take that, pretty boy.

Is it possible for a search engine to form an opinion?

acceptance 2: swedish boogaloo

Three weeknight shows, extended hours at work, Saturday work, and guitar lessons culminated into a perfect storm of a week marked by sleep deprivation, headaches, a ringing in the ears, loss of appetite, and the occasional hallucinatory episode consisting mostly of thinking I see Ben Vereen sleeping in my backseat.

Are you still bitchin' about your damn job? I'm not going to keep reading this blog if you're going to offer little more than self pity and impotent rage. I could listen to NPR if I wanted that shit.

I am afraid I must. It is the only thing keeping me sane at the moment.

Things could be worse. You could be as destitute as Ben Vereen and reduced to sleeping in the backseats of unlocked cars.

Remember when he was Webster's uncle?

Of course. Do you remember the episode in which he tried to take Webster from Ma'am and George? That was some fucked-up shit.

I grew up hating Ben Vereen because of that very episode.

Fuck that guy.

What's with the language? Have you forgotten that this site is directed towards children.

It makes you feel better.

Indeed it does. However, the most therapeutic for me now is this zen-like state of not giving a shit whatsoever as to the outcome of this current project. I have resolved that I will show up and go through the motions and hope for a demotion of sorts while I seek other employment.

I think that there is presently another factor a bit more therapeutic than your newfound apathy. Either you tell them, or I will.

You assume that someone at some point will read this.

Tell them what's on the Stack-O-Matic.

Carol King is still there, and I have added Band on the Run and Pleased to Meet Me.

and...

Abba.

"There's no regret. If I had to do the same again I would, my friend, Fernando.

There was something in the air that night. The stars were bright, Fernando."

At least the few who read this will be spared from hearing our duet.

And seeing the handpuppet.

acceptance

I didn't quit today either. I sat and daydreamed about quitting and how I would spend the rest of my day, but it didn't happen. It won't be happening, and that is probably all well and good, as one should really quit in much nicer weather than this.

I pictured Rex at the playground or zoo with a small cotton candy-eating child on his shoulders and then looked out the window to watch the drizzle fall between me and the sad Antioch horizon, and I knew then that it was not to be. Also, I have no children and doubt that any of my child possessing acquaintances would let me borrow theirs.

Still, I have resolved that I will never again work with this particular client, and that is all that is keeping me sane and employed at the moment.

Actually, coming home and loading the Allman's Eat A Peach, Carol King's Tapestry, and The Best of Henry Mancini onto the Stack-O-Matic and then pouring myself a tall glass of pinot noir and drinking it like grape juice until my eye stopped twitching was a bit more effective in dispatching the foul odor of pointless work from my person.

Alcohol, I have found, will dispatch such things with vigor.

goodbye flying camino

Today was one of those days that I spent the majority of as a human powderkeg, in a manner of speaking. It would've only taken the slightest prompting from our current client to either have me dramatically quit on the spot or respond to the prompting in a manner sure to elicit a swift and decisive termination of my employment. I was hoping for the latter but did not find satisfaction.

I spent most of my teaching year in that same mood. I always wanted to be prepared to dramatically quit at the drop of a hat and even ensured this option by keeping all my valuable self-purchased supplies in my car. I never left anything in my desk that I couldn't leave behind.

It was a counterproductive attitude to take, but there was still something reasurring about this mirage of freedom.

At any rate, my dizzy spells have returned. I'm thinking now that they were brought on by work-related stress in the first place and not a brain tumor, as I have always suspected. Nonetheless, they are here now, and I fear that this lack of balance will be the final blow to my dream of someday giving it all up and becoming a trapeze artist of sorts.

Say it isn't so! I already had "The Flying Camino Brothers" stitched into our tights.

I'm afraid it was all for naught. Besides, the fear of heights would've probably proved itself a greater or equal impediment as my inability to successfully deal with gravity on a regular basis.

Still, where one dream dies, perhaps another may be fulfilled.

This particular project will only last the next month, and I have dealt with paranoid imbeciles in closer situations and for much longer periods of time than that, but there is still sufficient time to dramatically walk out of my half-job in some legendary fashion.

Yes, and then we'll burn things.

We will not burn things. Saying things like that out loud will only make this post "People's Exhibit A".

