tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84726912387676759412024-03-20T21:01:58.127-07:00Looking for Likein all the wrong placesStephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.comBlogger170125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-42854326017178369962021-03-17T13:00:00.001-07:002021-03-17T13:00:19.156-07:00Rhodes? Dam Rhodes!<p>I can’t believe that I actually have to type this but because Tennessee can’t get its act together, the Pistol Ultramarathon was canceled/postponed for the second year in a row. Last year, in its stead, I decided to run my own 50 miler and set the FKT/OKT on A Round at McCabe which no one, not surprisingly, has gone after yet. This year, instead of doing that again, I decided on a different challenge: a self-supported run of the length of the greenway from Ted Rhodes golf course to Percy Priest Dam and back - I wasn't sure how far this was but I assumed it was between 40-45 miles. My "A" goal was to finish in under 8 hours, my "B" goal was to finish in under 9 hours, and my "C" goal was to just finish. I also planned on treating this like a race: not pausing my Suunto for any reason. The self-supported part of this challenge posed some unique logistical issues since the only place to refuel was a Target about 1/3 of a mile from a trailhead at both miles 19 and again at 25 and if I got bored, attacked by a dog (more on that one later), or just didn’t want to be out there anymore I didn’t really have a bail out spot.</p><p>Since January 1st, I had run and walked (I'm talkin' dedicated, purposeful walks) just over 600 miles. My lowest training mileage week was 51.5 miles and my highest was 70.1 miles. That included a week where I lost a few days due to the massive snow/ice storm that hit and shutdown most of middle Tennessee for several days in mid-February.<br /></p><p>I parked my truck at the trailhead near Ted Rhodes shortly before 6:30am on Saturday. I texted my wife to let her know that I would be off soon and that I would text her later when I was about halfway through. I told her I was expecting it to take between 8-10 hours. There was a very light but steady rain - the weather would kind of remain like that for the whole day. I had a bunch of gear from <a href="http://www.cumberlandtransit.com">Cumberland Transit</a> that kept me warm and dry (especially my <a href="https://arcteryx.com/us/en/shop/mens/norvan-sl-hoody#clickcode=282-304-5579">Arcteryx jacket</a> ). </p><p>I headed out for the 1/3 of a mile section from the trailhead to the end of the greenway where it meets Ed Temple Blvd so that I didn't have to run that section at the end. I started along the Cumberland River on a very flat, very easy section of the greenway for the first six miles before reaching downtown Nashville. It was quite quiet downtown at 7:30 in the morning on Saturday. I ran along 1st Ave S and saw the backside of all of the buildings that are being rebuilt after the Christmas Day bombing. It was a particularly emotional moment for me, considering how many times I have run along that route.</p><p>I continued along 1st Ave and up and over Korean Veteran's Blvd bridge. To be honest, I don't know the exact path of the greenway through downtown: Does it go under the Korean Veteran's Bridge? Does it go over the Pedestrian Bridge? Does it go on the west side of Ascend Amphitheater? Does it matter? </p><p>I ran over the Korean Veteran's Blvd bridge and down to the east side. I looped around towards the greenway, knowing that it ran parallel to Davidson Street towards Shelby Bottoms Park. I noticed that I was already having some slight chaffing issues about mile 7 so I slowed to a walk for a few minutes as I grabbed my <a href="http://www.trailtoes.com">Trail Toes</a> out of my backpack. I reapplied and prayed to Nike that it would work. (It did).</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMSx8sVhDvHPuwIK5ZRJOZ7zKNOiTjzhcJ3DyCyr94uBE90QzZZS_a2i6m4__hDq7z5Vrh4d76aGSRQW7NJGcARRLsrBSN_-BFb9tHyO1UkcI9Radn4hU6Wp6lqVe5R5zhANx5EgJD/s1440/vultures.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMSx8sVhDvHPuwIK5ZRJOZ7zKNOiTjzhcJ3DyCyr94uBE90QzZZS_a2i6m4__hDq7z5Vrh4d76aGSRQW7NJGcARRLsrBSN_-BFb9tHyO1UkcI9Radn4hU6Wp6lqVe5R5zhANx5EgJD/w210-h211/vultures.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>I picked my pace back up and entered Shelby Bottoms right at the 10 mile mark. I noticed a number of vultures sitting on a power pole: not a good sign. I was feeling solid and kept hovering right near the 10 minute per mile pace. My effort so far was pretty low.<p></p><p>I ran another 3 miles along the Shelby Bottoms path to the Two Rivers Bridge. There is a corkscrew (as I like to call it) that sort of steeply leads up to the Two Rivers Bridge. Until this point in the run, with the exception of the Korean Veterans Blvd Bridge, there had been almost no elevation change. I knew that once I hit this corkscrew, that there would be some hills in front of me for the next 20(ish) miles. </p><p>After crossing the Two Rivers Bridge, I came to the Two Rivers Water Park trailhead (at mile 14) which was the finish line of my first ultramarathon in 2016. I got a feeling of nostalgia, as I always do, when I run past that spot.</p><p>I headed along the gently rolling hills toward McGavock High School and then down HeartBreak Hill. Or is it Heart Attack Hill? Either way, if you've run the section between Two Rivers and Kohl's, you'll know exactly which hill it is. I have seen many cyclists bail out on this hill - either stopping to walk their bike up it or narrowly missing a massive crash at the bottom of the hill. I figured I had about 10K left before hitting the Percy Priest Dam and heading back. The next 6 miles were full of the gentle rolling hills that the greenway is known for. I passed the Kohl's/Target Trailhead half an hour later at mile 19, made a mental note that I would see it again in an hour and assessed my fuel situation: I was getting a little low on water but I still had plenty of calories in my pack. I was hopeful that the water fountains at the Percy Priest trailhead would be turned on: if they were, I wouldn't have to waste any time by running over to Target on my way back.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg-XGIR8upE8xcVQ9MtuMWYCtkpsD2U59uphaekfiqaYcyN-m-PAG_LRIeKObc7_9EAWx1VKEUHTZeY0-MkGAVoPBF8nfbgOqEgMtdWftb7TD4VF0r0MdcF0n5o3ByNhcDGUH5sTK-/s1440/dam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg-XGIR8upE8xcVQ9MtuMWYCtkpsD2U59uphaekfiqaYcyN-m-PAG_LRIeKObc7_9EAWx1VKEUHTZeY0-MkGAVoPBF8nfbgOqEgMtdWftb7TD4VF0r0MdcF0n5o3ByNhcDGUH5sTK-/w217-h216/dam.jpg" width="217" /></a></div><p></p><p>I made it to Percy Priest Dam at 21.5 miles in 3:30 on the dot! It also answered my question that the total distance of this run was going to be just over 42 miles. I was feeling really good! I pulled my phone out of my pack, took a picture of the dam, and texted Sue that I (optimistically) thought I would be done in another 3:45, putting me at a total time of 7:15. This was so much faster than my "A" goal - and a cause for concern for me because I am notorious for going out waaaaaaaay to fast during races. I checked the water fountains near the trailhead and they were still turned off which means that I would have to make a detour to Target on the way back.</p><p>I turned around headed back. I got to mile 23 and ran into one of my biggest pet peeves: an off leash dog. Listen, I love my dog. I love running and walking with my dog. But I don't trust my dog for shit. She has the IQ of a 3 year old, she likes to chase stuff, and if she gets distracted, good luck. And that's true of every dog. I don't care how well behaved they are. Also, there's a law in Nashville that states that all dogs need to be on leash. Oh, and there's signs at every trailhead indicating that very thing... with pictures and everything! I passed a guy on the greenway whose dog was running around off leash and who had the dog's leash casually draped over his shoulder. I shook my head as I ran by. Not 5 seconds later, I heard the approaching footsteps of the dog barrelling down on me. It knocked into my feet and almost knocked me over. I turned around and sternly asked him to please leash his dog. His response was "Aw... He's not going to hurt anyone." I'm originally from Downriver Detroit and I don't have much of a filter. And, as my mom always said, "You can take the boy out of Downriver but you can't take the Downriver out of the boy." So, I replied with "Listen, your dog almost knocked me over. I don't care. Leash your damn dog." He shot back with, "The leash is right here. He's fine." and accompanied his jerkiness with some sort of weird dancing motion. I stopped and shouted, "If that dog gets near me again, you're both going to end up in the river!" So, you know, not my finest moment. </p><p>I peeled off at mile 25 to get some water at Target. I ran off the greenway and into the store. Funnily enough, they were running a promo called the FunRun which made me giggle. I picked up a couple bottles of water and a can of Coke and headed out the door. I refilled my water bottles, quickly drank my Coke, and headed back to the greenway. The trip to Target only cost me about 10 minutes or so which I think may be a record for fastest trip that anyone has ever taken in a Target. </p><p>I headed back along the Stones River towards HeartBreakAttackKillMeNowIHateThis Hill at mile 29. I trudged my way up the hill and back through the rollers toward Two Rivers Park. Over the bridge and down the corkscrew I ran: I had about a half marathon left and it was almost completely flat, save the climb up and over Korean Veterans Blvd.<br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKAB33VhU39yBl8zH9zQWLDAEbzpXraF1wz-x1c8WzDL73HoUgl1WJThxiJCX6AhR2lBr6xvXtWEoFHp2DqfykhPyGmr3D8uQXGo5D5WxvfCSewBGnVmpWTnKSt3ukD7ed88kRMw0s/s1440/shelby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKAB33VhU39yBl8zH9zQWLDAEbzpXraF1wz-x1c8WzDL73HoUgl1WJThxiJCX6AhR2lBr6xvXtWEoFHp2DqfykhPyGmr3D8uQXGo5D5WxvfCSewBGnVmpWTnKSt3ukD7ed88kRMw0s/w184-h184/shelby.jpg" width="184" /></a></div>I came to the exit of Shelby Bottoms and was excited! Which, for being 33 miles into a run, is not something that I usually am. I know I was going to have to stay focused, though, for these last 9+ miles. The rain had changed to a light drizzle which I found more annoying. The next two miles ran me along Davidson Street toward downtown. <p></p><p>I approached Korean Veterans Blvd Bridge and could see the Nashville skyline (<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nashville_Skyline">Thanks, Bob!</a>). I knew this climb was going to suck. And it did. No, not because my legs were tired but because of all the transpotainment vehicles. For those of you outside of Nashville, a transpotainment vehicles is a party bus, tractor, or hot tub on wheels (<a href="https://musiccitypartytub.com/">You think I'm joking? I am not joking.</a>) full of drunken tourists that are like "Fuck it! I don't need a mask! I'm on vacation in Nashville! I don't care that my selfish act is going to make some dumb middle aged guy do another virtual running challenge!" that clogs up our city streets while "WOOOOOS!" and Florida Georgia Line songs are blared from it. I saw no fewer than 4 of these on the bridge. Run-on sentences be damned! The city that was sleeping 5 hours beforehand was wide awake now!</p><p> I escaped downtown made my way back onto the lonely part of the greenway at mile 38. My pace remained consistent, hovering just over 10 minutes per mile. I was running out of energy and I knew that I had given it all I had. As I came to the sign that read "Entering Golf Course: Quiet Please" I looked at my watch and saw that I had 1 mile to go. I let out a loud "YAWP!" and jogged in the last mile.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrpT9gaFb6gtYEj1TuPGjGrQN72KcwCSz4mo872tdX6sxD5GTENJSFdcbR-KgQVrTOoVVaZHDV4kXb-Y0L6sZRy1dfwCNaZBSvcgrIQRDF527XbEOA_g8g1dFOAjry1GE4X4xPdKgE/s1440/watch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrpT9gaFb6gtYEj1TuPGjGrQN72KcwCSz4mo872tdX6sxD5GTENJSFdcbR-KgQVrTOoVVaZHDV4kXb-Y0L6sZRy1dfwCNaZBSvcgrIQRDF527XbEOA_g8g1dFOAjry1GE4X4xPdKgE/w135-h135/watch.jpg" width="135" /></a></div>I got back to my truck and paused my watch. If you'll recall, I told Sue at the halfway point that I estimated it would take me another 3:45 to finish and I also told you that that seemed optimistic. It was... by about 15 seconds!<br /><p></p><p>I had kept a very consistent pace throughout the entire run. My training could not have been much better and my only gripes were the jerk with the off leash dog and the transpotainment vehicles.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZAKryvUFdBIGy2Lsuz1ewDmL_re6IEMo3Sv2JUKHH4ykCtRe4fnRTdl04naEh5CMY5s8lpnFgOKIrnuWaMAvIxXJwkUvtN_pgStwsmjpB5U9dNtoN_AVcHu5qf68hrqJnHSHTmPtM/s1207/pace.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="371" data-original-width="1207" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZAKryvUFdBIGy2Lsuz1ewDmL_re6IEMo3Sv2JUKHH4ykCtRe4fnRTdl04naEh5CMY5s8lpnFgOKIrnuWaMAvIxXJwkUvtN_pgStwsmjpB5U9dNtoN_AVcHu5qf68hrqJnHSHTmPtM/w454-h139/pace.PNG" width="454" /></a></div><p>This was a really fun and hard challenge. <a href="https://www.strava.com/activities/4941645546">My Strava data can be found here</a> . I don't know that I would want to do it again anytime soon, though. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Total Distance: 42.6 miles</p><p>Average pace: 10:13/mile</p><p>Total time: 7:15:15 (Made my "A" goal by almost 45 minutes!)<br /></p><p><br /></p>Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-84126007660836315662020-11-15T19:17:00.000-08:002020-11-15T19:17:40.907-08:00Uncle Chris and McDonald’s at a funeral home<p> My Uncle Chris passed away this weekend. There is not going to be any sort of (big) ceremony. But for my own edification and processing, please allow me the indulgence of this anecdote that I hope will relate what kind of man I knew him to be.</p><p><br /></p><p>His mother, my grandmother, passed away in 1991. Her funeral was, as I recall, the first one I can remember going to. I may have attended one or two as a wee lad but I don’t recall. I didn’t necessarily know what the decorum around attending funeral was. I just knew that everyone was sad and, maybe as a result of that, I was supposed to be sad, too. </p><p>If you were to ask my wife (who knows me better than anyone) about my perpetual emotional state, she would, at the count of zero-Mississippi, tell you that I live in a state of constant buoyancy and that sadness is not something that I really ‘do’. </p><p>But I was sad. I was. And not just because I thought I was supposed to be. There were, of course, many nuances of a funeral and, more specifically, a funeral home with which middle school aged me was unfamiliar. Including food. </p><p>I’m no longer a middle school aged person anymore - I’m a middle aged man and, sadly, have been to more funerals. 40 year old me now knows that many funeral homes have a kitchen and a lounge (which sounds more exclusive than it is - although, I suppose, one who crashed a funeral would be more likely to be ejected from said event than one who crashes a party... but I digress.). 10 year old me was unaware of the layout of funeral homes and was certainly unaware that friends and family brought many kinds of baked goods to the kitchen. My worldview was small - all I knew was that kitchens = food. I didn’t know how it got there but I didn’t care. Free cookies? HELL YES!</p><p>After spending an exhausting (and, let’s admit it, boring) first and most of a second day at a funeral home, we were all getting pretty sick of chocolate cookies. I can’t believe that about me either. Near dinner time of the second day, we all kind of wanted, you know, something else.</p><p>And this is where Uncle Chris comes in. With a bag full of McDonald’s. Literally </p><p>Now, I should tell you that I have loved McDonald’s my entire life. I could put away 30 Chicken McNuggets right now and I’ve already eaten dinner. Six McDoubles? Not a problem. If you were to walk into my house with a bag full of food from the Golden Arches, I would figure out how to steal about half of your french fries. </p><p>My eyes lit up when I saw that bag with the big “M” on the front of it. And my Uncle Chris saw it happen.</p><p>I made my way over to him with an angle on some fries I tried to act sad and hungry at the same time. I tried to approximate the look that a dog gives when it hasn’t eaten since it’s last meal a few hours earlier. But mostly, I wanted to know where, exactly, he got the McDonald’s. So I asked.</p><p>“Well, Stephen, I got it downstairs. There’s a McDonald’s next to the kitchen here.”</p><p>Why wouldn’t I believe that?! It made total sense! McDonald’s is food, food comes from a kitchen, and food (generally) just magically appears for a 5th grader. </p><p>“Wait...” I started. “I didn’t see a McDonald’s down there.” </p><p>“It’s down there, you just must have missed it. Why don’t you ask you dad for some money so you can buy some. And if he says ‘no’, I’ll buy you some.”</p><p>JACKPOT! Free McDonald’s either way! “Okay!” I said, with probably too much enthusiasm that one should exude at their grandmother’s funeral.</p><p>I walked over to my dad and stood next to him kind of quietly for a minute or so. Then... “Uh... dad? Can I have some money for some McDonald’s?” </p><p>“What do you mean, ‘have some money for McDonald’s’?” My dad asked.</p><p>“Uncle Chris has some. He said you would give me some money for some McDonald’s downstairs. And that if you didn’t, he would, but I wasn’t supposed to tell you that last part.”</p><p>“What to you mean, ‘money for some McDonald’s downstairs’?”</p><p>“Uncle Chris said there’s a McDonald’s downstairs next to the kitchen.” I stated, quite confidently.</p><p>“Stephen, do you think there’s really a McDonald’s down there that no one has told you about for the past two days or do you think he’s pulling your leg?”</p><p>I looked over at my Uncle Chris and his face had turned bright red, his eyes disappeared into a smile, and I thought he was going to spit his Big Mac all over the lounge because he was laughing so hard.</p><p>I never did get any McDonald’s that night. But I did get this memory and that’s way better.</p><p>I’m going to miss you, Uncle Chris. I’ll see you when I get there. And save some McDonald’s for me. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-9936047765925513282020-03-23T09:30:00.000-07:002020-03-24T08:46:15.232-07:00FKT/OKT on the Richland Creek Greenway, or A Round at McCabe Golf CourseI was supposed to run the Pistol 50 Mile ultramarathon in Alcoa, TN, on Saturday. It, like basically every other race in the world, is either canceled or postponed because of the coronavirus pandemic. I had run this race once before (starting on New Year's Eve 2016 and continuing on into New Year's Day 2017). I also ran a terrible 50K back in early January -- turns out that trying to run an ultra on 15 miles per week of training for the previous three months is not the smartest idea!<br />
