Bob Wire Has A Point

Mack Days are winding down. What’s that mean? It means hundreds of fishermen plying the waters of Flathead Lake to see who can reel in the biggest pile of lake trout, a non-native fish that can grow to the size of one of Katie Couric’s legs. Will these hale and hardy sportsmen eat their catch? Oh, hale no—they will likely fill the Dumpsters at the Polson boat launch with tons of dead trout, which will then putrefy, filling the air with a stench not unlike the one that will be emanating from the Adams Center when Toby Keith appeared in Missoula five years ago.

The idea of the trout tournament is to help control the population of the predacious lake trout, which feed on the smaller, more fun-loving native cutthroat and bull trout. If you’ve ever fished Flathead Lake, you know when you’ve caught a lake trout. It has a large underbite, sports a leather jacket, has a number of crude, prison-style tattoos. Also, it is probably smoking a cigarette. I hauled one into my canoe last summer, and it had three Daredevil spoons hanging off its lower lip, and one eye was frosted over. It spit out its cigarette, grunted, smacked me in the face with its caudal fin, and flipped back into the water. Tough fish.

In order to lure (sorry) fishermen into the tournament, the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes is offering huge cash prizes for the most fish caught. Top prize is over $1,000, so you can bet there is a veritable navy of anglers out there every day, harvesting the lake trout.

(I’m sorry, but when sportsmen use the term “harvesting” as a euphemism for hooking, shooting, stabbing, spearing, trapping or otherwise killing wildlife, I picture them driving around the woodlands in a New Holland combine or something. Harvesting. Psht.)

Curious, I drove up there this morning to find out how the tournament was going, and to check out the action for myself. I cajoled a ride out to one of their boats, which was anchored just off the north side of Wildhorse Island, away from the prying binoculars of tournament officials. I had contacted them on their marine band radio (I first tried my Marine Band harmonica, but got nothing), and told them I was a journalist. They invited me aboard. Once my water taxi was gone, I asked them about their totals for the day.

 

 

“Been kinda slow today,” said Marshall Watson, the skipper, opening the lid of a coffin-sized Styrofoam ice chest. “Maybe 20 so far, but we’ve only been here for about”—he looked at his digital wristwatch—“two cold-packs.”

Wading through the ankle-deep pile of crushed Hamm’s cans, I peered into the cooler. They were lake trout, all right. The tattoos are unmistakable. But something was wrong. All the fish seemed to have been burned or scorched somehow. As I turned to ask Watson about the fish, his partner, Oliver Klosov, handed me a stick of dynamite. The fuse was lit and spitting sparks.

He burped in my face. “You gonna yap, or you gonna fish?”

After the Search and Rescue helicopter dropped me off back at the boat launch, I wandered over to the weigh-in table on the main dock, where the officials were tallying the catch of another boat. It was a large Pro-Line cabin cruiser dubbed the Perspicacious Princess. I watched as the fishermen transferred their catch from the boat’s hold onto the dock.

“Hold it!” yelled Howard Skin-So-Soft, the tribal marine biologist in charge. “These fish are illegal. They are definitely NOT lake trout.” He indicated a pile of flat, orange-colored objects in a 5-gallon plastic bucket.

“Oh, they’re lake trout, we just, uh, field-dressed them,” said the Perspicacious Princess’s first mate, with a thick but indeterminate accent. “We filet them special and coat them in a corn meal breading, Norwegian style. It’s how we always do it in the old country.”

Shaking his head, muttering about “that asshole Columbus,” Howard Skin-So-Soft took the bucket of fish sticks and emptied it into the Dumpster. He returned to the Princess just as the fishermen were carefully pulling a mounted, 8-foot-long blue marlin from the boat’s cabin.

Skin-So-Soft looked at me sadly, and said, “You know, I’ve been a marine biologist for 13 years, and I can tell you that the blue marlin is rarely seen in a land-locked body of fresh water 500 miles from the nearest ocean. I’m pretty sure we won’t count that.” He looked back at the boat’s crew, which was now struggling to open a huge bag of frozen calamari. “Perspicacious my Indian ass.”

I had seen enough. On the drive home, I thought about the futility of it all. Flathead Lake is the largest natural freshwater lake in the Lower 48. It’s 28 miles long, and as much as 15 miles wide. And judging from my one-hundred-foot anchor rope, it’s at least 101 feet deep. That’s a lot of water. By my calculations, it’s, well, it’s more than a thousand cubic feet of water. A lot more. I doubt that any trout tournament that allows a limitless number of fish to be plucked from the lake is going to make a significant dent in the population of said fish.

On the contrary, it’s pretty much a given that the fish who are stupid enough to believe they can eat something that looks like a fork that got caught in the garbage disposal are not the sharpest hemostat in the tackle box. So what these anglers are doing is simply culling the dumbest specimens from the lake, leaving behind a smarter, craftier population. The Superior Lake Trout, if you will, are going to continue to chip away at the native cutthroat and bull trout populations, like so many Sunnis car-bombing a Shiite fish market.

