"Press from the petals of the lotus flower something of this to keep, the essence of the hour..."

All the seasons are finally wrapping up. My last set is with DM this weekend playing Sibelius 7, Saint-Saens 3. Fourth horn seems to be simply an organ pedal to Sibelius but the piece is powerful and wonderful and all that. I've also got a little show with the CR muni band, usually a summer-only group, playing for the IBA conference in the Hotel Fort DM though we haven't altered our city park repertoire one bit so it'll be 45 minutes of show tune medleys and marches. Boy are all those bandmasters in for a treat!

I'm reading F. Scott Fitzgerald right now, This Side of Paradise on now and that usually shakes things up a bit so we'll see. I like it enough to want to read all the rest of his stuff so . I'm down to the last hundred pages and still waiting for something to transform the protagonist from a pretentious asshole into... anything else. Not that it's a boring book. I enjoy the detail with which Fitzgerald portrays the personal growth of the central character, Amory, the egotist. And the early 20th century commentary on social class is interesting, too. But every time something happens that I'd expect to be cathartic and life-changing, such as the death of a friend/idol, near collapse of his college career, creepy 'hallucinations' (were they?) of the devil in pointed yellow moccasins stalking him for crying out loud, they don't seem to resonate beyond more than a page or two. Perhaps it's all being repressed and will spill out in the climax. Anyway, a war's on now and that usually shakes things up a bit so we'll see. I like it enough to want to read all the rest of his stuff so that'll be a summer occupation.

This week is the last week of classes at ISU. Since there are DM rehearsals too, I'll be staying there for most of the week and probably spend one day engaged in vineyard work. It's good stuff in small doses. Sorta like a day laborer fantasy camp. And it can be a decent workout if you get creative (push-ups at one end of a row, sit-ups at the other). But I don't know how I'd manage if I had to do that kind of work for an extended period. I have great respect for the immigrant crews whom I occasionally work along side. They're faster, do a better job and by-and-large get paid less. They're away from family for extremely long periods, live in cramped quarters, and have virtually no chance for a better life than this. But then I suppose that's why they are here. To try and find a better life or create one back home for those they left behind.

Well I had better go mow the yard, even though we might get snow! Such is this time of year and place on earth.

In-deed.

"I can't think, I can't think, I can't think..."

I'm in the middle of late winter doldrums now. Spring break at ISU means no teaching or commuting for a week and conflicting late season orchestra schedules mean weeks at a time with nary a rehearsal in sight. So there's time to blog, but nothing much happening to blog about.

One sure way to lose readers for good is by greeting their hopeful visits in search of new content with the ever-present image of a creepy-looking, hunch-backed clown in stage makeup. For a month.

Sorry about that. But what to write now? I could write about new experiences which have happened to me since my last post. Such as donating blood and having both antecubital veins poked to perdition in the process.

Or being forced by my youngest sister to create a profile on a popular singles website under extreme duress, and thus having to endure the double digital indignity of active and passive rejection by scores of women, even though most are touted as over 80% compatible with me.

Or even of walking the rails. I'm not talking about becoming a hobo or just ambling along the tracks but of literally balancing on the rail. My record is 140 steps, with hands in pockets, into a stiff wind and I encourage you all to try and break it.

But I think I'll save those for a rainy day. Instead, I give you...

Nicky and Dick

(The End of June)

-On a bluff in Northern California, late May, 1961-

[laying on the hood of a car, smoking, looking at the stars]

Nicky: Hey Dick.

Dick: What?

N: What would an eclipse look like from the moon?

D: What?

N: An eclipse. What would it look like from the moon?

D: That doesn't make any sense, Nick.

N: What? How come?

D: There's no air on the moon, Nick. Why would you bother looking at an eclipse if you couldn't even breath?

N: I don't know? Just say you held your breath during it. What would it look like, Dick?

D: It's more than just air, Nicky. [flicks ashes] There ain't no atmosphere at all. You'd explode if you were on the moon.

N: Aw c'mon, Dick. Say you had a space suit. Whatever. What would an eclipse look like from there?

D: You'd never notice it, Nick.

