Nanerville

Tammy & Martin: A Love Story

2010-04-13T19:52:00.005-06:00

Sometimes two people fall deeply and madly in Love. Then they talk with each other for a few minutes. I’m thinking of two people in particular: Tammy and Martin. Tammy was a bucksome young package with neatly wrapped thighs and a distant laughter that could cull the young from their gentle slumbers—forcing their one, two, or more than two—seriously who can keep track of the collapse of family values?—parent(s) into a bit of a tizzy. Tammy’s friends and acquaintances would remark on her wayward whimsy for several minutes after she’d leave a room. Little did they know, Tammy had just sneaked around the corner to listen intently, whilst silently gurgling her tiny laughs—chuckle.

“What’s her deal anyway?” One colleague might ask once it appeared that Tammy had left the room.

And Tammy would tingle at the sound of her own name as it escaped from the lips of some self-aggrandizing coworker. She’d grow almost hysterical when the others would laugh at her. She’d breathe heavily, and discretely caress herself—replaying that fantasy in her head—the one where Martin would come around the corner just in time to see her and he’d be suddenly overwhelmed by desire. And she would just chuckle at him like a slightly-scared child. How many times did she masturbate to this thought in the comfort of her own bed, shower, couch, step-stool, etc.? Numbers didn’t seem to provide a satisfactory answer to that question.

Then one day Martin actually did come around the corner just as she’d imagined he might. He brushed against her, the faint ambience of ridiculous laughter subsiding in the background.

“Oh, sorry,” he said to her. But when he realized it was her, Tammy, the one whom he and others had just been surreptitiously mocking, a bout of something resembling panic gripped him. Tammy could see it in his eyes, and, rather than laugh, as she had planned, began to cry— then scurried away.

Martin was left there, finding himself feeling quite dumb, as it were. That night, at home, he replayed the event in his head over and over—numbers don’t really…. Could he have possibly seen what he thought he saw? Was she touching herself? He began to obsess—his weak will fueled by a malleable memory. He tried to find solace in the calm and gentle waters of sleep, but almost the moment he got into bed, there she was again. The more he thought about it the more clearly he could see her touching herself and, as such, did what seemed rather normal to him since about the age of twelve, the same. Once he had “finished,” Martin recalled that Tammy had cried as well, and this made him feel quite disgraceful.

The next day Tammy wasn’t at work. She had called in sick.

“She’s out on paid health leave,” the human resources representative informed Martin in response to his less-than-subtle queries. Needless to say, he was devastated.

The day after that she was at work, but Martin had come down with a stress-induced migraine and taken the day off.

“He’s out on paid health leave,” the HR rep informed Tammy in response to her less-than-subtle queries. Needless to say, she was relieved.

The day after that (the third day following the “incident” if you’re keeping score) they were both present at work and, despite a recent and abrupt decrease in their accrued health leave, were in reasonably good spirits respectively. They glanced at one another from across the room several times, but neither could muster the nerve to initiate any conversation.

Two months later Tammy got another job. They never saw each other again, and they never fell out of Love.

THE END

2009-08-22T19:25:00.000-06:00

Check out my super melodramatic poem!!!

Looking out for that special thing—
it’s easy to forget it’s there—always there
It’s easy to neglect simplicity for complex indignity

But what do I know?
Simple poet—
mindful monkey with buttons and shirt
Incandescent bulbs evolve,
though destination is dirt—

Powdered mountains
finely ground Life--
all roots from your porous matrix in strife
You are the finish—the serenity—

The End

2008-12-23T12:45:00.003-07:00

I think I'm taking blogging too seriously. As I browse the many blogs located throughout the web, I notice that most are superficial. And I don't mean to imply that there is something wrong with this. Perhaps there is something wrong with me. Perhaps I am the one who has misunderstood the purpose of a blog. Perhaps I have misunderstood my own purpose.

