Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Hat)
Carousing With the Crazies at Whitefish Pottery
"Wow, these kilns are bitchin'! Hey, has anyone seen my cat?"By Bob Wire, 5-18-09
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| "Hey, Luke, I don't think this is the way back to town." "Shut up, Bo, and roll up your window!" | |
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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…
But back to the subject at hand: big doings in the woods. Tom, the owner, throws a great party as well as really nice pots. He’s a fun-loving dude (and a Springsteen fanatic) who seems to live life to the fullest, and his annual birthday bash is legendary in the Flathead Valley. Old friends, artists, potheads (both kinds), and just curious revelers who’d heard about the shindig on the radio poured in from all over the Flathead and beyond to eat salmon, drink microbrew and wine, and howl at the moon.
Some were howling louder than others. After I finished my set, I was having a conversation with Dave, a sound engineer and talented piano player who sat in for a few songs (as did Ed, a mandolin whiz). We were talking about the sound quality of vinyl LPs versus that of CDs. We agreed that the clarity afforded on CDs allow you to hear instruments you didn’t know were even there. “Albums sound like dog meat,” he said. Just as he uttered this phrase, a severely drunk guy in a NASCAR hat was shuffling past on his way to pee in the woods.
“Dog meat? You want to eat my dog? Hey, man, he’s a smart dog. But if you want to eat him, that’s okay with me.” I had seen the guy earlier, tossing a baseball bat-sized log into the fast-moving river for his Labrador to retrieve. Somehow, the dog always returned, running back from 200 yards downstream. I told the guy that his dog looked like he’d be pretty chewy, so thanks but no thanks. He shrugged indifferently and peed on the rear tire of my truck.
Later on, Drunk Guy would provide entertainment for a few dozen people gathered around the huge bonfire. We were all watching a couple of guys jumping a big R/C car over the fire off a plywood ramp, and I couldn’t help thinking that the closer you get to the Canadian border, the crazier people are. The car would sometimes veer off the ramp and plummet into the coals, but someone with a garden rake would quickly yank it out of the flames. I couldn’t wait to tell Rusty about this, but had to snap a couple of photos or he’d never believe me. (At first I told him it was a real car in the picture, but he didn’t buy it for a moment. “Yeah, right, dad” he said. “And chocolate milk comes from brown cows.” Wow, he’s got a good memory.)
Drunk Guy was getting even drunker at this point, and he had hunkered down in his Dale Earnhardt Sr. folding camp chair about ten feet from the fire. His hat was pulled down low over his eyes, and he was gripping the armrests tightly. He stared intently at the flames, taking an interior journey to god knows where. Stephen, the dirtbag artist (his term) I was talking with remarked that Drunk Guy looked like Capt. Kirk on the bridge of the Enterprise. I waited until he was in a full-on trance, then I jumped in the air, landing right in front of him. I screwed up my face into a look of terrified concern, and hollered in my best fake Irish brogue, “CAPTAIN KIRK! You’ve got ta DOOOO somethin’, sir! The Enterprise is flamin’ out and we’re headed straight into URANUS!!”
Drunk Guy snapped out of his coma, eyes growing wide, and he leaped up from his chair and into some kind of instinctive wrestling pose. We all cracked up, including him. Someone handed him a fresh PBR (I guess they were out of gasoline to pour on the fire), and he cracked it open, squinting at me. “Hey, man, you’re Bob Wire, right? Guess what. I got your NAME tattooed on my ASS!”
“No way,” I laughed. “You mean, like you got a big ‘B’ on each butt cheek and when you bend over it says ‘BOB?’”
“No, man, really—it’s your name, tattooed on my ass!” He handed me his can of beer, and turned around to unfasten his pants. He dropped trou, and sure enough, right there on his right cheek, in bold cursive surrounded by delicate curlicues, it said, “Your Name.”
Well, at that point I figured it couldn’t possibly get any better. We encouraged Drunk Guy to hitch his jeans back up, and he started talking about how he could jump over the fire like that R/C car. I did not want to stick around to see that, so I slunk off to Tom’s house, where he had graciously prepared the guest room for me. I was stuffed with meatballs, salmon, beer, guacamole, chicken wings, and more beer. My cheeks were sore from laughing, and I’d actually had a blast among all these friends I’d never met before. Walking through the woods to the house, I looked up through the trees at the stars, bright as glitter in the northwest sky. Even though I couldn’t see the moon, I let out a big howl. Man, these Whitefish folks know how to party. I can’t wait till next year.
Stumble It!
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Comments
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I agree the people tend to get wilder and crazier as one heads North, roughly in a progression of exponentially increasing intoxication intensity, duration and style variety from Mineral and Lake on to Sanders and finally Lincoln counties. It's one big Freak feast from about Perma to the Purcells. Of course to truly turn professionally weird then cross the border and continue on to Nelson, Canal Flats and then Blue River. Score thyself a kind –hearted earth muffin who is eager to lovingly share both kinds of tongue candy and then with all the superior God sculpture, agriculture, cheap whiskey and last but certainly not least-over the counter codeine-me thinks a man could be rather content for quite a quintessentially long time!!! That’s where the festivities really begin! CHEERS
"When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro."