerman is a self-taught bass player as well as a six foot tall anthropomorphic tiger creature. He used to spend all of the time he wasn’t playing music talking about his future wives. Now, he spends every second trapped in a convoluted story arc waiting for release of some kind. No, not that kind of release. Perv.

Long Live rock n roll and convoluted plotlines on blogs that few people read. Well, at least the rock n roll part sounded good. Let's have some of that.

A large tower stood outside the window and just intimidated the hell out of Tigerman. How did he not see this monstrosity built using the best medieval construction equipment and methods earlier? We'll just leave that up to Tigerman's extreme laziness when it comes to exploring a neighborhood. You'd think he'd notice a huge stone tower reaching up to the proverbial heavens would catch his attention, but you know Tigerman. That cat is too focused on the pretty faces at the office to notice the conspicuously perpetual storm clouds hovering twenty yards away from his building or the ominous music that's playing non-stop outside by some overworked ethereal orchestra. Some cats are just too into the ladies'... Um, we've just been informed that next sentence was censored because it objectified women in an attempt to demonstrate that the character being described objectified women. We apologize for the near-fatal turn towards the chauvanistic. We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog, already in progress.

"And that's all I have to say about my plans and well everything you would want know," said the malevolent record producer as he... Wait a minute. We're missing a huge piece of plot, exposition and nudity. HMMM? No nudity? Ok. I'm bored. Rewind please.

"What is going on, G Mod?" asked Tigerman. "It seems like weeks have gone by and still you haven't told me why you're here."

"Kitty, kitty. You never were observant, were you? We put a few attractive pieces of ass in front of you and you lose all focus." Whoa, whoa, whoa. Now how did that get past the censors? Oh, they were looking at her with the ... and the... Whooo... If only I weren't a disembodied voice composed solely of italicized text.

"I've ended the band. I was never interested in the collective whining and musical cacophony that you produced. I was after something much more precious. The future."

"What?" the confused tiger asked as he tried to escape, only to be slammed back down into his seat by the powerful arm of a conflicted gorilla.

"My business is time. I deal with futures. Deal in them... Whatever."

"What does that...?"

"You don't get it? My goal this whole time was to ruin Brick's future."

"Why?"

"It's valuable to me. I had to prevent him from achieving any sort of success or happiness. I sabotaged every move he ever made. I brought back his darker half, Slate, out of captivity by using monkey brain over there. I made sure he got expelled from school, got dishonorably discharged from that military that he tried to join and I ruined his credit score beyond salvation. I gave him no option but to be in the band. The only wild card was you."

"Me?"

"Yeah, you deaf cat. Slate would verbally abuse Brick and give him false hopes of the band meaning something before snatching them away and Shadow would undermine Brick's every attempt to be free of the confines of my grasp, but you? You  were the only positive influence he had in his life. He recruited you personally into the band because you reminded him of a simpler time. Before reality tv and self destruction entered his mind. I tried my best to isolate him from you, but you two were inseparable. until I got you this job where you could ogle the ladies all day long."

"You got me the job!"

"Yes, I know the owner...cause, as of now, I am the owner. You see, the former owner was a big believer in pre-twentieth century customs and when I challenged him to a duel, he accepted and I bested him."

"So that's why I haven't seen him..."

"Oh there's more. Like I told you, my business is time. I stole what time that douche had left and channeled it into the tower. You see that's the secret ingredient to my endgame. I profit at expense of others futures. It's a pretty standard business model and it's working for me."

"This all seem like you copied the plot of an episode of Angel."

"Oh! That's where I got the idea. That casino episode with Gunn... or was it Lorne? I had totally forgotten. Thanks for reminding me. You're not totally worthless after all."

"What are you going to do with me?"

"Nothing. you're future is worthless to me. I just needed to isolate you from him so that I could finally extract his future. It's the key to completing the tower. The final brick, if you will."

"Why him?"

"It always had to be him. He was the key to all of this. But he had to be defeated, literally and spiritually before I could achieve my goal. And now those foolish occuppy protesters will end up sacrificing someone who actually could have been their leader just because I told them to."

