Stephen Yeargin

This is likely the longest amount of consecutive time I have spent in front of a computer not owned by my employer in two months. I am not actually accomplishing much, just leisurely perusing the Internet. The last two months have been rather expensive with the move and whatnot, but has been far less financially painful than the last time we were in similar circumstances. I suppose if that is my metric, the last three years have been very well spent preparing for our mid-to-late twenties. I am staring into a new 23-inch display hooked to a new Mac mini, and can still sleep at night not worrying about a check bouncing. I know that I have been fortunate.

Tonight I was driving down Eastland Avenue and was caught in a parade of runners darting across streets and down the sidewalks. I called Samantha to ask what on earth could be going on, because it obviously was not the kind of road race where they block off the streets. “Probably a runner’s club,” she said. I muttered something about reflective tape and Darwin’s theory of natural selection. When I finally got to our parking lot, I found a restaurant patron had taken our one assigned space — my space. Samantha usually snags the one marked “compact” while I get the one with our apartment number painted on it.

I became frustrated. The tow-away signs went up a week or two ago, so this had become less of an issue lately. There were no other spots nearby, so I went back down the street and into the Kroger. Two goals: Coke and lottery tickets. Having grabbed both and weaving through the typical post-5 p.m. crowds, I drove back to our apartment. The car was still there. Still somewhat frustrated, I stuck a note on their window with the simple message of “[...] We will tow you.” Well, at least we will try. Samantha had called the towing company before, only to learn that it typically took them several hours to get a truck out for a request such as ours after dark. I really fault the planners of this particular development more than the driver because “adequate parking” never made it on the list of amenities once the third restaurant opened. Still, the jerks from Robertson County should read the signs and not park in a numbered space.

My penmanship leaves much to be desired. I am tempted to fire up InDesign and Illustrator to have a more professional looking note to leave behind when it inevitably happens again.

Back in the spring of 2002, I traveled with a group of student government officials to march on the state capitol building to voice our opposition to impending budget cuts to higher education. We sold brownies and cookies on War Memorial Plaza as part of the protest. At the end of the day, the proceeds were handed over to the state comptroller, prompting then-Gov. Don Sundquist to tell reporters that we had already raised more money for higher education than the General Assembly had managed to in the previous session. I was fairly sure that I had put the days of civil disobedience behind me.

Not quite. From WSMV Channel 4:

[...]

But a group called Flashfest contends the house’s lighting is too bright and is disturbing the neighborhood.

So, on Tuesday night, resident Nate Baker rallied about a dozen Nashvillians in support of Love Circle neighbors who believe Rich’s house is unnecessarily bright at night.

The protesters used flashlights and shined them in front of Rich’s home.

Some protesters said the protest speaks for itself. Now, the Metro Codes Department is going to investigate complaints.

[...]

John Rich is surely a decent, God-fearing man. He just makes stupid decisions involving beer bottles, building permits, septuagenarian politicians and now — search lights. After asking Samantha to go with me, getting turned down, asking for permission, not getting it, pleading with Twitter, finally getting permission, I headed over to join the festivities. The goals: protest and not get arrested. We did the former, and successfully avoided the latter.

I am hoping to see if Rich can find the dimmer switch. Now if he could just find the button that causes his house to condense into something much smaller and a lot less hideous.