Indeed, we are probably at the tail-end (sorry) of the Golden Age of Trout Fishing in America. Up until recently, daily limits have been easily filled, and the mercury level in the fish was somewhat less than that of a gas station thermometer. I’m one of the lucky ones whose youth was filled with fishing trips that ended with a photo of the anglers holding a sapling dripping with a dozen decent-sized rainbow or cutthroat trout, which we would frequently cook and eat on the spot. Now, catch-and-release is the M.O. of most fishermen, and the trout numbers have dwindled due to whirling disease, dammed tributaries, and widespread use of the fearsome Eagle Claw™ Quintuple-Hook Super Deadly Lethal Trout Killer Special© lure.

So the Mack Days tournament is probably hastening, not forestalling, the demise of natural trout populations in Flathead Lake. This summer when you’re hanging out at the Lake, take a closer look at those water skiers skimming past your waterfront cabin. If they’re wearing leather jackets and smoking cigarettes, better high-tail it (sorry) back to town.

[In observance of the one-year anniversary of Seal Team 6's punching of Osama bin Laden's ticket, we're re-running this account of his last day. This was one of the last Bob Wire entries to appear on NewWest before that site evaporated into the mist. Enjoy, and please share with your friends who have a sense of humor.]

 

A source who is intimately familiar with the day-to-day inner workings of Osama bin Laden’s fortified compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan, has released an account of the Al Qaeda mastermind’s last day. The source spoke on the condition of anonymity, on account of I made him up. Here is his report:

Sunday, May 1, 2011. 5:15 A.M.
[a bedside clock radio clicks on]
“Let’s get mooooooving, Abbottabad! Wakey wakey, eggs and bakie! Well, not real bakie, of course!”

“No way, date-breath, because we don’t eat bacon! It’s swine! Hey, it’s your morning tractor crew zoo, Jarangi and Qalat, coming to you on Super FM 90, Bahawal Nagar. The only station in the Bahahwal Region!”

“That’s right, Jarangi, it’s another beautiful day in Pakistan, and this morning we’ll be prank-calling Prime Minister Gillani…”

[A hand slaps the snooze button on the radio, and it goes silent.]

“Oh, great and giving Allah, just five more minutes of sleep. I was just about to unwrap a virgin in my dream. They are so fast!” Osama bin Laden removes his dental mouthguard and drops it in a glass of filmy water on the nightstand. He reaches under the sheet and scratches at his groin. “I need some coffee.” He pulls on a dirty bathrobe and walks down the stairs to the second floor kitchen. He passes his one of his wives in the hallway.

“Close your robe, Osama,” she says. “You look like you are smuggling a badger.”

Bin Laden obliges, and gives her a dirty look. “You will pay for your insolence, filthy wench. One day Allah will rain down…”

“Yeah, yeah, rain down fire and demons on all the infidels who have mocked you, blah blah blah. Whatever. Hey, where is that messenger, Abu Ahmad? When he gets back here send him back to the market because I need some feminine products.” She walks away from bin Laden and locks herself in the bathroom.

Bin Laden pulls the belt tight on his robe and continues walking to the kitchen. “Crazy chamcha,” he mutters.

6:05 A.M.
[bin Laden is seated at a small formica kitchen table, drinking black coffee from a promotional travel mug bearing the logo of a Russian arms manufacturer, and working on a laptop.]
“Durani!” he calls. “Where is Abu with my paper? I can only listen to these old NPR recordings for so long. I wish there was some way we could hook up to the internet without being detected. I miss the Twitter. I haven’t updated my Facebook page in years. I would kill a village of Kurds just to see one funny video on the YouTube. Ah, the good old days. But I still need my daily copy of the Mahasib, see if those American bastards are still looking for me. ”

[A lackey runs quickly into the kitchen.] “Yes, Lion Sheik, I will find the courier immediately.” He bows obsequiously and backs slowly out of the kitchen.

“I need to drop off a socialist at the pool, and I’ll be in there for a while,” says bin Laden. “And make sure that sheep-for-brains doesn’t forget my breakfast burrito! No sausage,” he yells after the minion. He shakes his head and mutters to himself. “Allah, why is it so hard to find henchmen with a decent work ethic these days?”

6: 50 A.M.
[Bin Laden is back in the main bedroom, sitting at a desk, looking at a computer screen. Several small children are running in and out of the room, playing, and a middle-aged woman is picking up clothes from the floor and putting them in a hamper.]
“Sam, are you going to just play Asteroids all day, or are you going to get to work on the Amtrack attack in Detroit?” she says, stuffing a soiled burnoose into her basket.

Bin Laden, tapping furiously on the keyboard, yells, “Hyperspace! Hyperspace! Ah, damn it. That was my last ship.” He turns to the woman. “Relax, woman, the Americans are busy watching the Jersey Shore and eating Rolos while their children starve in the streets. And stop calling me Sam! These attacks take time to plan and they must occur on dates that are significant to those capitalist devils. Like July of the Fourth, or Grandparent’s Day. You need to be patient. And how about a little respect? I am the most wanted terrorist in the world, you know!”