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In my ultra career (would we call it a career? I'm gonna call it a career.) I've always just kind of "winged it" when it's come to a training plan. You know: run 20 miles, eat a pizza, drink two beers, fall asleep on the couch watching golf, and call it "recovery". Oh, and above all else, never, ever, EVER do any speed work... because who wants to go fast? Not me! I wanna suffer! But after the aforementioned 50K a couple months ago, I decided to hire a coach. My friend Olaf Wasternack recommended <a href="https://www.tonywhitecoaching.com/">Tony White</a> to me. After a phone call, I venmo'd (I have no idea how to spell that) him some money and he built me a training plan. <br />
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My PR at a 50 mile race distance is 12:29:04, and I set that when I ran the Pistol a few years prior. My goals, in ascending order, were to Finish, to set a PR, to go sub-12:00, and to go sub 11:00.<br />
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I am not fast. I am never going to be fast. I hate running fast to try to keep up with people who are fast. I don't like doing speed work to try to get fast. Tony started putting it on my schedule, though, because that's what coaches do. And since I was/am paying for his services, I figured I might as well do it. I noticed that my overall top end speed wasn't improving much but that my overall endurance was. I mentioned this to him and he said "Good, that's exactly what we want! Unless you want to start doing track workouts." Which, of course, I don't. <br />
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During this two month training cycle, I was also selected to be an Ambassador for <a href="https://cumberlandtransit.com/">Cumberland Transit</a>. I've purchased a ton of gear there over the past few years and will purchase more in the months and years ahead for further adventures.<br />
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I trained hard for these two months: averaging 45-50 miles per week for the previous 6 weeks leading up to the race. I think I only skipped one workout the entire time. I also set a PR at a 15K (I got a free entry through work -- a free shirt is a free shirt!) <br />
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Everything was lining up for me to set a PR at this distance. And, of course, the race got postponed a week beforehand. So, I did what any dumbass would do: I decided (after some coaxing from Olaf and our mutual friend James Suh) to the Richland Creek Greenway loop around McCabe Golf Course 18 times for 50 miles. <br />
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Saturday morning rolled around and Sue (wonderful, awesome, book-worshipping, coffee-loving, fiancee of mine) and I went over to the trailhead after stopping by Olaf's house to pick him and his table up. We moseyed over to the trailhead just down the street and met up with Jason Thienel (one of the owners of Cumberland Transit and an OG of <a href="https://www.jogalope.com/">Jogalope)</a>. Jason and Olaf are both incredibly accomplished ultrarunners (go stalk them on <a href="http://www.ultrasignup.com/">Ultrasignup</a> if you don't believe me) and agreed to pace me for some of my earlier loops. Off we went at about 7:10am. <br />
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The beautiful thing about running on a greenway is that you know exactly where you are at all times. The terrible thing about running on a greenway is that you know exactly where you are at all times. Jason ran with Olaf and me for the first two loops before having to peel off to head to work. He said he'd be back later in the day. Olaf stayed with me for the first four loops and later told me that he was glad to have shared the easy miles with me. Sue took Pippin (our wonderfully excitable, wonderfully strong, and unfortunately wonderfully pukey) dog back home.<br />
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I ran lap #5 solo and when I got to lap #6, who showed up to join me but... some guy I'd never met before. Kidding. It was Tony. We ran for a few laps together. We talked about his family, grad school, his wife, my future wife, races we've run, and the usual stuff that you talk about during a race. It was nice to meet him in person!<br />
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After lap, uh... #8, I think, Tony headed back home. I ate some more Gu gels, drank some more coke, and continued on. I knew at the end of this loop, I would be halfway home! I finished my 9th lap after about 4:40 which is exactly where I wanted to be. I ate some more junk food and started my 10th loop. About halfway through this loop, I ran into Jeff Dalzell, another local ultrarunner who shared about 5 miles with me. I saw Ashley, Barry, and Haley (also, part of the Jogalope crew) at the end of the loop. Here's a picture of us after mile 30(ish) practicing safe social distancing:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw7eWx2V7YjwFaldKrvBslaQZirQDgVzeqp9MGOuPU5cmT5PTOb52xD2GYV8RhjMiPgzbcm8XMhRqNkwkZTZaPbrSRpYv64y2I3ni1urGXlEnKF601R7JANWgfWj711-OqlMO6nKEA/s1600/mccabe+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="462" data-original-width="828" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw7eWx2V7YjwFaldKrvBslaQZirQDgVzeqp9MGOuPU5cmT5PTOb52xD2GYV8RhjMiPgzbcm8XMhRqNkwkZTZaPbrSRpYv64y2I3ni1urGXlEnKF601R7JANWgfWj711-OqlMO6nKEA/s320/mccabe+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Jeff split off after loop #11. This completion of this lap also put me right at the 50K mark in a little under six hours -- again right where I wanted to be. I think at this point in time, Sue decided to move the aid station about 50 feet away over to the truck. I changed into a dry shirt and went back out for loop #12. This is where things started to get tricky. Anytime you dip your toes into a long run, things can get a little strange once you hit an ultra distance.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixnC_nqZnS2j-3xNFF2vCyeIbie_n0QSJ4dNSx1FayQ6YGl0_XYrG6IuWYcqQ64cAa1XByisksqaHKK3_w6Xv1lRxscin_NXISZRrKTLQQl2HiGhl04k8w0p0lxwOmCUihi4VwEDbU/s1600/mccabe+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="461" data-original-width="828" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixnC_nqZnS2j-3xNFF2vCyeIbie_n0QSJ4dNSx1FayQ6YGl0_XYrG6IuWYcqQ64cAa1XByisksqaHKK3_w6Xv1lRxscin_NXISZRrKTLQQl2HiGhl04k8w0p0lxwOmCUihi4VwEDbU/s320/mccabe+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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My legs felt good but my feet started to hurt a little. Paved pathways are unforgiving.<br />
<br />
I saw ANOTHER local awesome ultrarunner and Jogaloper Kelsey Conner and her friend shortly after starting loop #13. She asked me how I was doing and I replied with "You're lookin' at it." I was feeling, uh... ok? I guess? It's hard to focus knowing that you're 37 miles into a run with another half marathon to go.<br />
<br />
I started out on loop #14 and realized shortly thereafter I needed to pee. BADLY. The greenway was getting crowded by this point in the afternoon so I took a quick detour on a side trail to remedy that situation. All I could think of was "Please don't let this look like a hazy IPA. Please don't let this look like a hazy IPA." Thankfully, it didn't. That's also what that little spur looks like on my Strava in case anyone is checking this for validation. I finished the loop and thought "Woohoo! Only 4 more laps to go!" I had also been told to let people know when I had two loops left so that those that wanted to could run my final lap with me.<br />
<br />
I was starting to feel the lack of electrolytes in my body at this point in time and it was starting to show on my outerwear: they were both covered in salt. I'm not very good at hydrating and following a nutrition plan at races. It's something that I need to continue to work on.<br />
<br />
I went out for loops 15 and 16. Both were pretty uneventful. At the end of loop 16, I texted a few people to let them know that I only had two loops left and that if they wanted to come see me finish or run the last loop, now was the time to head back to the trailhead. I finished loop #17 and at the truck/aid station saw Olaf and his wife Liz, Coach Tony, and Sue. None of them were dressed like they were going to hobby jog these last 2.85 miles with me. Sue asked me what I needed and I replied (probably too tersely) with "I need to get out of here." I was in a pretty good amount of pain. I had been pushing myself pretty hard all day. I 'ran' out onto the greenway for the 18th and final loop of the day.<br />
<br />
It was the final time I would see those stupid bridges on the west side of the greenway. It was the final time I would smell that stupid trash can on the south side. It was the final time I would see that stupid bench that was just begging for me to sit on it (oh, good one, Potsie). I just kept moving forward with my slowest loop of the day.<br />
<br />
I came around the final bend and crested the small hill near 51st and Wyoming. As I did, my watched beeped for the 50th time, letting me know I had hit my 50 mile goal, and I saw a small group of friends who were waiting and cheering for me. The other people out on the greenway looked at all us like we were crazy. Which we kind of are. Barry and Haley set up a finish line made out of toilet paper:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXAe6RaJQvkjYyvV6uAUSvnxQKG66_ZurLdbpWEjQOA8HwOxSonlEL6q7do_3rzo71rcB2gaQkz928gakeldAopIXWOp4LBlP5KRseMVhejFMWfV6Gkrm7Bet1QYjy2YqyA9cSUs1r/s1600/mccabe+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="451" data-original-width="828" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXAe6RaJQvkjYyvV6uAUSvnxQKG66_ZurLdbpWEjQOA8HwOxSonlEL6q7do_3rzo71rcB2gaQkz928gakeldAopIXWOp4LBlP5KRseMVhejFMWfV6Gkrm7Bet1QYjy2YqyA9cSUs1r/s320/mccabe+8.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I crossed in 10:19:47 according to my Suunto. Strava, I guess, only shows the total moving time (which I think is ridiculous) of 9:38:12. I'm going with 10:19:47... which means I MET ALL OF MY GOALS BY A TON! Also, it looks like no one has ever attempted to run a 50 miler on this route before, so I guess I've got the Only Known Time and (by default) Fastest Known Time! I expect and hope that someone goes after and takes it down at some point in time. :)<br />
<br />
Here I am pictured with my finisher's medal: a roll of toilet paper.<br />
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I learned that I still have to do some work on my nutrition to get it to where it needs to be. I should continue to do speed work because it really helps. I still need to lose about 10 pounds before I'm really in decent race shape. And, maybe most importantly, I learned that you don't need a race to run an ultra distance. Just go out and have fun. And maybe a beer at the end.</div>
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Thanks to everyone who came out in supported me on this: Sue Black, Olaf and Liz Wasternack, James Suh (for the idea), Jason and Amber Thienel, Ashley Robinson, Coach Tony White, Jeff Dalzell, Barry Bizarre Bright, Haley Huffman, Kelsey Conner, and Ryan Rado. Thank you Cumberland Transit for the Ambassadorship. Also, virtual thanks to Daniel Larkin and Newton Dominey: Dumbasses forever. Sorry if I missed anyone.</div>
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<br />Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-61549558302493346362019-10-17T11:17:00.000-07:002019-10-18T13:06:46.857-07:00Indiana Trail 100: I wouldn't have made it through this without...Since I finished Tunnel Hill in 2017, my races have laregely been shitshows. DNF at Antelope Canyon. An 8+ hour 50K at the Swamp. DNF at GDR. . I did manage to set a marathon PR this spring (I still have no idea how I did that, by the way) but promptly followed it up with a relatively poor showing at Strolling Jim. I was beginning to think that my the best days of my (ultra)running career had gone just as fast as they had come and that I would be one of those myriad of other runners who just disappeared from the community.<br />
<br />
The Indiana Trail 100 is 5 20-mile loops at Chain O' Lakes State Park in Albion, Indiana. It is part of the Midwest Slam of ultrarunning, a Western States and UTMB qualifier (so it's pretty hard), and since it's in Indiana (duh) you never know what the weather will do. <br />
<br />
Training for Indiana Trail 100 began in earnest in mid-May. The plan was to run as many of the following as I could:<br />
<ul>
<li>Off camber trails</li>
<li>Hill repeats</li>
<li>Miles in the dark</li>
<li>Back-to-back long runs</li>
</ul>
Where could I do that? Ah, yes! At <a href="https://www.tn.gov/agriculture/eac.html">the AgCenter</a> ! It's two miles from my house, it's got a lightly trafficked trail, and aside from the one time security kicked me out at midnight, no one cares if you stash a couple of beers in the bed of your truck for 'aid'. It also has a couple of decent hills and an off-camber section - comparable to everything one would encounter at Chain O' Lakes. I spent many a-Sunday mornings over the past few months on the second half of my back-to-back long runs with my dear friend Andy. I wouldn't have made it through this without his friendship. I focused less on mileage and more on specificity, time on my feet, and consistency.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcrXY4AGCiApEM5wAGoHF21xEVkNpC0mhUHBUBU8EKqE1jVJcgFHjmmRG8SZEhEqUhpaYKWO_yVmPlokvmydiCXFPErqCXZkHC22wv1qITAl4XHAGZjxJ1uNvSDxBPIC0ZfNtUT3ha/s1600/prerace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="796" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcrXY4AGCiApEM5wAGoHF21xEVkNpC0mhUHBUBU8EKqE1jVJcgFHjmmRG8SZEhEqUhpaYKWO_yVmPlokvmydiCXFPErqCXZkHC22wv1qITAl4XHAGZjxJ1uNvSDxBPIC0ZfNtUT3ha/s200/prerace.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A coupla' Dumbasses with Shoes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Sue (that's my girlfriend, for any random reader who comes across this) and I drove up from Nashville to Albion the day before the race. She asked me what my goal was for this race. I told her, "I just want to finish. I don't care about a belt buckle. I don't care about qualifying for Western States." I think Sue mostly believed me when I said that. Sue would happily let me disappear for hours on end on the weekend. I wouldn't have made it through this without her generosity. I checked in and met up with a whole bunch of friends (and my sister, pictured here and OHMIGODISTHATJESSICABOHN?!) who had driven down from Michigan to run this dumb thing, too. Jessica got me into ultrarunning three years ago with her epic Western States finish. I wouldn't have made it through this without her inspiration. We all headed to our hotels or campsites and then several of us went out to dinner at Bob Evans. I'd post a picture of what the food looked like but I hate pictures of food and this ain't a menu. We then made our way back to the hotel for the night where I promptly went to sleep. I can fall asleep just about anywhere. Watching the Detroit Lions game? Yup. Reading a book for class? Yup.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsyNinAESUARxCI1uW3xaRbMzU685qGXKa2-vlQMzOtZ3wa0uNSjJwMBOhHurWm9BtZ0ZsiVnuF_34Bv5u9HRRNx-F0Xqq7ZZfKEfm6OS3NBKMoS4Yn3Y9gXPNUF-VwZpr180UUI4A/s1600/justbeforethestart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsyNinAESUARxCI1uW3xaRbMzU685qGXKa2-vlQMzOtZ3wa0uNSjJwMBOhHurWm9BtZ0ZsiVnuF_34Bv5u9HRRNx-F0Xqq7ZZfKEfm6OS3NBKMoS4Yn3Y9gXPNUF-VwZpr180UUI4A/s200/justbeforethestart.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shoulder flames</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The morning of the race, we headed back over to the park. The parking situation is rough, so if you plan on running this in the future, make sure you get there in plenty of time.We all made our way to the starting line (or as I like to refer to it: "somewhere over there, I don't know".) Then, all of a sudden, 210 of us were off to tackle 100 miles in the Indiana woods for the next however many hours.<br />
<br />
<u>Lap 1</u><br />
I was feeling awesome. It was a chilly morning which really suits me but it was not something that I had been training for: it was an exceedingly hot and humid summer in Tennessee. Everything felt easy and smooth. I had two race mantras that I told myself time and time again during this loop (and the others that followed): <br />
<ol>
<li>Walk all the uphills, run the downhills and the flats (strangely enough, another runner that I shared some miles with actually noticed this about me).</li>
<li>DON'T YOU DARE RUN ANY UPHILLS, DUMBASS. I found myself saying this out loud a few times, especially during the first lap.</li>
</ol>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuwdPL_UulLNPfcu9vZxanLFRxxf1lAIKLE2-n-7fKvbOtqAe1KqXiU4Zm1U3Na8rIAVwgFpmDbEpP5e1ucvd8c_Sic375l48fjrkJ6oC5dow0lw61392RMCN1OZbqpNnVWaeIJ05h/s1600/endoflap1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuwdPL_UulLNPfcu9vZxanLFRxxf1lAIKLE2-n-7fKvbOtqAe1KqXiU4Zm1U3Na8rIAVwgFpmDbEpP5e1ucvd8c_Sic375l48fjrkJ6oC5dow0lw61392RMCN1OZbqpNnVWaeIJ05h/s200/endoflap1.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The end of Lap 1</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I came through finisher's chute in just a hair over 5 hours. I got a high five from race director Mike Pfefferkorn, looked at the clock and realized that I was going <b>way too fast</b>. I jogged over to the main tent aid to re-stock. Steve (The Dude) Novicki was there and asked me how things were going. "Good," I told him, "but I'm running too fast." "Well, then, slow the fuck down," he replied. I wouldn't have made it through this without his advice and encouragement. I handed Sue my headlamp and asked her to charge it, she got me resupplied, and out I went for lap 2. Sue kept texting pictures to my Jogalope crew. I wouldn't have made it through this without all of those super fun Wednesday night runs.<br />
<br />