No, we will go back to being a landscaper, man of leisure, or destitute man, formerly of leisure, who has lived the dream and suffered the consequences.

And won't that be something.

another set of fives

Young Wooderson has tagged me, and I shall oblige.

Remove the blog in the top spot from the following list and bump everyone up one place. Then add your blog to the bottom slot. (1) Huts (2) Karmadgeon (3) (insert name here) (4) Hits from 'da Blog (5) Rex L.

Next, select 5 people to tag: Forgive me if any of you have already been tagged or are not into this sort of thing, but the gauntlet is now being thrown before: Kat, Auntee, Knucklehead, Kleinheider, and Mel.

What were you doing 10 years ago? I was beginning my second semester at MTSU and working a few nights a week at a video store across the street called Videoculture. It only paid minimum wage, but we were often able to drink and smoke to our hearts' desire while renting out various "cult classics" and "smut". I spent the rest of my time sitting in the now defunct Red Rose coffee house or writing the most unreadable short stories on my typewriter back in my room at the Center Point apartments. It was a nice room, and I could see the "geographic center of Tennessee" marker from the back window.

What were you doing 1 year ago? I'm pretty much doing the same thing I was at this time last year (with the notable exception of this whole blogging thing).

Five snacks you enjoy: (1) peanuts (2) peanut butter (3) dark chocolate (4) sourdough pretzels (5) blueberries

Five songs to which you know all the lyrics: I'm horrible at memorizing lyrics. This fact is second only to my inability to sing and lack of patience to write songs in reasons why I'm not a singer-songwriter. However, I have managed to learn the lyrics to: (1)"Why Don't We Do It In The Road", by The Beatles, (2) "You Know My Name(Look Up The Number)", by The Beatles, (3)"Wild Honey Pie", by The Beatles, (4)"I Want You (She's So Heavy)", by The Beatles, and, for some reason, (5) David Lee Roth's version of "Just a Gigolo".

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire: I would: (1) not tell anyone that I was a millionaire. (2) travel more. (3) get a bigger house with room for a recording studio. (4) stop buying the cheap toilet paper. (5) pay a soulful horn section to follow me around throughout the day and accentuate my every move with some tasty riffs.

Five bad habits: (1) I've managed to pretty much give up my one pack of American Spirits a month cigarette habit and replace it with smoking my pipe once or twice a week. I know it isn't that bad, but it's still a dumb thing for a person so convinced that he will one day get cancer to do. (2) I talk to myself way too much. These conversations are often much less awkward than most of my interactions with other folks, but I still don't see it as a positive. (3) I bite my fingernails. (4) I am easily distracted and have horrible time management skills. (5) I often do a poor job of letting Mrs. Camino know how lucky I am to have her.

Five things you like doing: I love: (1) playing music. (2) teaching myself how to play various musical instruments. (3) roaming around wooded areas with my headphones on and the fat little Brittany Spaniel at the end of his leash. (4) aimlessly driving around the countryside with Mrs. Camino and the aforementioned Spaniel. (5) sitting down at the computer and blogging the sort of things I would otherwise be talking to myself about.

Five things you would never wear again: I wouldn't be surprised if fashion trends or life circumstances someday made a liar of me but I plan to never again wear (1) those "Jams" shorts that graced my (then) ample backside in the mid-eighties. (2) a work-related uniform with a visible company logo. (3) an old-school pre-Jordan too tight basketball uniform. (4) rented shoes. (5) make-up and a dress.

Five favorite toys: I am not much for gadgetry and I'm not sure if all these count as "toys", but I do enjoy and often waste my time with: (1) my self-modified 2002 honey blonde Fender precision bass. My walls also appear to be honey blonde. (2) my unmodified candy apple red Fender 60's reissue telecaster. (3) my Crosley Stack-O-Matic. (4) my Adobe Photoshop and Illustrator programs. (5) my burgeoning collection of first edition dime store "noir" paperbacks from the nineteen-thirties through the sixties.

something for everyone

Randy Newman's Good Old Boys is certainly a great album that deserves repeated listenings, but there can be a problem with getting the first song stuck in your head. The chorus to "Rednecks" is a catchy one, but it isn't the sort of thing one wants to be mindlessly singing while in that zombie-like line at the grocery store behind all the other milk, bread, and egg foragers.