Why publish anything? Why make any effort to create anything and broadcast it to anyone else? Why communicate with others at all? These are questions whose answers may be unexplainable, but we know to be correct anyway. These are things that we must do. In a way (and perhaps in a big way) our existence is defined by our interactions with the world. It just so happens that interaction with sentient beings seems to be somewhat more stimulating than interaction with inanimate objects. Maybe this is due to an observed similarity. We tend to gain the most meaning from interactions with objects that are most similar to ourselves. Though, of course, I cannot say for sure.

What I do know (and history seems to strongly substantiate this fact-- for were it not for this fact, history would never have been recorded in the first place) is that people, in contrast to other life forms, demonstrate a strong desire to preserve and communicate their thoughts. The Internet is a perfect example of this as well. What is it that creates this urge? Look back at cave drawings and papyrus scrolls. For tens of thousands of years people have sought to preserve their own ideas.

When I see a phenomenon that is both unexplainable and universal, I conclude that it represents a defining characteristic. Thus, we are defined, at least in part, by our will to preserve and communicate our thoughts. By corollary, we are at least partly defined by our connection to one another and to the world at large. If this is the case, then our independence from one another is merely an illusion, for we necessarily rely on the whole of our species for individual existence.

But what purpose does communication serve? I remember a quote that I read way back in the 9th grade. My social studies teacher had it posted on the wall. It was something about: what makes human beings different is that we walk with the knowledge of all past generations. But don't all species have that knowledge-- even if it's stored at a genetic level. Interestingly, Human evolution seems to be tied more to psychic than to biological phenomena. I suppose this is further evidence that human beings are defined by their intellectual and communications capacities.

Nowadays, Humans seem to evolve more in terms of their collective consciousness than their biology. And these evolutions in consciousness are happening at an ever-increasing rate. Each generation now seems to have an entirely different scale of perception, based upon recent technological and communications developments. It is, it seems, the communications sciences that are shaping the collective human consciousness. And it is, therefore, these sciences that mold and define the nature of our perceptions.

This is getting rather complicated and now it appears I'm talking in circles. But at least I'm not taking blogging too seriously anymore.

Robin in a Fall Snow Tree

2008-12-23T12:40:00.003-07:00

Robin in a fall snow tree

Does the white chill pierce your armor?
Does it seep within?
The late day sun will bring warmth to you soon
Though what use will it have?
You perch so contented in your fall snow tree
You make it your own.

Robin in a fall snow tree
Not isolated
Not in peaceful solitude
Not a bobbing ocean buoy
But surrounded by the monster’s oozing roar
Always encroaching upon your way of being

Somehow, you,
Robin in a fall snow tree
With your ease of flight—
Riding the stink and stale wind
Your song shining bright
'Tis always such a morning for you
Even here, in the grey afternoon

I spy you through a shower window
Frigid flow of condensation
two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen
The ghosts of science always near
two parts physics, one part chemistry
Howling through the window ajar
But not toward you
Robin in a fall snow tree

You have learned how not to learn
You have nothing worth forgetting

For the moment I am like you
And we orbit one another
(Doesn’t Time seem to revolve in such moments?)
Though I suspect you are unaware of my watchful eye
I can’t help but believe—
Perched upon my flailing memory

Robin a fall snow tree

Preface to Impressions of Las Vegas

2008-11-02T19:21:00.002-07:00

To All the Loyal Patrons of Nanerville,

Impressions of Las Vegas, the post just below this one, was written in a state of frenzy. Looking back these many fractions of a day later (using my hindsight as it were) I recognize I may have overstated some of my claims regarding Las Vegas. Specifically, there are certainly some caveats with respect to the "come bang a stranger" assertion. I believe I was speaking from a specific frame of reference (namely my experiences with single men in their mid-twenties during a bachelor party). This experience undoubtedly painted my impressions of the city, perhaps in a "negative" manner. I will say that, aside from the reality that there are many happily married couples who frequent Las Vegas and engage in few, if any, acts of infidelity, I stand by the remainder of my ensuing remarks. All you, the reader, need do is simply employ the perspective of a single male in his mid-twenties in order to appreciate the less even-handed claims I, perhaps regrettably, have made below. It is my hope that, in time, I'll be able to reformulate my ideas.