N: What? Why not?

D: You're on the moon in a space suit, right?

N: Yeah.

D: Well someone must have sent you there and it probably took a lot of money, right?

N: Yeah. I suppose.

D: I mean you can't just buy a space suit at Sears.

N: No. I suppose not.

D: So for that kind of money whoever sent you to the moon probably wants certain things to get done. You've got to stay focused on your job, Nick. You can't be stargazing.

N: Aw, c'mon Dick. I just mean imagine you're on the moon. What would an eclipse look like from there?

D: Nick. What's the point? You ever goin' to the moon?

N: Course not.

D: So you'll never know for sure then?

N: I guess not.

D: Then why bother asking? That's science, Nicky. Why bother asking something you know you'll never know for sure.

N: That's science?

D: Yup. [flicks ashes] Partly.

N: Hm.

D: So, you wanna go to Fubar's tonight?

N: [not listening] Huh? Sure, okay.

D: [teasing] Tammy's gonna be there.

N: Huh? Sure okay.

D: You okay Nicky? What's the matter?

N: Huh? Oh nothin.

D: C'mon. [flicks cigarette away] Let's go to Fubar's.

N: Hey Dick?

D: Yeah Nick?

N: That's really science?

D: Yup. Sure as shit, Nicky.

-At Fubar's: smokey, loud, crowded-

[everyone talking over each other]

Tammy: Where you guys been all night?

Janice: We were here an hour ago. Where were you guys?

Dick: You jealous?

J: Oh, what? Of farm animals?

T: Yeah, I can't compete with a sheep.

J: Baaaah!

T: Baaaaaah!

Nick: We were smokin' at the bluff.

T: Aw! Without us?

J: C'mon. Let's go to the bluff!

T: Yeah!

D: We were just there, Jay. Let us get warmed up at least. [goes to bar]

N: It's a nice night for it. We were lookin' at the stars.

T: That sounds nice. Let's go back later.

N: If Dick wants. It's his car.

J: He'll want. [smiling] Just let's get him warmed up first. [follows D. to bar]

T: [dragging N. to empty booth] What's your sign, Nicky?

N: I don't know.

T: Well, you were born in October, right?

N: October 10th.

T: October 10th... so you're a Libra.

N: Libra?

T: Do you know where Libra is?

N: It's scales, right?

T: Not what. Where. The constellation.

N: It's a 'W' looking thing. Someone showed me once. In the northeast.

T: That sounds more like Cassiopeia. Who showed you?

N: Cassio-what? You're making stuff up now?

T: No. I'm serious. Cassiopeia. Cassiopeia was Andromeda's mother. A queen. Her daughter was saved from a sea monster by Perseus. [suddenly slightly embarrassed] Or something like that.

N: How do you know all that?

T: My dad used to read Greek myths to us when we were little. [changing subject back] But Libra. That's nowhere near Cassiopeia. Libra's in the south.

N: I don't know if I've ever seen it then.

T: We'll look for it at the bluff.

N: What are you, Tam?

D: [back with J. and beers, loudly] What'r you two turds talkin about?!

J: [just as loud] Richard! Do you plan on kissin' me with that mouth! Now leave them alone, will ya.

N: We were just talkin' about constellations. What'r you Dick?

D: Again with that shit? C'mon Nick. Summer's just started and last I checked you ain't goin to college. [slides beer over] Drink.

T: No really. What's your sign Dick?

J: [joking] I'll bet he's a Cancer.

D: [to J.] And you're a Virgo.

J: [slaps his shoulder, offended] Whada you know?

T: You were born in August, right Dick? You're probably a Leo, then.

D: Sure. So what?

T: We'll find our constellations tonight when we go back to the bluff.

D: [sarcastic] That's sounds like a helluva plan. [sliding out of booth] Nick. Darts?

N: [following] Hey Dick. What's Virgo mean?

-Back at bluff-

[N. & T. laying on hood, D. & J. in back seat.]

T: [pointing] So that's Libra, low over the city lights. And, right there, that's mine, that line with the curl at the end.

N: What is it? A snake?

