Dear Diary...
My creative writing instructor encourages her students to keep a daily journal. My blog is my journal and here are some random musings for you to chew on.
WEIRD
Today I pulled into Caribou Coffee in Stillwater to grab a depth charge and the Stillwater Gazette newspaper machine was right in front of my truck. Yesterday’s paper was in there and my mugshot was staring me in the face. That struck me as really strange.
It’s funny how technology has advanced exponentially in every area except newspaper machines. One quarter will buy you the whole stack. It’s the last vestige of man’s trust for his fellow man.
CARIBOU COFFEE 
Given that I’m currently earning single-digits per hour and am thus hemorrhaging money, I’m strictly limiting my coffee purchases. Today I allowed myself a depth charge from Caribou Coffee.
For those unaware, a depth charge is a cup of coffee with a shot of espresso. I usually get a medium with dark roast because that allows just the right mix of coffee and espresso.
Today was the Holy Grail of depth charges; they did everything exactly right, which only happens once every 10 attempts or so. The coffee was obviously fresh-brewed and unbelievably hot. The espresso was added after the coffee was poured, which is crucial. If it’s added beforehand, the resulting depth charge simply looks like a cup of coffee. The drama is thus sucked unceremoniously from the moment.
However, when the espresso is added afterwards, it’s a thing of beauty. I’m not kidding when I say when the depth charge is perfect I stare at it for several seconds before adding cream.
A perfect depth charge has a layer of what I call “loam” on it. Loam may not sound very appetizing because it normally describes dirt. However, when I think of loam I think of the Lord of the Rings (the books, not the movies) when Pippin and Merry wind up in the care of Treebeard the Ent. Treebeard and his fellow Ents eat soil, and there are different soils for different occasions and tastes.
J.R.R. Tolkien’s description of the soil is such that when I read it (or even think about it) my mouth waters. There’s a description in the book of Pippin and Merry being so enamored with the sight of the dirt that they have a taste of it, but they discover that it tastes—predictably but disappointingly—like exactly what it is: Dirt.
If I’m not mistaken Treebeard even uses the word “loam” in his description of the dirt he and the other Ents eat. The very word starts my salivary glands working immediately. I know I’ll never visit the Ents except for between the pages of Tolkien’s book, but a perfectly-made depth charge is my rare occasion to enjoy, if only for a little while, the wonder that Pippin and Merry must have felt among those enormous, wise and gentle creatures.
If you haven't read the Lord of the Rings, that's one of those "Things to do before I die" you need to put on your list. At night I listen to a "sound soother" with the sound of rain, and when I hear it I'm transported to Tom Bombadil's house where nothing evil ever ventures and nothing could harm me.
"A door opened and in came Tom Bombadil. He had now no hat and his thick brown hair was crowned with autumn leaves. He laughed, and going to Goldberry, took her hand. 'Here's my pretty lady!' he said, bowing to the hobbits. 'Here's my Goldberry clothed all in silver-green with flowers in her girdle! Is the table laden? I see yellow cream and honeycomb, and white bread, and butter; milk, cheese, and green herbs and ripe berries gathered. Is that enough for us? Is the supper ready?'"
BOOKS
My wife and I have both officially found the books of our dreams on clearance shelves.
My once-in-a-lifetime occurrence happened almost 20 years ago. I was walking through the Gateway Mall in Lincoln, Nebraska during “Lemon Days,” their twice-annual clearance sale. Vendors in the mall would put their misfit toys, clothes, etc. out in the mall and people would pick through them and elbow each other if the deals were particularly good.
I perused the clearance rack of a bookstore and found a cartoon book called “Macdoodle Street” by Mark Alan Stamaty. If I recall correctly it cost 99 cents. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it, and if you search for it on the Internet you’ll be sorely disappointed: There’s very little written about it out there.
However, it’s the most incredible cartoon I’ve ever read. It’s a lengthy tale that’s far too complex and ingenious to adequately describe here. Suffice it to say that when I read it—which is often—it’s one of those rare literary experiences, like the aforementioned visit to the Ents, that all but literally transports me to the setting of the book.
I’ve never seen another copy. For all I know I own the only one. And the thing is, for some reason I don’t treat the book with kid gloves. Normally when I have something of such sentimental value that is utterly irreplaceable I panic and tuck it away someplace safe. For instance, I have a first-edition printing of the original KISS comic book (printed with real KISS blood!) wrapped in plastic stored securely in my garage. However, Macdoodle Street sits proudly on my bookshelf exposed to the elements, the cats, wayward cups of coffee, etc.
My Macdoodle Street book is my prize possession. If someone were to offer me a million dollars for it I wouldn’t sell it. It’s the thing I own of which I’m the most proud, probably because by owning it I feel entirely unique in the world.
My wife’s book find is actually a recent publication called “Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.” She borrowed it from the library recently (the waiting list was months long) and said it’s one of those books that she wants to read again and again, but would probably wind up disappointed if she did because the magic of “the first time” might never be recaptured.
Recently she was checking out the “Books for Sale” cart at the library and found the book for two dollars. It’s a recent best-seller, the waiting list to borrow it remains long and it was in perfect condition, but it was sitting there waiting for my wife for two dollars.
I’ve said before that God isn’t in the miracle business anymore but he does periodically toss us a bone. I believe that instances like this, seemingly trivial and coincidental, are actually the Man Upstairs’ way of telling us that he’s unable to speak to us directly, but he is thinking about us.
