You may have already received your big fat windfall from Uncle Sugar. If you’re one of the lucky ones who has at least two kids and a spouse, you might even have hit the jackpot limit of $1800. I love receiving money for nothing as much as the next deadbeat, but where is all this cabbage coming from? How is it that the federal government is handing out money and giving tax breaks to big business during a WAR, for crying out loud? Not only are they failing to ask their countrymen to make sacrifices for the war effort, they’re giving us billions of dollars they don’t have in some crack-brained attempt to juice up the economy they’ve run into the ground. It’s like giving a hard-core alcoholic a bag of cocaine to keep his mind off his smack habit.

If you are what you drive, the Chevy Caprice is the John Wayne Gacy of the modern era. Why is it that every serial killer I’ve ever known has driven a 1971 Chevy Caprice? Seasick green, with one rear window that won’t roll down. It’s uncanny. One was a convertible, that rear window looking like a shark fin as the killer rolled along a two-lane blacktop, looking for a place to dump a body. The early-70’s Caprice is one of the most unassuming cars ever, virtually invisible to law enforcement as it moves among us in traffic, carrying menace behind the wheel and 400 cubic inches of mayhem under that rusting hood. It is probably this anonymity, and the spacious trunk (plenty of room for trash bags, a chainsaw, shovels and Soul Hole magazines) that suits the needs of your average serial killer. (If you’re reading this and you drive a green ’71 Chevy Caprice, I mean no offense. If you still need to speak to me about this, you can find my address in the phone book under ‘John Floridis.’)

We get a lot of emails here at BobWireCo™, and I thought it was high time I share some of them with you. Q: Are you as angry as you seem in your blogs? A: Oh, hell yes. I’m angry about many things, and every day more things are added to the pile. Here’s what’s pissing me off this morning: Van Morrison has a hit song about mispronouncing the word “entertainment” when he’s drunk. Q: Why are your blogs so long? A: Why is your attention span so short? The administrator of a humor website recently invited me to post some blogs there. “Keep them short enough to read in the time it takes to eat a Pop-Tart,” he instructed. “Hey, I’ve been checking out your blog,” a friend of mine told me the other day. “But man, it’s like War and Peace.” For those of you who haven’t figured it out, I’m treating this space as a humor column, not a blog. At this point I’ve written about 150 columns. Sometimes (like today) they’re 700 words. Sometimes they’re 1700. If all this reading is hurting your head, move along. No one’s holding a gun to your head. Although for a couple of you, it’s just a matter of time.

Every Sunday afternoon for the next several weeks, hundreds of intrepid parents and grandparents will converge on the muddy fields of Fort Missoula, folding camp chairs slung over their shoulders, backpacks and coolers clutched at their sides. They set up camp, regardless of the weather, and spend up to five hours shivering in the cold or baking in the sun, watching their charges run up and down the field chasing a black and white ball and learning valuable lessons about sportsmanship, life, and personal chafing. YMCA spring soccer is upon us. Twice a year the Fort is overrun for six Sundays (and one Saturday), where dozens of teams with kids age 5 to 13 fly around the field in their brightly colored, Y-issued nylon jerseys. By the time the kids hit adolescence, they’ve either moved on to Strikers soccer (the semi-pro money- and time-suck league in Missoula), or have lost interest in the sport altogether, taking up activities like hanging out at the mall or car prowling.

While I can’t quite remember what all was in the best sandwich I ever had, I vividly recall where and when I had it. It was at Ron Setzer’s house, exactly two years ago. He was playing bass in my band at the time, and we were deep into the mixing stage of American Piehole. We actually forged a solid friendship over this process, bumping heads and arguing over reverb levels, bass tones, and other such recording minutiae. At one point during a particularly contentious session (he thought my vocal take sucked, and I thought it sucked just right), he suggested we take a break, and go down to the kitchen for a sandwich. While I sat on the living room couch and listened to that day’s mixes, Ron worked feverishly in the kitchen and soon produced a couple of world-class specimens. While I don’t remember what all was in the sandwich, I do recall that there was a lot of it. And the best part was the bread. He’d taken a big loaf of focaccia from Le Petit Outre, sliced it in half, and built each of us a sandwich you could land a plane on. The bread was a couple of days old, and when I bit into it, it bit back. That’s when I learned a very important sandwich lesson: use bread that has some authority. I had to get a good grip on this thing, and use all 28 teeth to subdue it. We stood at his kitchen counter, discussing the problems we were having finding our sound on the current song, and washing down mouthfuls of sandwich with gulps of Kettle House growler beer. (Did I mention that this man knows how to live?) We finished our meal and headed back upstairs to his spare-room studio, reinvigorated and inspired to pound this track into shape. The experience of sharing that sandwich with Ron is one of my favorite memories from creating that album, and I fully credit it (and him) for breathing new life into the project. But also, that formidable sandwich served as a serendipitous catalyst for our friendship. His attention to detail and passion for excellence were quite apparent when he made those sandwiches, and I can hear it now when I listen to the CD.