T: No. A scorpion. Scorpio chases Libra across the sky but he can never catch her.

N: I don't suppose she would want him too, either.

[silence]

N: Do you think the Sun is part of any constellation, Tam?

T: The Sun moves during the year so it can't...

N: No, I mean for other planets. Do people around other stars see the Sun as part of any constellation, do you think?

T: I suppose they probably do.

N: What constellation do you think the Sun is part of?

T: Well... it would be different for each star. The Sun's position would change.

N: That one, then. [pointing] That bright one in Scorpio.

T: Well, let's see. What other ones would be nearby? [looks over her shoulder behind her] Could be just about anything I suppose.

N: [slowly turns and stares at T. while she's facing away from him] But you could never go there. [T. turns back, N. quickly looks back at sky] I mean, to see if the constellation looked like you thought it would.

T: No way. Too far. But you wouldn't need to do that. It's just a matter of imagination. Putting yourself in another place in your mind. You know? That's something people are very good at doing. One of the things that makes us different than all other animals. It's what let's us understand and empathize with others. And it's why we can lie to each other.

[long silence]

N: When do you leave for school, Tam?

T: [looks at feet] End of June.

N: [stares beyond stars] End of June.

Hibernatory Hiatus

My blog has been in extended cryogeny while I've worked on this (any comments, criticism or contributions are desired so long as you don't make me cry) and gotten back to the business of scraping out a symphonic subsistence. Okay fine. A certain amount of laziness may have been involved in my hiatus. So sue me. As for this latest lull, you're extremely welcome but your good fortune, like my posting procrastination, has come to an end. God save you. Here's some hibernation highlights...

Hide-n-Seek Hindemith
Recently I performed Hindemith's Symphonic Metamorphosis for the third of five times and with the second of three orchestras this season (for those counting). In a neat little coincidence I was even issued the same German rental part that I used in orchestra #1 last fall, complete with my mysteriously missing Star Spangled Banner tucked inside the cover. The prodigal Banner part has returned from halfway 'round the world, penniless and destitute having no doubt spent its advanced allotment of my freelance fortune on decadence and debauchery! Still, I accepted it with open arms, casting aside the faded, photocopied foreigner holding its place. This, much to the chagrin of parts one, three and four who've stayed dutifully put in their player's possession lo these many months. Or whatever.

“I musicisti e mobile...”
Some time ago I was embroiled in tragic yet tuneful treachery involving lust, love, power and passion which exposed the true tension of bonds of family, bindings of social class and heart strings of... um, the heart... through the cursed life of a hubristic, hunchbacked humorist. No, I'm not talking about my Second Life avatar, Fran. It is Verdi's Rigoletto of which I speak, dear friends.

(Note to self: Give up alliteration for lent. You're addicted and it's a clichéd creative crutch. Doh! Starting NOW!)

While performing opera can be rather exciting, rehearsing opera I usually find to be quite the opposite. Playing Verdi without singers is only mildly more enjoyable than death-by-shoehorn. Hold that rehearsal in a high school band room after an hour-long commute through freezing rain and the balance tips slightly in favor of the shoehorn. The performances, however, almost always make it worthwhile in the end. Despite crowd sizes dwarfed by the number of performers, a skimpy and skittery string section and a weak, intonationally-challenged chorus humming directly behind my skull I again found this to be true: Opera is fun to perform.

Opera singers have always amazed me. They perform hours of music, lyrics (in a foreign language!), dramatic expression and stage direction intricately timed with an unwieldy orchestra... from memory! I can't imagine a more complete performance artist. Even mediocre opera singers inspire me. Should they really? I don't know, but they do.

This latest foray did lift a bit of my veil of ignorant admiration because the orchestra in our zero-scenery production was situated on stage behind the action rather than in front of the stage with our backs to the performers (or, more commonly, under the stage completely hidden from view). Since we faced the action and the audience we were privy to each singer's most vulnerable moments, such as when Rigoletto once lost his place during the second act, looking back toward the conductor with exasperated confusion for a scene-saving vocal cue.

