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

Going to the Sun in a Handbasket

When you look at a map of Glacier Park, Going-to-the-Sun Road looks like the heart rate monitor of a gay Filipino man when he heard that Michael Jackson died. It’s as twisted and bent as the plot of a Coen brothers movie. But you should go. For just a few short weeks during the peak of each summer, the entire road is plowed and passable, from West Glacier clear through to St. Mary’s (home of the $3.50 bag of ice).

We drove it the other way, though, and I’m glad we did. If you go east to west, like we did, your lane is the one hugging the mountain, not hanging out over space with nothing but a crumbling two-foot wall between you and an endless plunge to your death.

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

I’m Ready To Give This Deadhead Thing a Try

Summer’s here and the time is right for dancing with the ‘Heads.

I’ve sold the 4Runner and found a ’68 VW Safari van that is already being refurbished for a summer on the road. Haven’t had my hair cut in six months, and after a three-day fast (taking only Double Haul IPA for nourishment), I’m seeing my immediate future as clear as a box of rain:

I’m going to spend the summer following the Dead.

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

Hardin Needs Prisoners, Not Political Posturing

Hardin (“Gateway to Lame Deer”) lies on Montana’s Northern Plains, about 50 miles east of Billings. It’s not in the middle of nowhere, exactly, but you can see it from there. It’s a woeful town of 3400 residents, struggling with an unemployment rate of better than 10%. Five years ago the town council decided to do something about it.

So they built a Hooters. The local talent pool was too shallow to staff the place, however, as very few area women had the, uh, intelligence and pride needed to fill out those Hooters t-shirts and skimpy nylon shorts. So that learned institution closed down, and was replaced by a 464-bed, minimum security prison.

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

What’s the Deal With the Grateful Dead?

What’s so great about the Grateful Dead?

I just don’t get it. I’m not saying they’re not a talented band, or that they don’t have a certain appeal. But I listen to their music and I don’t hear any boundaries being pushed. I don’t hear anything that extraordinary, to be honest. I hear Jerry Garcia warble a song in his reedy tenor, and I think, wow, that’s the best singer they’ve got? And his guitar playing, while it has its moments, isn't going t land him on any Top 100 lists.

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

Beeps, Dings and Dongs Rule My Life

It starts when Barb’s clock radio jumps to life at 6:35. The staticky, chirpy voices of the morning DJ’s are in mid-chatter about some celebrity news. I think it was something about Joaquin Phoenix showing up at some awards show with an entire Bit-O-Honey entangled in his ratty beard. Barb rolls over and slaps the snooze button just as the clock radio on my side of the bed ramps up, playing the same damn song on the iPod that I keep forgetting to change. It’s something by Wynonna, which ensures that I will not simply go back to sleep. I punch Wynonna and roll out of bed.

While I’m in the bathroom crunching numbers about trajectory, rate of flow, and the angle of the dangle, I hear a muffled, insistent beep. I start pulling open drawers, and there is a Tamagotchi toy, insistently beeping that it needs to be fed. I comply. I feed it to the toilet.

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

Nurse Bob Is On the Job!

At lunchtime yesterday, I was sitting at the kitchen table, tucking into a steaming plate of reclamation nachos (various leftovers on a bed of chips, under a thick layer of melted pepper jack), reading the latest Bob Lee Swagger crimefest, when I heard the garage door open. Hmm, I thought, must be one of the neighbors thoughtfully bringing my trash cans up from the road.

But then Barb appeared at the top of the stairs, looking paler than a Bill O’Reilly at a Busta Rhymes show. “I don’t feel well,” she said, and turned toward the bedroom. Abandoning my nachos ‘n gunplay, I followed her trail down the hall: purse, briefcase, sweater, shoes. I found her splayed out on the bed, face down, moaning into the comforter. “Honey, why don’t you get under the covers and I’ll bring you some tea,” I told her.

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

Carousing With the Crazies at Whitefish Pottery

I spent Friday night in the woods just west of Whitefish, playing and singing for the folks at Whitefish Pottery. The clay-stained wretches work at a spacious compound along the Stillwater River, and they were celebrating their 15th year in business. The food was great, and the people were all very friendly and fun to hang with. During a break I had a rambling conversation with a guy named Ron, who told me an incredible tale of how he got stoned with Neil Young when he was working on building Young’s barn studio in Oregon, where “Harvest” would be recorded. I can only hope one day somebody relates such a story about me. I’d better get started on recording that timeless album…

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

Coach, Shut Up and Let the Kids Play

Speaker, age 10, is playing her fourth year of little league softball. She loves it, and thoroughly enjoys the practices and the games. Her only complaint is the same one voiced by virtually every kid who plays little league: “I hate playing right field. It’s boring!” I ask her if she’d rather play right field, or left out. This quasi-Zen question shuts her up pretty quickly.

At this age (all the girls on her team are either 10 or 11), the girls are a wide variety of shapes and sizes. Some are tiny, probably not tall enough to qualify for the pants-peeing rides at the carnival. Others are so tall and, uh, developed, that you wonder if they drove to the game after dropping off their kids at the sitter.

But, thankfully, they all seem to reside at the same marginal skill level. Because of this, their coaches feel obligated to shout a constant stream of instruction, reminders, and minute adjustments in the girls’ positions on the field during a game. “Speaker!” one coach will holler from the dugout to center field. “Move two steps to the left! No, YOUR left! Good!” Meanwhile, another coach is quizzing the infield: “Where’s the ball going, ladies?” They all point to first base, looking like Guantanamo inmates who’ve been tortured repeatedly with this question, yet have only the same answer to give.

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

Slash on American Idol: A Street Cred Swap?

Let’s get this out of the way right off the bat: I watch American Idol. I don’t vote, I don’t text, I don’t download performances off of iTunes (well, except for Adam singing “Mad World,” but the show ran long and my DVR missed it! Sue me).

Normally I’m bored and generally repulsed, even angered by Idol, because it seems to always boil down to the most histrionic, overwrought Mariah Carey wannabes who can’t hold a note for more than two seconds without tying it into a goddamn pretzel. It’s called melisma, and most of the contestants on this overblown karaoke-thon simply can’t resist contorting their high notes into some pseudo-gospel, neck-vein popping vocal run that’s supposed to make everybody in the studio audience shit their pants out of sheer wonder. They wave the microphone around in front of them like they’re charming a cobra, and they move their other hand around like they’re signaling for a Heimlich maneuver. Damn, girl, don’t pop an ovary. Save it for the show.