Recently a woman approached me at a local bar while my band was on break. She introduced herself, and asked me if I could give her some advice because she was having “man trouble.” Seems she had the hots for this guy, and wondered if I could give her some ideas about how to attract him. I looked around for a moment, wondering if she was mistaking me for someone else. I mean, my most successful tactic was to fake a heart attack near the object of my affection, so she would give me CPR. When she got to the mouth-to-mouth, I jammed my tongue down her throat. But I didn’t think that’s what this particular woman need to hear. I considered suggesting something she could put behind her ears, like her ankles, but nixed that idea too. I shrugged. “Make him a good sandwich.”

Well, here it is, April 14. Time to start thinking about the possibility of making an effort to begin considering the idea of working towards getting our taxes done. I mean, why wait ‘til the last minute, like the rest of those idiots. I purchased TurboTax™ ’05 at a yard sale last weekend, so I am ready. Got my pillowcase full of receipts, a wad of W-2’s, and I dug all my 1099-MISC forms out from under the driver’s seat of my truck. It pays to keep good records, and to know where they are. The kids have caught the school bus, Barb has left for work, and now it’s just me, TurboTax, and a shit load of numbers. I’d better make some coffee…

As Winter continues to pin Spring to the mat in the fight for meteorological supremacy, my mood gets more foul by the day. Like John McCain when he puts his false teeth in upside-down, I have become difficult to live with. Events of the last two weeks have conspired to bring my resentment and irritability to the boiling point, and I find myself attacking people who don’t deserve it. I’m not talking about my family. They deserve it. I’m talking about everyone else with whom I interact during the day. Luckily for the world at large, my job entails sitting alone in my studio most of the time, making shit up. I don’t know if it’s a vitamin D deficency, Seasonal Affective Disorder, too long since my last poker night, or my uneasy suspicion that my very existence is a Big Joke, but I have developed a full-blown case of PMS: Put-upon Man Syndrome.

It was a shocking e-mail, to say the least: “Mr. Bob Wire, your presence has been requested at Jay-Z’s apartment in New York City, to help us celebrate a special event.” Wow, I thought, Jigga’s going to retire again? I guess he wants some advice from a guy who’s already come back from being washed up several times. “Security will be at a maximum, and your discretion is appreciated,” the invite continued. “We want the event to be as free as possible from media exploitation.” Further information was provided concerning dress code, flight information, etc. Being a local pseudo-celebrity in a small, isolated college town, I was a bit mystified as to my inclusion in the “event.” But what the hell, free Cristal.

“Hey, Patsy, this is Bob Wire. Listen, I’ve been thinking, and I’d like to volunteer to MC the Sock Hop this year, if you don’t already have someone.” Looking back now, I must have been out of my frickin’ mind. The Sock Hop at John Colter Elementary in Missoula is an annual rite of spring that is hotly anticipated by the kids, and loathed by parents with a dread they usually save for a colonoscopy sans anesthetic. The Sock Hop is put on as a fund-raiser for the PTA, and several area schools have one each year. It’s the tried-and-true 50’s theme: rockabilly music, poodle skirts, a cakewalk and a raffle. The MC dresses like Elvis and runs the games, cracks dopey jokes, and generally keeps things moving while the DJ plays dance music. My kids have been after me for years to MC this thing, and since Rusty is in the 5th grade, his last year at John Colter, I agreed to do it this year. Big mistake.