Of course this setup also requires us musicians to remain focused while particularly compelling and/or attractive performers are doin' their fine thang right in front of us and behind the conductor. Long story short, Maddalena had it goin' on in both her make-out scene with il duca and the storm/murder scene which follows. To paraphrase Kosmo Kramer, “Yeah I see you maestro but she's really showin' me something!”

“Vy ju alvays callink me like zis?”
For the past couple of months I've been getting calls from a number in Mass. from someone of Slavic origin. At least the voice mail messages seem to be in a Slavic language of some sort. And googling the number leads to a person in Boston with a Russian-looking name.

The calls come, on average, twice a day with messages of a consistently calm and matter-of-fact tone left every few days. I'm not sure how someone could leave dozens of messages for someone who never calls back and not sound more and more peeved with each iteration.

I've been practicing the accent and will answer some day to see how long I can keep the conversation going. I'm shooting for twenty seconds because my high school math teacher taught all of his students a little Polish which I'm banking will be temporarily, albeit confusingly, convincing. “Strovach mario, Vaski pelna, pon stobon buogo stravia naski, menza nemia stami, owot jawota foiegu Jesus.”

Amen

Ball-breaker

Dear frozen friends,

The fire is starting to catch and crackle, the California Cabernet is open and breathing, Neil Young's plaintive falsetto is shimmering, and my synapses are simmering. The fourth and final Nutcracker is behind me and I survived. Chops intact. That wasn't a foregone conclusion. I've never done the ballet, and this was a reduced winds version which has some history of injuring players. Because of this I played it as safe as possible, 8-va-basso-ing and dropping out entirely here and there. It also certainly helped that this was a ballet school production. Not exactly the same pressure as the touring Joffrey version but ya still gotta play the notes.

In between the pages of face smashing syncopation one thing struck me. Ballet dancers have amazing bodies. (I'm talkin' about the ladies now. The guys are all identical. Even their junk. It must be a union thing: “And if the dancer is male he is allowed not more than two socks stuffage...” so on and so forth.) Most women dancers are lithe and willowy but a few are just ripped. Each individual back muscle popping and quads and calves of steel. On one dancer I could see that main artery on the inside of her upper arm between the biceps and the triceps. I think the last time I saw that bit of circulatory anatomy was on Stallone in Rambo II. But she could do a brisé. My goodness gracious!

Most precious Nutcracker moment: During the second show on Saturday immediately after the nutcracker is dropped and broken the stunned silence in the hall is punctured by a little girl's voice in the audience uttering worriedly, “Uh-oh.”

Winter has finally come to Iowa and it looks like it's here to stay. I know this because I tried to remove a solid inch of it from my front walk earlier this week with minor success and major carpal tunnel trauma. The whole task became a sort of zen thing. The focus was not on the ice but on my chipping technique. The preparation ceremony involved in raising, aiming and orienting the implement for a precise downward blow. Then the release and thrust. Allowing yourself to work with gravity for maximum effect. Many small, attainable goals over time leading to success and, ultimately, rapture. If not rapture then at least a front walk clear of litigation inducing ice.

Now let me be. I have five holiday shows in three days starting this afternoon. Fair thee well.

UWAUP

P.S. This is all. There is no more.

Dance, Dance Revulsion

So I was dancing at a club until two in the morning the other weekend, which I don't usually do (read: never have in my life) because it's so stupid. But the girl-whose-laugh-is-as-lovely-as-she-is and her friend wanted to go which immediately makes it not stupid but really super cool. So I was dancing at a club until two in the morning and this is what I learned.

Guys at clubs don't dance. They hold a beer and maybe move a little to the beat. This is true for almost every guy. Oh they may be out on the dance floor alright but they're not doing much. I didn't let that inhibit me, however, and got jiggy as best I could. There is an exception to this when certain songs are played of course but I couldn't tell which songs those are these days.

