Not only will be 2008 be remembered as a watershed year in world history, but last year was especially dramatic for my personal life as well. Obama’s election is the obvious high water mark, but there were several other achievements and toe-stubbings that I will always associate with 2008. So here is my obligatory recap of the Best and Worst of 2008. I already have a big jump on next year’s list: Worst Idea of 2009: Bob Wire writing a blog about breastfeeding.

Recently a public breast-feeding brouhaha was reported in the Missoulian, and it brought a pretty spirited reaction from a lot of people who had plenty of opinions on the subject. I’ve also got a few thoughts on the whole controversy, and fortunately, I’ve also got my own bully pulpit.

At Walgreens I strode purposefully through the store toward the back corner where they keep all the cold and flu dope. My hoodie was pulled up, string drawn tight around my face, only my itchy eyes, runny nose and chapped lips exposed. I was in no mood to chat, and hoped I didn’t run into anyone I knew. I rounded a corner to take a shortcut to the back wall, and was stopped dead in my tracks by the sight of a battery-powered dog nail trimmer. You’ve seen it on TV: the Pedi-Paws. It’s like a Dremel tool you use to grind down your dog’s nails (I’m guessing it has never been successfully used on a cat). The dogs in the commercials must be heavily sedated or tripping on DayQuil, because they sit on couches next to their owners, happily submitting to the grind job as if they were floating on a giant strip of bacon in a sea of pork chops.

“Santa, did you bring your reindeer?” asked a little boy as he climbed willingly onto my knee. I gave him a hearty ho-ho-ho. “No, little fella, Santa had to leave the reindeer at the North Pole for now. Lots of problems with permits and such. NAFTA. And I think Blitzen has worms! Ho ho holy parasites!” The boy gave me a deadpan look. “Then how did you get here?” “Oh, Santa’s little helper here pulled my sleigh,” I said, nodding toward Speaker, who looked at me like I was crazy. Some of the parents started giving each other looks that said “I told you we should have just had the kids watch ‘A Charlie Brown Christmas.’”

I found myself with a little time on my hands yesterday (Really? A week before Christmas?!?), so I thought I’d sit down and write a song. It’s been a while since I cranked out a real foot-tapper. Some false starts lately: “A Recession In My Heart, A Depression In My Head,” “Nose Pickin’ Boogie,” and “She Won’t Get Under Me Till I Get Over You.” Not exactly chart-topping material. So I sucked down some strong coffee to get the synapses firing hot, tuned up the acoustic, and jotted down some couplets. This is my favorite part of songwriting: coming up with some compelling rhymes. Occasionally I’ll paint myself into a corner with some word or phrase that’s just right, but then I can’t find a natural-sounding rhyme for it. If the rhymes don’t sound right together, the listener can tell right away. Here’s one I rejected for just that reason: “Your love surrounds me like a sunrise in spring / Come on girl, get up off ‘o that thing.”

I touched a nerve with last week’s column concerning the blatant proliferation of religion in country music. (I feel like if I don’t offend somebody out there, I’m just not trying hard enough.) One reader left a comment accusing me of being an idiot who must have moved here from somewhere else. You got me, marshal! I did move here from somewhere else. Does that make me any less a Montanan than a so-called native? No, it doesn’t, no matter how many letters to the editor you write or how many condescending comments you leave on the internet. I’m getting a little fed up with Montana natives who bring nothing to the table but mealy-mouthed “I remember when…” whining, and xenophobic rants about people Californicating “their” state.

Please don’t mistake this as a discussion about religion or the existence of God or any of that. It’s about the Christian Right co-opting an entire genre of popular music, shutting out those of us who either don’t subscribe to the Christian doctrine, or do not care to hear it blended so thickly into our country music. Perhaps it was “Jesus Take the Wheel” that kicked down the chapel door. Maybe it was even Randy Travis’ “Three Crosses” back in 2002 or so. Who knows. But nowadays the rhythm of Top 40 country has become the thumping of a Bible. There’s always been a mostly-unspoken understanding in country music that it’s a God-fearing Christian at the mic, even when it’s some hell raiser like George Jones or Johnny Cash. Today, though, it’s right in your face. You won’t hear more than two or three songs go by without some mention of God or Jesus or praying or angels.

I got my latest IRA statement in the mail yesterday. Not surprisingly, it arrived postage due. In two years, it’s lost half its value. It’s a Roth IRA, apparently named after the actor Tim Roth, who stands up in his diner booth in Pulp Fiction and yells, “Everybody be cool, this is a rubbery!” To be honest, it never was much of an IRA to being with. At its peak, it was enough money to take the family to Hawaii. But not enough to bring them back. Still, it was MY IRA. A small memento of my time spent working for the Man. Thanks to the Recession (the National Bureau of Economic Research announced Monday that we can start using a capital R), my retirement plans, like those of most red-meated Americans, have been severely altered. I extrapolated my current retirement savings to estimate just how much I’d have socked away in my adorable little IRA by retirement age, and I should have enough to live comfortably for the rest of my life. That is, if I choke on a prawn and die at my retirement party.

After having their asses handed to them by their would-be Congressional benefactors for taking corporate jets to Washington in order to plead for a federal handout to save their floundering auto companies, the Big Three CEO’s prudently decided on alternate transportation for their second run at a bailout. Ford boss Alan Mulally, General Motors’ CEO Rick Wagoner and Chrysler head cheese Bob Nardelli made widely publicized decisions to drive to Washington from Detroit this time around. Publicity stunt or effective symbolism? That’s for the lawmakers to decide when the automakers come a-knockin’ at Aunt Nancy’s Soup Kitchen on Wednesday. It’s easy enough to find the details of their financial bailout and loan requests elsewhere, but here we are proud to present a partial account of the ten-hour road trip, collected from hidden microphones aboard the Ford Escape hybrid in which the three CEOs carpooled to Washington.

I awoke at 7:00 A.M. — early for a vacation day — and made a full pot of strong coffee for the house. I did some stretching and scratching while Mr. Coffee hissed and gurgled, then I poured a cup and went outside into the crisp, cold air. Steaming mug of coffee in hand, I trudged through the leaves up the hillside and stopped to rest on a log after a few minutes. There was a small copse of trees and bushes to my right, running along the crest of a ridge. Between sips of joe, I could hear something rustling through the leaves a couple hundred yards downhill, just the other side of the ridge. Then I heard a second animal, uphill a ways from the first. They were moving loudly through the leaves, obviously unconcerned with the racket they were making.