"No..." murmured Tigerman as the tower flashed a mighty shade of crimson as another person's future was absorbed into the giant metaphor... I mean tower.

    

     

G Mod: "World's worst solo cover artist releases his take on Dreamer Deceiver. I Issue a challenge to all you bored record companies. Try to make something like this sell. What? You chicken? Or Lazy? Yeah, with a capital L."

Before he was threatening Tigerman with the vaguest of threats while a Ronnie James Dio lyric came to life outside the Tiger International office building, G Mod was dismantling the MFUJ band name, one initial at a time. Well, it lost the J awhile ago. (Remember MFU+?) Things were going pretty badly for the band after they filmed the fourth and quite likely final MFUJSF webisode. While Tigerman had escaped the commotion by spending all his time at his new job, Brick was left with the humiliating task of watching his band publically humiliated by its own manager, who had seized control of the band away and tormented Brick with that fact ever since. You can just imagine what sort of graphic, edgy metaphor we could use to describe what it feels like to watch something you've loved and nurtured suddenly and perversely violated by someone while you watch helplessly... ok, we've just been informed that we're being sued by the makers of Law and Order for encroaching on their turf of socially acceptable deplrable programming.

With the sullen drummer, Shadow, standing behind him as a reluctant bodyguard, G Mod delivered a scathing press conference in which he denounced Brick as a "One-dimensional noise merchant who should have sold his soul in order to produce better music. His 'real' soul, not the metaphorical one that I got when he signed onto my record label."

He then pulled out a newly printed single, a rarely seen commodity in the digital era, which featured Brick's first attempt at a cover of Dreamer Deceiver. "Have you ever heard such rubbish in all your life? It's so bad that I've been reduced to using British slang to describe it. It's bloody awful, blood out of your ears...."

Although the cover was produced by Brick's solo band (literally solo), The Falcons, G Mod still controlled at least 99.9 % of all profits made by the band and all its spin-offs and side projects. "Effective immediately," he declared, "MFUJ is now officially dissolved. Anyone except upper management and the blog staff is prohibited from reproducing MFUJ without the prior consent of G Mod himself. As per the contract that Brick had unwittingly signed and lost all his privileges and rights as both a performer and a musician, what this would lead to, we'll delve into later."

For more of g Mod's thoughts, check us out on twitter. Don't you hate it when people beg you to follow them on twitter as a man would try to woo a woman.

"Go ahead and sell the song. I bet none of you record holders would take a chance by selling the song and not going into the red. pretty difficult. You're all just lazy"  

To Live and Die in Obscurity: The Inevitable downfall of Slate Man. Don't you dare to go under. Don't let'em steal your thunder. Listen to the sound...

Since we've already seen all of the other main characters of the blog facing peril or simply be menacing for totally cryptic reasons, let's see what the final member of MFUJ has been doing during this epic epilogue series called May Day.

Slate was never what we would call a good guy. Or a smart guy. Or a likable guy. He was essentially a tattooed man with a big bushy beard and spiky hair that made viewers feel uncomfortable. He was the edgy band member who was responsible for all the unnecessary swearing, controversy and partial nudity (and not the good kind). Yes, he has really been a burden. He went after the Lunch Lady Mafia (and lost in a devastating food fight), he took pictures of his Amazon package and got in trouble (shameful display of cardboard) and he acted like a pretentious douche in webisode 1, an attention-starved idiot in webisode 2, a bluesy vagabond in webisode 3 and an idiot savant battleship player in webisode 4. Talk about inconsistant.

So what has happened to the least popular member of MFUJ, the world's most self-imploding, semi-fictional rock band?

Picture a light drizzle of late spring urban rain falling on a desolate alleyway. Inside that alleyway is a rusty old dumpster. Inside that dumspter is...the rest of this blog. Oh, I sure walked right into that one. Slate was now destitute, penniless and alone. And wet. The rain, remember? After being G Mod's obedient lackey within the band for years, Slate was cast out of the megalomaniacal (yes, we use that adjective a lot, so sue us. On second thought, don't. We have no money and all of our stuff is worth less than nothing; it'll actually cause you to lose money just by owning it) producer's good graces. Without any warning or even two weeks' notice (same thing?), Slate was thrown in the back of a van and dropped off at a random street corner.  