Which brings me to the next thing I learned: I'm really square. Okay I pretty much knew this already but last Friday night the degree of my square-ness was once again accurately determined. I'm 90 degrees square plus or minus 30 arcminutes. During two hours of virtually non-stop head-bobbing, pelvic-thrusting, fist-pumping, shoulder-shimmying and lip-scrunching (all the moves I know, incidentally) I heard just three songs I recognized, and that includes the post-last-call, club-clearing country tune, “All My Ex's Live in Texas.” The other two included a remixed Madonna tune (or maybe it was Cyndi Lauper but I'm still counting it as recognized) and one that we played in the car on the way to the club to get in the mood. Sure. I had to be reminded that I had heard it before but once it was pointed out to me that it should sound familiar I agreed that, in fact, it did. Some song about “apologies” or whatever.

Remember how I said guys don't dance? Well here is what they do do in clubs.

The stalker. This guy finds one girl and lurks nearby all night occasionally attempting to get her attention but never really making eye contact. Girls seem to be able to spot these guys in a heart beat and constantly keep their backs to them which is an amazing skill and impressive to behold in action. It reminded me of the tidal synchronization of the rotation and orbital periods of some planetary bodies. One side always facing away. (We've already established how square I am, right?)

The gawker. This moron stands completely immobile, often with mouth agape, ogling some girl up and down for an uncomfortably long time from no more than a few feet away. I'm not sure, but I think some gawkees must like this attention, depending on the attractiveness of the gawker I imagine. (Most of whom seem to be from the troglodytic end of the gene pool if you ask me.) I have to admit that if some girl was gawking at me like that I'd probably be feeling pretty alpha good. I'd probably also find out later that my fly was down and that I'd accidentally spilled beer on my crotch. Welcome to my world.

The snake. A borderline pervert, this hump is constantly slithering his way through the most crowded parts of the dance floor with the intention of touching and rubbing as many ladies as possible. Sick as it sounds he usually has his favorites he meanders towards time and again. There is no pretense of close dancing either. The snake just walks on through as if he's simply trying to get from A to B while his reptilian hands do their thing. I did notice that women don't put up with much from snakes. A grope often elicits a disgusted glance which is usually followed by a hands-in-the-air apology from the offender. I have a theory some stalkers morph into snakes above a blood-alcohol level of 0.1.

The standers. These chivalrous dudes are out on the dance floor for their girls. Usually with a beer in one hand slightly moving their heads to the music. Stalkers, gawkers and snakes are less likely to focus on girls who are dancing next to standers. Some standers constantly look around and take in the whole scene while others just watch Sports Center.

One thing I just don't understand is how everyone communicates above the club cacophony. I know they do because I saw it happening all the time. People having actual conversations and seemingly conveying meaningful information by shouting into one another's ears. Maybe it's just an evolutionary inhibition that I've yet to suppress but if I'm going to yell at the top of my lungs I feel it'd better be about something important, such as “FIRE!!!” or “HE'S GOT A GUN!!!” or “I THOUGHT I ORDERED THE CHUTNEY WITHOUT THE WASABI/HABANERO PURÉE!!!” The only conversation I could come up with at the time was “HOW LONG DO WE DO THIS FOR?!!!” and “MY QUADS ARE STARTING TO HURT!!!” and my seemingly constant query: “IS THIS STILL THE SAME SONG?!!!”

This isn't really a matter of age. I felt pretty much the same way when I was in my twenties. It's more a matter of temperament, I suppose. Hopping up and down to music is stupid if you think about it. But it's also fun for some reason. Next time out I think I'll add the alternating-chicken-wing and the saddle-stance to my repertoire. I know what you're thinking but don't worry. I avoid the lower-lip-bite like the plague. I'm not that square.

“Love is blind and cannot find me.”

Dear Mouth Breathers,

I've nothing to say so read no further. Well you persistent little gerbils... If you insist then I guess I'll oblige.

Actually I've had nothing to say for about a month. I just sit, slack-jawed, over my laptop timing my blinking with that of the cursor so as to alternately make it vanish or appear constant until spittle strands onto the space bar, at which point I take a nap on the couch or read Hemingway, usually both, in the reverse order of course. Maybe I need to start attending more bull fights. It worked for him. Of course he did off himself. But then again I'd have another three decades or so. Perhaps a bit more if I avoid Idaho altogether. It's a tough call. I think I'll nap on it later.