Sincerely,
Naner

Impressions of Las Vegas

2008-10-30T00:03:00.002-06:00

Las Vegas, Nevada USA, North America, Western Hemisphere, Earth. For most, this might be enough information to unleash a torrent of expectations and preconceived notions. We all know the marketing campaign: “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” Prior to my trip, I cannot count how many times someone found it necessary to quote this absurd phrase (mainly because I can’t count past five). There is no doubt that Las Vegas holds a special place in America’s heart. It is our last bastion of freedom, the spiritual abode of all the hopes and dreams enumerated in our American mythology. Las Vegas embodies the chance to once again (or for the first time) suck down the singularly American cocktail of youthful self-destruction and the throw of the dice: American Roulette, if you will. After having spent five days out of the last month (in two separate trips) in America’s Mecca, Jerusalem, Lhasa, and Macchu Picchu combined, I now see fit to illustrate my findings in the following set of prose.

Las Vegas goes by many names and, if it were a person with a functioning head, would wear many hats. Some call it The City of a Million Dreams. Now, you may be asking yourself where I got this number (and “who really calls it that?”—to the first question I will respond, and to the second I will refer you to my name). Therefore, I’m preempting your interrogation and making sure to operate under the principle of full disclosure. I estimated that there are approximately 250,000 people living within the Las Vegas city limits. I then drew upon my background knowledge of sleep cycles, remembering that one has a new sleep cycle approximately every ninety minutes. I then realized (as I was typing this) that I really don’t know how many dreams one has during each sleep cycle and decided to further speculate that the average Las Vegasian sleeps about 1.5 hours a night and there are four dreams in each cycle. Thus, wah lah (I recuse myself from dabbling in French spelling or responsible research) 4 x 250,000 = 1,000,000 = one million dreams. I trust you are now adequately convinced, and so I will proceed.

Las Vegas operates under other names as well. For example, I prefer to call it “The City of Come Bang a Stranger.” I say this because, among other reasons, people have sex with strangers there. Now, of course Las Vegas is not the only place where this happens, so please let me explain. The “What Happens in Vegas…” mantra clearly implies anonymous sex. The city has branded itself a city of excess and infidelity—but especially infidelity (and certainly lives up to its brand). What, may I ask, could be more enticing than sex with an attractive person??? Nothing, that’s what. And so, nothing is more enticing than Las Vegas. However, it is not simply that people have sex with strangers there, but that people go to Las Vegas for that specific purpose. In other places, this is not so. Let’s take a large city like New York, for example. People go to New York to see the Eiffel Tower, the romantic and secluded canals, the Great Pyramid, the Space Needle, the dancing fountains, or to just simply lay by one of the many beautiful beach-themed pools. Do not misunderstand. Many travelers to New York would be quite happy to have sex with a stranger while visiting the Big Apple. But they did not go to New York for that purpose. This is the difference.

Before we move on, there is one more, perhaps less well-known name by which Las Vegas lives: Shiva’s Vagina. In fact, this is the literal translation of Las Vegas—named for Shiva, Hindu goddess of destruction and crocheting (look up a photo if this seems obtuse). It should be duly noted here that I am not speaking in metaphors. Las Vegas is the reproductive pathway of an ancient, apocalyptic deity—satelite imagery has recently confirmed this theory. It should come as little shock, then, that a goddess known for her destructive capacity might have a “love cavern” almost completely devoid of moisture. Shiva’s Vagina is a place where people come to destroy themselves in the name of fun, merriment, and the incubation of communicable diseases.

Thus, something very peculiar seems to reveal itself in Las Vegas. It grows from somewhere wet and dark and rather smelly. This thing is everywhere, really, but its roots are deep below that which is visible. It springs from the nether-regions of the human psyche—the childhood beatings for calling Football stupid, the early-pubescent beatings for asking what gay means, and the failed romances of early adult life. Its sustenance was beer commercials, car commercials, pornography, and high school. It is always churning, but with enough sobriety it remains almost wholly subdued. Then, after much anticipation, after much alcohol and other mind-altering substances, and after arriving in Las Vegas, the beast, soaked in its own filth, collides with the desolate Las Vegas sandscape and erupts into a cataclysmic super cell—living for no more than a few days and leaving a spectacle of destruction in its wake.

