My Dental Experience

My Dental Experience

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

Sorry, I'm a day late on my column, and I'm terribly ashamed. But I forgive myself. I just that kinda' guy.

So, to my excuse.
Yesterday, I spent three hours in the dentist's chair having my teeth drilled. I have to give my dentist a credit – he has the best tasting fingers. Actually, he wore rubber gloves so it was mainly latex, laced with chlorosulphonated polyethylene with just a hint of yellow die number 5...mmmm, yummy.
It wasn't bad, to be honest. This may sound crazy, well...those who know me would say par for the course, but I have to admit something odd: I kind of like going to the dentist. To be fair, I have a good dentist, even though I get my work done at a dental college, which means 'Skippy' is the one working on my teeth. It's a little disconcerting to hear your dentist say, "Hey, dude, like can you like totally turn your head toward me a little bit?"
I'm kidding.
No, although it is in fact a dental college, my dentist is mature and very capable. He's conscientious, cautious, thorough, and seems to always hold my comfort and health at the very highest priority. And his assistant is great too, both working together efficiently and meticulously to make the experience as enjoyable as possible.
But still, my teeth are being drilled.
To most people it's akin to a nightmare; that searing sound of a rotary burr spinning at forty-five thousand RPMs, grinding through the enamel, burrowing into what feels like your very skull, that pungent smell of burning bone. Not a walk in the park for most people. But for me, your faithful and trusted out-of-balance horror fiction writer, it's just a little bit, well, fun.
No joke.
Imagine the scene: A tray of long shiny spikes, hooks, retractors, and other mirror polished instruments on a stand next to what looks like a space-age barber chair; a lengthy mechanical arm the size of a transmission shop hoist, bolted to the floor with a light on the end of it that looks like something out of War Of The Worlds. You're laying back in that space-chair, almost prone, mouth wide open and vulnerable, allowing someone with a sharp, 440 steel needle, pliers, and drill, full and unencumbered access to all the flesh and bone that lies behind your to the breaking point stretched lips.
If that isn't a horror writers dream, I don't know what is!
I mean, after all, it's me. My mind, my imagination. I had all kinds of ideas flying around in that mildly intelligent yet wildly imaginative head of mine.
And what about my weird, and often ebullient, sense of humor. I had to actually had to work to remain in control trying to stop myself from suddenly giggling at some random thought that hit me. With three foreign hands, a suction tube, and a high-speed grinder in your mouth, the last thing I want to do is erupt in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.
Thus the strange life of one Joe Keck.
I guess they're right: I am weird. I don't feel weird. I feel like just a regular guy, I feel the same as everyone else..."If you prick us, do we not bleed?" – little Shakespearian humor there.
But alas, I must take an objective look at myself. And I guess anyone who has the urge to laugh while a power tool is turning their tooth into powder, well, it could be seen as...perhaps, not the norm. Hey, it's probably what gives me the ability to write my weird and freaky horror stories well...that is, if I indeed have the ability to write well. I hope I do, I would like to think that I...okay, let me not pretend false humility, here. I do have the ability. Sorry, but it's just what I truly think...today. Catch me tomorrow and you might get me questioning my talent and attempting to drown my sorrows and lament my self-confidence with .a three liter bottle of diet Dr. Pepper (I don't drink, remember?). But I wrap it in a brown paper bag for effect.
Anyway, that's it. Stay safe and shoot only those who deserve it.

Keck