<u>Lap 2</u><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx472NZYEpbUPMNddkobuhiAWIMPFkewFSmQxPZTzZgm3jSTKU4ewLUtv8H-P4NmF75-I8Z9HAteA8qFi8ONgNeJ9qV5ppcw8wlDUxFZIrtcWjbiENhmQtFeB_UOogIh9kNE6__qYY/s1600/lap2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="739" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx472NZYEpbUPMNddkobuhiAWIMPFkewFSmQxPZTzZgm3jSTKU4ewLUtv8H-P4NmF75-I8Z9HAteA8qFi8ONgNeJ9qV5ppcw8wlDUxFZIrtcWjbiENhmQtFeB_UOogIh9kNE6__qYY/s200/lap2.jpg" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Siblings</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The sun was up and things were still going great. Jessica and I have very different running styles but often end up with similar times at these really long distances. As we left the Hilltop aid station at mile 27, we got our picture taken.Yeah, she's taller than I am. So what?! We continued off into the beautiful sunshine. I continued to recite my mantras as the weather was trying to goad me to turn on the jets and run as hard as I could. I held back as much as I could. As I left the Rally Camp aid station at mile 32, I headed back down Pfefferkorn Hill and remembered that this was the hardest and hilliest part of the course and that the 5.5 miles before the next aid station were the longest of the race. I would need to keep that in the memory bank for later. I made it back to the start/finish in about ten and a half hours. This was, overall, 30 minutes faster than I wanted or planned to be. I told myself, again, that I needed to slow down or I was going to blow up late in the race.<br />
<br />
<u>Lap 3</u><br />
I grabbed my headlamp and cold weather hat back from Sue and threw it in my pack. I refueled and headed back out. The sun hung low in the late afternoon sky. The air reeked of burnt leaves dying on the trees. The wind had just enough of a bite. I was ready for the night ahead. I cruised on over to the Rally Camp aid station for the 3rd time. It was just about dark so I put on my headlamp which I had been carrying for the previous 12 miles. I was 52 miles in... in just under 14 hours which was right about where I wanted to be. I asked Sue to dig out my backup headlamp and put it my backpack just in case. She gave me some Dr. Pepper and Taco Bell quesadillas (sidenote: get yourself a partner that will drive 20 miles to get Taco Bell for you in the middle of an ultra). I wouldn't have made it through this without the deliciousness of quesadillas. I told Sue that I wanted new socks, trail toes, dry clothes, and a shot of Fireball when I saw her next at mile 60 and that I had to be out of the aid station in 8 minutes. Back I went over to Pfefferkorn hill and over toward the School House. It got dark and cold. And boring. Putting on a headlamp a second time at any race sucks. Putting it on and knowing that won't get to take it off for 11 hours really sucks. And those 5.5 miles from Rally to the School House really super suck. The number of times I said "Where the fuck is this fucking aid station?!" Let's just say that not even <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bV5iHgdRQRg">The Boss can count that high</a> . I finally made it there, refueled as quickly as I could and headed the last couple miles to the Start/Finish line.<br />
<br />
<u>Lap 4</u><br />
<br />
The next to last lap of any race is always the worst: you're nowhere near done, you've been out there for hours, and it's going to get way worse before it gets better. <u>The race was really about to begin</u>. I sat down to address my feet. I sat down and took off my shoes and socks. I pulled out the Trail Toes and reapplied like crazy. I noticed a small blister on my right heel but it didn't hurt so I let it be. I pulled out my socks and.... they were both Injinji toe socks designed for left feet. Ok. This was a problem. There was no way I was going to put my previous disgusting pair of socks back on so I did what any Dumbass would do: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iGnSOJswnK8">I improvised</a> . I turned one of the two left footed socks inside out and <b>*BAM* </b>a pair of socks appeared! The Dude was nowhere to be found with the Fireball. That was problem #2. And problem #3? I was beginning to chafe. I did what I could with that and I'll spare you the gross details. Out I went again. Justin (one of my friends from Michigan who ended up finishing 5th(!!!) overall caught me at the first aid station. He looked like he was cruising! I wouldn't have made it through this without his leading from the front. I started doing trail math and figured that if I could average 19:30 per mile from here on, I'd finish. One of the problems with being a back of the pack runner at a 100 miler is that there are very few opportunities to see other people this late in the race, all you tend to see is the ever-looming shadow of the Cutoff Monster. Aside from aid stations, there were miles upon miles where I wouldn't see anyone else. But this was what I had trained for. All those lonely AgCenter miles in the dark running that dumb stupid hill hundreds of times. All those 3AM alarms on the weekend telling me to get my ass out there when my girlfriend and dog looked so cozy in the bed. This is what I had trained for and I know that for the next several hours, I had to want this more than anything else in the world. The moon was bright and full, lighting the trail so well at certain points that I didn't need a headlamp. I got to the Rally Camp aid station at mile 72. My improvised toe sock situation was working like a charm (and in all honesty, I don't know if I would have been able to get my shoe back on due to my foot swelling if I would have taken it off again). I ate some more quesadillas. I drank some Mountain Dew. I wouldn't have made it through this without the golden syrupy deliciousness of that drink. I asked Sue (probably a little too sternly - sorry!) if my headlamp power indicator had one or two lights left. "One. No, two. No wait, one. One?" "WHICH IS IT? Two or one?" I took it off and handed it to her. Then, like an idiot, I stood there debating whether or not to bring my trekking poles: "I don't want them. Yes. No. No, wait, YES!" I took them and out I went into the night again. I started to hallucinate: I saw a sailboat, some antique cars, and I swear to god there was a black bobcat. I eased through the next 8 miles back to the start/finish. Normally, I am about the happiest person you will ever meet on the trail. However, when you've reached 80 miles as a back of the packer and still have hours and hours to go, sometimes you look like this guy:<br />
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<br />
<u>Lap 5</u><br />
I came into the aid station. The Dude tried to give me some Fireball. I didn't want any (sorry for the mixed messages, Dude). I "sprinted" out of the aid station and out towards the first check point. This was the last time I would see this part of the trail this year. Mile 83, and I felt a surge of energy back in me! Of course, that surge completely went away at mile 87. I walked into Hilltop, more than an hour ahead of cutoff. And I just lost my mind. I stood there in a daze. I had trouble answering questions. I didn't want pizza (WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE WITH PEANUT, YOU MONSTERS!!!). I didn't want pretzels (although the aid station made me load my pockets up with them). If I would have sat down, I would have been done. The aid station captain (whose name I didn't catch but I have to thank) said "Come on, let's get out of here... There's a trash can just up the hill." I knew what she was doing and I was powerless to stop her. Out the tent and up the hill I went. All of a sudden, I was hiking/running again. My spirits lifted. I hiked over to a mostly empty Rally aid station. The sky had grown bright with the morning sun. I drank about 20 ounces of pop (you're damn right, it's pop!) and told Sue that I need all the Gu gels I had left and I needed them now. I handed a volunteer my softflask and asked him to fill it up with water. I was in and out of there in two minutes with just over 3 hours to go! I knew with as little margin for error that I had that I needed a plan. That plan was to not stop for anything until I got to the finish: I had all the calories and liquid I needed to make it 3 more hours and I didn't need to spend precious minutes at the Schoolhouse aid station. Given my most recent pace, I was going to be cutting this thing close. I knew I had the worst stretch of trail in front of me. Those 5.5 miles got longer every loop. So I ran as hard as I could, not as fast as I could, as hard as I could. And at that point of the race, that was 17 1/2 minutes per mile. The Schoolhouse felt like it would never come. The sight of the Finish line from across the lake still some 5 miles away taunted me. Some day hikers in their comfy looking oversized jeans and sweatshirts asked me "Hey! How ya doin' this mornin'?!" I knew I had to be close. And then I saw it: the Schoolhouse. I have never been more excited in my life to see a place of education. I hiked up the hill and the volunteer asked "Hey, can I get you anything?" I didn't even stop. I just replied "Nope! I got somewhere I gotta be! Thank you... you have been awesome!!!" And on I went. I had 80 minutes on the clock to go 2.7 miles. I tried to run and just had nothing left. I had put all the effort into this race that I had. All those god awful early mornings. All those evenings when I could have been at home watching additional episodes of <i>Chopped </i>on the Food Network. All those band aids I had used to cover my nipples. They all came down to this one last section. I hiked as hard as I could. I had put so much effort into the previous 5.5 miles. My pace dropped precipitously. I got closer and closer to that finish line. Then... with a mile to go, I heard a (quite literally) familiar voice: my sister who had been out there in the dark running the race caught up with me. She and her pacer, the Respected Sir Jim Stevens, had finally caught up and passed me. Jessica shouted "I had a helper!" as she passed. And that was all the humor I needed. I looked at my watch, looked at my feet, and said to myself, "Ok... just don't fall." I rounded the bend and saw the finish line again on the other side of a lake. I heard voices cheering from half a mile away for someone who finished in front of me. I tried to run on the pavement through the parking lot and just couldn't. I trudged by the lake. I hiked up the hill by the playground. Then, I put both of the poles in one hand: I was going to try to run this in for the last 1/4 mile. Down the hill I came. I felt like I was sprinting. I saw the clock creep up: 29:38:36. 29:38:37. 29:38:38. 29:38:39. Just 21 minutes under the cutoff. I finished.<br />
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The 30 or so people who were at the finish line went wild and cheered me in. I knew I was one of the last finishers but I felt like I had won. I slammed my trekking poles into the ground, which caused everyone to laugh. Then I said "I am never fucking doing that again." which caused more laughter (Full disclosure: I am definitely fucking do that again.)<br />
<br />
Mike Pfefferkorn handed me my belt buckle and gave me a hug. Folks, there aren't many better things than a hug from that dude.<br />
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I sat down on a bench and cheered in the two runners who finished after me. Then we got this picture:<br />
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I ended up laying down on that bench. Someone covered me with a blanket while I tried not to throw up.<br />
<br />
I ate alot of fried food and drank alot of beer that Sunday evening. It was worth it. I'd do both of those things again. Hell, I'd run another hundred miler right now if it meant I get to eat that many fried cheese curds and drink that many beers!<br />
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I'm not a very fast ultrarunner. I like to have as much fun out there as I can. I am never going to win a race but I am never going to feel like a loser at one. I wouldn't have made it through this without so many people and I am sure that I am going to leave some of them out here. I apologize if I did.<br />
Sue Black, Jessica Bohn, Andy Smith, Laura Hufschmidt, Justin Senkbeil, Daniel Larkin, Newton "The Ultramarathoner" Dominey, Matt Mueller, Alex the Dumbass, The Novicki's, Cindy the TwerkMachine, Tender Jason Peddycord, Mark IDon'tKnowYou Norfleet, Chad Hause,the entire Jogalope crew (we meet at Jackalope Brewery on Wednesday nights if you'd like to join us), my parents and my brother for their encouragement from miles away, and the Ten Junk Miles crew for their virtual companionship and making me look like a crazy person when I'm screaming at them and their podcast on the trail.<br />
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Go do shit that scares you. <br />
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<br />Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-10154109865647294462017-11-15T12:57:00.002-08:002017-11-16T09:18:51.973-08:00Tunnel Hill 100 or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Embrace the SuckLast Sunday, I did this to my ankle. Yes, it hurt.<br />
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This was a week before I was supposed to run Tunnel Hill. My shot at redemption, so to speak, after DNFing at Bryce earlier in the year. I wanted a belt buckle for finishing the 100 mile distance. I wanted to be able to wear it with pride. It's really the only physical possession I'd wanted for over a year. My life, somehow, felt empty without one - this object that I'd never had but I felt I needed. "Well, I guess I'll be 0-for-2," I thought. Through a bit of good luck and some aggressive rehabilitation in the next five days, my ankle healed up enough for me to drive up to Vienna, Illinois, and toe the line. "At worst," I thought, "I don't finish the race." Although that was never really an option for me. My sister, Jessica, originally had tentative plans to come down from Michigan to meet me here but it just didn't work out with her schedule so I went (mostly) solo.<br />
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I woke up at 4am on Saturday morning at the scenic Super 8 motel in nearby Anna, Illinois. I got a full 8 hours of sleep which is unusual for me because I usually don't get 8 hours of sleep anywhere, let alone the night before a race. I went to the bathroom several times, put on my kit (including my Dumbasses with Shoes shirt -- cotton ones available now for $15), and double checked my drop bags.<br />
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I made my way to the starting line and met up with Steve "The Dude" Novicki, Erin, Theresa, Michelle, and Ramon. I had met a few of these guys at races previously and they all know my sister so I just kind of tagged along with them for a bit. The Dude was racing the hundo as well so we sort of informally agreed to stick together for as long as we could. Here we are at the starting line full of hope and promise but before the day turned into a sufferfest... much like the first <em>Chronicles of Narnia</em> movie!<br />
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Look at how big my feet look! Life is hard when you're a hobbit. "Oh, let's send you on this dumbass quest and give you really unwieldy feet with which to do it! You think the wide base is going to give you a competitive advantage? You're about to find out you're a total idiot. Not a partial one. A total one." That's two high-fantasy references in the last two paragraphs. Don't worry, Sue still thinks I'm wonderful and lovable. <br />
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The Dude and I stuck together for the first 25 miles. It went really well. We met up with his crew a number of times. They kept jamming things in my mouth which normally I am NOT into but these were peanut butter and jelly sandwiches so I was FOR SURE into it. Off we went for our second 25 miles. A few miles in, I noticed that The Dude and I were at different paces and we decided to split up for the time being. I rolled into the aid station at mile 36 and his crew which I had been utilizing until then asked "Where's Steve?" I told them "Uh... that way?" as I pointed back down the trail and then reassured them that I wasn't a total turd and that he told me to go run my own race. Here's a picture of me and The Dude still having fun.<br />
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I got back to the start/finish line at mile 50 in just a little over 12 hours. My feet felt pretty rough at this point in time, so off came the shoes and out came the blister kit. I can <u>almost</u> safely say that I will not be the cause of a blood zombie lycan outbreak thingy in Southern Illinois as a result of my amateur attempts of trying to fix my feet in the dark by myself. I put my socks and shoes back on and thought, "I've got 18 hours to finish this thing... That's like two 9-hour marathons! I can totally do this!" <br />
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I went out for my third 25 mile stretch. It had been dark for a little over two hours by now. All I heard were the crushing of leaves under my feet, the grinding of limestone rocks under those leaves, and the occasional owl. It was cold. It was dark. It got depressing. Real depressing. Like listening-to-an-Evanescence-record-album-in-your-room-by-yourself depressing. Or like Kelly-dumps-Zack-before-the-prom-for-the-college-guy-Jeff depressing. I saw the reflection of several deers' eyes in the woods and had to convince myself that there aren't mountain lions in Illinois (there aren't). I thought I saw a giant once but it turned out it was a STOP sign. I saw a woman named Mel wander off into the woods for a bit. How do I know her name was Mel? Because her pacers let her go off for a few seconds, laughed, and then asked "Hey, Mel. What are you doing in the woods? Why don'tcha come back to the trail?" I listen. I'm attentive. I'm Grade-A boyfriend material.<br />
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I got back to the start/finish line with exactly 10 hours left on the clock. "Dude! I can totally run a 10 hour marathon!" That's like two and a half miles per hour! That's the slow speed setting on a Power Wheels car!" How do I know that? Again... I am FULL of useless information. My right leg had started to really hurt by this point in time. A combination of the sprained ankle and my knee compensating for it by changing my stride really started to hurt. I slid my knee compression sleeve on and made the decision that while this may help me for the rest of the race, it's really going to hurt for the next few days afterwards... but that's a problem for Future Peanut. Off I hiked into hour number nine of total darkness with nothing but my headlamp, some food, and my dulcet voice singing "Edelweiss" from <em>The Sound of Music</em>. Listen. I know I'm weird.<br />
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On I trudged up Tunnel Hill one last time. I kept waiting for the sun to rise: every aid station, every mile, every tree, every step. I knew that if I could just get to daylight, I was going to finish this thing. My right leg was angry with me. I passed through the Tunnel at mile 86. I knew I only had to go two more miles before the turn around to head home. I finished walking the hill and got to the turn-around. <br />