In other news I've got a brand new cell phone. Okay, calm down, not really. I've just changed the background on my old phone to “Comet Blue” and the contrast to “Highest” so now it feels new to me. I wonder if this is a subconscious sign that the two-year affair with my current phone is waning? Like when a woman changes her hair style - say, cuts it really short - because she isn't happy with her relationship. Let's explore it, shall we?

I think I'm still in love with my phone. Well, I mean I still love it but maybe I'm not in love with it any more. Our communication really hasn't been as clear as it used to be. Not for a long time, actually. We don't really even talk anymore. I mean, we've got more than 200 peak minutes leftover each month. I thought I'd learned how to push your buttons but my fingers just don't seem to affect you the way they used to. And... to be honest... your pocket vibrate hasn't worked on me in a long time. I know. I should have said something sooner. I'm sorry. But I'm telling you now. Maybe we've grown apart and should just go our separate ways. After all, it's not like our Sprint contract was “until death do us part.” It just feels that way.

The iPhone sure is sexy. All curvy and smooth. And that touch-sensitive screen. I hear you can use it in several positions, too. Ooo baby... Pricey though. One thing is for sure, it's gonna be expensive to be “out there” again isn't it? I don't know. Maybe I should stick. I'll nap on it. (Increased bull fight attendance, iPhone)

The Silver Screen
Item: I just saw the actor Stella Adler for the first time (completely by accident in one of the “Thin Man” movies). Since she was famous for all the method actors she trained I've always been curious about what kind of actor she was herself. She gave a cliche murder mystery character (the gold-digging, alias-sporting ex-con who was, surprise! surprise!, not the killer) depth you don't usually see in those movies. Some of her line deliveries were rewindingly intriguing. Though I wonder if I would have noticed anything special had I not caught her name in the opening credits and been on the lookout. Probably not.

In other Golden Era Hollywood Hottie news, Ingrid Bergman, Grace Kelly, Myrna Loy and Donna Reed were all smokin'. Curse you Hays Code! (I know. I need a girlfriend. Okay, a date.)

New idol: Steve McQueen in “Bullitt.” I'm gonna do all my own stunt horn playing from now on starting with Strauss' D&T this weekend. I know. It could get dangerous. But I'll sacrifice my safety for the sake of musical realism.

Time for a couple paragraphs from "For Whom the Bell Tolls" on the couch (best sleep aid since Kafka's “The Trial”). If I'm not at rehearsal tonight assume either that I've been torn limbless on the way to my car by a pack of wild dogs and am lying in several pints of my own cool, semi-coagulated blood... or that I've overslept. Either way, a courtesy call would be appreciated. If I don't pick up, again it's either because I lack contiguous arms, and hence hands, or the ringer is set too soft, depending on the respective scenario detailed previously. Though sometimes you can sleep on your arm wrong and it'll be non-functional for several moments. Usually not both arms, though. But I suppose it could happen. Especially if you have a hefty mate. And if that were the reason I didn't answer I wouldn't want you to needlessly worry. So on second thought, maybe you'd better not bother calling at all. I'll sleep on it.

Yours,
Me

Note to Self: Now that Mailer's matter has once again become an inanimate, unconscious constituent of the universe check out his literary soporiferousness. I have a feeling it'll be a zinc mine of Zzzzzz...

Note to Reader: Linda Thompson could sing the Newark, NJ white pages and make my eyes wistfully dewy. But that voice combined with the poignancy of her lyrics... well all I've got to say is give her a sad song and she's in a class of her own.

Is that a hypodermic needle sticking out of my gums or are you just glad to see me?

Dear Dew-doers,

So I was lying there while these two masked women wearing latex put their fingers in my mouth. No, it wasn't a hedonistic Halloween party. I was at the dentist you gutter brain. I was at the dentist for the first time in nearly fifteen years and it's my new favorite thing to do. Luckily I have good, strong teeth and passed with flying colors much to the bewilderment of the hygienist who had a hard time finding any tenacious calculus to chip away.

