Coffee City

A new $100 bill is on it's way. Lemme tell ya about one hundred dollar bills.

I saw one once.

Yep. Gospel. Cross my heart. Actually, maybe twice per year, I'll get one, along with maybe a fresh fifty, then carry both around in my wallet for a couple of weeks because you don't want to break them, but eventually you run out of ones and need that taco.

It never goes over as big as you think it will. It's like, "okay, I'll take a burrito supreme and enchirito." You calmly hand over the big bill, and the little Guatemalan guy barely blinks an eye. You wilt a little.

So now you have four twenties, a five, and lunch. Two days later, nothing. and no idea where it went.

I may have seen a $500 bill once. Outside of Las Vegas, why would anyone want one?

All this philosophy is nice on a Sunday, when I truly believe I'm the proud carrier of maybe thirteen dollars, and one of the more well-traveled one's has pink lipstick on it.

Posted by Creechman at 8:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Sense the contrition streaming from his every move?

I think Descartes said, "a society is best governed by a few rules held firm." Our judicial system loves to practice the reverse.

Dunno about you, but my feet usually hit the floor each morning with gratitude for being alive.

Thank you God for sparing us that so conveniently forgotten hurricane while I scan five news websites with a cup of coffee, sometimes instant, sometimes dripped.

What is of moment?

The loss of Kirsten Dunst's $13,000 purse, robbed from a New York City hotel room.

Listen up baby. We no longer live in a dime world, Miss Jumanji, Miss Spiderman woman, Miss Elizabethtown "flight attendant," Miss Virgin Suicide, Drop-Dead Gorgeous, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Wimbledon-strutting Marie Antoinette.

Positive vibe for the day:

If you feel you may have done something regrettable recently, alienated someone, waking up wondering how to start over yet again, if self-recrimination blends with every soft-shoe shuffle - at least you don't have to go through the humiliation that is Lisa Nowak, former astronaut.



That video with the story... it's all coming back to her now.

Posted by Creechman at 2:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It was blocking my satellite.

I feel bad, destroying acorns of nature, oaks taking over my back yard.

But after a few years, ya have to say - WAIT! I remember light.

If trees would just stop at perfect height and breadth, sort of how women demand of men, then all might be perfect.

But those branches cannot be controlled. Therefore, I can now see again over my backyard, with proper murmurings over deceased deadwood.

Posted by Creechman at 6:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Click Trump's splotchy grill, only if you are brave and have taken a few moments to wake up on a Monday morning.

Ignore the shocking advertisement and head straight to the real scoop.

I knew things would be different once I turned forty-six.

Not one doubt society would grow up, dragging me with.

A new day, age of reason, end of innocence. Come on TV, enlighten me. All babble of the past lies dead and buried.

"Save Britney, Paris, and Lindsay."

Philanthropy is always so well placed. I wonder how Nicole Richie got left out of the mix.



"I wanna be rescued too!"

What bothers me is that I even know who these people are.

Posted by Creechman at 5:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I'm having fun with www.imeem.com.

Master strategy of group participation, which like open source browsers, Linux (the penguin deal), et al - demonstrates the level of excellence human beings can orchestrate in a free environment.

The other cool discovery I've made recently is Google Maps "Street View."



If they can map it down to high heels or a shirt worn inside-out, what are governments doing?

Look at that vacuum sitting in the corner, being ignored.

Sad, very sad.

I'll leave you with the ever calm Jim Cramer, who you might say has a slight disagreement with Ben Bernanke, chairman of the Federal Reserve.

Notice how poised the woman stays.

Posted by Creechman at 10:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Wilson Philips.



Can you tell I found a new website?

This is much better than uploading mp3 files and forcing people to download em, but don't think I'm entirely done with that particular form of self-indulgence.

All you have to do is Google a little bit, and whammo.

imeem.com

This song brings back memories of my great European adventure, train traveling, Paris, London, Stratford-upon-Avon. I have a photo album somewhere. Maybe I'll scan it sometime.