The woman holds a grubby article of clothing up to her nose. “Shew! This dishdasha smells like you have been wrestling with a diseased ibex. Why don’t you take a shower once in a while? You might be a little more wanted around here, if you catch my drift. And when was the last time you dyed your beard? You look like that man in ZZ Top, the silly one who plays the khartaloon.”

Bin Laden turns back to his computer game, grumbling about having too many wives. He’s in a bad mood, and his day is starting out poorly. The cacophony of the children has reached a deafening pitch, and he throws his hands up in the air. “Enough! You little beasts go play in the basement! I can’t even hear myself terrorize!” He mutters to himself: “Oh, if only I could go back in time I would trade one thousand goats for a single package of condoms.”

7:25 A.M.
[bin Laden is seated in a small broom closet on the third floor. A board hinged to the wall creates a desk, and he is writing in a spiral notebook.]

“Dear Diary, it is a sad day in the Muslim world when a man has to escape into his own storage room to have some peace. No internet, no telephone, no escape from this mansion. I am like the Gilligan of that American sex show, Gilligan and the Two Whores. Only my whores are shrews who only complain and make my life a living Jahannam.

“I long for the simpler days, when that Texas oaf George Bush was the supreme leader in United States. I could have lived in a large recreational vehicle on the White House lawn and he still would not have found me. But this new man, Obama, and his shrewd minions like Hilary Clinton and Oprah Winfrey, they are making my life very difficult. Hounded by women! It is so embarrassing. Sometimes I feel like I am still a little boy in Saudi Arabia, being pushed around by the girls in primary school.

“I don’t know what it is about today, just a weird feeling that things are just not going to go my way. Like that! I just heard a tremendous crash outside. It is probably my son, trying to back the Mercedes out of the compound. I love that boy, but I swear, he could not find his asshole with a funnel. How many cars has he wrecked just driving down to the sandal factory to pick up couple of flash drives full of Al Qaeda gossip? Ach. On days like this, my head hurts as if my kufiyyah is too tight.

“Was that a gunshot? Impossible. It is probably the kids, playing cricket in the living room. If I have told them once, I have told them a thousand times to take it to the basement. I would hate to send one of them to his afterlife reward with his own bat, but a man can only take so much, right, Diary?

“Hold on, someone is coming up the stairs. I hope it is the brothers with some new Adam Sandler DVDs. I know, I know, he’s a rich American imperialist goat dog, but he makes me laugh so hard I almost pee in my kurta!

“Hey, someone’s at the door. What the…?”

[End of transmission.]

As is my tradition (dating all the way back to early 2011), I have put together a partial translation of President Obama’s State of the Union Speech. That’s right—not commentary, not rebuttal, not opinion nor argument. What follows is the President’s true meaning, stripped of all euphemism, double-talk and Capitol-speak.

I encourage you to leave a comment and let us know your impressions. Unless you’re from the Secret Service, in which case this entire column has been hacked and written by Tom Catmull. Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States of America:

“Mr. Speaker, Mr. Vice President, members of Congress, distinguished guests, and fellow Americans.”

Translation: Welcome to my wingman Joey B, Mr. Boner of the House, Congressional radio contest winners, and the three women who have not slept with Newt Gingrich. I haven’t seen this much power in one room since I dropped a deuce in the Oval Office bathroom fifteen minutes ago.

“For the first time in two decades, Osama bin Laden is not a threat to this country.”

Translation: As Robert De Niro said to Samuel L. Jackson in Jackie Brown, ‘He’s pretty dead.’

[At this point the camera cuts to a group of stone-faced Marines in the front  row. Most of them are thinking that Joe Biden needs a haircut.]

“These achievements are a testament to the courage, selflessness, and teamwork of America’s Armed Forces. They’re not consumed with personal ambition. They don’t obsess over their differences. They focus on the mission at hand. They work together. Imagine what we could accomplish if we followed their example. ”

Translation: If Congress had half the guts and discipline and integrity as these guys, our country would be debt-free. Millionaires would be paying more taxes than the 1971 Rolling Stones, and Canada would be hitting us up for peace-keeping tips.

“Think about…a future where we’re in control of our own energy, and our security and prosperity aren’t so tied to unstable parts of the world.”

Translation: Sure, bin Laden might be searching the Marianas Trench for his 72 virgins, but there are still thousands of  pissed off terrorists who would love nothing better than to burn down our country. It’s too bad Israel isn’t sitting on an ocean of oil. They owe us.

“My grandfather, a veteran of Patton’s Army, got the chance to go to college on the GI Bill.”

Translation: My grandfather spent seven years studying glass blowing at Saint Copious of Northern Nebraska, where he mastered the reverse spiral and basically invented the one-hitter.

“We can either settle for a country where a shrinking number of people do really well, while a growing number of Americans barely get by. Or we can restore an economy where everyone gets a fair shot, everyone does their fair share, and everyone plays by the same set of rules.”