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Mile 90. The sun was rising behind the overcast skies. I wasn't afraid of STOP sign giants any longer and Mel probably wouldn't be making her way into the woods anymore that day. Back down the hill I went. My right leg was screaming at me. I asked a volunteer at an aid station if I was allowed to pick up a walking stick from the side of the trail (I'll be damned if I was going to get disqualified this late into the race). She told me that, yes, hiking sticks and trekking poles were legal. I picked one up and continued my tromp. I felt the dreaded Cutoff Monster catching up to me with each step. "Step" - that's a generous word to use at this point in the race. I started frantically checking my watch every ten minutes. I puked three times -- all the same concoction of Gu gels, bananas, and soup. I hurt.<br />
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Mile 97.2. I was off the hill at the last aid station. The volunteer there said "We don't have much left." I'm not sure if she meant food or time but I didn't care. I just forced a half smile, gave her a wave, and a breathy "Thank you" as I plodded on. "I'm three miles from home," I said to myself. Those same leaves crunching under my feet. Those same limestone rocks grinding beneath those leaves. Those same deer were still out there somewhere, too. I was getting passed by competitors who had run a much smarter race than I did. I didn't care. I just wanted to finish. <br />
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I came across the last bend. For the first time since the afternoon before, the clouds parted just a bit and I could see just a few rays of sunshine streaming down on the Illinois farmland around me. I could see the clock counting up. I could hear the 50 or so people at the finish line start cheering for me. I threw away my hiking stick which had served me well for the past several hours and genuinely thanked it for its service. I was going to finish. 28:54:47. 28:54:48. 28:54:49. 28:54:50. 28:54:51. 28:54:52. And, just like that, in a completely random and non-descript time, I was done. No one is going to write any articles about me. Eric Schranz isn't going to call me up and invite me to be on UltraRunner Podcast (especially with Camille Herron's performance at the same race to talk about). I might get my name printed in my high school alumni newsletter. But that's about it. Not too many people really care about this niche sport. And I kind of like it that way.<br />
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I stood there in a daze for a second. Someone asked me if I wanted to sit down. I did. Someone else asked me if I wanted a beer. I definitely did. Then, a woman came up to me and said "What size finisher's jacket do you want? Oh... and also, here's your belt buckle." I had completely forgotten about it! This thing I thought I had wanted for so long had completely slipped my mind. <br />
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I cheered on the 24 people who finished behind me. There were more than a few teary eyes as these last runners crossed. There was no great awards ceremony. No real fanfare other than this growing contingent of cheerleaders waiting at this finish line in a small park in Southern Illinois rooting louder and louder for total strangers as they crossed the line. No camera crews - a couple of people had their phones out to record their friends or loved ones finishing. Just high fives and mutual respect.<br />
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Twenty-eight hours, fifty-four minutes, fifty-two seconds. The soreness still lingers three days later. My right leg feels better but not yet good enough to run on. I still don't think I've realized what this means to me. I get glimpses of it every once in a while - like someone walking behind you and slapping the back of your head - but it hasn't really sunk in yet.<br />
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I believe not everyone can do this. And I believe that anyone can do this. <br />
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I would like to thank several people for their assistance and belief in me. I'd write out the reasons why but I don't think I need to.<br />
Sue Black, Jessica Bohn, Daniel Larkin, Newton Dominey, Andy Smith, Steve Novicki, Theresa Flores-Novicki, Michelle Soltys-Cox, Ramon Hernandez, Erinn Sullivan Hadley, Mom, Dad, Eric Bohn (yes, believe it or not!), Matt Melanson, Aaron Benson, Steve Durbin, and (of course) Pippin.<br />
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[Tags: Tunnel Hill 100, Tunnel Hill, Tunnel Hill Race Report, Race Report, Ultramarathon]<br />
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<br />Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-4513921860434305572017-04-19T11:48:00.002-07:002017-04-19T11:54:04.194-07:00Rope Lights, Eddie Vedder, and Why I'm bad (to occasionally mediocre) on dates<div>
Nashville Councilwoman Tanaka Vercher recently introduced an ordinance to ban rope lights on several streets in Nashville. I wrote her an email today. Here it is. </div>
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Councilwoman Vercher,</div>
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I am writing this email to let you know that I disagree with your recent proposal to ban rope lights. This is stupid idea and debating it right now is a waste of time and money. </div>
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I'm curious if you have any factual data that supports your claims that rope lights are dangerous. [I googled it and *SPOILER ALERT* I came up with nothing.] I have some in my house and they are both awesome and safe. I've got a string that lead down the steps from my kitchen and into the garage. The number of times they've kept me from falling down because I'm able to see has got to be at least 3 or 4. Maybe even higher than that. Also, my mom came to town to visit me once and said that they were "nice" and "they really helped her see". So, that's two people that they've helped be safe and not, you know, that thing you claim. Also, I have them in my music room. They really add to the vibe when I'm playing along to Pearl Jam records from the mid-90s. I can't definitively say though that they've helped me with the ladies. "Oh, you've got 50 feet of rope lights in your music room? Maybe we should go get a beer sometime and then you can try to kiss me at the end of night (Is it a date? It's kind of a date. Sort of. Who knows). But I'll just turn my head to the side and you can kiss me on the cheek and I'll smile awkwardly as I get into my Honda Accord and drive home and then never return your texts." she'll say. I don't know how to properly punctuate that. Can you put parenthetical expressions in a quote? Sure. I just did. But look! Another issue of rope lights helping people be safe. Think of all those women who HAVEN'T gone out with me because of the rope lights in my music room. I've saved a proverbial ton of women from an awkward evening and myself a lot of heartache. Safety everywhere!</div>
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Why is your proposed rope light ban only for Arterial and Collector streets? I had to look up what both of those things meant but I don't understand how the street size makes a difference. I mean, it's not a good street related rule like you shouldn't drive 100 miles per hour down Nolensville Pike. That one makes sense. An anti-rope light rule on Nolensville Pike doesn't make any sense. There are some really solid liquor stores who have signs that are illuminate by rope lights on that road. How would I know where they are otherwise? I probably won't. And that's a bummer because I really like beer. Are you trying to deprive me of beer? That's not very nice of you. First women won't go out with me because of the rope lights in my Eddie Vedder shrine room so I have to go buy beer by myself and drink it at home. Except now I won't be able to do that because I won't know where the awesome liquor stores are because you're trying to make them take down the rope lights. This just keeps getting worse and worse for me.</div>
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But wait! There's more!</div>
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Why does this ordinance (according to the story I read on Fox 17 today) not affect downtown Nashville? Don't you think those rope lights would be more of a distraction to the bachelorette parties and drunk Chicago Blackhawks fans who are "just here to have a good time, bro!" when they're driving down the wrong way on a one way street again while they're looking for a chill spot to 'just hang with the locals'. Like locals ever go downtown. Except for The Ryman. And sometimes Bridgestone. Why do the tourists get to enjoy rope lights and I don't?</div>
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I'm an avid runner. I wear lights when I'm out for run out on the streets. It makes me more visible to traffic. What if I were to wear a suit made out of rope lights? A company called Noxgear makes them and they look kind of awesome. Would that make me more safe or less safe? Would the police try to arrest me if I were running up Nolensville Pike wearing one of those? Do you think they could catch me if they tried to chase me? I'm pretty fast and I'd be able to see all around me with the light emitting from my rope light vest while they'd be running with just their flashlights jostling about. My money is on me instead of Officer MagLite.</div>
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I know this is starting to read like I'm an alcoholic runner who listens to grunge music and is bad with women and has a rope light obsession. I'm only two and a half of those things. Maybe I should make that my Bumble account bio. Might help. Hell, it certainly couldn't hurt.</div>
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In conclusion, this bill doesn't deserve our city council's time or energy. I ask that you withdraw this ordinance and focus on more important and pressing needs for Nashville: better sidewalks, better public transportation, and an improved greenway system. Those are the things that are going to continue to make Nashville awesome... Not ordinances about rope lights.</div>
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Shine on,</div>
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Stephen P Bohn</div>
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Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-70183823781232058512016-01-28T05:57:00.001-08:002016-01-28T05:57:59.836-08:00Councilman Withers<div>
Councilman Withers,</div>
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I am writing to you today to express my extreme displeasure with your championing of the Historic Home Event Bill.</div>
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This is not an issue like the extreme noise often emanating from the Ascend Amphitheater. Introducing sound ordinances for a venue of that size and, well, sound is appropriate. Across the country, most outdoor amphitheaters near residences have similar ordinances. That I understand.</div>
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What I don't understand is the purpose of this bill. But we'll get to that in a minute.</div>
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In addition to my full-time job, I have worked for a local florist on-and-off for the past 7 years. I have set up and cleaned up hundreds of weddings since 2009 both at indoor and outdoor event spaces in the Nashville area. In my time doing that never once have I ever overheard a single complaint from any neighbor of any venue of the event being too loud or too raucous. Furthermore, I am an ordained minister and have officiated both indoor and outdoor weddings in both Nashville and out-of-state. At no event have I ever received any complaint of an event being too loud or too wild. I have also DJed several weddings, again, at both indoor and outdoor spaces, and (you can see where this is going) have never received a single complaint from a neighbor at any time about it being too loud. </div>
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There are several wonderful outdoor event spaces in Nashville. In addition to the historic homes, places like Cheekwood and The Cordelle provide amazing spaces for people to have what one would hope to be the best day of their lives. These outdoor event spaces are part of the charm of southern living and hundreds and hundreds of event planners, floral shop employees, caterers, DJs, wedding consultants, and several other occupations depend on these places to give their clients the day of their dreams. People travel from all over the country to spend money in this town driven by these outdoor events. And your bill wants to take that away from people.</div>
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I can't understand why you want to introduce this bill. Can you explain it to me? Do you have a laundry list of complaints from neighbors of these venues? Do you just not like these venues? What is your reasoning?</div>
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From what I can tell, the Board of Zoning Appeals has, on multiple occasions, ruled that the property is the entire property -- not just the inside of the home. For someone such as yourself who used to work the real estate industry, I would expect that you would understand this.<br /><br />Councilman Withers, it seems to me that you are entering into a fight that you cannot win and probably shouldn't enter in the first place. One needs only to look as far as the hubris exhibited by Aerial Development in their recent Shelby Hills campaign to see that neighborhoods belong to all of the residents and not a select few. <br /><br />I have copied my councilman (Jeremy Elrod) on this email and am imploring him to oppose your proposal. This is bad for business, bad for you Councilman Withers, bad for Nashville, and just plain mean.<br /><br />Sincerely,</div>
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Stephen P Bohn</div>
Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-35095431339039307532015-11-11T18:18:00.001-08:002015-11-11T18:18:17.686-08:00Aerial Development has a wishbone where it's backbone oughtta beIf you have spent any time online in the past few days and you live in Nashville, you have probably seen this video from Aerial Development Group. Take a few minutes and watch it.<br />
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If you didn't watch it, it feels like the outtakes from a Mumford and Sons video. Maybe from the third single from their record. You know, the single that no one really cares about? That one.</div>
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I saw the above video on a friend's Facebook page a few days ago and wasn't sure if it was parody. Turns out that it isn't. It is, however, representative of everything that is wrong with "New Nashville" summed up in three minutes of everything I hate. Except for the part where people drink wine. Wine is pretty ok. </div>
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As this video started making the rounds, the real parodies started rolling in. Good ones, like the one that my friend Casey made -- I'd post a link to it but he received a cease and desist letter from Aerial's lawyers and had to take it down. Of course, this just raised the level of awareness of the above video and led to Casey being featured on Channel 4 news yesterday (<a href="https://www.facebook.com/caseymcbride/videos/10153685632455135/?pnref=story">which can be viewed here</a>) and an interview with <i>The Tennessean</i>. And, my, how the vitriol has poured in for Aerial.</div>
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This Nashville depicted in Aerial's video is not the Nashville that I know and love. I've lived here for a decade (yes, I am a dreaded 'transplant') and have lived in three different houses on the east side. When I bought my house two years ago, I looked at buying in East Nashville but it was largely out of my price range. Nothing but tall and skinnies as a far as the eye can see.</div>
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The Nashville I know and love are the artists, the creatives, the people that work 50 hours a week so that they can have a studio in their home. The people that bounce around in a van, driving from state to state for questionable at best return on their investment. The people that rebuilt this city on rock and roll five years ago. </div>
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A perfunctory googling (hmm... didn't think that was a word but it appears that it is) of Aerial Development will lead you down a rabbit hole that has been carefully cultivated. You'll find pop music houses for the masses and designed to appeal to the lowest common denominator of out-of-state <i>Nashville</i> soap opera viewers. If you're lucky and haven't been banned from their social media pages (like I seem to have been), you'll find Ikea's wet dream full of Edison bulbs and oh so perfect shelving units fashioned from reclaimed barn wood.</div>
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Times change, neighborhoods change, and people change. But the best way to change time, neighborhoods, and people is to let a time, neighborhood, and person do it intrinsically. </div>
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You can't will a culture into existence, Aerial. You can't sell a dream to people who are already living theirs. You can't shut people up with by banning them from your social media (some of us are pretty smart and can get the information other ways). You can't cry when the other guy hits back. And you can't have a wishbone where your backbone oughtta be.</div>
Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-34004835412849472102015-06-09T12:36:00.003-07:002015-06-09T12:36:44.589-07:00Dear Councilman GloverTL; DR: Councilman Steve Glover is threatening to withhold $28million for improvement projects for southeast Nashville if the plan that he supports to relocate the downtown jail is not passed by city council. Below is the letter that I wrote to him. He can be reached at <a href="mailto:steve.glover@nashville.gov">steve.glover<wbr></wbr>@nashville.gov</a> if you are interested in contacting him.<br />
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Mr. Glover,
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After reading the analysis of your plan for the relocation of the jail, I must let you know that I, as a resident, relatively new homeowner, and taxpayer of southeast Nashville, am very disappointed on a number of fronts.