Las Vegas is the confluence of many pre-ordained, though oft taboo facets of American culture. The VIP mentality is one of these. Nearly everywhere one looks, the word ultra describes a location—the “ultra lounge,” the “ultra club.” If you are in Las Vegas now, perhaps you are reading this whilst doing a “BM” in an “ultra bathroom stall.” Or, you may have just entered an “ultra community walk-in clinic,” where, in the same day, one lucky lady like yourself can get new breasts and an “ultra abortion” (ask about the 2 for 1 special…it’s the price of 2). There are more bags filled with goop wedged into the chests of women in Las Vegas than possibly anywhere else on the planet. But please do not confuse my observation with a complaint, nay, the high concentration of boob-jobs puts my mind at ease, knowing that, in the event of a water landing, I’ll be able to use my whore as a flotation device.

The VIP mentality is quite self-explanatory and in Las Vegas, one need not turn one’s head to see it. Rather, one need only open one’s eyes and view the countless billboards offering up “happy endings,” “complete satisfaction,” and, the somewhat less cryptic, “ejaculation.” I believe it was Pete Townshend who helped me understand what an eminence front is. I’m simply calling it by a new, probably less articulate name. From a distance, she looks docile, serene, tempting, seductive, fragrant. But up close the VIP mentality is the ubiquitous herpes infection on Shiva’s Vagina that always seems to be flaring up whenever you’re close by.

Thus, we have thousands upon thousands of men and women arriving nightly at the hundreds upon hundreds of “ultra clubs” to be “ultra people” and to flash their cash for a quick taste of the apocalyptic reproductive organ. Bouncers create artificial lines to get into half-empty clubs (and no, they are not half full), to meet women with two-thirds empty heads—whilst the one third of their brain which remains functional has become adept at emptying three-thirds of their suitors’ wallets. And if everyone is a little lucky at the end of the night, one tenth of a soul will somehow survive.

Perhaps the most profound statement I heard in Las Vegas was the following: “Every girl in Vegas is a whore.” We elaborated further. And it is true that some whores take their cash in paper form, whilst others prefer it triple-distilled, or pumping through a V12 internal combustion engine. But in all fairness to the females, an analogous claim can be made of the men. Namely, every man in Vegas is a vip (pronounced vip, not V-I-P). In Las Vegas you can have anything you want, so long as you’re a man with money or a woman with a complete lack of self-respect. And so, the vips cannot complain about the whores, since it is the V-I-P mentality that sustains the W-H-O-R-E lifestyle—W-H-O-R-E, of course, standing for Whenever Happiness Obviously Relies on Excess.

You may ask yourself: Is it somehow possible to escape, unscathed, the black hole that is Shiva’s Vagina? The answer is yo (or nes). What is there to do in Las Vegas but drink and gamble and then see where it takes you? The answer is nothing. There are, no doubt, a few minor distractions: the occasional roller-coaster, the live lioness, the dancing dolphins, the stage shows, but no matter what one does to pass the time, each of these venues digests its spectators, soon defecating their remains back onto the casino floor. So, what, other than drink and gamble, is there for a discerning and responsible adult to do? The most responsible of which may, in the best of circumstances, only end up having to be wrestled to the ground by his two best friends at 4AM and find himself using his own penis as a bull whip whilst roaring in dissatisfaction. Other, somewhat less responsible individuals, may sustain consciousness in excess of 36 consecutive hours on a head full of powdered sugar, and be forced to pay several hundred dollars each time they cross the casino floor. Finally, the least responsible of all will board his or her plane, choke back vomit, vaguely recall a string of juvenile escapades, and begin planning a return trip.