Certain non-rednecks will find it humorous until the last line.

the unforeseen pitfalls of success

It is all too easy to focus on the pay increase when one offers you a promotion. More burdens and responsibilities naturally come with the territory, and management will rarely be able to completely sugarcoat these aspects, but the dollar signs have a way of trumping any of the standard trade offs mentioned in the initial offering.

Still, you think you know what you're getting into.

However, the little things are the hardest to anticipate. You never think about things like having to communicate with your bosses directly on a more regular basis and how it will eliminate that lunch hour generally spent drinking in your car alone or how the subsequent lack of that special "Rextime" was all that separated this from a "real job" and Rex from a downtrodden "worker".

I guess I never really thought about people actually living like this.

rex l. camino's "how to sweet talk the ladyfolk"

Any real collection of my knowledge of "the ladyfolk" and how to meet their needs could never fill an actual book. Hell, I would still probably need a section of pictures or diagrams to help me fill a pamphlet version of Rex L. Camino's "How to Sweet Talk the Ladyfolk". At best, I could possibly make good use of one side of a single sheet of paper to be placed as flyers beneath windshield wipers. Even then I fear I would be misunderstood and perhaps even labeled a pervert of sorts and once again sprayed with mace due to an error in communication.

Still, I would like to do what I can to help out the menfolk on Valentine's Day.

I have now been married for some seven years and have picked up a few things by trial and error in that time. For instance, some of the ladies in your life may ask questions similar to this one often posed by the lovely Mrs. Camino:

Do these pants make me look fat?

Most times it's pants, but the special lady in your life may have questions about her sweater, shoes, handpuppet, or any other accessory that coould in some way effect the perception of her weight, bulkiness, or buoyancy. Here is how I've learned to handle the situation...

Mrs. C: Does this personal flotation device make me look fat or in any way more buoyant than a woman of my height should be perceived as?

Rex: Are you trying to look fat?

Mrs. C: Why the hell would I try to look fat?

Rex: I don't know, but if you were, I didn't want to be the one to tell you that you were failing miserably, my love.

Mrs. C: What does that even mean?

Rex: I'm not really sure.

Mrs. C: This is going to be a post, isn't it. At least some version of it.

He's going to have you in a personal flotation device for no apparent reason. It will be awkward and it will make no sense whatsoever.

Rex: You shut the hell up!

Mrs. C: Who do you keep yelling at? There's no one standing behind you, and you have managed to spill your martini all over my handpuppet.

...Or something to that effect. I'm not sure what you were suppose to glean from that, but you should notice that the beautiful, talented, blog of doom reading, and thin Mrs. Camino was no longer troubled by the perception of her pants at the conversation's end.

Conclusion:

Smooth talk like that is sure to woo the ladies for at least seven years.

brooms not bombs

Are there many Islamic Fundamentalist nations participating in these Olympic winter games?

Is hiding in a cave a winter sport?

Ha! Yes, we all know that the italicized bastard likes to kid with the Islamic Fundamentalists, but it would probably be good to point out that he only does so because he loves and respects them so much.

Why did you delete my comment about the "mentalist" part?

Never mind that. Anyway, It wouldn't surprise me if hiding in a cave was an Olympic competition. However, I am not here to disparage the peoples of the world gathering together and dressing in giant condom suits to dance on ice or "luge" it up, as it were.

It simply isn't in your nature.

No, it is not. As always, I would prefer to use this humble little forum to make the world a better place. So it is that I say to the Iranians and Danes alike:

When men have disagreements over cartoons, it is best to solve them on the ice with brooms and what looks to be an antiquated tea kettle. Indeed, the time has come to turn from the path of jihad and the path of whatever the hell path the Danes take when they get pissed off and settle this dispute with a nice bout or match or whatever the hell you call it when people get together and "compete" at curling.

Just a suggestion.

this week in neurology

This has been the week to kick my ass. Think of some giant ass kicking thing, and this week will easily kick its ass with little or no effort. It would be an embarrassing sight, and you would henceforth think of this week the next time someone asks you to think of some giant ass kicking thing.

