Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

Physical Therapy Hurts, But At Least It’s Painful

People have been stopping me on the street, saying hey, Bob, when are you going to write more blogs about your shoulder surgery? I mean, culture and music and politics are interesting and all, but that shoulder stuff…fascinating!

I will assume that these people aren’t being ironic, so here’s the dish on physical therapy: it’s tedious, enforced masochism with a little guilt mixed in if I don’t do it right, or often enough. Kind of like oral sex.

Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

Toby Keith For President

Last night Barb and I watched the most thought-provoking, inspiring movie I’ve seen in years. It’s not often that a film comes along that can challenge your way of thinking, and shake up your preconceived notions of how things work in our dirty little world. Our individual perceptions are constantly being manipulated by the media, and sometimes we’re exposed to something that just shocks our belief system right down to our core.

I mean, TWO Spidermen? Whoa!

Then, after the kids went to bed, we slid “Shut Up and Sing” into the DVD player, on the recommendation of my friend Chris. He’s not necessarily a big country music fan, but he’s turned me on to some pretty fine stuff. From Ryan Bingham, to that heavy metal band You Will Know Us By The Tabouli In Our Beards, he’s batting a thousand.

So when Chris gave the Dixie Chicks documentary a glowing review, I put it at the top of my list. “Shut Up and Sing” is an account of the controversy from The Comment, and the ordeal the trio went through on their journey back to the top of the charts. While playing a show in London during the run-up to the Iraq War, Maines mentioned to the crowd that she was “ashamed that President Bush is from Texas,” the home state of all three Dixie Chicks. The crowd cheered, but as soon as The Comment was reported in the world press, rednecks everywhere lost their shit.

Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

How To Waste Half a Day

I polished off a James W. Hall mystery last night, and this morning I wondered what new titles Shakespeare & Co. might have to offer. I logged onto my Mac and clicked over to their website, and today’s blog entry was Garth’s brief statement about the upcoming Vice-Presidential candidates’ debate: “C’mon Joe, don’t mess this up.” Short and to the point, a five-word entry. That’s one of the things I love about Garth—he’s not one to waste words, and his candor is frequently hilarious. The guy pays attention.

It contained a link, so I followed it to a Slate.com article by a Dahlia Lithwick, a self-professed ex-debater, on how Joe Biden can lose this debate only if he is seen as a sexist bully. It was funny and entertaining, and the fact that it was written by a woman gave it extra heft. The woman pays attention.

One of the things she suggested was that Biden needs to avoid coming off as unctuous. I’ve never really had a good handle on that word, so I decided to look it up with my computer’s dictionary. I clicked the dictionary icon in the dock and it bounced once and then nothing happened. Oh yeah, I remembered, the son of a bitch doesn’t work. I discovered this the last time I used it. I must have been reading an Andy Smetanka movie review.

Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

Reconnecting With The White Shadow

The year was 1978. The Blues Brothers made their debut on Saturday Night Live, setting the hook for an eventual feature film that would be watched dozens of times by every bar-band hack in the country (I’ve seen it 42 times myself, twice in Spanish). Jimmy Carter presided over a peace treaty between Egypt and Israel. Gas was 62¢ a gallon. Teachers went on strike (Yay!), and Volkswagen stopped cranking out Beetles (Boo!). Space Invaders made its debut (Woo-hoo!), and the Son of Sam got six life terms for his NYC killing spree of the previous summer (Apparently he wasn’t tried in L.A.)

And on the tube, a white, six-and-a-half-foot tall ex-NBA player sauntered into the gym of an L.A. ghetto high school, forever changing the (pale) face of American television. He presided over his mostly-black team of miscreants with an iron hand, and promised that in return for their hard work, he would be behind them all the way.

Like a White Shadow.

Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

Another School Year, Another Sales Quota to Meet

It’s that wonderful time of year again: the leaves are starting to turn, there’s a crisp nip of autumn in the air, and the legion of gift wrap sales midgets is about to be unleashed on the city.

Yes, the biggest school fundraiser of the year has been sent home in every grade schooler’s backpack. Each fall elementary school students are drafted into a mammoth Kathryn Beich sales force, and every year it pisses me off for a number of reasons.