Okay, okay. So the actual dentist, in her two minute pick-and-poke tour of my heretofore delinquent dentine, did manage to “find” the tiniest of “cavities” that somehow the hygienist had “missed” in her own half hour scrape-polish-and-floss-fest but I chalk that up to an impending Lexus payment. Besides, I was willing to humor everyone with a “cavity” filling just to have the full dental experience after such a long hiatus.

To be honest, I was mostly curious about what might have changed since my last visit. What technological advances had taken place in the interim? Would lasers be involved at any time during the cleaning process? 3-D holographic X-ray images? A GPS guided enamel drill? A virtual reality uplink to an out-sourced oral surgeon in Mumbai?!

Much to my disappointment, very few tools and gadgets seemed different. In fact the only one of which I was aware was the digital X-ray camera that now allowed nearly instantaneous viewing of images of my teeth's innards and nether regions. Instead of biting down on some X-ray sensitive film, a CCD chip was placed in my mouth with a small cable leading back to a computer. The hygienist can then turn away to make notes right on the image about her dental discoveries concerning gumline recession rates or enamel wear patterns or popcorn husk counts or whatever while your tongue gets a spittle suction pump hickey.

Speaking of the drool, while I waited for half my face to go numb I overheard an enlightening if mildly gruesome conversation between a patient and another dentist in the adjacent examination cubicle. This guy's tooth pain had become so severe and wide spread that even his eye brow had started to throb. Well, we all have our thresholds. That, apparently, was when he decided it was time to visit the dentist, who promptly found the culprit molar massively decayed and darn near busted in half. She also found a substantial list of other potential periodontal pain perpetrators just for good measure.

Apparently this fellow had already been chastised on previous visits for his unquenchable soda thirst. In fact, much to the patient's surprise, the doctor was able to determine specifically his beverage of choice (he does the Dew) either by the his piss-colored canines or that sweet stench of limon on his breadth. She advised him pointedly that bottomless refills of sugar sodas all day long would thwart even the most rigorous dental hygiene routine. Sweet toothed readers beware: Pop, like cigarettes, television and ornithology, is a superficially pleasurable delivery mechanism for an insidiously evil and covertly destructive force. You've been warned. But I digress...

So where was I? Ah yes. Tooth-related technology doesn't seem to have changed much in the last decade and a half since my previous examination. Oh I suppose maybe the drills are quieter and they have raspberry flavored polish now in addition to the traditional mint, cinnamon and bubblegum offerings (I'm lobbying for cumin to be the next addition) and everyone wears gloves and masks and protective eyewear like they're working in a government bioweapons lab. But no lasers. No holographs. No VR goggles. Just plain old metal picks, drill bits and alloy filling #15. Same as when I was a kid.

I must say, though, that it was a remarkably pleasant experience. I had my teeth poked, prodded, drilled and filled yet felt very little if any discomfort physically or psychologically. Even the Novocaine shot was delivered with the tenderness and sensitivity of a caring spouse, from the moment the hygienist first applied a generous topical anesthetic to my gums to the way the dentist brought her needle in just below my field of vision. I mean, I've had haircuts that were more traumatic.

You know what? As stupid as it sounds I think the reason I'd rather go see the dentist than go get a haircut might have something to do with making small talk. At the barber or salon you're almost expected to talk to the person cutting your hair. There's this pressure to have an extended conversation with a perfect stranger who likely has little in common with you (“Cosmetology, you say? Hmm, that's interesting. I took a course in cosmology once.”) and who never looks you in the eye but is constantly evaluating your physical appearance. It's almost like a blind date only she's wielding a scissors near your face and you have to tip her when it's over. Oh who am I kidding? It's exactly like a blind date.

But at the dentist your mouth is chock full 90% of the time so you aren't even expected to make conversation much beyond your name, profession and brushing habits. Okay so you are likely to be stabbed in the gums and drugged but it's done with love. And besides, you should expect that sort of behavior on a blind date any way.

That settles it. From now on my remarkable new blind date strategy is to keep shoveling food in so the conversation is necessarily stunted. And a shot of Novocaine at the very beginning might not be a bad idea either.

Numbly,
Marathon Man