Author’s Note for Hindus: Following the essential completion of this piece, I regretably performed a small bit of “research” regarding the actual nature of Shiva, the Hindu god whom I mentioned several times. As it turns out, I was operating under several false assumptions. Shiva is, firstly, a male god. Secondly, there are many interpertations of Shiva other than simply as a destructor. I apologize whole-heartedly if my blatant mischaracterization of one of your most reverred deities has caused you any amount of distress. I respect and honor Hinduism as one of the many, many religions founded on holy, truthful principles and subsequently perverted into a protector of the status quo and purveyor of hateful distrust. Please accept my humble apology.

The Future, The Past, and Other Relevant Issues

2008-08-08T21:42:00.003-06:00

Post comments so I can respond to you and make mention of how wrong whatever you say probably is.

If there is one thing about which the past can teach us, it is the future. For it is written, and spoken, and generally accepted by those who may or may not be critical in their thinking, that those who do not remember the past are doomed to repeat it. I doubt that there are many who would disagree that we surely have not, do not, and will likely never remember the past. Now, I understand there may be a few exceptions, but these are the minority, and certainly have no sway among the masses. These are but the lowly professors, researchers, educators, and historians of our time. Thus, the future will surely be the past, with perhaps a few new accessories.

What separates the future from the past? One might jump at this question, and with any luck this person will safely avoid a muscle strain (there is no way for me to know the age of this hypothetical individual, thus the probability of a strain is uncertain). Time! One might say, is obviously the determining factor. I suppose I wade into treacherous waters here. A rip current and a tiger shark stalk prey in such locales. The tiger shark, of course, being metaphorical, whereas the rip current is a generally accepted psychological phenomenon, the name of which has been borrowed recently to describe coastal water occurrences. It must be Time.

Though where does Time begin, and where does it end? I doubt if you know. And if you do know, then you are probably God, or at least a god, in which case, I am honored that you are reading this—I would also greatly appreciate your endorsement for my upcoming HOA vice-presidential campaign. But I digress. Where was I? Yes, I remember now…Time! And…The Past! You see, the thing about the past is that it is, well, ugly. There are so many unsavory memories in the past and frankly it is far more pleasant and convenient to forget them. Who really wants to remember such horrific details as genocide, slavery, and the dental hygienist? So we repeat these atrocities every so often—typically every six months because apparently this is how often one must have plaque removed from one’s incisors. The temporary pain of “the deep clean” of genocide seems like a small price to pay when compared to the incessant guilt one feels when one accepts the realities of yesteryear.

Though, when we say that we will “relive the past,” we don’t exactly mean that the very same events will occur—unless we are speaking of Time Travel, in which case we are but idealistic dreamers upon whom the fate of the world rests. We mean to say, rather, that similar mistakes will be made—perhaps the very same mistakes, but with a different cast of characters. Though it is not only the cast that changes, but also the setting, the props, the vernacular—the smell of the auditorium may be somewhat less seamenesque. The point is that the world does change, in some ways, and I mean to explore the potential consequences of making the mistakes of the past among the technologies of the future.

When we look forward (which is to say, as has been established, look backward) we know that we are approaching a kind of end of one mode of living and the beginning of another. This type of thing happens all the time. The end of a dream is the beginning of waking reality. The end of one year is the beginning of another. The end of a baseball game is the beginning of the entertaining part of baseball—the part when it is no longer happening—am I making my dislike of baseball evident enough?

Let me, if I may use an old sporting cliché, swing for the fences here. Computers are getting smaller. Even when I just wrote that, computers got a little smaller…and again. Frankly, I could write volumes about computers getting smaller whilst I write about it, but such an endeavor might prove to be a mere literary masterpiece—I am aiming higher. With computers not only shrinking but also growing faster (I am obliged to abstain from the obligatory mention that, though it will remain unmentioned, computers did grow even faster during my writing of the previous statement), we are fast approaching a moment when computer technology will fundamentally alter our perceptions and our modes of communication. Here is how.

Note: I trust that I need not prove the validity of any impending speculation. Rather, I assume that it suffices to say that everything I am about to speak is true. I am confident enough to make this claim because, with all due respect, I am something of a hobbyist when it comes to computer technology, physics, electrodynamics, maa zhong, and bees. I’m also sure that I don’t need to tell you that at least three of the five hobbies I mentioned are directly related to computing.