Without a name to call his own (and his tattoos washing away), Slate stumbled past the streetwalkers and dealers (mostly black jack and occasionally Texas hold-em). There were bright lights and dark hearts everywhere. Yes, you guessed it. Slate was exiled to the late 70's / early 80's.  Is a time travel concept the sign of a writer reaching the limits of his creativity? I won't argue with that. But c'mon. Slate stuck in an era of decadence and lawlessness? That's gold, Jerry. Gold.

But what's so great about being in this time? Well, it just so happens that a young band that is only a few years away from renaming itself to Super Mario and the Koopa Troopas was about to get on stage at CBGB's. We'll let you ponder the possible plotholes that might entail as we leave you for now.

   

My thoughts on imperfect music. Just as soon as your back is turned, they'll be tryin' to cut you down. But just bear this in mind, a true friend is hard to find.

Before the events of the May Day Saga were set into motion, a very distraught Brick went on to write an open letter to fans, critics and people who "accidentally" reached this blog and "accidentally" decided to read a bunch of entries because, well, it's on the internet and that's a public space and open to everyone.

To whom it may concern, 
  
You may know me as Brick but really I'm just a man with a guitar. I'm not special. I never set out to be special. Let the special people be special. I just know that I'm not one of them. And I'm fine with that.

I've been playing music on and off for half a decade at this point. Sure, in the early days I was only playing scattered notes and bar chords but my goal was to make music and I went ahead and did it, regardless of the outcome. I just wanted to play and I've been fortunate to get some support over the years for some of my work and I'm grateful to everyone who gave my music and honest chance and didn't just dismiss it outright.



For the record, I know that I'm a terrible musician. I never tune my guitar, I forget lyrics most of the time and I don't always hit the right notes. But none of that's important, at least not to me. I'm flawed, my music is flawed, simple as that. Some people only want perfection. Perfect = boring.


A computer can make anyone sound great and the rhythm will be the same throughout the song. Where's the fun in that? I'm more interested in the struggle of getting through a song. Finding new ways to expand or simplify it. It's not going to be pretty but it's what makes it interesting for me. Sadly some people only care about following strict rules and not about being in the moment or seeing music as a gradual process of discovery and improvement.


Suddenly it's a crime to document that process of musical discovery? If you don't want to watch, you don't have to watch. It's simple.


Music is such an open-ended form of expression. It can mean Opera. It can mean Experimental jazz. It can mean Noise rock. Hell, even a metronome is musical. It's got a beat, right? Sure some music gains wider favor amongst people. Of course people tend to gravitate towards highly polished, well trained musicians or highly processed but good-looking pop stars. Not many are interested in the ramblings of a third-rate punk rocker and his thoughts on music. I understand that.


I'm lucky to have the freedom to share my music with people using the web. Sure, sometimes I post songs that aren't of the highest quality, but it's me playing, me singing and it's my channel so I can use it as I see fit. Sure I could strive to achieve more polish to my sound but then it wouldn't be my sound. Even if I tune my guitar, and practice till the cows come home from work, I'll never sing beautifully, my playing will always be full of mistakes due to my own limitations. That doesn't mean I'll stop playing. Some of the old blues musicians played cheap out-of-tune guitars and sang out of key but I still find them much more compelling than today's auto-tuned stars.



Struggle is beautiful, it's inspiring. I don't want to sound pretentious. My music has always been about struggle. Me struggling to overcome obstacles whether they were in my life or within the song itself. Sometimes I succeed and sometimes I fall flat on my face, but it's my right to share that struggle and not be suppressed because it isn't perfect.








If you want to hear someone play a perfect cover of some classic rock song, you're in the wrong place. I'm not going to give you perfection. My music is honest in its raw, unadorned ugliness and that's the way I like it.




