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Assorted Bob Books Transcendental Bob

An inverted NPR moment, thanks to Hank Stuever

NPR likes to define its “moments” as those times you sit in your driveway with the car running, waiting for a particularly enthralling story to end before going into your house.

Thanks to Hank Stuever and his marvelous book “Tinsel,” Lara and I had an inverse NPR moment recently. Our friend Barb loaned us an audio copy of Hank’s book, which we spent much of a 16-hour roundtrip drive to Pittsburgh listening to.

As we hit Abingdon, VA, I started wondering if we had enough book left to last the rest of the drive home. When we entered Knoxville, I started worrying that we wouldn’t have enough time to finish it and we’d be sitting in the driveway, waiting for it to end.

But as we pulled in our driveway, the last line of the book was read. It had lasted exactly long enough to get us home. Lara and I looked at each other, grinned and thanked Hank for a delightful drive.

If you haven’t read “Tinsel,” add it to your “must read” list. Wonderful book. Hank’s observational tale is perfect for this examination of Christmas and what it means to us, as seen through the folks in the Dallas exurb of Frisco, Texas. Some of it’s pretty strange, but Hank doesn’t judge. He just observes and lets the people speak for themselves. It’s clear that he developed a true affinity for many of the book’s subjects, and it’s uncanny how the holiday events offer a macroeconomic tale of a society consumed with debt, spending and materialism. But the Christmas spirit is in there, too. Buy a bunch of them and give them as gifts next Christmas.

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Feed your head

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I’m driving toward Mount Charleston on 214 this morning, watching the sun rise orange and hot in my rearview mirror and listening to NPR. Billy Bragg is talking about the Newport Folk Festival, and he gives a hilarious account of Gillian Welch fighting airline delays to arrive 30 seconds before her set starts.

Disoriented and surreal, she broke into a version of Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit,” which NPR offers a snippet of. “Feed your head … Feed your head.”

Maybe it’s not quite what the Airplane was thinking when they wrote the song, but that’s exactly what I’m doing as I ascend Mount Charleston, watching the temperature gauge drop steadily while my truck climbs to 5,000, 6,000, 7,000 feet. When I get out to start hiking the Bristlecone Loop at 7 a.m., it’s 48 degrees. After the heat of the Vegas valley, it’s like a cool, pi