Late-Nite Jazz

Martin lies prone in his king sized bed, his face essentially smothered by pillows. "Breathing is kind of hard right now," he thinks to himself. He turns over to now lie supine and crosses his arms in an X shape over his chest. "Like an Egyptian mummy," Martin thinks, "I'm just like an Egyptian mummy right now."

A crescendoing thunder sets across the hall outside. The noise grows ever closer, the sound of someone rolling a boulder through a warehouse, near-deafening by the time it reaches his door. It's his father, Colonel, in his wheelchair coming to say goodnight. "Here I come, son!" he shouts playfully as he opens the door, holding out the e in "here" for a long time. Colonel rolls inside, his wheelchair with its magnificent titanium wheels, a silver saxophone hung from his neck. "How ya doin' son? You look like a mummy," he says.
"Doing pretty well, Dad. Yourself?"
"Well, this chair's seen better days, that's for sure."
"Chair looks fine to me."
"You're young, inexperienced. You don't know how it is."

Colonel has wheeled himself fully inside Martin's room now, perpendicular Martin amidst his many punk rock posters. Martin's room is that of a usual teen punk, its walls covered with the aforementioned posters along with graffiti in black spray painted phrases like "Punks rule!", "Death", or "Every president ever sucks", tagged by Martin and his friends, the Cockroach Crew (named for the famous Cosby Show character (non-ironically)).

"Not tonight, Colonel."
"I rather think that's up for me to decide," Colonel says, raising the saxophone to his lips, wetting his reed. "I call this one 'Blues in Blue'," he says and immediately begins to play. A powerful A♭ starts the piece, followed by an E, proceeding onwards in no discernible key. The music is loud and chaotic, death-metal-free-jazz. Colonel's face contorts to one of pure, sick passion as he plays, his eyes closed in concentration.

"Please Dad, stop!" Martin screams, covering his ears. "This is horrible!" His cries go unheard as Colonel's playing only grows louder. He tilts his head back, lifting the saxophone in a Bill Clinton-like parody. "I have a test tomorrow, please just let me sleep!" Martin wails yet unheard. It's 1:13 AM and the music shows no signs of stopping.

Eunice II Society

Eunice, 52 y.o., sits in his great leather office chair and surfs the web. He googles his son's name to find posts on Twitter which offend his so mild sensibilities. "My son is a menace to society," he thinks to himself. On a related whim, he googles "Menace II Society free movie online" and spends the next 97 minutes of his life watching the movie for free online.

Eunice now hungers; Eunice now approaches his kitchen. A room of his house he is quite proud of, predominately white in color, the realization of his hard-earned dollar. Upon the door to his 'fridge, Eunice finds a note from his son. "Dad, Out doing whatever. Sincerely yours, Germstain". Eunice leaves a note in response to his sons, which reads: "Jeremy, you know I hate it when you call yourself 'Germstain'. Best wishes, Dad". Eunice finally opens his 'fridge and removes 12 raw hot dogs and a beer. Eunice now gorges.

Antipodal Eunice, Germstain ventures the Himalayas with his friends and their Sherpa, Mike. The group comes across a vast, dirt plane upon which Germstain writes "I hate my dad. Germstain thrives!"

Eunice's Honda steadily accelerates down University Blvd. The upcoming light is red and the street bears heavy traffic. Eunice pulls strongly leftward to avoid the cars in his lane stopped at the red light. His car moves 80 mph down the wrong side of the street and soon slams broadside into a red pickup, sending it perpendicular into two lanes of oncoming, unsuspecting traffic. A white van and a black Ferrari both collide with the pickup immediately, their anterior portions buckling. Airbags deploy. Eunice watches the multi-car pile up ensue from his badly damaged Honda; somewhere, a car explodes. "Just like in Grand Theft Auto," he thinks to himself.

FBP (First Blog Post)

First blog post. This haiku I wrote a while back (amidst a pretty harsh break-up) seems like an apropos introduction:

"Welcome to my blog
I'll be writing things on here
Hope you like my blog"

That should serve as a pretty good summary of what I want this blog to be and what you can expect from me on here in the future.