if you see my little rex l. camino please drive him home

Folks, I don't know where he is. I'd like to think that he's sauntering down a sidewalk somewhere in a cheap suit, muttering to himself, taking shots from a nearly empty bottle of NyQuil, dragging a bull fiddle behind him, and perhaps only stopping to wave the shaft of a broken martini glass at any fellow pedestrians who have the misfortune of passing while on cell phones, but all I know for certain is that he just left abruptly and without notice. I have rummaged through his desk and found it to be a tossed salad of Cd's, guitar picks, private detective paperbacks from the thirties through the fifties, unpaid bills, airplane bottles of gin, signed photographs of Emmanuel Lewis in which "Emmanuel" is frequently misspelled or even signed as Gary Coleman, and scraps of paper with things like "Oh what a tangled web we weave when we get really drunk and try to crochet ourselves a sweater" written on them, but it is in no way a clue to where he might be or why he is there. However, there is still some investigating to be done. It took quite some time of running through the most obscene words one could conjure before I found the password to the humble blog o' doom.

Your concern for him is misguided kind, and you can rest assured that I will pass along any info I encounter.

Yours,

Captain Howdy (or the "italicized bastard", if you prefer)