The other new, cool recent discovery is Google Maps "Street View."



Between Google maps and Google Earth, reading a simple book to enlighten my mind seems out of the question. And look at that vacuum sitting in the corner, being ignored.

Sad, very sad. But it's my birthday, so house-cleaning will have to wait I'm afraid.

A good start to a new year of life is realizing you have run out of orange juice.

Posted by Creechman at 9:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I wish no ill fortune upon Mexico, if anyone still lives down there without a U.S. social security card.

The next 48 hours are crucial to the existence of my bird feeder.

You realize, if the hurricane strikes Houston, no more Barry Manilow. Save your sobs. Gone with Abba. Vanished references to film noir. Brady Bunch vs. Partridge Family, an eternal contest that can never be won.

Marsha. Laurie.

Debate endlessly if you must.

Lost like the lost day are kissable females.

Before violin strains OUTSHOUT ME, remember, before the storm surge, what Creechman was, how doomed became his predilections for the past, how robust his future, because he likes that word, even if women prefer different terminology.

He had so much going for him, before his house was destroyed.

Two sides of human nature.

If I were woman, show me in red dress from imagination flooded, a simple girl culled up, cast down, brought low, sucked beneath the river surface like Ophelia with no swimming lessons.

But since I am man, fate honors masculine outrage against this cruel, cruel summer.

What I can't abide is smirky over-indulgence with tennis ingenues.



I sense a passing of the guard here...

WTA Tour rankings

Hint for financial security: when you work up a household budget, forget not to include vet bills.

Not on the medical plan. No co-pay.



As for Maria, who has played out her pretty hand, life is not for insecure, one-dimensional hammer-hitters.

Posted by Creechman at 4:25 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

"I Made it Through the Rain"<--- MP3 if you want, separate window.

Greatest line from "The Breakfast Club:"

"Does Barry Manilow know you stole his wardrobe?"

Posted by Creechman at 1:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Life is not about "out-disastering" the next guy.

I was inconvenienced by the rain yesterday. It fell hard for a long time. Yet when all said and done - dog was okay, I'm okay, you're okay. No car swamped. No roof fell in on me.

I had a bit of good luck actually. A desperate riffle through wallet revealed exactly thirteen dollars. Well, I dunno about YOU, but that ain't gonna get me through no birthday weekend. So I was thinking, "how am I going to find the time and boat to drive down to the credit union for petty cash?

Lo, what about my "secret drawer?" The emergency fund which used to be nestled behind a picture frame before I broke it three years ago. Removed to that little wooden jewelry box thing beneath tons of pennies and dimes on my dresser.

Yis, Yis! $125 magic dollars. Gollum.

Taco Bell's financial security, safe for another week.

Posted by Creechman at 3:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I don't know what they put in this stuff, and I generally prefer coffee strong and black, but when I don't feel like hassling with the drip-maker, instant is a real jolt man.

Once again, the shuttle has me a bit worried. Same old mantra. Nothing I can do about it from down here. The continual challenge of growing up is learning how to accept things you have no control over, and improving on choices you actually can make that affect yourself and others.

That's why I intend to smile and take time driving to work this morning, even if I'm distracted by personal thoughts. That little extra effort is a stepping stone. But if I hit three long left-turn signals red in a row again - I'm sure I'll be very philosophical about how mechanical objects have no personal agenda involved with a Tuesday lack of punctuality.

Posted by Creechman at 6:57 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I'm thinking of dreaming about about Alison Krauss again.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Wax on. Wax off.

So you wonder about the blonde thing versus the brunette thing with imagery and focus. Stay with the point.

I know his right eye wants to.

Okay - imagine me in the morning waking up with this blonde, barely remembering why or how.

Like she's from Florida, and it took all my charm, all historical knowledge, to define her interpretation of the Roman Empire.

Get into bed, ideal in my head.

Hope she's not married, or else I am dead.

Appreciate the grandeur of my bedroom ceiling.