Imagine with me—though I don’t need to imagine because I have already created a prototype—a world in which a computer one million times more powerful than the high-end desktop processors of today can fit on a piece of plastic as thin as a sheet of paper, covering the area of a dime, and as pliable as a band-aid. Now imagine that this computer has, on one side of it, an adhesive that allows it to be secured to the back of the neck (like a band-aid) and is capable of carrying enough current for digital signals to pass through it, very near the base of the skull. Now, continue to imagine (and I apologize if this is beginning to cause pain in your brainal region) that this processor has, hard-wired to it, a set of instructions that allow it to interact so freely with the human brain that it is recognized merely as another part of the brain itself. Now imagine that you’re an elephant. I think that by now you get the point. Namely, the imagination game is fun.

But a secondary point is that within the next fifty or so years, we will all have computers acting as cybernetic devices. We will be able to communicate with one another without the use of our vocal cords. Rather, we will probably text message with our spleen (I haven’t exactly worked the details out in their entirety). We will, in essence, become telepathic. What will this mean for us as a people? If history has anything to teach us, it’s that we’ll probably live happily ever after.

Serious vs. Whimsical

2008-07-28T21:00:00.001-06:00

The title of this post came to me in a waking dream of conscious thought. Much to my dismay, however, the title did not serve to clarify the content to be created. Firstly, I was uncertain of the meaning of the word "whimsical," so, in a fit of whimsy, I sought to uncover its meaning in the Internet dictionary. Secondly, I was wholly unfamiliar with the word "serious," but chose to avoid any formal definitions of it. Thus, I will provide the definition of the word "whimsical" as it suits my purposes.

Whimsical: Whimsical (foaled 1903 at Raceland Stud in Kentucky) was an American thoroughbred filly racehorse. She was sired by the great stakes winner Orlando, out of the mare, Kismet, who was sired by United States Racing Hall of Fame stallion, Hindoo.

Thankfully, my capricious and somewhat light-hearted effort to produce a title for this post has resulted in a no-nonsense, straight-to-the-point topic. Namely, the age-old struggle between that with which we are unfamiliar and, of course, pre-Roaring Twenties-era American race horses. I will innumerate all of the nuances of this struggle here, in grave detail, though I am confident that most people are already quite familiar with them-- since it is an "age-old" battle and, therefore, has made an indelible mark on the popular culture.

The pre-Roaring Twenties-era American race horses or PRTEA Horsees (as they will henceforth be termed) have long been rich contributors to the American historical landscape. But at some point (no one knows when for sure) that with which we are unfamiliar began mounting a calculated, though perhaps ill-conceived, assault on the PRTEA Horsees. First, as most school children are taught in the early primary grades, that with which we are unfamiliar engaged in a series of character assassination attempts on the PRTEA Horsees. That with which we are unfamiliar would, on more than several occasions, make libelous statements about the PRTEA Horsees, and insist that they secretly worshipped such demi-gods as Herbert Hoover, Vishnu, and Duran Duran. These unprovoked (from the perspective of the PRTEA Horsees) assaults proved to be relentless, and, despite several decades of steadfast resilience, today the PRTEA Horsees have almost entirely become that with which we are unfamiliar.

For their part, however, that with which we are unfamiliar have always maintained that it was, in fact, the PRTEA Horsees who were the source of all provocation. That with which we are unfamiliar cites, as its primary piece of evidence, the PRTEA Horsees's use of early commercial radio to begin chipping away at that with which we are unfamiliar. A devastating claim, and current historical records do support it. The PRTEA Horsees are known to have developed a radio mini-series, or "radio mini", which was broadcast throughout the nation. The purpose of this "radio mini," claim the PRTEA Horsees, was to "serve the public well being by increasing the quantity of that with which we are familiar." After several weeks, logicians on the side of that with which we are unfamiliar, concluded that the PRTEA Horsees had allied with their mortal enemy, and the decision was made to "once and for all time destroy PRTEA Horsees."