As an elected official, you work for the people that elected you. You do your best to serve the interests of the city at large at not just a part of it which is what you are doing here: namely the downtown area. You claim that the city would benefit greatly from the sale of the property of the current jail in downtown through not only the influx of cash from the sale itself but tax dollars as a long-term result. If the city were in dire straits financially, I might be inclined to agree. But the recent explosion of new buildings (both public and private) indicates otherwise. <br />
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You're still entitled to your opinion of where the jail should be (relocated or not) just as everyone else is. Your cavalier attitude toward not understanding "what all the ruckus is because there's already jails out here," is a shame. Just because a necessary evil already exists doesn't mean that it should be compounded.
What grinds my gears, though, you threatening to block "funding for a new Cane Ridge Elementary School, a new community center in the Smith Springs area, a new Head Start facility and upgrades to Una Recreation park." (according to The Tennessean) if the plan to relocate the jail fails. You're threatening current residents by withholding a well-deserved community center. You're threatening current residents by withholding well-deserved upgrades to Una Rec Park. But more importantly than those, you're threatening children who certainly could benefit from a new Head Start facility and elementary school. If you were to ask anyone who lives in this community what they would rather invest in, I would wager that most of them would side with education and recreation as opposed to a correctional facility that would only seek to benefit future tax revenues of Downtown.
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Southeast Nashville is a growing and rapidly developing area in our town. There's an awful lot to offer here: excellent food that, thankfully, the culinary country at large hasn't found out about yet; homes for those of us, like myself, who recently bought their first house can afford (all those new private 'tall-and-skinny' homes that are popping up in East Nashville just look terrible and cost way too much money); improving recreational options (my dog loves the new William Pitts dog park that's just a few miles away); and a whole host of other things. <br />
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You said it yourself: "At the risk of sounding rude, I don't see where it's going to hurt anything." Your shortsightedness into investing into the community in the interest of tax dollars makes you sound smug, arrogant, and totally unconcerned with the thousands of people who live and work in this part of town. And I don't care in the least if that makes me sound rude.
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I'd suggest taking a long hard look at your plan and re-evaluate where your priorities lie, Mr. Glover, and maybe take a visit to the southeast side sometime. You'll find out that we've got lots of good things going on here and would like lots more to happen in the future. You're in a unique position to help make that happen and I hope that you leverage that opportunity.Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-29292203916425071742015-01-27T12:21:00.001-08:002015-01-27T12:23:38.212-08:00The Return of "The Somethingth (sort of) Annual Give Flowers to a Single Lady in Nashville" GiveawayOf course I have a date for Valentine's Day. It's February 14th.
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- Or -
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It's Valentine's Day again. Crap. I forgot to get a girlfriend.
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Whichever makes you happiest.
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Well, so here we are at the end of January... Two and a half weeks until Valentine's Day. Ah, yes... You know the drill. When a man puts on his finest suit, combs his hair, and reserves the finest table and waiter at the most hallowed of restaurants: White Castle. Candies are purchased from the finest chocolatier in all the land (that's CVS, by the way), a beautiful young woman spritzes on perfume, and waits patiently for Johnny Hero to show up in his mid-sized sedan for a night of romance, intrigue, and possibly a semi-drunken makeout session. Or whatever it is people do. I'm not sure. I don't have a date for Valentine's Day and (Tinder miracles not withstanding) that probably isn't going to change. That's ok.
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The best job I've ever had, and let's face at this point in the game unless someone is going to pay me to be a combination Indiana Jones / beer drinker / nature photographer / hot tub tester, that's probably as good as it's ever gonna get for me. Plus, you know, I'm on <a href="http://www.tinder.com">Tinder</a> and <a href="http://www.okcupid.com">The Cupe</a> so you can imagine how well my dating life is going. I pretty much just sleep on a pile of money with my dog comfortably nestled at my feet in front of my television... And... Uh... Why am I on dating sites again? Oh, yeah. Love.
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As a result of my casual employment at A Village of Flowers, I've been asked to deliver flowers for them again this upcoming Valentine's Day. This is where things get awesome for you. IF:
- You are single.
- You are a lady.
- You live in the Nashville area.
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Why? Because you can enter the "The Somethingth (sort of) Annual Give Flowers to a Single Lady in Nashville" Giveaway. It's not a contest. It's a giveaway. You don't have to go out on a date with me. You don't have to cook me dinner. You don't even have to wait for me in my mid-size sedan. Well, actually, you kinda do. I'll be delivering the flowers that evening so I guess you'd have to be available to get them. But really, that's it. Pretty simple. <u>One</u> 'lucky' lady in the Nashville area will get a delivery of flowers from me delivered to them by me wearing a sport coat owned by me in a car being financed by me on the evening of February 14th.
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You can send me an email at stephenpbohn at gmail dot com if you're interested in the giveaway. Or leave a comment below.Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-16297321153085359402015-01-15T17:58:00.002-08:002015-01-15T18:03:50.422-08:00Home AloneOn December 23rd, someone(s) broke into my house. I was at work when it happened. Work. That place I go to so I can afford my (admittedly) modest house. I walked in the backdoor like I always do and noticed some of my guitars sitting on my dining room table. No one else has a key to my house, I live alone, and I always leave my guitars hanging up in my music room. Especially on Tuesday. I was very confused but rationalized that a friend had come into my house and played my guitars. Then I noticed my TV was gone. And then I noticed the cold air blowing in through the hole in my room where my a window used to be. And suddenly nothing else mattered. I was so concerned about my dog. The stupid little fleabag shitmachine money pit was the only thing that mattered. Normally, when I walk in the door, she starts barking. She's a lab-mixed-with-some-other-stuff, so what would one expect? She was silent. I figured that whoever stole my TV and moved my guitars had just killed my dog.
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I don't love many things. I don't love many people. I am becoming more and more reclusive as I get older. I am terrible at relationships and dating. I pick the wrong women to date. They sleep with me (sometimes) and then I don't hear from them again. One of them last fall said she slept with me because she felt "comfortable" with me. Suffice to say, I won't be talking to her again. But I do love my dog.
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She just sat there quietly in her cage. I immediately let her out.
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I called someone to board up my broken window. Of course you know where this is going.
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I left town the next morning for Christmas. Everything was fine. The family got along well, which is unusual for my family. Everyone kept asking me how I was doing and I told them (and genuinely meant) that I was fine.
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I walked in the door on Sunday afternoon after Christmas to a cold house. I left the heat off. I expected a cold house. The first thing I checked was the boarded up window. The board was still intact. Or so I thought. The boards didn't stop anyone from coming in again. My computer with years of pictures and videos? Gone. Some of my clothes? Gone. Every guitar in my house? Gone. That hurt. That hurt the most.
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I called the police. I called friends. I sat on my kitchen floor and cried for half an hour. The police came and took inventory. My friends came and brought me whiskey. One friend even stayed the the night in my spare bedroom. I passed out on my bed but didn't really sleep. I moved every time I heard a noise.
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I opened my eyes at two am to find that I was, indeed, still alive.
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I bought items to help secure my house. Security cameras. Security system. Security system. None of these in and of themselves have brought back the security I used to feel.
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I spoke with the Detective. I gave her a detailed list of every thing that was taken from me. Things that I had had for 20 years. The piece of shit Peavey Fury bass that I haven't played in ages but am still holding onto so that, if I ever find a woman that doesn't sleep with me just to sleep with me because I make her "comfortable" and that really does love me and we have a son or daughter, I can give it to them and tell them of the days when their dad used to be pretty cool and played music and that I wasn't always the guy who wore the five fingered toe shoes and khaki shorts. I spoke with my insurance company and provided the same list. I read that 13% of all burglarized goods are ever recovered. I resolved myself to the fact that everything was gone.
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I took to the anonymity of reddit to vent. I just got a bunch of smartass responses. I should have known better. I took to instagram looking for sympathy and got it. I researched ways to cope with violent crimes.
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A week later, I received a notice that the police had a lead on several of my guitars and I was asked to meet the detective working on my case at a pawn shop. You know... Where you have to provide ID, are videotape, and are photographed if you are trying to sell something. I walked into the first store, met with the detective who informed me that the clerk had just gone back into storage to see if two guitars that were pawned here were mine. He came out a few moments later with two of them. I said "Absolutely. Those are mine."
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We found five more of my guitars that day. Pawned with three miles of my house. Pawned within half a mile of each other.
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The detective asked me if I knew the name of the person who pawned my stuff. I didn't. All three clerks at all three shops told us the same thing: that the woman who pawned them was being told what to do by two men that were with her. I saw the photographs of the two men and didn't recognize either of them. Random, run of the mill, common fucking thieves.
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I got my guitars back today. Well, all of them but one. It's a Gretsch Electromatic. Bright orange with a Bigsby tremolo and dice for the volume and tone knobs. If anyone in Nashville sees this floating around, let me know. But I just acquired it a few months ago and if there were one that I had to lose, it was that one. I had very little emotional attachment to it.
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But what I can't get back, in addition to the years of pictures and videos, is that peace of mind I used to have when I locked my door at night or when I left for work. That naivety.
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I sleep with an alarm system now. I sleep with the surveillance cameras running. And I sleep with night lights on in my house. I forget to eat meals or I'm just not hungry altogether. I forget to go shopping. I forget that this is a process and not something I can just turn off. I'm a man who likes straight lines and this is a series of colors instead.
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Things can be replaced. I still have my dog. One day, I'll get back to where I started.
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Arrest warrants have been issued. Maybe these guys will get their day in court. Maybe they'll float on through life. Maybe they'll be flipping burgers or bagging groceries or building front end modules for an auto company and going home at the end of the day and watching my big screen TV. I don't know what people like that do. That's because I am still getting up early in the morning and going to work so that I can afford my meager house and my mutt of a dog and trips of a lifetime.
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It's hard to resist the urge to check my surveillance cameras every ten minutes. It's hard to resist checking the burglar alarm every time I check my email. It's hard to leave my dog out in the house because she eats my shoes. But that's where I am.
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Through this, so far, I think I am becoming a gentler person. The only way out is up.
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Thank you for listening. Goodnight.Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-76641773249804492282014-11-12T17:07:00.001-08:002014-11-12T17:07:37.654-08:00The Nashville School of Driver's EdudumbtionI've lived in Nashville for about a decade now. I came here from Michigan. Land of potholes and aggressive drivers. Land of straightforwardness. Land that never seems to appear on <i>COPS</i>. And in that time that I lived there, I was involved in two car accidents: one of which was my fault, the other of which I refuse to take responsibility for. Do you know how many accidents I have been in since I've lived in Nashville? Five. In ten years. I've taken my car in to be repaired because someone else hit me five times. This one time, and this was really great, I was asleep in my bed at 3am and someone drilled my car in my driveway. That was a sweet time.
But the fifth time came this afternoon as I was headed home from work. I had grand plans to take Pippin to the park, go for a run, maybe even eat a taco or four. Since Nashville drivers don't know what they're doing, one of them saw the back end of my car and said "That looks like a nice car! I think I'll drive into the back end and fuck it up!" Some actions are better left unexplored. That is one of them.
I got out of the car, swore at the other driver (hashtag Irish), then pulled over into a parking lot. I called the cops because that's what you do. They informed me that since it wasn't an injury accident that it wasn't high on their priority list. I figured it may take half an hour for someone to get out there.
Five phone calls later over the next two and a half hours and not a single cop showed up. NASHVILLE POLICE DEPARTMENT: THAT IS FUCKING PATHETIC. PA. THET. IC.
Oh, and here's the kicker, after the fifth phone call, the dispatcher informed me that since there was no injury involved that I could just fill out a form online instead of waiting for the police.
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At this point in time, I told the dispatcher that I wanted to speak to their supervisor but they didn't transfer me.
So, Nashville Police Department, if you come across this, please note that your service on the south side of town sucks. I mean, it's bad. Real bad. Daron Hall, you need to get this shit figured out. I should be sending you a bill for my time. I, and every other tax payer and property owner, pay your salary. You and your staff work for me. Not the other way around. Don't send out officers when it's convenient. Send them out when they're needed. If you can't figure out how to make this work on your (as of last reported earnings) $138,956.26 annual salary then we need to find someone that can. The customer service all across the board was bad. Horrible. Downright inexcusable.
And the best part of it is that I got to spend an hour when I got home cleaning up dog poop. You know, 'cause Pippin didn't get to to go to the park.
Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-77008258752536119402014-07-16T07:27:00.002-07:002014-07-16T07:34:44.111-07:00Goodbye, Facebook and TwitterDear Facebook and Twitter Friends,
<p><p>
Over the past 7(ish) years, I have spent plenty of time on Facebook. Far too much, I'm sure. I think it used to be entertaining but it has turned into a string of baby pictures: I get it, your kid is cute. I think it used to be entertaining but it has turned into a string of begging: you don't need $20,000 to record your album so quit posting the link to your kickstarter or gofundme. I think it used to be entertaining but it has turned into a string of advertisments: I don't need to save $7/month on car insurance. It used to be entertaining but it has turned into an endless back and forth of "I'm right about this politcal point of view and I'm going to unfriend you because you disagree with me." Which, believe it or not, has actually happened. I think it used to be entertaining but you get the idea.
<p><p>
I'm as guilty (even though that's much too strong of a word) as anyone else of some of this crap, too. Except for the pictures of kids. Although, I do have pictures of my dog and that's kind of the same thing. And definitely not the kickstarter or gofundme crap because when I played music, I rode in a van across Maryland at 2am to get back to Nashville after playing a show because that's what you did to raise money to record.
<p><p>
So, friends, I've decided to finally get rid of Facebook and Twitter. Not because I'm sanctimonious... Basically, I'm sick of 'em. It's become a waste of my time and I don't get anything out of them anymore.
<p><p>
I plan on keeping <a href="http://www.instagram.com/peanutisawesome">instagram</a> for at least a while because it hasn't started sucking just yet.
<p><p>
If you'd like to stay in touch with me, you can reach me the following ways:
Email - stephenpbohn at gmail dot com
Phone - 6 1 5 9 4 4 0 0 9 8
My really poorly designed and rarely updated website - stephenpbohn dot com
My rarely updated blog - you're here already
<p><p>
My book of faces and twitter will be up for another week and then they won't be.
<p><p>
Thank you for caring,
<p><p>
Stephen P BohnStephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-7552630304841101532014-02-25T05:58:00.001-08:002014-02-25T05:58:27.045-08:00The Private Lives of Nashville Wives: We No DramaWhen I was in my early 20’s, I was obsessed with ‘Survivor’. I thought it was brilliant. So brilliant, in fact, that I have two anecdotes about it:
<p><p>
The first was that I applied to be on the show 6 times between 2001 and 2006. I made videos for it and everything. One of them involved me running around Flint, Michigan, dressed as a giant chicken. Frankly, I’m surprised I didn’t get shot for that one. I’m not sure who has the footage of these anymore but if I ever run for President of the United States, I’m sure that they will somehow be unearthed and my campaign will be ruined. My opponent would start running a campaign like “A Vote for Bohn is a Vote for a Chicken.” I should be a professional political operative. My career in public service is over before it’s even begun.