Translation: Look, I won’t bullshit you. We’re living in a plutocracy. Have been for a long time. Hell, we should have Ayn Rand’s picture on the hundred dollar bill. Of course, we’d have to lose the “In God We Trust” line.

“Let’s remember how we got here. Long before the recession, jobs and manufacturing began leaving our shores.”

Translation: The suit I’m wearing was made in Singapore.

“Tonight, I want to speak about how we move forward, and lay out a blueprint for an economy that’s built to last – an economy built on American manufacturing, American energy, skills for American workers, and a renewal of American values. This blueprint begins with American manufacturing.”

Translation: Men’s suits will be made in an old wheelbarrow factory in the Midwest that is being retrofitted. And they’ll be made out of corn.

“On the day I took office, our auto industry was on the verge of collapse. Some even said we should let it die. With a million jobs at stake, I refused to let that happen. In exchange for help, we demanded responsibility.”

Translation: I got Ford, Chrysler and GM to agree that the answer was not “more cupholders.

“A few weeks ago, the CEO of Master Lock told me that it now makes business sense for him to bring jobs back home. Today, for the first time in fifteen years, Master Lock’s unionized plant in Milwaukee is running at full capacity.”

Translation: Turns out those bamboo padlocks were not a boon to the security industry.

“So we have a huge opportunity, at this moment, to bring manufacturing back.”

Translation: I’ve already brought sexy back, and this is next on my list.

“Tonight, my message to business leaders is simple: Ask yourselves what you can do to bring jobs back to your country, and your country will do everything we can to help you succeed.”

Translation: If we outlaw video games and masturbation, the streets will be flooded with a teenage workforce desperate for something to do.

“I will go anywhere in the world to open new markets for American products.”

Translation: I’ll start with Tahiti, and from there I’ll investigate the economic opportunities along the French Riviera, in Cozumél, and Cabo San Lucas.

“At a time when other countries are doubling down on education, tight budgets have forced States to lay off thousands of teachers. Every person in this chamber can point to a teacher who changed the trajectory of their lives.”

Translation: Except Eric Cantor, who apparently never passed a math class. You can’t run two wars without raising taxes, dumb ass.

“Tonight, I call on every State to require that all students stay in high school until they graduate or turn eighteen.”

Translation: We’ll be invading Iran soon, and we need soldiers who can at least read the top of a gearshift knob.

“Of course, it’s not enough for us to increase student aid. We can’t just keep subsidizing skyrocketing tuition; we’ll run out of money.”

Translation: As I proved by running our debt from here to the moon, we’ll run out of zeroes before we run out of money.

“I believe as strongly as ever that we should take on illegal immigration. That’s why my Administration has put more boots on the border than ever before. That’s why there are fewer illegal crossings than when I took office.”

Translation: Jan Brewer, I’m the President. You’re merely the governor of Newer Mexico. If you don’t get your fucking finger out of my face, I’m going to cram it so far up your ass that you’ll be able to pick that thing you call a nose from the inside.

“We have a supply of natural gas that can last America nearly one hundred years, and my Administration will take every possible action to safely develop this energy. Experts believe this will support more than 600,000 jobs by the end of the decade. And I’m requiring all companies that drill for gas on public lands to disclose the chemicals they use. America will develop this resource without putting the health and safety of our citizens at risk.

Translation: Thousands will eventually die from horrible tumors and cancers brought on by the side effects of fracking, but at least you’ll die in a nice home heated by cheap natural gas.

“We can also spur energy innovation with new incentives. The differences in this chamber may be too deep right now to pass a comprehensive plan to fight climate change.”

Translation: These assholes couldn’t agree on a salad dressing for their lunch if the only two choices were bleu cheese and fresh dog shit.

“I’m proud to announce that the Department of Defense, the world’s largest consumer of energy, will make one of the largest commitments to clean energy in history.”

Translation: The Navy is going back to schooners.

“We need smart regulations to prevent irresponsible behavior. Rules to prevent financial fraud, or toxic dumping, or faulty medical devices, don’t destroy the free market. They make the free market work better.”

Translation: If you anti-government clowns get your way and Ron Paul gets elected, say goodbye to molester-free daycares, non-poisonous food and drinkable water.

“We got rid of one rule from 40 years ago that could have forced some dairy farmers to spend $10,000 a year proving that they could contain a spill – because milk was somehow classified as an oil. With a rule like that, I guess it was worth crying over spilled milk.”

Translation: What do you call a cow with two legs? Lean meat. Buhzinga!

“I’m confident a farmer can contain a milk spill without a federal agency looking over his shoulder.”

Translation: Hey, I’ll tell you what. You can get a good look at a butcher’s ass by sticking your head up there. But, wouldn’t you rather to take his word for it? Sorry. I watched ‘Tommy Boy’ with Malea and Sasha this afternoon. Love that movie.

“Right now, our most immediate priority is stopping a tax hike on 160 million working Americans while the recovery is still fragile. There are plenty of ways to get this done. So let’s agree right here, right now: No side issues. No drama. Pass the payroll tax cut without delay.”

