rex l. camino has a way with the ladies

I’ve begun talking to myself. It may be the heat or signs of creeping dementia, but I have noticed it more frequently lately, always coming at the end of one of those long subconscious conversations in which two or three factions of the mind swing Tarzanically from topic to topic, and ending only when you hear yourself very audibly say something to the effect of, “ Who wouldn’t vote for Carl Weathers?” I even think I said it with a Scottish accent.

It comes from the astounding fact that two of the stars of the movie Predator have now been elected Governor of large US states. Carl Weathers would make it a hat trick. It is a dream I have.

I quickly looked about my surroundings with the disassociated expression of a mounted deer head. There was, of course, a convertible full of high school girls within five feet, stopped at a traffic light and looking at me the way a carload of high school girls will look at a thirty year old balding (yet in reasonably good shape and fairly well-groomed) man audibly endorsing Carl Weathers on a street corner.

I am happily married and have no need to impress high school girls, mind you. Yet I am not without ego and basic survival instincts. I had to think fast. Luckily, I was walking my dog at the time.

“Who wouldn’t vote for my little Carl Weathers?” I asked him.

The dog wagged his tail at the attention; He doesn’t know he isn’t Carl Weathers.

That’s when I found out there isn’t much difference between the way a carload of high school girls will look at a full grown man talking to himself on the street corner and the way they look at a full grown man talking to his dog about seeking public office on a street corner.

Some traffic lights and crosswalk signs last an eternity.