<p><p>
The second was in 2001. My brother got arrested and wanted to be picked up after he made bail. I was specifically told not to pick him (at the risk of losing the roof over my own head). He called my cell phone and asked for a ride but I told him that I couldn’t because ‘Survivor’ was starting in 5 minutes and I didn’t want to miss it. I wish that I was joking about that.
<p><p>
But that’s where my love of reality TV ends. Wait. Do Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood count as products of reality TV that I love? Ok. Three things. ‘Survivor’, Kelly Clarkson, and Carrie Underwood. But that’s it.
<p><p>
I was sitting at home last night trying to teach my dog to not bite my hands (she’s real dumb), while wearing my most comfy pair of underpants, and flipping through the channels when I came across the premiere episode of something called ‘The Private Lives of Nashville Wives’. It’s like one of those ‘Real Housewives of so-and-so’ shows. And if you’re reading this blog, I am sure that you’re VERY familiar with that show. You probably follow them on Pintrest. How does Pintrest work again? Am I doing the internet right? There are a ton of things wrong with this show.
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First, that’s not how music works, especially if the music is terrible.
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Secondly, I’m not sure if any of these women actually live in Nashville. They’re seemingly of the ilk that smells like online shopping and an afternoon drunk. And by that I mean Williamson County. It’s like saying the Jets or the Giants are New York teams when they’re really New Jersey teams. The only people that they’re fooling are dummies that are bigger dummies than my dumb hand-biting dog. I’m not sure what the overnight returns are on this show but I’m betting it was a fairly decent number. Half of my household watched it. And if you count the dog as part of the household, it was more like two-thirds. Those are some pretty decent numbers.
<p><p>
Thirdly, no one cares about playing at The Hard Rock Café. That’s the kind of venue that you play if your significant other is a successful songwriter or if you’ve “got an inspired funk-rock sound with a ton of energy and you can’t get a gig at 5Spot in East Nashville”. I’m not sure if that’s in any band’s bio but it should be. You know who has played The Hard Rock Café? Me. You know how many people showed up for that gig? About 17.
<p><p>
This show appeals to the lowest common denominator of disposable television. [In the exact moment that I typed that sentence, one of the cast members followed me on twitter.] I hope this show doesn’t catch fire. Well, literally, I do… Like imagine if all the cameras burned up spontaneously in balls of lightning (thing the end of ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’). Now THAT is something that I’d watch.
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Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-68768895464809884972014-02-16T18:24:00.001-08:002014-02-16T18:26:15.136-08:00The final Death Comesto Matteson show.I moved to Nashville with really bad gear. I'm talking about the worst gear one could own. Well, the Telecaster was pretty nice but when you play it through a solid state Marshall amp, it sounds pretty terrible. I also used a Vox wah pedal (which, if I've loaned this out to anybody and they still have it, I would very much like it back). And an Ibanez Soundtank Tube Screamer [read: really, REALLY shitty sounding]. Powered by batteries. Do you know where all of that will get you in Nashville? Apparently into Death Comesto Matteson.<p><p>
If I recall correctly, Peter had me audition in the practice space we shared with Celebrity. I'm pretty sure Peter had made his mind made up that I was going to be in the band before I plugged in. I remember auditioning with "It's Your Funeral, Baby" and "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aj879fSVbTQ">Parking Lot</a>" by Mineral. Two weeks later, I was in Jozeph's trailer recording demos for the full length.<p><p>
Touring and recording continued for the next few years. And, as things do, they fell apart. <p><p>
I didn't talk to Peter for a few years. I went from being an usher in this man's wedding to not speaking to him for years. This is the sort of thing that friendships don't usually recover from.<p><p>
In 2012, my friend Sara came out from Salt Lake City to visit for about 4 days. During those 4 days, my friends in <s>For All The Drifters</s> <a href="http://paperrouteonline.com/">Paper Route</a> were playing a show. And, so Sara and I went. Where I ran into Peter. After a drink or two, Peter and I started to talk. We said things that we should have said years ago. But I didn't know any better when I was 26 and thought that everyone loved me. At the end of the night, I asked Peter what he thought about doing a reunion show. Just once. I hadn't even asked Wayne or Jozeph. I hadn't talked to Mike in years (turns out, he and his wife moved to Texas). Much to my surprise, he said yes.<p><p>
As with everything with Death Comesto Matteson does, it took forever to line up. The original plan was to do the show in January of 2013. We only missed out original projected date by 13 months which was pretty good for us. <p><p>
Peter, Wayne, and I met over at Peter and Julia's house last spring just to test the friendship. What's the point of playing a show if you can't do it with your friends? We're still friends, even given how different our lives have turned out.<p><p>
We began rehearsing about 5 weeks ago. I had to pay Chris Vicari to play the show [HIRE THIS MAN FOR ALL YOUR DRUMMING NEEDS] since Mike lives a thousand miles away. The first rehearsal that we had -- we knew we would be able to pull this off.<p><p>
We ran through our final rehearsal on Thursday evening. Just once. That was all we needed. I had to be to work very early on Friday morning so it worked out anyway. <p><p>
Friday evening, I showed up for soundcheck. I hadn't been that nervous since the first time I played with the band at some venue in Murfreesboro. There was a girl who came to that show and I'm pretty sure we held hands. She lives a thousand miles away and is married to someone else. I remember playing with my back to the crowd the whole night. I remember throwing up in the alley before the show.<p><p>
I'm just glad I didn't throw up on Friday night.<p><p>
Friday's show was muscle memory. Except for "Telescope". I had never played that song before and I forgot how to play the chorus. Sorry. [Add some delay and some tremolo and play a chord in the right key and no one is the wiser. Problem solved.]<p><p>
As we got about halfway through the last song of the evening ("Doctors") my guitar strap broke. What is a Comesto show when things don't break? Not a Comesto show. I figured that I might as well get rid of the guitar. I don't need it anymore. I apologize if I hit anybody with the remnants of that Telecaster.<p><p>
To say this was a cathartic experience is nothing short of the truth. I was genuinely touched that anyone showed up. Not only on Friday night but any of the nights that we ever played. Like at the outdoor dancing festival thing one fall (2006, I believe) when we played for 4 people. FOUR. Or the time when Cage the Elephant opened for us (now they're opening for MUSE on arena tours). Or the time that I was convinced that the cello player from Murder By Death had a crush on me. I think she's married now, too. <p><p>
To anyone whoever came to any show that I was a part of, I thank you. From the bottom of my heart. I never have to wonder "What if we had just one more show?" again. I'm not saying that we'll never play another show ever again. It might happen. I thought Friday night was impossible but there it happened.<p><p>
This could kill us all... But it hasn't yet.Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-35299400386196795692013-11-05T21:11:00.000-08:002013-11-05T21:17:47.272-08:00Mike Bohn: Man of SteelDoes anyone remember a game called "The Comeback"? It was January 3, 1993. The Houston Oilers (later Tennessee Oilers, later Tennessee Titans, consistently mediocre) against the Buffalo Bills who lost like 17 Super Bowls in a row. Strangely enough, that's eactly 17 more times than my beloved Detroit Lions have been to the Super Bowl. Yes, I know they're really bad. I get it.
<br><br>
For some reason, I was over at my grandparents' house in Brighton watching said game in the den. I think it's called the den. Maybe it's the dining room. Can dining rooms have TVs? If so, it was the dining room. If not, it was the den. It's the room between the kitchen and the family room where those of us without children were often relegated for Christmas dinner. Which, for some strange scheduling reason was why I was there. A week after Christmas. My memory isn't what it used to be, although I distinctly remember the time I was playing softball in my grandparents' backyard later that very year and running face first into the flagpole, which felt exactly what you think it would feel like.
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My younger brother was, for some reason, a HUGE Buffalo Bills fan, even though they had lost the previous three Super Bowls, and (at the risk of spoiling this story) would go on to lose their fourth of the aforementioned 17 consecutive Super Bowls shortly after the events of January 3, 1993. Me, my brother, and my Uncle Mike were watching this game together.
<br><br>
Houston took a massive lead. And, with every successive score, Uncle Mike would let out a bellow that rang, "Houston Oilllleerrrrs!" Now, to my knowledge, Uncle Mike was never a huge Houston Oilers fan. He never lived in Texas. He liked the Detroit Lions more than I do, which is saying something. I think, however, that he liked to push people's buttons (especially my brother's) because a.) it's so easy, and b.) it's so fun. If there were ever any doubt that Mike Bohn and I are related, I think I just closed the door on those very doubts.
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Houston scored. "Houston Oilllleerrrrs!"
<br><br>
Houston scored again. "Houston Oilllleerrrrs!"
<br><br>
Houston scored again. And again. And again. "Houston Oilllleerrrrs!"
<br><br>
Then Buffalo pulled off the greatest comeback in NFL history. And I don't mean that in a flippant way. I mean, they literally pulled off the greatest comeback in NFL history. They were down by 32 points and came back to win. That's like me going to the bar and having the next 10 girls that walk in tell me that I remind them of Ryan Gossling or Kevin Costner circa 1991. Is it possible? Sure, it's possible. But it's not very likely.
<br><br>
As the game, which went into overtime, ended on field goal by Steve Christie, I recall my Uncle Mike being quiet. Which, if you happen to know my Uncle Mike know that that's as rare as the aforementioned thing where the women tell me I look like Ryan Gossling or Kevin Costner circa 1991. My brother couldn't have been happier.
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Uncle Mike, you were an incredibly hard work. You worked in the steel industry for longer than I've been alive and I was born during the Carter administration. You were right far more often than you were wrong. And, in typical Bohn fashion, you were able to admit that you were wrong but didn't like to do so. Like me. I'm almost never wrong. Except for when I am. You were infectious and your integrity was beyond measure. You lived a life above reproach. You, Uncle Mike, were truly a Man of Steel.
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You will be missed but I will see you again soon. Until then, keep rooting for the Houston Oilers (for some unexplicable reason). Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-61322907673954935992013-10-02T03:11:00.001-07:002013-10-02T03:11:11.399-07:00Dear Distinguished Ladies and Gentlemen of the Federal Government, Dear Distinguished Ladies and Gentlemen of the Federal Government,<br />
<br />
I write this to you at 4:30 in the morning the day after you have effectively "shutdown" as everyone seems to be calling it. I also write this to you the day after I completed my monthly reconciliation for work. I'm not going to go into the details of what that entails (I'm 99% sure that would violate one of the policies in our HR handbook) and this is relevant for a few reasons which I will get into momentarily.<br />
<br />
First, I must express my extreme disgust at you shutting yourself down. It's childish. I live a thousand miles away from the vast majority of you but I can see when a bunch of babies are acting like a bunch of babies. Get over yourselves, go back to work and fix this. You have two jobs to do: come up with a budget and make laws. That's it.<br />
<br />
Whenever I do monthly reconciliation for work, I am told that it <u>must </u> be done that day. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. If I end up at work until 10:00pm that night (after arriving in the 6 o'clock hour that morning) then I end up at work until 10:00pm. Do you know why? Because it's something that must be done or, potentially, my job is on the line. I don't have the luxury of getting it done later. I've never missed the deadline. And, yes, that is something that I am quite proud of. I am surrounded by a great team of people who have arranged their schedule in order to help with this monthly reconciliation. And we prepare. Boy, do we prepare. We start preparing weeks in advance for this project and we prepare so far in advance so that when issues come up on the deadline we are most prepared.<br />
<br />
My point here is this: Why haven't you prepared? You knew that a shutdown was looming. You knew that if you didn't get your job done that <b>TENS OF THOUSANDS</b> of people would be placed on unpaid furlough and several federal government agencies would close down or operate on significantly smaller budgets until an undetermined point in time.<br />
<br />
For the most part, the federal government shutdown won't effect me. I can't think of an instance where the I (personally) will need the VHA, for example. My experience of the federal government shut down <b>should</b> be going home from work, walking in the back door of my house, sitting on my couch and watching Netflix. Except for now, I might not get to do that.<br />
<br />
You see, I recently made an offer on a house. Yes, buying a home. The American Dream and whatnot. However, I did not have the 20% saved up for the traditional mortgage loan so, like so many other first time buyers, I opted for an FHA loan allowing me to place a significantly smaller amount as a downpayment. I have been working feverishly over the past year or so to save up for this downpayment. Many late nights, early mornings (my alarm is programmed to go off at 5:13 every weekday morning but I'm usually up before then like I am right now), and weekends worked in order to save up the requisite thousands so that I can walk into a place one day and write "mine" on the wall and not have a single person tell me I can't.<br />
<br />
No one helped me manage my budget for this. I am not receiving a single cent as a gift from anyone for a downpayment. No cosigners. I'm not married so it's not like I have a wife that's going to help me out with this either. It's because I've put in long hours because this is what I want.<br />
<br />
What effects me, though, is that in order to get this FHA loan, I (or, rather, the mortgage company that I am working with) need to be given what's called an "FHA number". But since the Department of Housing and Urban Development is largely shutdown because the lot of you are acting like a bunch or dumb dummies, I can't get this number. If you want to piss off and alienate a registered voter, you have managed to do it.<br />
<br />
I know you don't care about me. I know you don't. You don't care about three trillion dollars, so why would you care about my paltry whatever-it-is I am going to be borrowing that is largely dependent upon you getting your shit together? You clearly don't care about money as the vast majority of you decision and budget makers will continue to receive your paychecks. I've heard of a couple of you asking that the CAO withhold your pay during this shutdown -- whether this is genuine, a hoax, or simply a ploy by the requestor to drum up future support and votes I am not sure. I'd like to believe that it's genuine but there's nothing to me that indicates that it is.<br />
<br />
I am scheduled to close on my home in the next few weeks. The home that I saved for. The home that I budgeted for. The home that I have worked so hard for. The home in which I plan on buying a really obnoxiously big TV and hanging it on the wall so that I can watch hockey all winter long. The home in which I plan on getting a dog for (I've never had my own dog and I'm really pumped about it, by the way) and watching it run around the backyard. The home in which I, one day, plan to start a family in but being 33 and dating is proving to be a difficult and tricky thing and a rant for another time altogether.<br />
<br />
Right now, every single one of those things is on hold. And it's all your fault.<br />
<br />
As I wrap this up, because it's about time for me to get out of bed and get ready for work (where, rest assured, I do my job much better than any of you seem to be able to do), I must reiterate my extreme disappointment. If you're looking for someone real that you've affected with your utter and gross incompetence, you need look no further. <br />
<br />
It's 5:09 by my watch. Which means I've finished this with 4 minutes left to spare. I made my deadline.<br />
<br />
Get your shit together,<br />
<br />
Stephen P Bohn<br />
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<br />Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-34459830886349418832013-09-16T18:52:00.000-07:002013-09-16T19:27:55.548-07:00I could drink a case of you and I would still be on my feet<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;">The last woman that said she loved me was in love with me. That was last summer. That was July. I think it was July. Like I could forget it was July. I knew why I started dating her and knew why I stopped dating her. It's because she fell in love with me after dating me for two months. I'm deliberate. I'm consistently slow. I hate change. Unless it's the changing of seasons because I get to drink beers that I haven't gotten to drink since the last time this season rolled around. Like this pint of Oktoberfest in front of me now. Like I could forget that it's not yet October. </span><br />
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There was always a fight. There was always a "Why don't you?" There was always a "Yeah but." There were all these things that I didn't understand. </div>
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Fall rolled around. We had seen each other in passing in the few months that passed and said hello but not much more. She started seeing someone else and I tried seeing someone else who I liked much more than she liked me. Our first dates ended up being in the same place on the same night which is something out of a bad movie or a bad book. And there's no bad writing allowed except for when bad writing occurs. What do you say when that happens? "This is my date. Date, this woman has seen me naked." Do you say that? No. You pull your hood over your head and invent an exit. At least that's what I did. </div>
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That date was the last date that I had with her by the way. It lasted 4 days. She told me she was sorry about her heart when I dropped her off the last time that saw her and I haven't seen her since. I'll never see her again unless I'm in an airport in London and it's 2028 when I'm traveling for work and she's traveling with her impossibly beautiful (as yet non-existent) children and her impossibly handsome (also as yet non-existent) husband. Because that's the way the knife works. </div>
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Fall passed and winter settled in. New Year's Eve. At home and some drunk woman kissed me on the mouth in the kitchen but she didn't remember it the next time I saw her. January became February and that became mid February and that became Valentine's Day. The woman from last summer asked me about getting her flowers for Valentine's Day. She asked me to get her flowers. She asked me. I didn't. </div>
