Coffee City

Posted by Creechman at 10:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Okay, this is admittedly of the variety one might find in "US" magazine, or "People," but not a true tabloid (because photos are fuzzier).

Simple contest. Appeal on whatever level. Photos chosen at random. You know all about their careers.

Penguins on ice cast ballots. 

Contestant number 1:

Kirsten Dunst

 Contestant number 2:

Reese Witherspoon

 Contestant number 3:

Satan

You need not actually vote.

A strange ratings process exists that presumes they know how you think, from political candidates to TV and radio, when no one has ever asked.

You are just in the math.

Posted by Creechman at 8:36 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

When the waiter saw the dead man and the ring of staring people, he paused, started angrily, and then his rose-pink face began to flame and burn with apoplectic fury.

Either that, or he wanted to meet Maria Sharapova in the worst way.

She really hits the ball hard.

Too bad it doesn't go in all the time.

No plan "B."

Girl kept staring at the dead man on the bench with a dull, fascinated eye of horror and disbelief.

Choke. Choke. Choke.

These aren't the meager droids you're looking for.

 Let's ask Ana what she thinks.

Take it easy girl. I've hyped you already.

Stop looking so pretty, all right? Sit down for a minute.

You don't have to laser every single ball into the corner, unless that's your "thing."

Stop enjoying it so much.

Clamourous confusion, upgrading wardrobe to lavendar.

Justine Henin munched lunch today, sits quietly.

Here is what Justine is thinking.

"Holy shit."

Ana, I'm your best fan. Saw you before anyone else.

Earns me something, right? Free .....um.... lessons?

Keep your dress intact, and the world is your oyster.

Out. Peace.

Posted by Creechman at 1:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Maine begs a visit.

Always loved the idea of that snow-shrouded family of pines, straight out of something I read when I was twelve years old.

Crabapple Cove, home of Hawkeye Pierce.

Stephen King sightings. Seafood.

 Or as Julia Roberts so delicately put it in Mystic Pizza,

"There's a lotta fucking lobsters here."

Vacation spree is tempting, but look at this guy.

I can't leave him.

Happier at thirteen than I remember.

Traipsing hilly trails - not his thing.

Louis XVI in his boudoir.

EmersonCam keeps constant tabs.

Guess I'm stuck for the duration, clicking through DirecTV's 257 channels of nonsense.

Posted by Creechman at 4:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Hat's off to my Uncle Steve.

He's accomplished much in his life, including beating me on the tennis court, and becoming an East Carolina staple on TV and in various venues.

Guitarists have long fingers. I wouldn't know.

Steve is married to Catherine Treadway Creech, originally from Gastonia, NC, a beautiful woman and prominent realtor in Greenville.

The couple has two daughters, Stephanie Peo and Cathy Kyriakakis, both of whom are vocalists, voice teachers, and have performed professionally.

Stephanie is married to baritone Ron Peo, former opera singer with Opera Nuremberg, who performed widely throughout the United States and Europe for more than twenty years.

 Steve Creech is a charter member of the Greenville Noon Rotary Club.

I come from the side of the family that loves harmony and says, "how do they do that?" You plink down three keys on a piano and wonder why it just "sounds right."

I sing in my car.

Here's a photo from one of the offshore islands.

It may even be the one where Demi Moore became blonde, tossed off sandals, moved to New York City with a butcher, and went on to ruin Jeff Daniel's life.

"The Butcher's Wife."

Of course she came back. They always come back.

Not entirely true, but it sounds true.

Posted by Creechman at 3:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

"Moon River"<--- MP3

"You can't give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stonger they get. Until they're strong enough to run into the wood. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky."

"If you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky."

I didn't know what that meant as a kid, but time seems to open up eyes as days sink away.

We realize it when a soft ripple of lake glides over rocks, then retreats.

Feel it in echoes. Holly Golightly.

Feel it with a cat afraid, drenched, lonely, bereft of hope in some neglected alley.

Threw herself at God's end to save it, because her whole world was finding that cat in the last moment.

Finding that cat. Saving that cat. Sparing the poor starving creature from the rain, from loneliness.

Saving it to be saved herself. 

"It's better to look at the sky than live there. Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear."

Truman Capote

Posted by Creechman at 1:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)