WEIRDToday I pulled into Caribou Coffee in Stillwater to grab a depth charge and the Stillwater Gazette newspaper machine was right in front of my truck. Yesterday’s paper was in there and my mugshot was staring me in the face. That struck me as really strange.
It’s funny how technology has advanced exponentially in every area except newspaper machines. One quarter will buy you the whole stack. It’s the last vestige of man’s trust for his fellow man.
CARIBOU COFFEE 
Given that I’m currently earning single-digits per hour and am thus hemorrhaging money, I’m strictly limiting my coffee purchases. Today I allowed myself a depth charge from Caribou Coffee.
For those unaware, a depth charge is a cup of coffee with a shot of espresso. I usually get a medium with dark roast because that allows just the right mix of coffee and espresso.
Today was the Holy Grail of depth charges; they did everything exactly right, which only happens once every 10 attempts or so. The coffee was obviously fresh-brewed and unbelievably hot. The espresso was added after the coffee was poured, which is crucial. If it’s added beforehand, the resulting depth charge simply looks like a cup of coffee. The drama is thus sucked unceremoniously from the moment.
However, when the espresso is added afterwards, it’s a thing of beauty. I’m not kidding when I say when the depth charge is perfect I stare at it for several seconds before adding cream.
A perfect depth charge has a layer of what I call “loam” on it. Loam may not sound very appetizing because it normally describes dirt. However, when I think of loam I think of the Lord of the Rings (the books, not the movies) when Pippin and Merry wind up in the care of Treebeard the Ent. Treebeard and his fellow Ents eat soil, and there are different soils for different occasions and tastes.
J.R.R. Tolkien’s description of the soil is such that when I read it (or even think about it) my mouth waters. There’s a description in the book of Pippin and Merry being so enamored with the sight of the dirt that they have a taste of it, but they discover that it tastes—predictably but disappointingly—like exactly what it is: Dirt.
If I’m not mistaken Treebeard even uses the word “loam” in his description of the dirt he and the other Ents eat. The very word starts my salivary glands working immediately. I know I’ll never visit the Ents except for between the pages of Tolkien’s book, but a perfectly-made depth charge is my rare occasion to enjoy, if only for a little while, the wonder that Pippin and Merry must have felt among those enormous, wise and gentle creatures.
If you haven't read the Lord of the Rings, that's one of those "Things to do before I die" you need to put on your list. At night I listen to a "sound soother" with the sound of rain, and when I hear it I'm transported to Tom Bombadil's house where nothing evil ever ventures and nothing could harm me.
"A door opened and in came Tom Bombadil. He had now no hat and his thick brown hair was crowned with autumn leaves. He laughed, and going to Goldberry, took her hand. 'Here's my pretty lady!' he said, bowing to the hobbits. 'Here's my Goldberry clothed all in silver-green with flowers in her girdle! Is the table laden? I see yellow cream and honeycomb, and white bread, and butter; milk, cheese, and green herbs and ripe berries gathered. Is that enough for us? Is the supper ready?'"
BOOKSMy wife and I have both officially found the books of our dreams on clearance shelves.
My once-in-a-lifetime occurrence happened almost 20 years ago. I was walking through the Gateway Mall in Lincoln, Nebraska during “Lemon Days,” their twice-annual clearance sale. Vendors in the mall would put their misfit toys, clothes, etc. out in the mall and people would pick through them and elbow each other if the deals were particularly good.
I perused the clearance rack of a bookstore and found a cartoon book called “Macdoodle Street” by Mark Alan Stamaty. If I recall correctly it cost 99 cents. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it, and if you search for it on the Internet you’ll be sorely disappointed: There’s very little written about it out there.
However, it’s the most incredible cartoon I’ve ever read. It’s a lengthy tale that’s far too complex and ingenious to adequately describe here. Suffice it to say that when I read it—which is often—it’s one of those rare literary experiences, like the aforementioned visit to the Ents, that all but literally transports me to the setting of the book.
I’ve never seen another copy. For all I know I own the only one. And the thing is, for some reason I don’t treat the book with kid gloves. Normally when I have something of such sentimental value that is utterly irreplaceable I panic and tuck it away someplace safe. For instance, I have a first-edition printing of the original KISS comic book (printed with real KISS blood!) wrapped in plastic stored securely in my garage. However, Macdoodle Street sits proudly on my bookshelf exposed to the elements, the cats, wayward cups of coffee, etc.
My Macdoodle Street book is my prize possession. If someone were to offer me a million dollars for it I wouldn’t sell it. It’s the thing I own of which I’m the most proud, probably because by owning it I feel entirely unique in the world.
My wife’s book find is actually a recent publication called “Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.” She borrowed it from the library recently (the waiting list was months long) and said it’s one of those books that she wants to read again and again, but would probably wind up disappointed if she did because the magic of “the first time” might never be recaptured.
Recently she was checking out the “Books for Sale” cart at the library and found the book for two dollars. It’s a recent best-seller, the waiting list to borrow it remains long and it was in perfect condition, but it was sitting there waiting for my wife for two dollars.
I’ve said before that God isn’t in the miracle business anymore but he does periodically toss us a bone. I believe that instances like this, seemingly trivial and coincidental, are actually the Man Upstairs’ way of telling us that he’s unable to speak to us directly, but he is thinking about us.
posted by Admin Worm at 1:36 PM
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