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Tag Archives: music

Give Her a Valentine’s Day She’ll Never Forget

"Some balls are held for charity, and some for fancy dress.
But when they're held for pleasure, they're the balls that I like best..."

About this time every year, people often ask me, Bob, you’re such a romantic cuss, what’s your method for a sure-fire Valentine’s Day? I generally kiss these people full on the mouth, and the taste of my coffee-drenched tongue is usually enough to keep them from bothering me any further. But I have decided to share with you, my readers, the Bob Wire Can’t Miss Romance Method. I always used to think that Valentine’s Day is for suckers, but I’ve come to realize that it’s actually a major opportunity to score some heavy points on the sensitivity scoreboard. [I should point out that most of these tips will be aimed at the males among you, for it is the dudes, not the gals, who live in a state of perpetual head-scratching over what the opposite sex wants from us.]

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When He’s Sixty-Four

The Paul of the younger baby-boomers

The responsibility of reviewing music by Paul McCartney is enough to rattle this Beatles-era middle-aged mom, but listening to “Memory Almost Full” was inspiring enough to sally forth. From the almost silly simplicity of “Dance Tonight” to the Lennon-like “Vintage Clothes” to my favorite, the jaunty “Ever Present Past” the sheer variety of musical styles and instrumentation make the CD great fun and, in a way, a trip back in time. We who were young during the Vietnam war – and the protests, and Richard Nixon, and one of the best/worst decades in American history – may react to Paul's songswith a certain sadness, nostalgia and a longing for youth. (The Paul in the photo is the Paul of my era.)

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Nice House. Where You Keep the Whores?

I'm glad this Vanderbilt guy never heard of Mansion Heights.

[Dispatch from North Carolina] This morning we had planned on trekking to the top of Chimney Rock (Motto: “It’s a Rock, Shaped Like a Chimney, Y’all!”), but it was pouring rain so we decided this would be the day to tour the Biltmore Estate. I don’t know if you’ve heard of this place, but it’s the biggest private home in the country. Even bigger than that lakefront lodge the Anheuser Busch assholes are building at Georgetown Lake.

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Boise’s Wild About Harry


When Harry Connick Jr. sang his signature tune “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?” last night at the Idaho Center, there was near-quiet from the crowd of almost 11,000. After some raucous jazz which had us ready to dance in the aisles, Connick’s tribute to his nearly-lost hometown seemed to inspire an empathetic mood. But right back at us, he was off again to more crack big-band, honky-tonk, soul, Tin Pan Alley styling and New Orleans jazz, backed by his brilliant band -- three trumpets, three trombones, three saxophones, a drummer/percussionist, and a bassist. By turns, he and a few band members switched instruments in the middle of songs, with Connick having a go with drums, two different pianos, an organ, and bass. I had my binoculars right on him when, mid-song, he handed the bass back to the real bassist, who said, “Man, you suck at that,” and Connick replied, “I know!”

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Let’s Dig Into Bob’s Mail Bag!


Here at Bob Wire headquarters, we’re always happy to answer any questions or suggestions that readers may have. You could probably fit all the fan letters I’ve received into the average scrotum, but that doesn’t deter me from answering each and every one. (Side Note: I guess that's why they call it a Male Bag?) Well, maybe not LETTERS, per se, but emails. I mean, actual letters, that would entail sitting down with a sheet of paper and a pen, handwriting a message, and folding it into an envelope, affixing a 39¢ stamp, and addressing it to Bob Wire at 211 Ben Hogan Drive, Missoula, Montana, 59803. See? Ridiculous. So let’s get to those emails, shall we?