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March. The Ides of March. Midnight. She got in a car, headed out-of-state, and eloped. She got married. 29 days after she asked me to give her flowers. </div>
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I got on a plane the next morning and flew to the Midwest. She and her husband were expecting their first child. I drank my way through the week, unsure if I had or had not dodged a bullet. Or, rather, a cannonball. I convinced myself that I had. I knew I had. </div>
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Other men had seen her naked. Another man since me had seen her naked. </div>
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Spring became summer. I went on a few dates. One of them asserted that I was only interested in sleeping with her even though I had never slept with her. One of them tasted like cigarettes. One of them said, "I don't know about dating you but I could introduce you to some friends." She was tall and very pretty and had an enthusiastic outlook on life. Almost can't believe that was the end of that. I haven't heard from any of them since. </div>
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Last week, the woman from last summer gave birth to a daughter. She and her husband announced it to the world. In love with me last summer to married, stepmother to three, and mother to one. Naked in my bed on a Monday night or any night that she and I wanted for that matter to domestica in 14 months. </div>
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I wonder what her life is like now. 3 am feedings and singing songs about how beautiful life must be. Elton John's "Your Song". Or Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World." I don't know what mothers sing to their daughters. I wonder if the girl of 4 days from last fall ever thinks about calling me (she hasn't in several months which is a shame). I wonder if Cigarette Mouth is going to see me out one night in East Nashville and say "hello." I wonder if the girl who thought I was only trying to sleep with her is sleeping someone else. I wonder why that tall pretty girl never called me to introduce her to her friends like she said she was going to.</div>
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I'm going to two weddings in two weekends next month. And I'm going alone to both of them. Mother, 4 Days, Cigarette Mouth, Sleeping, and Tall Pretty all would have been good dates 14, 10, 4, 3, or 2 months ago. But they're not. </div>
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I wonder what it's like to not have to worry about having a date for a wedding. </div>
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I wonder what another beer tonight would do. Probably not much. One pint of Oktoberfest doesn't matter. I'm living dangerously by having this second one. I'm living dangerously. I'm half an hour from going to bed alone on a Monday. I've been typing this with my thumbs for an hour now. [I could drink a case of you and I would still be on my feet.]</div>
Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-87747938069904647812013-08-11T12:56:00.003-07:002013-08-11T12:56:34.706-07:00Yeezus is a dying tractorThe last time I bought a record was December of 2011. Josh and I rode up to Grimey's. He was on his motorcycle, I was on my scooter. I didn't have a motorcycle yet. I bought a Tom Waits record and a Thrice record: "Bad as Me"and "Major/Minor" respectively. I used to buy records all of the time. Well, I used to buy CDs all of the time. Boxes and boxes and boxes of them. They're in my attic. If anyone wants the Pearl Jam discography, let me know.<br />
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I listen to the Thrice record much more than the Tom Waits record although the way Tom works "Auld Lang Syne" into "New Year's Eve" at the end of his record is musically genius. I remember leaving a New Year's Eve party shortly after the clock struck twelve and drove around listening to that song for about 45 minutes about two weeks after I bought the record. I later read an article on some terrible music blog about what the song you listen to on New Year's Eve says about you. "The New Year" by Death Cab for Cutie was on that list. So was "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve" by nearly everyone ever but mostly by Ella Fitzgerald. "A Long December" by Counting Crows -- which isn't really a song about a new year at all but was about a girl getting hit by a car -- was also on there. Anyway, some writer called Tom's song, "perfect for the sad bastard." I think I listened to it about 9 times that night.<br />
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Here's the thing about Tom Waits: he comes up with these utterly manic moments. Actually, most of his songs where he doesn't play keys (either piano or accordion) sound like a tractor dying. There's this awful crunch. Maybe the tractor ran over some cinder blocks. Maybe like the time Johnny Cash drove his tractor into the lake in Hendersonville. Whatever the death of a tractor sounds like to you, that's what Tom Waits does with his more aggressive songs. And that's what Kanye West did a few months ago but with a more expensive tractor.<br />
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I don't buy the Kanye-West-as-a-badass image for even a split second. Unless <a href="http://now.msn.com/kanye-west-t-shirt-sells-out-despite-costing-120-dollars">selling out plain white tshirts at $120 a pop makes one a badass these days</a>. Maybe a badass marketer. Maybe a badass salesman. But not a real badass. He probably doesn't know anything about <a href="http://www.thisoldhouse.com/toh/how-to/intro/0,,20183702,00.html">fascia and soffit repair</a> or about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Honda_CB175">riding an old motorcycle</a>. Selling expensive tshirts, though. He's got that down. So it is with <s>some</s> trepidation that I lavish praise on <u>Yeezus</u>. It's an album full of contradictions.<br />
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Sonically, it's so far ahead of anything that I've heard this year. It's like Kanye listened to Tom's "Bad As Me" record and said, "Imagine what this album would <i>feel</i> like with a budget." And that's what he did. Put on a pair of headphones, turn this shit up to 11 and prove me wrong. But as prodigious as the backing on tracks like "Hold My Liquor" and "Black Skinhead" sound (they're both borderline virtuoso) his lyrics stall time and time and time again. Like that dying tractor.<br />
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Am I really to believe Kanye's plight about having to "pick the cotton [him]self" he laments in "New Slaves"? I hope not. Actually, if he picked the cotton himself for those $120 tshirts he's selling, then they might be worth it. Am I to believe that God actually co-wrote "I Am A God"? Am I supposed to be able to tell the difference between him whining about the not getting croissants delivered to his table fast enough ("I Am A God") and what actually approaches, well, genuine badassery (all of "On Sight")?<br />
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And then there's "Blood on the Leaves" which samples Nina Simone's "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ah8PxUFhaGo">Strange Fruit</a>. Easily the most conflicted track on this record. There are a handful of artists who've tried something like this before (Greg Dulli, I'm looking squarely at you here). Two verses of what appears to be genuine longing for someone. Two verses of love gone wrong. Three verses of drugs. And then a verse about instagram replete with mentions of not one but two hashtags. All with the phrase "swinging in the summer breeze" repetitively droning through the background. "Blood on the Leaves" ends and I think "Does he love this woman? What could have happened if she wouldn't have run naked through the lobby? Drugs killed whatever they could have been. I need to check my instagram feed real quicklike. Oh... That's a cute baby. You get one of those little heart thingies. I like your picture of the sunset. Can I write a snarky comment on your photo of your really cute sister and hope that she sees it because dating at 33 is a weird thing to be doing?" And before I know it, I've stopped paying attention to whatever Kanye was spewing about but I'm still bobbing my head in time with the rhythm.<br />
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So what to make of this record? I've digested it for two months now and while I marvel at it being sonically astute, lyrically it makes about as much sense as Johnny Cash driving his tractor into the lake. It's art. I get it. But at the end of the day all you have is a dead tractor.<br />
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<br />Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-21152215604378119282013-05-19T07:25:00.001-07:002013-05-19T07:25:15.576-07:00Keep Climbing, Delta. And maybe throw me some sky miles along the way. I flew down to Costa Rica 8 days ago and my luggage was lost (or as Delta Airlines put it "delayed"). They sent me a customer service survey and specifically asked me if I had any additional comments. Here is the feedback that I sent them. And, yes, I already received the automated email reply...<br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I have been flying on Delta flights for the last 26 years and this is by far the worst experience I have ever had with your airline. The first time I flew, I was 6 years old and headed down to Florida with my family. I got one of those pins with the wings on them and even got to visit the pilots in the cockpit whereupon I was made an honorary captain for the flight. THAT was a good experience. My "delayed" bag experience from my recent trip to Costa Rica, not so much. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I wouldn't call myself much of an athlete (stay with me in this). I try to run a few nights a week and have completed two half marathons. I'm more built for comfort than I am for speed but that being said if you put a nearly unobtainable goal such as free beer at the end of a race or giving me 39 minutes to make an international connection at Hartsfield airport in Atlanta, you better believe I'm going to do all that I can to reach said goal, as foolish as it may sound. Well, the years of running paid off because I was able to run through the nightmare that is Hartsfield and catch my flight to Costa Rica with about 90 seconds to spare. All because my flight out of Nashville was delayed for no real good reason. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Upon arriving in San Jose, my bag was nowhere to be found. But I was greeted by a customer service agent who informed me of the situation, assured me that the bag would be delivered that night to anyplace I would be staying, and to call the customer service number in case I had any issues. My bag was not delivered that night, no one answered the customer service phone number I was given, and the only contact that I was able to make with anyone to help get this resolved was through twitter (marking only the second time in my life I have ever found it to be useful). The person answering my twitter inquiries was very nice but was basically full of shit like the rest of your customer service team. I provided the name and location of my hotel and was promised that my bag would be dropped off that night. I knew it had made it to San Jose because I used the luggage tracker. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I went to bed hopeful and smelling like Dove women's deodorant because of the free toiletry bag you gave me (recommendation: put a fresh pair of socks in those puppies going forward). I speak just enough Spanish (much to my surprise) to inform the hotel's night clerk that my luggage would be arriving that night via courier and asked if they would hold it for me until I stumbled down the stairs to the front desk the following morning. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The Costa Rican suns appears very early in the morning sky so when the hallway started to illuminate, I awoke, and (just like I promised) stumbled down the stairs to the front desk only to find no luggage of mine. I headed back up to my room and called the customer service number which still wasn't working. My friends woke up a bit later and we decided to make our way back to the airport so that I could actually talk with someone. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Have you ever been to the San Jose airport? It's quite nice but finding where the lost luggage section is a nightmare. Two information desks, a security screening, rapid fire questions being asked of me in Spanish which had by and large gone unused since I got that B- in Professora Smith's Spanish 103 class in college, and a very confused look on a customer service reps face when I tried to tell her that someone was supposed to come bring my luggage but I think it came out as someone was supposed to eat my luggage ("comir" and "come" are awfully close and I may have jumped back and forth between English and Spanish on that exchange). </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I was lead through the bowels of the airport which was actually pretty fun to another customer service desk and a gentleman who spoke fluent English (you guys were about 1 for 9 on the customer service thing in case you were keeping track). He had me wait at the desk, turned around, disappeared for a few seconds into a broom closet and produced my bag. LORD, IT WAS A MIRACLE! I then asked the customer service rep if the bag had been scheduled for delivery before I picked it up and he just looked at me and said "No." So... 1 for 10?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I still plan on flying with you, Delta. The cheapest direct daily flights to and from Michigan (where I travel to and from the most) and all those sky miles that I get from my bank are hard to pass up. But if you want to make it up to me aside from having me fill out an online form which, I'm confident, will be followed up with an automated reply thanking me for my time might I suggest the following:</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">- Free sky miles. However many you'd like to credit my account with would be great. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">- Free food and drinks on my next 10 Delta flights. I'd much rather have this than a first class upgrade. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">- Another one of those pins with the wings on them. It would let everyone on the flight know how important I am. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">- Visit to the cockpit on my next flight. I know there's probably some FAA regulation that outlaws the cockpit visits nowadays but I figured it would be worth asking. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">- In lieu of a cockpit visit, free flying lessons. Not only would that be fun for me but think of all the women I could impress! </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I hope this feedback has been useful and I'm sure I'll be flying Delta again sometime soon. </span><br />
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<br />Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-12311071058072058562013-02-22T21:53:00.002-08:002013-02-22T21:53:50.785-08:00One Last TimeI moved to Nashville several years ago. I didn't move here with the intention or desire to ever try to "make it" in the music world. I'm not even sure what that means anymore. I have some friends who have reached various levels of financial and emotional success in the music industry in this town. And, yes, it is an industry. Some incredibly talented friends of mine put out <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/the-peace-of-wild-things/id557626496">this record</a> last year. Some other incredibly talented friends of mine put out <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/meat-mural/id584843785">this record</a> a few weeks ago. Another incredibly talented friend of mine released <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/merry-go-round-single/id560243053">this song</a> a few months ago and is going to be huge by this time next year. I mean HUGE.<br />
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But you know what I care about someone being huge? Nothing at all. That's not to say that I don't wish all the success in the world for my friends. I do. I want them to play and play and write and record and play and record and tour and see the world and play and write and play some more. And I want them all to make a decent living while they're doing it. I know I'm not musically talented enough to do that. I know I don't have the drive to do that. I know that I never moved to Music City, USA, with the intent to do any of those things. What I did do, however, was several years ago, fall into something (because really that's all it is... falling into something) that some people liked. This was a band called death comesto matteson.<br />
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I remember the first show that I played with the band. It was at Wall Street in Murfreesboro and I remember throwing up in the alley before the show behind the venue because I was that nervous. I remember the first show that I played in Nashville when we opened for Bob Nanna (he of Hey Mercedes and Braid (!) 'fame') when my amp stopped working with a song and a half left in our set and trying to plug in to our keyboard player's AUX input with mixed results just so I could finish the songs. I remember hearing from a girl one night while playing a show when she was dating me only to find out that she was drunk and making out with someone else that very night. I remember getting into a shoving match someone asshole after his set but before ours because he thought I was hitting on his girlfriend. I wasn't hitting on her, by the way. I remember the pure absolutely unadulterated joy of the first time that I ever heard a song of ours on the radio. Sure, it was college radio, but it didn't matter to me. I remember the sinking feeling of playing the last show in New York City and the 20something hour ride back to Nashville when I knew that I wouldn't be playing these songs ever again. I remember all this and so much more.<br />
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We all have and, to a finer point, had different expectations of what we want out of something that we create. Some of us wanted to take the world by storm. Some of us wanted to change the world. Some of us just wanted to meet (read: make out) with girls. I was in the latter of the three groups mentioned. And you know, by that measurement, I was a success.<br />
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I'm sure I'm preaching to the choir with this post.<br />
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During the final days of death comesto matteson, I knew I would never play those songs again. I stopped talking about the band after I stopped playing in the band. I still have no idea how much of an impact the band had. Some people around town still come up to me and ask me "Hey... didn't you used to play guitar for Peter Matteson?" My answer is always a sheepish "yes". Being the narcissist that I am, I googled the band name. Someone once wrote that the band was "the founding fathers of the Nashville indie rock scene". I'm not sure if I was flattered or just felt old when I read that. I suppose I should take that as a compliment.<br />
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I never made any money off of being in the band. I didn't mean to. Remember? The girls and the making out? If anything, I lost money. But I didn't care because I was a success. I'm not sure if I am contractually obligated to help pay back Speak Music Media because of the thousands of unsold copies of CDs (remember those) that are hanging out at Billy White's house. I'm sure I'll never make any money off of whatever records end up selling. I just checked amazon.com and the "Ship of Fools or Ship on Fire" LP is up about 400,000 spots from the last time I checked. If it rises another 400,000 spots, I'm gonna be rich. I mean I'm gonna have as least as much money as Adele. And Taylor Swift. Combined.<br />