However, the next few weeks will probably be able to kick the ass of this week.

My super secret primary half job is generally easy and laid back and works well with my commitment to avoiding stress, but that will not be the case for the next month. There are a number of factors for this, but they are each more super secret than the job itself, and you should feel lucky for this, as it will end this particular line of bitching.

My only respite this week was an early doctor's appointment on Tuesday that allowed me to sleep an extra hour or so. My sickness had pretty much left, but the dizzy spells that plagued me for a while last year had returned and brought with them some eye twitching and various sharp head pains.

The doctor was relatively certain that I wasn't having a stroke. I would like to see a little more confidence when people say things like that, but he did a much better job than the last doctor did with, "I'm pretty sure it's not a brain tumor."

The new doctor thinks the dizziness stems from an ear infection and subsequent swelling related to last week's sinus infection. The swelling tends to throw off the balance sensors and leave Rex L. Camino bumping into things even more than usual.

If the medicine for that doesn't work, then it is probably vertigo.

Are you seeing Kim Novak everywhere?

Is anyone even going to get that?

Anyway, the doctor then explained vertigo to me, but it didn't work too well, as the mere mention implanted that damn U2 song in my head for the next few minutes.

I hate that fucking song should be able to sue for malpractice.

Uno..dos..tres..catorce?

However, getting rid of the ear infection seems to have helped quite a bit. I now have an acceptable command of my faculties and feel relatively confident that I could use them to kick the shit out of Bono, should I find myself within a shitkicking range of the greasy Irishman.

So if I drop off for long stretches over the next few weeks you can attribute it to:

1. Work.

2. Stroke.

3. Chasing Kim Novak up a belltower.

4. Kicking the ass of Bono.

I just thought I'd give you a heads up.

duane & duane, episode 9

I feel that I should point out a couple of things first:

1. I do not write DUANE & duane, the comic strip that has shown up sporadically on this page over the last few months. It is written by a slightly disturbed, yet harmless Danish immigrant who often sits beside me at the men's knitting club get togethers at the local Masonic temple.

Damn. I don't think I was allowed to reveal the bit about the knitting.

I guess it's back to the Shriners for you.

Anyway, I post DUANE & duane here as a favor to him and so that his family back in Denmark can get the impression that he is making something of himself in the new world. I think the strip is based on the stories of failed comedians and their handpuppets that the Danish have told around the campfire for centuries, but that is just a guess. I don't actually read it.

2. I should therefore point out that we here at Rex L. Camino's Blog of Doom are not in any way responsible for the content of DUANE & duane.

That having been said, enjoy (provided that you are clear on both points).

superbowl xl was indeed a stache landmark

This whole question of Superbowl XL being the first to feature a battle of mustachioed coaches somewhat troubled me throughout the day. I sort of threw that fact out there last night without really researching it, and the small part of me that spent a semester as a journalism major was a bit troubled by this. At first I thought it was my conscience. Then I laughed.

That was a good one.

Anyway, I researched it. It was relatively easy, as Lombardi, Landry, Knoll, Shula, Johnson, Parcels, Gibbs, and Belichick are all clean shaven. However, Mike Ditka is not, and Superbowl XX is the one that had me worried. Tom Selleck's Magnum, P.I. was at its height in those days, and it would have certainly been understandable for the coach of the 1985 Cinderella Patriots to sport a fine 'stache of his own, whoever he was.

More research showed that it was Raymond Berry, a former tight end with the then Baltimore Colts. Here is how he looked in 1959. It wasn't much different from his appearance in 1985.

Yes, the clean-cut Berry certainly looked as if he could share a laugh with the fellas and even engage in a bit of tomfoolery or horseplay, but I guarantee you there was no grab ass whatsoever in that locker room--not with Mr. Johnny Unitas and his symmetrical crewcut that warded off grab ass and such nonsense.

a random collection of superbowl notes

Why are other people singing Stevie Wonder’s songs with Stevie sitting right there?

Good national anthem, but I still don’t get Aaron Neville’s face tattoo. Aaron Neville is a big man who does not need intimidation accessories.
What the hell kind of animal did they kill for Aretha’s coat?

Aretha could use a face tattoo.

I could also use a face tattoo. I will get one that depicts Mohammed.