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What’s in a Name? Only a Band’s Whole Reputation

The name of my very first band, Rotten Tuna, came to us after much deliberation and careful thought. We’d been offered the house band slot at the Blimpie’s across the street from the university in Pocatello, and we didn’t want to squander the opportunity to come up with a killer name. “What about the Rollie Holers?” asked Chris Cutthroat, the drummer. “That’s lugubrious,” said Marshall Watson, the guitarist. “We need something sublime.” Marshall never passed up a chance to remind us that he was an English major. He had a big mouth, but at that point he was the best musician we knew, so we let him spout off. “If you guys don’t like the Marshall Watson Project, I suggest you come up with something righteous, and pronto.” “I got it,” I piped up, between sips off my Rainier pounder. “Bob Wire and the Bob Wire Band.” “Featuring Bob Wire!” Cutthroat gleefully added. Watson rolled his eyes, drained his beer, and said, “It’ll never fit on the bass drum, asshole.”

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News Flash Missoula: Ron Jeremy Loves Porn!

Lately, I've been kicking around this realization that porn might bring with it more than just good times. Maybe it’s that I want to protect my new relationship from this latent realization that porn can create a false standard. Maybe I’m just in a new place as a person. I don’t know. But for whatever reason, the idea that porn is more detrimental than helpful for relationships just won’t leave me alone. Why I am dragging all this out, here of all places? I’m curious to hear what others have to say, because porn is one of those things we like to shout about—for good or bad—but rarely does porn foster calm and civil conversations. So, how about this for a civil conversation-starter: Is porn just one more way to keep things interesting in a relationship? Or does it actually create less intimacy between couples? And—here’s the kicker—why? Read on to hear how this conversation started: outside of the Union Club with my friend "Ron Jeremy."

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I Subscribe, Therefore I Am

Why are we spending $300 a year on magazines? Because, not only are we big readers in the Wire household, we love to look at pictures too. Barb and I recently went through our budget (our annual punishment that usually comes on the heels of preparing our tax return), and were shocked a the number of magazines we’re taking. We get at least one almost every day. (Even more if you count the ‘Mental Health Professional’ and ‘Guns & Ammo’ still being delivered to the previous owner.) “Why are you getting ‘Wired’? Barb asks me during the budget talks. “It’s only my third cup of coffee. Lighten up.” “No,” she says, with the patience of a third grade teacher explaining the concept of eminent domain to a five-year-old. “I mean the magazine. What’s it for?”

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I’ve Got a Fever…COSTCO Fever!

"I'll pose for your camera, but I'm not happy about it."

How could you not love Costco? We take the kids out there about once a month on a Saturday, mostly to get a bale of toilet paper, a six-pack of refried beans and a case of Pace salsa. (The three go hand in glove, if you think about it.) I am not allowed to go alone anymore, because last time I went out to pick up a case of paper towels, I came home with a plasma TV and a motorcycle. So, family in tow, I push a basket down the main aisle, and break into song: “Weeeee’re a Costco fa-muh-leeeeee…” until the kids act like they’re shopping with someone else. First, of course, you have to find a parking space. There are always a few thousand shoppers there, even when it’s not the week before Christmas, so we wind up about a half mile from the store entrance. Gives us plenty of opportunity to see what the other shoppers are wheeling out to their cars. Into the back of a pickup truck goes a hundred-pound bag of dog food and a suitcase-sized brick of mac ‘n cheese. Into the trunk of a Lexus goes a case of margarita mix, a carton of Polaroid film, and a 12-pack of K-Y Jelly. I almost followed that woman home.

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Death and Taxes. I’ll Take Death.


I feel great! I just got our tax return sent off to the IRS. I know, I know, it’s a day or two past April 15, but I’m sure they mean “April 15, give or take,” right? We’re talking about good ol’ Uncle Sam here, right? He’s my favorite crazy uncle! I’m sure the U.S. Government is happy to go out of its way to help out a red-blooded taxpayer such as myself. Right? Anyway, the taxes were a bit late because we do them ourselves, and I’ve developed such a many-tributaried income stream, that several additional schedules and forms need to be filled out. So we made some strong coffee, sharpened a bundle of #2 pencils, and let the fiction writing begin. (Just kidding, Mr. Chertoff!)

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