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I thought that Peter, Joe, Wayne, Mike and I were done being friends. Fate has a funny way of circling around and kicking my ass. And here we are, 5 years later. Peter, Joe, Wayne, and (to a lesser degree) Mike (who, last I knew, lived in Texas) are friends once again. Joe and Wayne are still full steam ahead with <a href="http://www.protomen.com/">The Protomen</a>. Peter is still wicked talented and is making a living writing and recording. Mike and his wife have a couple of kids but I'm not sure if he is playing music anymore. Every once in a while, I get prodded into doing something musically although Andy Smith and I are eventually going to get the Warfield drone recordings going -- he's got a wife and kid and a job and I work, well, all the time... But back to the point of this paragraph and really the point of this entry...<br />
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Yes, death comesto Matteson <b>is</b> doing a reunion show. No, we don't have a date set for it. Yes, I would love to see you there. No, my feelings won't be hurt if you think I'm a shitty guitar player. Yes, Peter, Joe, Wayne, and I are all on board to this. Yes, we really are friends again despite our wildly different views on music, art, the world, life, and everything in between. No, I have no animosity in my heart towards any of those dudes. Yes, if you would like to sit with me and talk about the band sometime, I am finally comfortable enough to talk about it. No, I still have no idea what the band meant to anyone outside of it. Yes, I finally realize what the band meant to me.<br />
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In the meantime, if you would like any of the music that the band released, you can get it <a href="http://deathcomestomatteson.bandcamp.com/">here</a>. Remember, I'm not making any money off of any of these.<br />
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Here we are. One last show. A little older. Maybe a few BPMs slower. One last time. Leave the money on the nightstand on your way out.<br />
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<br />Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-22186841845542570912013-01-31T20:02:00.002-08:002013-01-31T20:12:08.211-08:00Of course I have a date for Valentine's Day. It's February 14th.By the time that all 3 of you read this, it will be February 1st. Which means that you have less than 2 weeks to do one or more of the following things:<br />
1.) Find a boyfriend / girlfriend so that you can spend Valentine's Day with them -- Might I suggest reservations at Chez White Castle?<br />
2.) If you already have a boyfriend / girlfriend, spending all of your dollars on a gift from <a href="http://www.avillageofflowers.net/">A Village of Flowers</a>. Contrary to the picture on the site, yes, I did used to work there. And, on the exceedingly rare occasion, still do.<br />
3.) Saying to yourself "Oh, yeah... This is the day that something happened... Didn't a bunch of people die in Chicago or Rome or something?"<br />
4.) Or, for you single ladies out there, you can <b>ENTER YOURSELF IN THE SOMETHINGTH ANNUAL GIVE FLOWERS TO A SINGLE LADY IN NASHVILLE CONTEST.</b><br />
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Yes, it's that time of year when I forgo [I spelled that right on the first try, thank you very much, 2nd glass of whiskey tonight] all attitude regarding <s>Single Awareness Day</s> Valentine's Day and try to do something nice for a woman who may otherwise not have anything nice done for her that day. Here are the rules. Because what fun is a contest if you can't talk about the rules?<br />
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Great... Another list. Don't care. More whiskey!!!<br />
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Rule 1.) You can't have a boyfriend. This includes some dude you're making out with / sleeping with / cooking dinner for on a regular basis / whatever constitutes [did not spell that right on the first try something something whiskey] a relationship these days.<br />
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Rule 2.) I will deliver said flowers to you wearing a shirt and tie. And fancy pants. Because, as luck would have it, Thursdays are Fancy Pants Thursdays for me at work.<br />
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Rule 3.) If you want a <a client="safari&rls=en&q=chris+farley+as+a+chippendale+dancer&oe=UTF-8&um=1&ie=UTF-8&hl=en&tbm=isch&source=og&sa=N&tab=wi&authuser=0&ei=6zwLUa_jDoXm8gSzjYCoDA&biw=1276&bih=680&sei=7TwLUZ73Noec9gT2yoGADA" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/No_Strings_Attached_('N_Sync_album)%3E%3Cs%3ENo%20Strings%20Attached%3C/s%3E%3C/a%3E.%20This%20means%20that%20I%20don't%20expect%20anything%20from%20you.%20You%20don't%20have%20to%20call%20me.%20You%20don't%20have%20to%20text%20me.%20You%20don't%20have%20to%20make%20me%20dinner.%20You%20don't%20have%20to%20make%20out%20with%20me.%20But%20if%20you%20do,%20I%20probably%20won't%20stop%20you.%20'Cause%20there's%20not%20many%20better%20things%20in%20life%20than%20a%20good%20ol'%20fashioned%20American%20makeout%20session.%20Or%20sesh.%20That's%20what%20people%20call%20it%20these%20days.%20I%20think.%3C/p%3E%3Cp%3E%3Cbr%3E%3C/p%3E%3Cp%3ERule%203.)%20Don't%20ask%20for%20candy%20as%20a%20substitute.%20Flowers.%20That's%20it.%3C/p%3E%3Cp%3E%3Cbr%3E%3C/p%3E%3Cp%3ERule%204.)%20YOU%20get%20to%20tell%20me%20what%20kind%20of%20flowers%20/%20arrangement%20you%20want.%20If%20you%20want%20roses,%20I'll%20get%20you%20roses.%20If%20you%20want%20(UGGGGH)%20carnations,%20I'll%20get%20you%20carnations.%20Etc...%3C/p%3E%3Cp%3E%3Cbr%3E%3C/p%3E%3Cp%3ERule%205.)%20I%20will%20show%20up%20to%20your%20house%20/%20apartment%20/%20domicile%20wearing%20a%20dress%20shirt%20AND%20tie.%20As%20it%20turns%20out,%20Valentine's%20Day%20falls%20on%20a%20Thursday%20this%20year%20and%20Thursdays%20(for%20me%20anyway)%20is%20Fancy%20Pants%20Thursday%20at%20work.%20Added%20bonus,%20I%20will%20be%20wearing%20Fancy%20Pants%20in%20addition%20to%20the%20shirt%20and%20tie.%20If%20you%20would%20like%20me%20do%20a%20%3Ca%20href=" http:="" search="" www.google.com="">Chippendale</a> thing <u>without</u> the shirt, I can probably accommodate you.<br />
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Rule 4.) MUST be in the Nashville area. I work in Smyrna so if you live in Murfreesboro, I'm not gonna crunch numbers all day, drive to Nashville, pick up the flowers, and then drive back down to Murfreesboro. Unless of course, you can come up with a really good florist in Murfreesboro and then I guess that would be ok. If you live in California, then you're definitely out.<br />
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Rule 5.) I will pick a winner <b>AT RANDOM</b> on Monday, February 11th. This will give me ample time to order the flowers.<br />
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Basically that's it.<br />
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I'm only doing this because I think it would be nice to make one other person not feel like total crap on a day that is inadvertently designed to make people like me feel like total crap. I have no ulterior motive. And, if you were to ask any lady that I've ever purchased flowers for, they will attest that I can pick out some good ones. Even though you get to pick them out in this contest. Thing. Is my whiskey all gone?<br />
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Email / comment / tweet / facebook / whatever if you'd like. I also promise not to announce the winner on any sort of dumdamn social media. Unless you want me to.<br />
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<br />Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-12538243366413199852012-12-28T15:45:00.002-08:002012-12-28T15:45:38.526-08:002012The last day of work this year was today. Which means that the last day I will likely contribute much of anything to society of any value this year was, well, today. I'm not quite sure about the verb tenses on that. As such, I am going to take stock of what has happened to me (and the way that I reacted to those things) in 2012.<div>
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I came into my own at work at a job that I very much enjoy. The last time I enjoyed working where I do this much, I was in college. And that was a while ago. </div>
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I went to Chicago in February to see <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Promise_Ring">The Promise Ring</a> play a reunion show. Highlight? When they played "Stop Playing Guitar" which encapsulates the way I feel (to a large extent) about playing music.</div>
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I went to California in April to go Coachella. I don't like outdoor music fests and after Cornerstone 200X, I vowed to never go again. When I found out that <a href="http://www.officialrefused.com/">REFUSED</a> was playing, I bought my ticket immediately. Here is the video of them playing. They were perfect.</div>
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In June, a woman told me that she was in love with me. I was not in love with her. She also told me that she was deleting me. I'm not sure what that means but we haven't spoken since. I guess that's what that means.</div>
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In July, I turned 32. Frankly, I'm surprised I've made it this far. </div>
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In September, I went to Iceland. Iceland feels like another planet. Watch this.</div>
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In November, a woman flew 1700 miles across the country for me. This was a risk worth taking but (as everything that doesn't end up in death does) didn't end up quite as well as what was hoped for... On the plus side, I didn't end up in the backyard puking by the tree like I did last September. This one hurt.</div>
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I went to Michigan for Christmas. I didn't take any pictures of videos. It wasn't the most enjoyable Christmas.</div>
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I bought a new car yesterday. It's a 2013 Nissan Altima. I figured it was time to own a car with a heated steering wheel. Here is what it looks like:</div>
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Also, I haven't shaved in almost 8 months. I figure I'm gonna keep not shaving until I have to, well, shave. </div>
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I have no idea what's in store for 2013. But I'm hoping it will be as much of an adventure as 2012 has been. There are still three days left. If you would like to join me for what is sure to be an evening that will not be remembered, please join us at Warfield on Monday night for this:</div>
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Do 2013 better than you did 2012. Do tomorrow better than you did today.</div>
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Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-18234741634709219992012-12-14T13:43:00.001-08:002012-12-14T13:43:21.870-08:00ConnectI have never been to Connecticut. At least, I don't think I have. I've been up since 2:45 this morning (a combination of having to be at work very early and my extreme excitement for <u>The Hobbit</u> this afternoon so my brain is a little bit fried at the moment). I know two people that live there. With the exception of my two friends that live there, it's a spot on a map. I mean, Hartford doesn't even have a hockey team anymore or a single notable brewery. How much of a state can it be?<br />
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I came home from work with the full intent of taking a nap before going to see the movie but since all I can think about is what happened in Connecticut that probably isn't going to happen. The nap part, not the movie part.<br />
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Those of you who know me know that I value my freedom and I value my independence. My nearest family members are 500 miles away. I far too infrequently ask for help and when I do, I try to make it as private as possible. Unless it involves a ride to and/or from the airport. I need one next Friday by the way as I am going to be flying to see said family members if anyone would like to help me out. This post is not about me.<br />
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All I've seen on the social media sites, the internet, and the TV, for the past few hours has been the coverage of the shootings in Connecticut. Everyone seems to have an opinion: it's the government's fault for not having tougher gun control laws; the gunman/men clearly had a mental condition; how could someone just walk right in and do this? The answer isn't having tougher gun laws. [Since when do those who want to commit actions which are called "crimes" ever care about "laws"?] The answer isn't publicizing about improved medical care for those with mental health conditions. [There's no need to fount over what condition someone may or may not have.] The answer isn't more or less coverage in the media. [These are the same organizations that cover the death of Khloimalamadingdong Kardashian's pet.] The answer is that there is no answer that can be legislated. There is no comfort in that.<br />
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I'm not a parent. I can't imagine losing a child because I don't have one to lose. There is no comfort in that, either.<br />
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What this is about is tonight. No, not about "The Hobbit". But about you and me and everyone you can think of. It's about giving someone a big damn hug. It's about talking it out. It's about taking the biggest risk you can possibly take and even if it blows up in your face, you knew you took that risk. It's about connecting. Go make a connection. Find that lonely person at the party tonight and invite them to the conversation. Call a friend in another state and tell them that you miss them. Call your mom and tell her that you love her and can't wait to see her next week. Go buy a glass of scotch for your roommate. You never know whose life you could save; the life you save could be your own.<br />
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As much as this tragedy (which is a word that has become far too commonplace in our world) has affected all of us on whatever scale you'd like to believe that it has, the only thing it makes me want to do is connect. With you. With all of you. Throw down your guard. Go. Connect.<br />
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That's it.<br />
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<br />Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8472691238767675941.post-30054326437234135592012-04-19T06:52:00.006-07:002012-04-19T07:03:53.415-07:00Juan Valdez, Shakira, Coffee and other stuff from MexicoFor the past three months, I have been working on a software implementation project at work. I am by no means a project manager. I am also by no means a software implementor. I just happen to have those skill sets. I'm just some dude who is pretty good at spreadsheets and really good at human resources. As such, I have had <b>many</b> early mornings at work over these past three months -- some days arriving as 3:00 in the morning.<br /><div><br /></div><div>Read that last part again. 3:00 in the morning.</div><div><br /></div><div>I haven't had much time to blog lately as the 6 (six) of you who read this thing can tell. I'm usually pretty exhausted and my brain is pretty fried by the time that I get home from work that I eat dinner, drink a beer, and fall asleep watching hockey. It's like I'm married but without the companionship or sex. Actually... it <b>IS</b> like I'm married.</div><div><br /></div><div>You may be reading this and thinking, "Wait... It's 8 something in the morning on a Thursday. Why is peanutisawesome blogging? Did he lose his job?" The answer is no, I did not. I am off for vacation for the next few days and my laundry takes time to dry. I tried to use magic on it but it didn't work.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, for the past 6 1/2 years, I haven't drank caffeine. Well, I take that back. I can count on one hand the number of times that I have drank caffeine in the past 6 1/2 years. And none of these 3:00am starts at work were among those times that I drank caffeine. I know I'm impressive.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the world of dating (so I'm told), men often take women out for coffee as a first date. Coffee and all of those machiattoespressolattezombiemutantlibertarianintellegnsia drinks all seem to have caffeine in them. So now I'm double screwed. But what really grinds my gears is the baristas.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wait. What?</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, the baristas.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, since I know nothing about the world of hot caffeinated beverages, I am going to make some broad, wildly sweeping generalizations across the board that are based on nothing but pure emotion and entertainment.</div><div><br /></div><div>First of all: <b>Look at this asshat.</b></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB1TmDKvLvK4_fJhSC0M4c4v2J0Xfp-LHgaXTShDQZhYg8jhs4RApuKegUejE2BDNjLibu-NPH7srV2VEVdf38qOugv9cVFM4-zgwqSomY4AMFY6MeHYV4OJQCX7F7quUV8WUTm0GW/s320/Gwilym+Davies+5a.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733104288946179314" style="border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 265px; " /><div><br /></div><div>Secondly, when in the hell did barista become a respected and <b>honored </b>occupation? I'm certainly not trying to belittle a person who has that position, I'm simply trying to belittle the position itself. And, yes, based on the list of jobs that I have held (in either a part- or full-time capacity) that I am about to list, I feel that I am fully capable of passing judgment:</div><div>- HRIS Analyst</div><div> - Freelance Sticker and Bookmark Cutter Outer</div><div> - Executive Recruiter</div><div> - Employee Resource Specialist</div><div> - Flower Delivery Driver</div><div> - Bar Trivia Question Writer & Host</div><div> - Pizza Delivery Driver</div><div> - Window Washer</div><div> - HR Administrator</div><div> - Shoe Salesman</div><div> - Taco Bell Crew Member (Employee of the Month, September 1997, Howell, Michigan)</div><div> - Pizza Restaurant Cook and Dishwasher (unrelated to the Pizza Delivery Driver position mentioned above)</div><div> I think that covers it. My point here is none of these positions has ever been revered and as well thought of as a barista. Some of them have even paid pretty well. Some of them even allowed me to, if I could afford it and if I could make it happen, take a girl out for a cup of coffee to be served to us by the aforementioned barista.</div><div><br /></div><div> Third. Dude. It's coffee. Mexico has a shit ton of it. <a href="http://youtu.be/c1_jjaPzY5Y" style="font-weight: bold; ">I know because dudes with mustaches and donkeys pick the beans and then gringos are like, "Hey, I won a contest! Give me all of the coffee beans!"</a>Colombia is part of Mexico, right? Oh, shit! Colombia is where Shakira is from! I'm an idiot. To make it up to you, here is a picture of Shakira holding an apple while being attacked by a BabyTree.</div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPTWWymQi-qne_0OObWEIRAu_zYG7cpaezr3L9f5Et2wdX918GB42gP2PVWnKli8jnR7q9AqqPBwhNt-XMZP5cTPDOMHoDFoIOZMDCLW_WjliB-YmutiTBzDikI8BJpDNAIGtjMIBf/s320/Screen+shot+2012-04-19+at+8.48.51+AM.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733108696818501698" style="border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 290px; height: 283px; " /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">Maybe, though, that I just don't get it. And that's usually the case.<br /></span><br /></div>Stephen P Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06238751818962698984noreply@blogger.com0