Translation: Get real. This is Congress we’re talking about. There will be so much drama and posturing and backbiting that it will make ‘All My Children’ look like a Red Cross documentary.

“Right now, because of loopholes and shelters in the tax code, a quarter of all millionaires pay lower tax rates than millions of middle-class households. Right now, Warren Buffett pays a lower tax rate than his secretary.”

Translation: Millionaires are smart.

“Do we want to keep these tax cuts for the wealthiest Americans?”

Translation: Should we cut federal aid to impoverished women and children so that Mitt  Romney and his polo buddies can keep flying their horses to Boca Raton during Lobsterfest?

“If you make under $250,000 a year, like 98 percent of American families, your taxes shouldn’t go up. You’re the ones struggling with rising costs and stagnant wages. You’re the ones who need relief.”

Translation: Your taxes are going up. All of you.

“Now, you can call this class warfare all you want. But asking a billionaire to pay at least as much as his secretary in taxes? Most Americans would call that common sense.”

Translation: Secretaries need to hire smarter accountants.

“Let’s limit any elected official from owning stocks in industries they impact. Let’s make sure people who bundle campaign contributions for Congress can’t lobby Congress.”

Translation: Stop graft and corruption on Capitol Hill? It would be easier to repeal gravity and banish the stars from the night sky. But I have to say it. It’s in my contract.

“We need to end the notion that the two parties must be locked in a perpetual campaign of mutual destruction; that politics is about clinging to rigid ideologies instead of building consensus around common sense ideas.”

Translation: Yeaaahhh. And Jay-Z will join Lynyrd Skynyrd and Khloe Kardashian will be a finalist on ‘Jeopardy!’

“I’m a Democrat.”

Translation: I think people are more important than money.

“On the other hand, even my Republican friends who complain the most about Government spending have supported federally-financed roads, and clean energy projects, and federal offices for the folks back home.”

Translation: You can fool some of the people all of the time.

“With or without this Congress, I will keep taking actions that help the economy grow. But I can do a whole lot more with your help. Because when we act together, there is nothing the United States of America can’t achieve.”

Translation: I have found the Koch brothers’ checkbook.

“From Pakistan to Yemen, the al Qaeda operatives who remain are scrambling, knowing that they can’t escape the reach of the United States of America.”

Translation: Check your pizza delivery guy for explosives.

“Look at Iran. Through the power of our diplomacy, a world that was once divided about how to deal with Iran’s nuclear program now stands as one. The regime is more isolated than ever before; its leaders are faced with crippling sanctions, and as long as they shirk their responsibilities, this pressure will not relent.”

Translation: We have suspended Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s Netflix account.

“The renewal of American leadership can be felt across the globe. America is back.

Anyone who tells you otherwise, anyone who tells you that America is in decline or that our influence has waned, doesn’t know what they’re talking about.”

Translation: Don’t listen to Fox News.

“To stay one step ahead of our adversaries, I have already sent this Congress legislation that will secure our country from the growing danger of cyber-threats.”

Translation: We have hacked Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s Facebook account.

“Above all, our freedom endures because of the men and women in uniform who defend it. One of my proudest possessions is the flag that the SEAL Team took with them on the mission to get bin Laden.”

Translation: You should get a load of the new tablecloth in my man cave.

“This Nation is great because we built it together. This Nation is great because we worked as a team. This Nation is great because we get each other’s backs. And if we hold fast to that truth, in this moment of trial, there is no challenge too great; no mission too hard. As long as we’re joined in common purpose, as long as we maintain our common resolve, our journey moves forward, our future is hopeful, and the state of our Union will always be strong.”

Translation: Give me one more term, and I will whip this flat-ass economy into shape like Warren Oates did with Bill Murray in Stripes. Except my shit won’t get blown up.

Thank you, God bless you, and may God bless the United States of America.

Translation: Peace off.

 

 

 

[From January 20, 2012]

All of us in Missoula are in the same boat, but at least it’s not an Italian cruise ship. It’s been three days now, and our street has yet to see a plow. I’m getting desperate. I see a front-end loader on TV, and I can feel it move a little. It’s nearly impossible to get out of here. If you can make it two blocks to the main road, you’re home free. But up here on the hillside, even that main road is one hair-raising ride. Four-wheel-drive doesn’t help you stop, as many of our neighbors have found out the hard way. The long straight road to the valley floor is littered with snowbound sedans, buried minivans, and flattened mailboxes.

If you have kids in public school, you’re dealing with two snow days in a row. Bonus or bummer? That depends. I’ve been trapped up here all week. Rusty and Speaker had already been home sick Tuesday and Wednesday. Now, with them having two more days off going into the weekend, I’m starting to feel like  a guy who runs a day care, only for kids big enough to leave adult-sized paths of destruction in their wake.

They’re still technically kids, though, and their thoughts revolve around innocent hedonism. And I am their delivery device.

As soon as she got word of yesterday’s school closure, Speaker asked, “Hey, Dad, can Kylie come over?”

“Sure. How is she going to get here?

“I don’t know. Can you go get her?”

“Where does Kylie live?”

“Grant Creek.”

What I’m thinking: No problem. Let me abandon this deadline project and let my client twist in the wind so I can zip clear across town in this treacherous obstacle course to pick up your little buddy, and then we’ll come back here so the two of you can dick around on the computer while I simultaneously cook dinner, do the laundry, and shovel the driveway again.

What I say: “Sure. Let me get my keys.”

I wish it would occur to the kids that all this snow brings with it a lot of extra work. Barb and I have taken turns shoveling our half-acre (my estimate) driveway, and we’ve even cleared a large pull-out in the road so the mailman can safely deliver all the credit card offers and coupon mailers and AARP magazines that I put directly into the trash can.

To be fair, I was able to enlist Rusty’s help a couple of times with the driveway. Most parents of young teens go through this conflict: I want the kids to pitch in with the household labor, but I also want them to enjoy being kids as long as possible. Before you know it they’ll have graduated college, and be out there in the Real World where it’s a constant struggle and their dreams are crushed under the merciless boot of economic desperation and their souls will get sucked out of them like an oyster at a Fort Lauderdale raw bar. So Barb and I do most of the shoveling.

But shoveling is only a small part of the picture. When they’re home from school on a weekday (and this school district seems to be violently opposed to a full, five-day week), this work-at-home dad is saddled with the day-long burdens of transportation, meals, snacks, conflict resolution, social engagements and motivational speeches. The latter are usually delivered in the form of threats: “If you don’t shut off that Xbox RIGHT NOW and get outside and ENJOY THE SNOW, I swear to god I’m going to unplug that thing and take it out to the garage and play Call of Duty: Crowbar Edition.”

That particular motivational speech propelled them outside for a couple of hours yesterday afternoon. They bundled up and marched out into the driveway, drawn by the clean, freshly-shoveled surface, which is approximately the size of a  regulation basketball court. Then they worked industriously to dig a series of interconnecting tunnels in the seven-foot mounds of shoveled snow that border the driveway. As I folded laundry and watched them from the warm comfort of the living room, it dawned on me that all the snow they were excavating was going directly onto my nice, clean, shoveled driveway. I closed the curtains.

Before Barb left for work yesterday morning, she’d gone out and shoveled the eight inches or so we received during the night. Rusty and I cleared off another couple of inches after lunch, and then Barb came home at the end of the day and immediately grabbed a shovel to clear away the afternoon’s accumulation. My guilt keeps overriding my common sense, and I toil away with the snow shovel in spite of a nagging back condition. I have to do my share to clear the driveway, which is approximately the size of a Super Walmart parking lot. Barb went to bed with a cold last night, so I ignored my sore back and crept out early this morning to shovel, hoping she could get some extra sleep. I was greeted by six inches of new powder, but I cranked up the Stones’ “Goat’s Head Soup” on the iPod and got most of it cleared in record time.

I was almost to the foot of the driveway when I heaved a shovelful over the snow fort mountain and felt something go “pop” in my back. My left ribcage felt like I’d been shot with an arrow. “It’s sure been a cold, cold winter,” Mick sang into my skull as I dropped the shovel and fell to the concrete, writhing around in pain. I could picture my neighbors watching me through their kitchen window, shaking their heads. There’s that Bob Wire again, doing some weirdo pagan ritual in the snow. Probably high on the pot. Why does she put up with him?

I decided the driveway was clear enough— I had to get to my chiropractor’s appointment. Now I had a brand new injury for him to work on. The appointment went well, and he was able to hammer that rib back into place. “No more shoveling,” he said, wagging a finger as I struggled to uncross my eyes. He agreed to write a note I could give my wife.

So today I’ll be captaining the SS Wire through the roiling seas of another snow day from the confines of the recliner. I’ll kick back here, surrounded by all the electronic devices I need to run the show. The ongoing drama of Speaker’s amorphous circle of friends is still at the forefront. I have to chuckle, thinking back on yesterday morning, which was an Abbott and Costello routine of confusion.

“Dad, can you take me to the mall?”

“Is that okay with Kylie’s mom?”

“No, she already picked her up. I’m meeting Kayla at the mall.”

“Kayla? I thought you didn’t like Kayla.”

Speaker rolled her 13-year-old eyes with the accomplished indignity of a 15-year-old. “You’re thinking of Carly. She made fun of Kaylee and me when we were playing soccer last summer. She’s mean.”

“So you and Kaylee are cool, then?”

“Kayla. Kaylee moved to Bozeman.”

I closed my eyes and wondered how much trouble I’d get in with Johnny Law if Speaker was caught driving my 4Runner. I realized I was more scared of my wife than of the police. “Okay, I’ll take you to the mall. Get your coat.”

Speaker clapped her hands quickly and hopped up and down. “Goody! Can we pick up Kyla and Karlynn on the way?”

Snow day. Yippee fuckin’ skippy.

I first noticed the pain in the summer of 2009, driving my wife’s Subaru Grocery Getter™ thousands of miles around Montana researching a book project. I chose her car over my SUV purely for the gas mileage, and my back paid the price from the torture inflicted by the inferior driver’s seat, which was evidently designed to be used by Congressional Democrats and other spineless individuals.

