Home Alone

On 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.

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.

She just sat there quietly in her cage. I immediately let her out.

I called someone to board up my broken window. Of course you know where this is going.

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.

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.

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.

I opened my eyes at two am to find that I was, indeed, still alive.

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.

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.

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.

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."

We found five more of my guitars that day. Pawned with three miles of my house. Pawned within half a mile of each other.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Things can be replaced. I still have my dog. One day, I'll get back to where I started.

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.

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.

Through this, so far, I think I am becoming a gentler person. The only way out is up.

Thank you for listening. Goodnight.

The Nashville School of Driver's Edudumbtion

I'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 COPS. 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.

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.

Goodbye, Facebook and Twitter

Dear Facebook and Twitter Friends,

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.

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.

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.

I plan on keeping instagram for at least a while because it hasn't started sucking just yet.

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

My book of faces and twitter will be up for another week and then they won't be.

Thank you for caring,

Stephen P Bohn

The Private Lives of Nashville Wives: We No Drama

When 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:

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.

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.

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.

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.

First, that’s not how music works, especially if the music is terrible.

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.

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.

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.

The 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.

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 "Parking Lot" by Mineral. Two weeks later, I was in Jozeph's trailer recording demos for the full length.

Touring and recording continued for the next few years. And, as things do, they fell apart.

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.

In 2012, my friend Sara came out from Salt Lake City to visit for about 4 days. During those 4 days, my friends in For All The Drifters Paper Route 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I'm just glad I didn't throw up on Friday night.

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.]

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.

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.

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.

This could kill us all... But it hasn't yet.

Mike Bohn: Man of Steel

Does 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.

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.

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.

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.

Houston scored. "Houston Oilllleerrrrs!"

Houston scored again. "Houston Oilllleerrrrs!"

Houston scored again. And again. And again. "Houston Oilllleerrrrs!"

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.

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.

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.

You will be missed but I will see you again soon. Until then, keep rooting for the Houston Oilers (for some unexplicable reason).

Dear Distinguished Ladies and Gentlemen of the Federal Government,

Dear Distinguished Ladies and Gentlemen of the Federal Government,

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.

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.

Whenever I do monthly reconciliation for work, I am told that it must  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.

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 TENS OF THOUSANDS 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.

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 should 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Right now, every single one of those things is on hold. And it's all your fault.

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.

It's 5:09 by my watch. Which means I've finished this with 4 minutes left to spare. I made my deadline.

Get your shit together,

Stephen P Bohn