Missing Baby

As I was browsing through my photo library today on my computer, I came across this: a picture of an adorable little boy with big, blue eyes and yellow hair. The problem is, I have no freaking idea who it is. I tried getting information out of my wife, but she couldn't give me a clear answer. How could a photo of someone else's child be uploaded onto my computer without my knowledge?

Perhaps my computer has evolved into a reproducing machine, not unlike us humans. Through various combinations of ones and zeros, the CPU of my iMac G5 could have actually created this image based on the "DNA" structure built within its memory. This would explain the problems I experienced a couple months ago with the internal hard drive. When I took it in to the Apple store, the Apple "Genius" couldn't decipher the source of its complications. Apparently, my computer was just pregnant with this digital human, which exists within the realm of iPhoto. This would be a major breakthrough for science, seeing as how computers are actually asexual, unlike we had originally predicted.

Perhaps it was put here as a threat, as if someone were holding my child for ransom. The photo does have that strange quality to it, the ambiguous environment, the scared look in the little boy's eyes. The problem here is, I don't have a child. The bigger problem is, someone has had their child kidnapped for ransom and they don't know it. This would explain the severed finger I received in an unmarked package the other day. If that's the case, I REALLY need to forward that package and this picture to the kid's real parents. If you are out there, shoot me an email. We'll get this straightened out for you.

Perhaps my future child has fallen into a time/space continuum and is now beaming his image onto my computer. No. What am I thinking? That's completely unrealistic.
What is likely is that my computer is so freaking powerful, that the speed of my CPU has defied time and has actually brought back a picture of my son from the future. This would explain why I've already named him Todd, why I've started to talk to Todd when he is crying, and why I've developed a way to feed Todd via the CD drive using a catheter and an electric pencil sharpener. How they grow up so fast!

Dear Homemade Cowboys Pillow...

Dear Homemade Cowboys Pillow,

I know you won't get this letter. This is more of a self-therapy thing for me.

Where to begin? It's been about four years since we slept together. Of course, you were never the same after the washer and dryer incident. And I know I have been putting this off for a long time now. The thing is, I will always remember you as my adolescent companion. Let's face it, you were there for me every night. It even got to the point that I couldn't function normally the next day if I didn't sleep with you the night before. Did I have a dependency issue? Perhaps.

Perhaps I just loved my freaking pillow.

I remember I went into that Home Economics class with a machismo attitude. For growing pre-teen boys, 7th grade is a confusing roller coaster of hormones. I felt I had to prove my manhood by protesting the feminist curriculum. The truth is, I'm a little gay anyway, I guess; I enjoyed learning about kitchen safety and how to iron my church clothes. I enjoyed meeting you, too.

It's funny now, thinking back on it. The assignment was to make a pillow using fabric and polyester stuffing. I could have chosen any design from the fabrics section in Wal-Mart. I chose a Dallas Cowboys pattern. I don't even watch football. But, if given the chance, I'd watch YOU all day long.

And so we were a couple, sharing the deepest, darkest secrets of growing up. You put up with my greasy head without a single complaint, and soon you developed that trademark stain. But things started to change.

I was growing up. Our long nights together were forgotten about during the day. I started to come to you less and less, sometimes losing you under my bed. I started to tell my friends that you were getting "lumpy." I know! I'm so thoughtless and selfish! I just want you to know -- no, I NEED you to know that I don't blame you for anything. You were nothing but caring and sweet and...oh god, I miss you so much!

Then there was that time I tried to mend our relationship. Six years after I made you, I decided that in order for us to continue on, I would have to wash away our past. Consider it a relationship baptism; a way to start anew in the mature companionship for which we both longed deeply. After all, I was a freshman in college. But I knew I would be risking your life in the process. I'm proud to say I wore you clean out, however would you survive the Machine?

And then that fateful day. Reluctantly, I placed you into that washing machine. Mournfully, I picked your remains from its devastating chamber.

And so, you became like many great individuals before you. Once great, now weakened. You are the Michael J. Fox, the Richard Pryer, the Muhammad Ali, and the Christopher Reeve of pillows. Although I recovered most of your insides from the throat of the Machine, you can never be what you were in my youth.

But I will always have the memories. And memories will live on even when hope seems to have been lost.

Consider this our formal goodbye; lovers parting lovers, friends parting friends...

Sunrise. Sunset.

Something New...

You may have noticed that today's "Beguiler" looks a bit off. That would be due to the fact that I changed templates. I went from the earthy, neutral, quasi-lesbian template aptly titled "Mr. Moto" to this: a simpler, sleeker, more distinguished template deceptively titled "Minima." I don't see anything "minima" about it. I mean, what it lacks in color, it compensates in bold, unified, capital lettering in the header. Whereas my previously used template made an attempt to give the title some power, "Minima" has created something in my title I never knew existed: sheer prominence. As soon as one's eyes focus on it's eminent design, one trembles in fear. Yet, because of the title's authoritative glaring, one can't help but to look back and submit oneself to it's mighty purpose.

And then, as if in mocking, the fainter sub-heading asks, "Are you beguiled yet?" I get chills just thinking about it.

Let me know what you think.

Sears and Ninjas

Ahhh, Greece. A land of white-washed buildings against deep-blue seas. A people enriched with the arts and culture. The birthplace of the gyro sandwich (and, some may say, the birthplace of homosexuality). It is truly a diverse and beautiful country.

This past summer, I had the unbelievable opportunity to experience the grandeur that is Mykonos and Santorini, two exotic islands of Greece. Did I win a vacation package through a popular television game show? No. Did I stumble across a vast sum of money? No. Did I steal $7,000 worth of merchandise from Sears on Tuesday, then return said merchandise on Wednesday for a full cash refund? No. How would anyone steal a riding lawn mower, a Holland Grill, 4 electric sanders, a rake, some potting soil, 3 bras, cheap shoes, and a copper-plated money clip without being detected? Exactly. Only a ninja could. And we all know that ninjas do not exist in Goldsboro, North Carolina.

All I did to gain this wonderful opportunity to visit these wonderful Greek islands was get married. Oh, some of you may say marriage is overrated. The fact remains that 50% of marriages end in divorce, so why make such a commitment? One word: honeymoon. Or is that two words? Honey moon? No. Honey-moon? Ah, who cares? It doesn't make sense either way. Regardless, everyone expects you to take a grand voyage to a far-off land right after you get married. Traditionally, the trip was designed to get young couples away from family and job responsibilities so that they might spend their time making babies. But I digress. *A-hem.* My point is, get married. Go take a European cruise and make babies (or at least pretend you are making babies). And when you are walking along the beach in Mykonos, absorbing the environment like a sensory-sponge, take out a euro, flip it high in the air, and have your new husband or wife call heads or tails. If there's a 50% chance of marriage failure anyway, why not do it in full European style?


Even the mannequins in Greece are gorgeous.