I gained a bit of relief when I stopped carrying my wallet in my back pocket. The leather billfold, fat with Papa Murphy’s coupons and massage parlor business cards, had put indirect pressure on my spine for years. Imagine how bad the pain would be if it ever had any money in it.

The pain, located at point where my right butt cheek becomes my lower back, would return after long plane flights, and since last fall, pretty much any time spent sitting in any Subaru, even just backing out of the garage. I developed a mild limp. I stopped going on hikes. I declined to go on walks, even. The dog got fat.

As the holidays approached, the pain was too intense and too frequent to ignore. After choking down all kinds of over-the-counter anti-inflammatories and analgesics, I went to see Dr. Nick. He wanted to give me a shot. He likes to give shots. I said no shots. He wrote a prescription for painkiller that would come in handy if I ever want to date-rape myself.

Teeth gritted like a septuagenarian with new dentures, I managed to get through the holidays with only one or two emotional meltdowns, which is about average in a good year. I was taking painkillers almost daily. Dr. Nick looked at my x-rays and identified a genetic defect known as spondylolisthesis. “Splenda-what?” I asked. He said the last lumbar vertebra and the first sacral vertebra had slid apart enough to damage the disc and nerve bundles in between. It was between a one and two grade, which was serious. It’s a genetic defect, been there since birth, he said. This was why I was in such pain.

He recommended an MRI, then an epidural shot of cortisone. I’ve had an MRI. I know that for the price of an MRI, I could have custom orthopedic racing seats installed in the Subaru (and a decent CD player, for crying out loud), so I was hesitant. I consulted with my wife, Barb.

“So what did Dr. Nick say?” she asked.

“I have a genital defect.”

“Wow, I’m surprised that would show up on an x-ray. I think he must have said genetic. Why don’t you try a chiropractor?”

“Why should I pay for that? The kids walk all over me for free.”

But when she’s right, she’s right. So I cancelled my appointment with the neurologist/needle jockey and called up a chiropractor.

A lot of people swear by chiropractic treatment, including several of my friends. The idea, in a clamshell, is to have a trained professional manipulate the spine to get it aligned and moving properly thereby taking pressure off the nerves that emanate from between the vertebrae. Or something like that. I had seen a chiropractor twenty years ago, and back then there was a huge rift between the party line AMA and the whole chiropractic industry.

AMA: “Chiropractors aren’t real doctors.”

Chiro: “The AMA is overmedicating America.”

AMA: “Am not.”

Chiro: “Are too.”

Bottom line, the pain was still there, almost constantly. It was at its worst when I was standing, like at a cocktail party or in line at the grocery store. And during the holidays, I spent the bulk of my days at one or the other. So, cautiously pessimistic, I went in to see Dr. Jim the Chiropractor for my initial consultation.

“Any serious injuries or surgeries in the last few years?” he asked.

“Yeah, surgery for a torn rotator cuff in my left shoulder in 2010.”

“How’d you injure your shoulder?”

“Playing softball.”

“Okay,” he said, making a note on my chart. “Anything else?”

“Pulled a hamstring last spring. First softball practice. No surgery, though. I was back hitting into double plays by the first game.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, I had a head injury. A mild concussion that resulted in short-term memory loss and a temporary desire to vote Libertarian. About four years ago.”

“Let me guess. Softball.”

“Yeah. Slammed into a fence post in the outfield. But I did make the catch. Oh, and I also had emergency surgery after I took a line drive to my balls about ten years ago, which is why my jersey number is 1.5.”

“Okay, why don’t we just get going on your treatment plan,” said Jim, crossing his legs.

He had me step behind privacy curtain and remove my shirt. “Where should I put it?” I asked.

“Just hang it on the hook on the back of the door, next to mine,” he said.

I peeked at him from behind the curtain.

“I’m kidding.” Jim’s a funny guy. “You can fold it up and put it on that chair. Now lay on your right side over here.” I sprawled out on a low cushioned couch-like thing, and Jim proceeded to origami my body into a position that resembled the Bluetooth symbol. Then he jumped on me.

Well, to be more accurate, he put all his weight on a specific point near my hip, and pressed. I heard a small pop in my lower back.

“Oh my god!” I said. “Who turned out the lights? I’m BLIND!”

Jim gave me a good-natured smile. “Very funny. Now step over here and we’ll adjust your upper spine.” I pressed up against the vertical padded table and held on for dear life as it slowly rotated to a horizontal position. I felt like a rotisserie chicken. I started to get hungry. Jim pushed and prodded his way up my spine, periodically pausing to study my x-rays that showed a backbone shaped like a mountain road. He found a spot just below my clavicle and gave it a healthy shove. The crackling sound was like gripping a bunch of celery and twisting it between your hands. Spinal popcorn. But painless.

Then he had me sit upright in a chair, and he rolled my head around while examining my neck vertebrae. Without warning, he snapped my head sharply to the left. More crackling celery. “AAAGH! I’m DEAF!”