If you support me in my effort to get better, thank you. If you're only interested in being fashionable or fellating the egos of the perfect mannequins posing as music's biggest stars, then don't let me keep you from it.  

Peace.

Sincerely,

A man and his guitar

The Long and Winding Road to Adulthood Part 4: Once You've got the Job... Look over there! Not at the man behind the curtain. Or that Rainbow Rising...on the horizon. Hope he isn't Polonius. Hahaha...mlet (We're really milking these sequels, aren't we, Hollywood?) Man this title is all over the place, isn't it? We need a better editor.

And so we, the writers, have returned to the MFUJSF blog with merriment and joy. Wait a minute, that doesn't sound like us. We're usually either depressingly nihilistic or idiotically comical. Ok, now that we've finished beating ourselves up and leaving us vulnerable to the virtual vultures out there, let's get back to the blogging.

For those who are keeping score at home, this is part 2 of the May Day Saga.

As you may know from past entries (and if you don't, shame on you), Tigerman finally got a normal 9-5 job working on television. Now who would be crazy enough to hire a six foot tiger creature who plays the bass? Tiger International Channel, a cable channel catering to Tigers living far from home, of course. Now this wouldn't an MFUJSF story arc without some dark twist hiding somewhere 9otherwise why bother , right?) We'll get to that soon, but first...

Tigerman had been working for Tiger International for a few months now. Everyday was pretty much the same. He'd claw his way out of bed at seven for his morning grooming ritual. Then he'd feast on a gazelle or whatever's in the fridge before lunging out the door at nine. When he finally arrived, he'd flirt with the female security guard before taking the world's slowest elevator upstairs.

The actual office where Tigerman had been working was a tightly knit community that had reluctantly allowed the bass player to join their ranks. He was assigned a cubicle and given menial assignments to take up his time. But being hungry for meaningful employment outside a profitless rock band. Besides being slightly invisible to the fine ladies in the office (or completely invisible; he is a tiger and those stripes offer a great camo index) and doing the work of various higher level employees, he seemed content with his new life outside of obscure rock and roll music.

His eyes would grow weary, his paws sore and his neck stiff and strained, but he still kept showing up anyway. He had the newfound confidence present in those who have been given employment an he wasn't about to throw it away over some irrelevant detail like exhaustion. It was at this point, one day, when he was logging the upteenth "Tiger Movie Studio Presents" promos tape he remembered Shadow's fourth and final guide for new employees.

1) Just because you're employed doesn't mean you're out of the woods just yet. In fact, you're out of the woods and into the jungle. Welcome to it.

Tigerman reflected on the wisdom of this line as he pondered how complex the office ecosystem was. The managers were the head of the food chain, always wandering the halls as a duo, walking the fine line between friendly and oppressive.  Next came the lovely ladies who strutted around the office in high heels and sub-designer clothes (I'm not sure that means what you think it means) whose beauty was eclipsed only by their incessant conversations amongst themselves. Then came the mid level editors and other essential staff... the very bottom is reserved for the sla... I mean interns. They're at the bootom. there ain't nothing foither, I mean further.

2) Keep a low profile by working hard without showboating or rocking the boat (pretty much avoid boat metaphors)  to avoid jealousy and scrutiny.

Yeah, Tigerman was pretty much doing a lot of work and keeping out of the spotlight, even as the company was now under new management. Tigerman had yet to see who the new boss was. Every time the new big cheese walked passed, Tigerman was busy reading timecodes or creating dissolves. But as the employees around the office began to slowly disappear one by one, Tigerman became increasingly more worried about who this mysterious new leader was. Tigerman's mentor at the company, a wise but sly jaguar, kept joking that the new boss was related to the MFUJ bassist but that seemed impossible.

3) Don't mess with the status quo. No one likes a trouble maker.

Looking outside of the little cubicle he had been given, Tigerman saw a bunch of the bigwigs gather in the conference room and he knew fro sure that the big kahuna would be in there. Using all the sneaky maneuvers he had learned from playing an obscene number of stealth games, he creeped (I believe the word you're looking for is 'crept' but whatever), crawled and tiger-rolled to the conference room door and pressed up against the wall. A few weeks earlier, he would have run into some colleagues along the way but they all seemed to have disappeared one by one and were never mentioned again. He drew a heavy breath and exhaled his antelope sandwich breath before pressing his ear to the door.   