If she stops plastering my face with piano fingers, I might actually insert toes into slippers to begin morning ritual of ten thousand steps, most of which rarely include the phrase, "so like, can I drive you home?"

Look at this poor guy. Does he even hope to have a life anymore?

A younger looking Cybill Shepherd fills him with terror as he struggles to remember how she actually got there or what legal transactions might have taken place over wine.

Fly on the wall knows it all. Or ask a dog who's always hanging around, remembering everything.

"Emerson, where did she go? Dang, dang!"

"Dude, it's 5AM. I appreciate this whole retrospective deal you've got going here with the ones that got away? But taper it down a few measures."

Posted by Creechman at 1:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Big thank you out to Tigger for the hilarious link.

Life imitates... something.

Dog seems to be saying, "what's up dude? Did you watch that "Bridges of Madison County" Meryl Streep heartbreak flick again, back to back with "Kelly's Heroes?"

Take my well-earned, dingo-bone driven, canine advice: enough with Clint Eastwood already.

Sure, he married a woman thirty years younger, to make him feel younger. Get over it. They probably have nothing to talk about over Chinese food."

News, news...

I hope you're sitting down.

Between you, me, and Discover Card, I am now proud owner of a new hole puncher.



The Office Depot girl fell all over low heels, ushering me out the door.

Get a new toy, have to play with it, right?

Closet hobby puts three holes into every piece of paper formerly floating free from a binder. Oh crap, was that the warranty deed of trust?

I'm in a good mood.

Firstly, because Monday is laying back like a cat watching a bird.

Secondly, my DVR recorded the tennis match yesterday between Rafael Nadal and that new kid, Novak Djokovic, who is screaming up the rankings and has perfect hair and girlfriends.

Temperature is going to be over 100 degrees today in Houston. Wanna go jogging? Be my guest.

The rest of us will just settle down into plush armchairs, pop the lid off orange juice cartons, turn on TV, and pretend it's Fall and football season.

If you close your eyes and murmur, well then you murmur.

Summer seems to last forever.

Posted by Creechman at 7:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

show me the way<--- MP3 File



These guys were good, like Boston, REO Speedwagon, The Eagles, you remember - back when they made "music?"

One generation chides the next, except in this one case, first from all time, I happen to be right because rap is crap.

A nice looking woman without two babies in her arms gave me her yahoo address at Walmart. And you thought eharmony was in vogue.

Why do I feel like a computer program when those commercials come on about how my 27 answers to 27 questions make me match with somebody perfect, and look at how it's all arranged for us.

I prefer obscure happenstance.

Saturday mornings rule.

So I found myself caught up in a 6AM rush checkout lane. Actually, it was the only open lane. She was the cashieress and she likes me because she always asks about Emerson, so I let a few people go before me. The chicken girl, for instance.

Bye bye now.

Slow proceedings after that, me being nice to people without a full cart behind me. I ushered ahead of myself, for instance, the bag lady looking for a new recreational vehicle, loaded with ten cans of cheese whiz. Then dude behind her, looking like he had to go to the bathroom, with a propane tank and candles?

This makes me nervous, because I just wanted frozen food and not to get caught up in some suburban cult hostage takeover.

Anyway, I did my charm thing on the cashieress, got her to write down her yahoo address on a post-it. We had to mutually steal the pen hanging on the divider behind me. Our first crime. All captured on video of course.

So long story short, I get home to dog, whose concept of the weekend sinks in. After unpacking plastic bags, I pull from pocket that small square of paper cheap screenwriters rely upon far too often.

Ink blur out of a bad Kevin Bacon film by seven degrees. Now the internet is experiencing dozens of Outlook Express notices, all bouncing back with message, "Invalid Recipient."

This post has a point, besides Styx, you remember, river of forgetfulness?

We all need purpose, and today is when I smack fist against plush armchair and declare I'm going to find that key to the firesafe lock box nestled in my dining room corner. You know, in case there's a fire?

I don't even remember what's in there.