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

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. [more]

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

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. [more]

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

“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. [more]

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

Rusty, my strapping young lad of 11, has entered middle school. He has new responsibilities, his own locker, and a bustling social life. Puberty is just around the corner, and it’s time to remove the teddy bear wallpaper from his bedroom.

Barb and I like to encourage free expression in our children, so we decided to let Rusty choose the color we would paint his room. He immediately announced that he would cover all four walls with graffiti, inspired by the dozens of wildly painted boxcars we saw on our cross-country trip this summer. I envisioned our crew, I mean family, crowded into his 10 x 12 bedroom, light-headed and brain-damaged from Krylon fumes while hip-hop thumped from a boom box. In my mind’s eye, I saw bold dimensional lettering on Rusty’s walls exhorting people to suck this or eat me, or bragging how Rusty is the king of the rail yard and slept with your mother.

“How ‘bout we let you do that to just one wall?” suggested Barb, apparently sharing my vision. Rusty groaned in disappointment, but then asked if he could choose the color for the remaining walls. [more]

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

Typing one-handed sucks. I’m used to getting words onto paper (all right, bits onto a hard drive) almost as fast as I can think, so this snail-paced communication is extremely maddening. It’s like washing your car with a toothbrush. (I actually did that this summer, by the way. I’d lost a bet with Rusty. I got him back, though—I used his toothbrush.)

I was sitting in the recliner this weekend, goofing around with my cell phone, and I realized that I can probably text faster than I can type. So while my frozen egg rolls were cooking, I stretched out to full recline and wrote a novel on my phone. Here’s the prologue: [more]

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

I’m sorry, did I miss something? Michelle Obama isn’t running for office. Her husband is. The fact that the voting public’s perception of Michelle carries so much importance in Barack’s campaign is a clear symptom of this nation’s misdirected focus when it comes to electing effective leaders.

I am supporting Barack Obama because he displays the qualities that have been sorely lacking in the Oval Office for the last, oh, 45 years. Dignity. Intelligence. Cleverness. Idealism. A sense of depth, of thoughtfulness. I need my President to be smarter than I am. He’s got some good ideas, and I think he means well. I say let’s give him a shot.

I don’t give a rat’s ass who he’s married to, or if he’s even married at all. He can host an annual gay S&M bacchanal on the White House lawn for all I care, as long as he makes sure my Social Security check won’t bounce. He could snort Jerry Garcia’s ashes off Amy Winehouse’s scrawny naked ass all day long if he wanted to, as long as he brought the troops home from Afghanistan and Iraq. [more]

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

My recliner banks sharply as I push forward on the stick, dropping a couple thousand feet in altitude. I narrowly miss Houdini, who emerges from beneath the bed, barking and spitting blood. He runs down the hallway yapping furiously at some interloper in the back sector. It’s either a cat or (more likely) a sprinkler head.

Chuckling at the mutt’s simplicity, I push the stick forward as far as it will go, folding down the footrest and setting the recliner gently down in front of the bathroom; a perfect landing. I’m shivering and panting from my high-altitude journey. A few moments ago I’d been soaring about 15,000 feet over the Mojave Desert near Joshua Tree in Southern California. But a sharp cramp in my bowels and a bulging bladder had forced me to make an emergency landing near the toilet.

“Honey, are you okay?” asks Barb, sitting up in bed. She rubs her eyes with her fists and snaps on a bedside lamp in the pre-dawn darkness. “Can I get you anything?”

I proceed to take a four minute piss while I tell her about buzzing the huge granite outcroppings at Joshua Tree. “I love this recliner, babe. It handles great at speed. You should try it. Nothing for me now, though, I gotta get back to the airstrip.” [more]

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

Well, it’s been two days since the surgery, and it’s high time for an update.

I haven’t been able to speak to my doctor yet, but Barb gleaned a few details while I was drifting back to consciousness.. Evidently the tear in my rotator cuff was bigger than they’d thought, and required quite a few extra stitches. I also had a large bone spur on my shoulder blade, which explained why my shoulder sounds like a cardboard box full of marbles every time Barb and I get busy.

Also, as I’d feared, they had set up the operating room to work on the right shoulder, which was the wrong shoulder. Jesus, I’m glad I wasn’t having open heart surgery (“Oh my god! This guy’s heart is as big as a lung!”) [more]

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

A few final, frantic thoughts before I’m driven to the Surgery Center this morning:

• Why is it so damned important that I can’t have anything to drink six hours before surgery? I don’t mind the “no food after midnight” thing, because I normally stop snacking right after the local news anyway. But to ask a guy to face surgery without so much as a cup of coffee is just plain cruel.

• What if my surgeon operates on the wrong shoulder? Hey, it happens. Seems like it usually happens in Florida, but it happens. You remember that case in the Broward County Hospital there where they amputated the wrong leg on some poor Cuban guy? And to make matters worse, his lawsuit against the hospital was thrown out of court because, well, he didn’t have a leg to stand on.

I just went and got a Sharpie and wrote a big “NO” on my right shoulder. [more]

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

Dr. Lance Boyle shook his head disapprovingly as he studied the MRI of my left shoulder on the computer screen. “Hmm,” he said, scowling at the image, which looked like a lava lamp full of pork chops.

More “hmms” as he paged through my file, checking the results of my X-rays and going over my medical profile. “This shoulder has a lot of problems,” he said, grabbing my right shoulder.

“It’s the left shoulder, doc,” I said. He nodded, as if to say, I knew that, you impudent layman, and grabbed my left shoulder.

“Still not much strength here,” he said, as I winced in pain while he moved my arm around. “I can see from the MRI that you definitely have a torn rotator cuff. Also, it looks like one of the biceps tendons has become detached, and you have some arthritis in the joint. I’m afraid you’re going to need surgery.”

I looked at my watch. “All right, doc, but I gotta pick up the kids by five.” [more]

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