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Bob Wire Classic™

It’s summer in Montana (as it seems to be in most of the U.S.), so we go outside. I spend the winter huddled in front of the TV, watching NFL and Jeopardy. Then when the snow melts I take all that bottled up aggression and trivial knowledge into the Great Outdoors and get right with Old Man Mother Nature.

Bob Wire Classic™

As a graphic designer, I make my living using a computer (and a coffee pot). I try to keep up with the technology and styles of communication, try to stay abreast of the cyber-zeitgeist on the internet.

But nothing makes me feel more like a dinosaur with one foot in the tar pits than some of the text-message inspired acronyms flying around out there in the ether. (For you young folks, ether was the first date-rape drug.)

A Bob Wire Classic™

There’s nothing like soaking in the relaxing waters of a bubbling hot tub, especially during these cold winter months. But for those of us who don’t have our own, we’re at the mercy of the public tub at our health club. I prefer to soak solo, so I’ve compiled a list of things to sprinkle into the casual conversation with other tubbers, and they generally head for the exits. Feel free to use them to gain some hot tub solitude for yourself.

A lost Bob Wire Classic™

[Note: This column was submitted in November 2008, but was not posted due to security concerns. Mostly, Bob Wire’s personal safety.]

Hey, folks, how you doing? Billy Bob Wire here, sitting in for my second cousin Bob, who asked me to write a little something from a gun owner’s point of view for his blog today. (He’s only my second cousin by marriage, but we recently found out we have the same granddaddy. Go figure.) See, my cousin Bob ain’t what you’d call a ‘gun enthusiast.’ That poor ol’ boy just don’t know much about firearms. So, he called me up at my home in Sula, Montana last week, to see if I’d provide what he called an ‘alternative viewpoint.’

A Bob Wire Classic™

After our post-Rushmore lunch, we pointed the 4Runner east once again, and the antidote to my euphoria of natural beauty lay ahead in the form of Wall Drug. As we neared the Badlands, the Wall Drug signs multiplied like scabs on a ten-dollar hooker. We would have to stop, of course, although there was no way it could live up to the hype. I mean, a six-foot rabbit? I haven’t seen one of those since, well, I can’t remember, but I’m sure Jäegermeister was involved.

A Bob Wire Classic™

It was a warm, beautiful spring day in April. What little snow we’d gotten over the winter in Missoula had melted away, and the sun was sparkling like a topaz. Like a fiery, 870,000 mile wide topaz made of hydrogen that’s going to burn out in 5 billion years, causing everyone on earth to turn up the thermostat a bit more and grumble about the “good old days” of global warming.

My dog, Houdini, was bursting with cabin fever (and rawhide farts), so I thought this would be a perfect day to take him to the dog park. If you’ve never been, well, you’re probably a cat person and can’t be trusted.

A Bob Wire Classic™

You know what puts a strain on your marriage? Being married to a musician.

Musicians are flakes. Ain’t no getting around it, we all have some serious shortcomings when it comes to responsibility, consideration, and paying the rent. There’s an old joke going around: What do you call a drummer who breaks up with his girlfriend? Homeless. It’s funny because it has a kernel of truth in the middle, like a piece of chocolate-covered popcorn. Only, instead of truth, it’s popcorn.

A Bob Wire Classic™

My kids and I drove out to Missoula’s Bark Park this afternoon, a large, fenced-in area where dogs are allowed to mix it up off the leash. We thought Houdini would love it. We got there and looked around, and nobody had remembered to bring the dog. So I made the kids run around in there for awhile. I mean, it was like a 20 minute drive, man.

When I was in high school I used to think that group sex meant you were using both hands.

You know you’re in trouble when your 7-year-old can recite the paragraph on the Budweiser label word for word.

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

[Uncle Bob needs a break. I’ll be taking a few weeks off to recharge my batteries, but I’ll be back to write some more about outraged breastfeeding moms, loopy local politics, drunken music fans and life in Missoula, where I spend my time navigating the twisted wreckage of American culture. To tide you over, I’ll be posting some of my “greatest hits,” starting with this little gem from April 2006. Thanks for sticking around. Now git!]

My daughter, Speaker, plays 3rd grade soccer with a thousand other kids every Sunday. Her coach, Stephen, does a great job coaching these 8-year-old girls, which is similar to herding a bunch of ADD-afflicted cats. Only he was gone bird hunting this weekend, a weekend when their schedule ballooned to three games, including a double-header on Saturday. Since no one else volunteered, I told the coach I’d step in and head up the team while he was gone. Hilarity and humiliation ensued.

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

Location is everything, and Missoula’s Ooh La Latte’s proximity to the Fantasy For Adults store is a big time-saver for the porn enthusiast with a caffeine jones.

Don’t get me wrong (although I know many of you will)—I don’t deny that I enjoy looking at women. Show me a guy who doesn’t ogle women, and I’ll show you a guy who ogles men. But noticing and appreciating the opposite sex is a far cry from women displaying their bodies to help turn a profit.

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