The ultimate irony, historians today agree, is that that with which we are unfamiliar utilized the very same medium (radio) to wage its propaganda campaign against the PRTEA Horsees. That with which we are unfamiliar, having firmly placed its metaphorical foot on the metaphorical heart of America through the use of mass media, eventually gained nearly total metaphorical control. And today, despite almost a complete lack of resistance, it continues to fight for its cause with a relentless zeal.

The Siren Song of Nanerville

2008-07-28T15:08:00.000-06:00

I very recently sent an email out to many, many people. Most of these people I no longer know or speak with. There is a high probability that you are one of these people. If you are, there isn't really much need for your to continue reading. If you you aren't, I call on you with the utmost lack of urgency to indulge in the letter I sent to those very people (whom you are probably one of). The email has been preserved in its entirety, with the exception that the words have been changed without concern for the preservation of their original intent.

To all of you:

I am acting against my better judgment by sending this email to everyone in my address book. This means you may be receiving this letter and fall into one of the following lettered categories:

You...
a. Don't remember who I am
b. Know exactly who I am and don't care much for me
c. Vaguely remember who I am (but still don't care much for me)
d. Vaguely remember who I am (but all opinions about me have been lost or never existed)
e. Know exactly who I am and think I'm a pretty great guy (AKA those who have been properly deceived)

Regardless of what category you fall into, I urge you to check out my World Wide Web Log, or "blog", in the shorthand. Apparently this is the new craze and, as so often happens, I have fallen victim to the lure of the trend.

Thank you for your time, and I apologize whole-heartedly for all past and future transgressions (intentional or otherwise) I may enact upon you.

Sincerely,
Naner
http://www.nanerville.blogspot.com/ Note: The blog is in its infancy. I urge patience and courtesy.

P.S. There are few ideas in this world that are more alarming than sirens.
P.S.S. What do you think?
P.S.S.S. Off

As I write, I consider the notion that most people are leary of superfluous postscripts. Though, I suspect not moreso than direct insults.

What's taking so long?!?!

2008-07-26T20:15:00.000-06:00

I thought the Internet was fast...

I have been waiting for several seconds now and there are currently no comments on my World Wide Web Log. What do you all have to say for yourselves Generation Digitalis?! I expect nothing. But I'm sure you'll type a thing or two. Oh, who am I kidding? I am wrought with despair. What good is writing on the Internet if you can't get instantaneous (if irrelevant) feedback? I suppose that, while I'm waiting for the Internet (you people) to do its thing, I'll digress for a few moments into the world that is Naner.

Naner (the narrator, in case I'm losing you) was born. Naner currently exists. Naner is certain of this, although Naner is unable to provide evidence to substantiate this claim. Naner enjoys activities, some of which are enjoyed by many, many of which are enjoyed by some. Naner is often irritated and seldom truncated (metaphorically speaking of course). Naner tires easily of stream of consciousness, though by its very nature, it continues unceasingly.

Naner is interested in change, the past, but feels that changing the past should be left to time travelers and historical revisionists. Naner once caught a fish this big. Naner should most probably assign a personal pronoun to himself soon.

Goodbye.

The Beginning (Welcome to Nanerville)

2008-07-26T20:07:00.000-06:00

To Whom You May Be:

Welcome to Nanerville. I am speaking, of course, to you, the Internet blogosurfer of the World Wide Webs. It is my pleasure and honour to say, welcome. Or did I already say that? Yes, I'm quite certain that I did. Where was I anyway? Oh, dear, this isn't going well at all is it?

You see, I'm not exactly certain what the purpose of this blog will be, and therefore, I leave it up to you, the reader, to be a participatory member in this journey. I'm fairly certain that at some point, through the machinations of the Divine (or perhaps a Taco Bell commercial), one or two semi-original thoughts will manifest themselves to me. But until that happens, I bid you a hearty hello and ask you to participate freely in the cybernetic dance that is The Blogosphere.

Sincerely,
Naner