Keep it calm, Seattle. You’re moving the ball and making progress. It is a game of mistakes, and there is no bigger mistake than Roethlisberger’s attempt at facial hair.

It now occurs to me that this Superbowl is between two mustachioed head coaches. Has this ever happened before?

I believe that it has not. We are a part of history.

A commercial about a little girl with a balloon who mistakenly thinks her father has just passed away. Is there anything funnier? We shall see.

Keep the three and outs coming.

Field goal. First blood.

A monkey lighting a cigar with a hundred dollar bill is funnier than a little girl with a balloon mistakenly thinking her father dead. The Quiet Riot and the upside down chart are nice, but it’s the little things like the smoking monkey with a disregard for paper currency that makes a commercial.

THAT IS NOT A FREAKIN’ TOUCHDOWN! HE DID NOT BREAK THE PLANE! DUMBASS ZEBRA SONVABITCH!

I AM NOT YELLING AT THE TELEVISION!

Halftime. I microwaved a burrito and poured myself another glass of Pinot Noir.

At least the Stones aren’t lip-synching. A late seventies plane crash would’ve made them a better band, but I can’t say that I would’ve faded more gracefully were I in their place. Still, is there any more overrated song in the history of recorded music than “Satisfaction”?

No, there is not.

Okay, that’s a touchdown. Seventy-five freakin’ yards for Willy Parker.

Ah. Another “Mission Impossible” film is upon us. I’m sure there’s nothing glib about that.

Interception! Touchdown! Reason to keep watching!

Antwaan Randle Freakin’ Hell. I knew there was a trick play coming and so did you, Holmgren. Shit.

Harry Dean Anderson reprises his role as “MacGuyver” for a commercial. Nice.

Jerome Bettis is from Detroit? No shit. I never would’ve guessed.

Are these commercials for real movies? Seriously?

Eleven points down with just under two minutes to go. This is no time to play grab ass.

This is also no time for alligator arms. I’m looking at you, Mack Strong.

Fourth down.

Now it’s first down.

Now they screw it up and Cower is covered in Gatorade and crying like a little bitch. My white trash neighbors are shooting fireworks, and thousands of bandwagon jumpers everywhere are rewarded.

Now, let it be known that Rex L. Camino has much love for the Steelers. I pulled for them through the playoffs and would’ve pulled for them again in the Superbowl if they had played any other team. The Seahawks had a bald quarterback and a running back from the University of Alabama, and those factors left me with no other choice than to pull for Seattle.

Congratulations, Steelers.

At least it wasn’t Peyton.

to the lady who just moved into the house behind me

I was not yelling at you. I realize that my fence obscured your view of the dog, but it was a reasonable assumption that my shouts of "stop eating the rabbit shit and get the hell in the house" were not in any way intended for you. I was wrong and apologize for getting our relationship off on the wrong foot.

However, I am fully confident that my habit of leaving the blinds open would've made for an equally regrettable introduction.

I hope you're just renting.

Sincerely,

Rex

nothing left but the angry dwarf

I went to see a real live doctor yesterday. I didn't see his degree, but he had on a nice necktie and seemed relatively well groomed. He couldn't have been much older than me, but he used big words with confidence, and that, coupled with the fistful of free pills he left me with, was enough to earn my trust.

He is my new doctor. I feel bad for abruptly leaving my old doctor like this, but my old doctor sucked. I only saw him once, and he seemed to dismiss me long before I was able to get into the bit about the microchip implant or my uncanny ability to always know what Tucker Carlson is thinking at any given moment.

It is still the theme song to "Matlock". The man is nothing if not consistent.

The fistful of free pills is doing a helluva job of dispatching the chest congestion and opening the sinuses for oxygen, but there is still a great deal of sinus pressure that has somehow spread through my entire cranium. I am still quite dizzy, and it feels not unlike a constant state of walking around with Herve Villachaize on your head. He kneads his tiny palms into my forehead and thrusts the brow downward, then presses at the temples and squeezes the bass of my skull with his gamey thighs. He laughs at first, but Herve is angry and looking for a fight, and there is no Ricardo Montalban there to tame him.

I didn't mention that bit to the doctor, but I see now that it might have helped me get that prescription for Guinness.

Or not.