Jim just shook his head. “Okay, Bob, that’s it for today.” He suggested some things I could do between treatments, including stretching, applying ice packs and walking the dog. We set up a treatment plan that had me coming in every other day for a couple of weeks. I told him that if, at the end of two weeks, I didn’t feel noticeable improvement, I’d have to go for the needle. I couldn’t go on eating pain pills like they were Skittles. He agreed, telling me that chiropractic treatment varies with the individual, usually effective but sometimes not. His main concern is alleviating the pain by allowing the body to heal itself.

Today marks two weeks of treatments, and I’ve been able to leave the pills alone for a couple of days now. The pain is slowly subsiding. I’ll keep up the treatments, which will become less frequent, and I’m thinking that by the middle of next month, I should be completely pain free.

Which is good, because softball sign-ups are in March.

I’m petitioning Congress (by that I mean complaining to my mail lady) to officially repeal January first as New Year’s Day. I want them to move it back two, three weeks. January first is too soon. We don’t have enough time to recover from Christmas before gearing up for all the gyrations that are involved in celebrating New Year’s.

Sure, January first is at the head of the Gregorian calendar, but man, how about cutting us some slack? We spend the three months following Labor Day in a headlong careen toward the Elvis Presley of holidays, Christmas Day. And of course there’s Christmas Eve. And all the Christmas parties, which start banging right after Thanksgiving. I mean, RIGHT after. Hell, people still have cranberry bits between their teeth at the first Christmas party. Then there’s the office party. And the family get-togethers. By the day after Christmas, most of us are reeling. The hangovers, the relatives, the financial freefall, the stress of shopping. The tremendous freight that surrounds this one day is so disproportionately gargantuan, we should declare a month of national mourning just so the general populace can take some time off and get our shit together.

But no, we’re still burning gift wrap in the fireplace and cleaning candy cane out of the couch cushions when New Year’s Eve shows up like an obnoxious guest who’s three hours early for the cocktail party, demanding to be serviced and celebrated. And it’s like he’s your landlord’s brother-in-law. What can you do but let him in? “Come on in, Marvin. Let me get you a drink. Say what? Yeah, I can tell you started early. Why don’t you take a seat on the couch. No, not that one, the one with the plastic cover. There ya go. One highball coming up. What’s that? Make it a double? Yeah, you had a hard year.”

If you’re still young and vital, like I am not, you probably still have plenty of gas in the tank for a night of partying, dancing, drinking and reveling as the last few hours of the year tick away into the haze of history. But if you’re a bit older and have kids, I’m guessing that you probably prefer to avoid amateur night, and either spend the evening hanging with your family or sharing some intimate time with your partner in a quiet, remote location. I can’t remember ever going to a New Year’s Eve party that wasn’t at my house. I probably did when I was younger, but I’m sure I blacked out.

Nowadays we come straggling home around 10:00 p.m. with the kids in tow, having spent 8-10 hours traipsing around town, taking in the various acts of First Night. I tell you, by the time First Night Star is done with, I’m ready to hang up my hat and crawl into a bunker like Punxsutawney Phil, and hibernate until mid-February when I’ll poke my head out of my hole and tell all those ambitious walkers and bikers and runners to get their lycra-clad asses the hell off my street.

If I had just a few extra weeks to catch my breath after Christmas, I’d be a lot more excited about New Year’s Eve. As it is, by Dec. 26 I am emotionally drained and so violently antisocial that I make Ted Kaczynski look like Lady Gaga. I need some down time, some Bob time. But New Year’s is right around the corner! Waiting with a big shovel! To hit me in the face!

And just try to get anything done during the week between Christmas and New Year’s. Lots of businesses just give up and close the doors. And the people who do show up for work don’t give a shit. It’s like trying to have a classroom of sixth graders write an essay about algebra on the last day of school before summer vacation.

That week after Christmas? Everyone’s out of town. Everyone’s busy. Everyone’s tired. I know many of us could really get behind a big New Year’s Eve celebration if it was moved back to, say, Martin Luther King Day Jr., around January 20th. Yeah, that would be about right. Give me a good solid month to get the Tom and Jerry stains out of the carpet, return all the gifts that were obviously purchased at the last minute with absolutely no thought whatsoever, and take down all the Christmas decorations, indoors and out, so I can box everything tightly up and lock it away in the storeroom until the day after next Thanksgiving. I’d be able to bid a proper farewell to Christmas, and have time to sufficiently digest all that happened during the festive season. Not to mention having time to check into rehab, join a gym, and explore a relationship with Weight Watchers.

Then, by the time New Year’s rolls around, I’d have a sober, clear-eyed view of 2012. I’d already have a good start on losing this extra holiday bulk, and my blood pressure will likely have dropped a few points from its pre-Christmas peak of two thousand over one million. I say let in some daylight between these two monster holidays so the new year can be properly welcomed and celebrated. Let’s let the financial fallout of Christmas settle to the ground so at least we’ll know whether we’ll be toasting the new year with a nice Cristal Rosé, or a brown bagged bottle of André.