timeout

ERROR: timeout

each print job a unique piece
of correspondence,
informing welathy businessmen
and penniless widows alike
of "important information
regarding your life insurance policy" --
beneficiary designations,
policy changes,
requests Not In Good Order --
a trove of life-or-death information
frozen in a digital limbo,
irrecoverable.

OFFENDING COMMAND: timeout

too many, too fast,
print device not ready:
error printouts
instead of carefully crafted letters,
the opposite of useful on this busiest day
of the tax season,
when recently bereaved lovers
and cranky old retirees
queue up telephonically,
dozens deep,
for policy information
and claim forms,
a day when it is all you can do
to hit "print" between calls.

STACK:

and now, all those hurried "prints"
add up to something
whose sum is less than nothing,
a timeout
on a day when there simply is
no more time

What Have I Done?

You can't see this, O my faithful reader(s), but I have been reasonably busy since last you heard from me. In the waning months of 2009, I:

* Read some books
* Felt my little baby trying to kick his/her way out of my wife's womb
* Worked like a madman
* Sang some songs
* Got to see Andrew Peterson and the wonderful musicians who were with him on the Lamb of God tour
* Dealt daily with my fleshly desires and sinful tendencies
* Led a kids' club for church
* Met some wonderful new friends
* Enjoyed some wonderful old ones
* Had an unforgettable campout with men from my small group
* Got stuck in a snowy parking lot
* Wrassled with my pride
* Spent almost a week living with my in-laws because of inclement weather and holidays
* Broke my lawnmower, but right before it snowed, so it's ok
* Started writing a novel
* Struggled writing a novel
* Stopped writing a novel
* Applied for some new jobs
* Didn't get them
* Was very ok with that -- the process taught me how great my current job is
* And a host of other things

Life, in other words, has been proceeding apace. I get up in the morning, run if I'm not too sleepy (in other words, run VERY occasionally), grab a string cheese for breakfast, go to work, drink some coffee, do my best to be productive and competent for about nine hours, go home, have dinner, do stuff with my wife or friends or brothers and sisters from church, maybe play a game or watch an episode of Numb3rs or The Office, read a little bit, pray, and sleep.

Today at lunch, I was talking with the 1:00 p.m. lunch crew about LeBron James, the 25-year-old phenom who plays for the Cavs and whose monster ego nearly matches his impressive feats on the hardwood. During the course of the conversation, I mentioned that nothing could compel me to trade places with him.

I have a rewarding job, enough money to meet my obligations, a beautiful wife, an energetic baby on the way, a very satisfying relationship with God, many friends, a great family, and, in general, an exceptionally nice life. Things happen to remind me of my proper place in the universe and to make me very glad that I'm in it.

Why on earth would I want to trade this for the pressure-filled, performance-demanding life of a superstar who makes too much money, is surrounded by hangers-on, and has entirely too high an opinion of himself? If anything, I pity the man. He's never known a moment of normalcy, and he's been pushed to do too much, too early.

My friends at lunch think I'm crazy. "I'd take his life in a heartbeat," one of them told me. "I could sure find a way to use that money, and who wouldn't want to be famous and amazingly good at sports like that?"

Me, that's who. I guess when you're satisfied with what you have, it's hard to imagine wanting to move.

Leaves of Grass: A (Silly) Song of My Lawn

Sorry, Mr. Whitman...

Leaves of Grass: A (Silly) Song of My Lawn

The verdant lawn outside my house is shimmering with dew,
Glistening with anticipation of the sun's photosynthetic joys!
At dawn it glows and glimmers, standing mightily above the other lawns,
It is the king of lawns, the lord of all the grasslands!
Proudly my lawn stands, a giant among lawns, reigning unquestioned.
Of my lawn I sing.
O how immense is my lawn's stature!
O How limitless its expanses!

The lawn of the old lady next door is a neat-clipped lawn,
A cringing, cowering, dog of a lawn,
Quickened only by the lively excrements of my mighty lawn,
Basking wistfully in the glow of my verdant lawn.
O miserable lawn of the old lady next door!
How I pity your sterile neatness, your shocking lack of biodiversity!
Next to my lawn, how plain, how uninteresting, how deplorably orderly.
O close-trimmed, lifeless lawn, how boring you look!

And yet my lawn grows too much, yes, even for me,
The one whose artful neglect has caused its towering greatness.
O unrepenant lawn! How ungrateful your tall, weedy stems!
How you have forgotten the one who allowed you to reach such great heights,
To be the ruler of all you survey?
Why must you grow taller than the meager mind of man can fathom?
A day of retribution will come to you, my once-proud lawn, yes, has come even now!
My wrath will mow you down; I'll translate your pride into clippings.

Then, O lawn, how low you will be! How piteous! How utterly stricken!
Your shavings will be gathered in lifeless mounds,
Clippings good only for fertilizer.
Even the old lady's lawn will tower over you, O lawn of rebellion.
O lifeless lawn! How still your form, how shapeless your mown self will be!
And yet hope remains, O lawn of my youth, lawn of my vigor.
In the spring, after a deep sleep beneath the snowy blankets of winter,
You will arise again, and shine forth, full of dandelions and weeds, to rule again!

And you will learn at last, when all is done,
When all the lawns around are once more subject to your might,
The truth I always wanted to impart:
You better not get too uppity, or I will cut you.


I had intended to keep this going for about another 140 stanzas, but I really need to go mow my jungle.

Things That Make Luaphacim Cringe: Car Title Loans

There I am, working on my Sunday School lesson for tomorrow, when I hear the following on the TV in the background: "You can turn the equity in your car into cash! Checksmart will help!"

Very little annoys me more than making payments on things. I buy everything with cash if I can swing it, and if I can't swing it, I don't buy it unless it is, like, food, fuel, or utility bills. Paying cash gives me a feeling of security and keeps me from sliding toward that miry pit of slow-crushing minimum payments from which escape is so difficult. I dread arriving at the place where I am forced to live month-to-month, with little or no hope of ever getting ahead financially.

So the very idea of taking a paid-for automobile and signing a note for every cent it's worth (or, in the case of most car-title loans, more), seems like a recipe for disaster to this particular Luaphacim. I know it's probably just a personality quirk of mine, and I know there are probably people who genuinely need the services provided by title-loan places, but it just rubs me the wrong way all over. (Especially when the title-loan place has abusively high interest rates for past-due payments.)

What do YOU think, dear reader(s)? Is Luaphacim just a cranky (prematurely) old man, or is there something to his crankiness?

Home "Improvement" Tip

Are you tired of the same old look? Need to put a little pizazz into your home's decor? Feel like laying down a fresh coat of paint, but first you want to do a skim coat to hide the irregularities in your wall?

I have spent several hours "improving" my home this weekend, and I would like to offer some simple advice to those of you who are contemplating such projects: "Let your conduct be without covetousness; be content with such things as you have." (Heb. 13:5)

That is all for now. I may give a more detail-laden account later, but don't count on it, as I am very, very tired. :-)