In case you have no grade schoolers in your orbit, it works like this: a collection of Lillian Vernon rejects is assembled and presented in a glossy catalog as if these items were rare treasures gathered from years of traveling the exotic ports of the world. On page 33 there’s a frog-shaped thermometer that suction-cups to your window. Priceless! And what’s this on page 21? A plastic strainer for cans of tuna! Brilliant! And what holiday get-together would be complete without a Cup O’ Cheddar (page 50)? Inconceivable! It’s a whole catalog of stuff that’s so useless and weird that you just can’t find it anywhere else.

Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

Young Republican, I Pity Your Daughter

I stood on someone’s lawn on University Avenue Saturday morning, watching the UM Homecoming parade shuffle by. (Side note: After you’ve been watching a parade for a few minutes, take a look at the other side of the street during a lull; everything will look like it’s moving back the other way.) A ragged group of Republicans supporting gubernatorial candidate Roy Brown rounded the corner from Higgins. They gamely tried to engage an obviously Democrat-heavy crowd by chanting, waving, and tossing Lexus key fobs to the kids. The response was predictably lukewarm, but I didn’t hear any catcalls or snide comments.

A few minutes later, the Democrats’ float lumbered by, and the crowd came alive, exhorting their candidates and cheering on the marching supporters. To my right stood a young guy in his mid-twenties, blond hair slicked back in the Gordon Gekko style from “Wall Street.” Seriously. He held an infant in his arms.

“Don’t worry, honey,” he said, covering the baby’s eyes. “The scary people will be gone pretty soon.” He said this loud enough to make it obvious that it was for the benefit of those in the immediate vicinity, not his daughter. His female companion, looking vaguely uncomfortable, simply nodded in agreement.

Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

Grizzlies vs Energy: A Proposed Solution

Rough neckers and chain throwers rejoiced this week when it was announced that the Northwestern Montana grizzly bear population seems to be on the rebound, possibly helping to clear the way for more domestic oil and gas exploration in our resource-laden state. This is good news, right? I mean, I’m pretty sure it was President Bush himself who said “we’ve got to get serious about drilling for alternative sources of energy.”

But how big of a bear population are we talking about here? Researchers from the U.S. Geological Survey announced that, after a five-year study, they identified approximately 765 bears in northwestern Montana. It is assumed that bears do not inhabit the eastern part of the state, even though the cost of living is cheaper.

But I’m thinking that if you’ve got a number of animals that is so small that you can give each one of them a name (“Oh, look, there’s Hector!”), maybe it’s too soon to remove them from the Endangered Species list. I know it’s way more bears than they expected to find (many bears had relocated without leaving a forwarding address after their unemployment ran out), but still fewer than a thousand grizzlies in the fourth largest state in the U.S., well, that ain’t many.

Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

It’s Sad to See a Grown Man Whine

I’m coming up on four weeks since my shoulder surgery, and I’m just about at the end of my rope. I’ve been strapped into this goddamn sling that holds a chunk of foam rubber the size of a Barbie Dream House under my left arm, to maintain the proper angle for healing. It feels like when you get off the couch and part of the couch comes with you. It’s cumbersome, looks ridiculous, and has become the object of ridicule any time I leave the house, which is rare. “Hey, did you bring your own cooler?” “Whoa, is that your purse?” “Wow, how come you’re carrying that mailbox around?”

And that’s just from my own kids.

Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

Leggo My Ego: Meeting a Musical Hero

“Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if I could lay some local music on you.” I proffered a copy of Sentimental Breakdown, and Sammy Llanas recoiled like I was handing him a live grenade. He held both hands up and actually took a step back, like a man who was trying to avoid being served a subpoena.

“You know what? I just don’t do that anymore. Some guy tried to say that we stole one of his songs, so I just don’t even deal with it anymore.” He shook his head, and it was clear that I’d been dismissed. I get it, I thought. You’re the rock star, and I’m just a nobody. A nobody who’s bought every single one of your records. Even the one with the drum machine. I told him to have a good show, and thanked him for coming to Missoula. He lifted his chin and gave me a disdainful glare, and went back on the bus.