He heard a gravelly voice driving the meeting and some scattered protests from the various middle managers. Before he knew what to say, the meeting had ended and the door opened followed by a parade of disappointed middle-aged felines. Some noticed him standing against the wall so conspicuously but were too disappointed by the meeting to give a flying fig about the office idiot.

4) That man behind the curtain (or swivel chair)? Pay no attention to him.

Noticing that he hadn't seen the big boss leave, Tigerman entered the conference room and saw one swivel chair turned away from the door in the most ominous way possible. as he stepped further into the office, he hear the door, the person in the chair spoke in a familiar gruff tone like his voice had been shredded and then stitched back together with barbed wire.

"How are you enjoying your first real job? It's nice, ain't it? To be a part of the real world."

"I uh... I guess."

"You know, I expected a little more gratitude."

"Who are you?" asked the confuzzled tiger. Really? Confuzzled...oh, I get it. Fuzz. No, it's still not funny.

"Me? Oh, well. First you lose my sunglasses and now you've lost my name. I knew there was a reason that I never liked you.

"G Mod!" Tigerman screamed in horror as he ran to the door, only to see that it was locked and MFUJ drummer Shadow was blocking it. "E tu, Shadow?" he said with an equal mix of melodrama and betrayal.

"Sit down, pussycat," said the megalomaniacal record producer, "we have a lot to discuss."

Outside the office window, a huge stone tower was being constructed...

Then came the first day of May and the return of the Occupy Protesters to MFUJ's doors for one final confrontation. There was nowhere left to run for the band that activists can't seem to stand. Maybe it's the unnecessary rhymes...that are right on time. Ok, we'll stop...pop.

In a stroke of true stroke of storytelling genius, we will begin this story close to the end and continue over the course of a few blog posts as a big miniseries/flashback cluster****.

MFUJ HQ Mark II (You know, that place where Websiodes 3 and 4 were filmed) was now surrounded by hundreds of angry scholars,  hipsters, anarchists and other frustrated unemployed individuals. The masses descended upon that isolated lake house like the Dark Side of the Moon on the album charts. And just like that album, they refused to go anywhere for a long, long time. We did mention them not having jobs, right? They carried with them picket signs and fury in their hearts. It was May and the local fauna was scared witless by the mob.

Inside, Brick, our reluctant protagonist who sold his soul for a band that essentially went nowhere except for a few meandering blog adventures, was in hiding on the second floor. The situation was desperate on both sides. Brick, facing the latest in a depressing long series of downward spirals, was unsure if this would his last stand. His band mates were nowhere to be found and it seemed like he would have to face the onslaught from the Occupy protesters all on his own.

That morning had been quiet. The sun had woken him with its golden reflection in the lake that sprawled outside his window. There wasn't even the slightest breeze to disturb the water's surface, leaving it in a rare state of stillness that unsettled Brick greatly. He knew it wouldn't last. Peace never does.

Unshaven, unkempt and drowsy as hell, Brick stumbled about looking for nourishment but the cupboards had become empty during his dazed state. Things had seemed to be getting better in recent weeks. He had gotten a reporting gig a few weeks ago.

The band had stopped functioning for a while but for that little window of time it seemed like Brick could see a life beyond his own self-destructive music. Unfortunately, however, progress seemed to be short-lived. Despite his excellent postproduction skills, the report failed to catch the attention of the Network or audiences. They felt that a reporter should inspire confidence rather than pity or disgust and hired a former model for the job. Brick returned back to HQ crestfallen and alone.

And so it had been for weeks as he slowly let himself go to the point where he knew not where consciousness ended and where delirium began. And suddenly  he found himself alone against the horde for reasons he did not know or wish to comprehend. He could feel the collective breath of the protesters outside. It was heavy and it was out for blood, his specifically. In his mind, there was no retreat this time. He would have to face them...