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oday I went to the dentist, the one who shares an office with Daly at the Wellness Center at the corner of Rosehill Drive and Preston Avenue.

I still don't know her name. Perhaps this reflects a serious problem in the wiring of my brain. I do remember the name of my "dental hygienist" because she told me a boring little story about how she got the name she has. After saying her name three times, I created a quick and dirty memory aid to remember it; she's Michelle and there's an old Guns 'n' Roses song called "My Michelle" (I have it on vinyl). I know that's horrible, but it works for me. I need to start figuring out a way to remember names because I'm SERIOUSLY handicapped by this problem, especially in Charlottesville, where I know hundreds of faces and only dozens of names.

I could see little chunks of "calculus" (lithified bacterial cliff dwellings) describing parabolas over my face.

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ichelle scraped my teeth while talking to me about the Internet, which she seemed to think of as a big invasive fungus. She was concerned that if her computer was attached to the 'Net then all her files would be visible to everyone in the world. Why anyone would be interested in the files on a dental hygienist's computer is beyond me. Ocassionally bending at the waste, Michelle put a lot of work into the scraping, and I could see little chunks of "calculus" (lithified bacterial cliff dwellings) describing parabolas over my face. This was a mostly unpleasant procedure. Not only was it rather painful, but I could taste blood and see it on the torture implements.

Then my teeth where sandblasted with an automated polishing tool using diatomatious abrasives to give my teeth a whiteness that is unfamiliar to all who know me.

Next came an appointment with my nameless dentist. She worked remarkably rapidly at the task of drilling out three large cavaties and filling them with a silica/polymer composite. Strangely enough, she gave me the option of working on my teeth without novacaine. In retrospect, that seems like a ludicrous proposition, and even when she asked it I was wise enough to know I would need to put my nerves in a state of blackout. As she drilled into the the huge cavity in the molar on the right side of the bottom jaw, I kept expecting her to crack through into the pulp. She seemed to be concerned about the possibility herself, but she ended excavation somewhere within the lithosphere.

This cavity was the result of wanton neglect on my part. Being, like Einstein, the sort of person who gives bodily hygiene a backseat to personal projects, I don't regularly brush my teeth and almost never go to the dentist. The cavity was first noted during a routine dental exam when I was in the tenth grade. That was 14 years ago! It was scheduled to be filled two and a half years ago, but I chickened out and cancelled the appointment. Only recently, when I feared it had finally abscessed, did I decide to have anything conclusive done about it. Lucky for me, my job provides me with dental insurance.

I entertained strange notions of "what if" as the dentist performed her craft. What if she had smelly armpits? What if she wore obnoxious deodourant? What if she had bad breath? All these things would make for a terrible dental experience. As it happened though, she was one of those few people who has absolutely no odour of any kind.

I went shopping and bought my usual Ramen and soup at the Barracks Road Kroger. When I returned to the Dynashack, I tried to have a conversation with Monster Boy (who'd spent another night on the couch) but...

My choice was to either sound like a retarded American or to take on the air of a high-falutin' Limey.

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he right side of my face was so numb that it affected my speech and I sounded retarded. Interestingly, though, if I chose to speak with just the front of my mouth (the least numb part of the right side), I could talk just fine. But by doing so I suddenly had an upper-crust British accent. I'm absolutely serious! My choice was to either sound like a retarded American or to take on the air of a high-falutin' Limey. I found it was more convenient to just do the British thing. Interestingly, when I spoke with a British accent, I felt suddenly "in character" and found myself using all manner of familiar British expressions that I've apparently absorbed from many hours of watching British comedy on PBS. Monster Boy seemed to think it was a convincing accent. He even admitted that by contrast it made his own voice sound "stupid." With a British accent, suddenly I outclassed him! A numb face had made me into a formidable intellectual giant! Just imagine the swooning of the ladies!

I'm well aware that I do accents rather well when placed in the right setting. Usually I have to be drunk. I've discovered that I have too many hangups to stay for very long within an accent when I'm sober. To suddenly discover that I do a British accent just fine when sober if I have no other adequate choice was the big revelation today.

While I blathered on and on about this and other things (still in my faux British accent, mind you), I sipped from a Beast Ice and occasionally clamped down on my tongue accidentally. I had to be very careful to avoid biting it, but I accidentally did a few times and was concerned I'd inflicted damage (I hadn't). Various housemates drifted through and heard me doing my accent. I was playing it for all it was worth.

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hes reported that there was a toilet paper crisis, and he accurately deduced that if anyone should buy toilet paper, it was me. So I rode my bike to the IGA near the Downtown Mall and picked up a dozen rolls of the essential butt-wiping commodity. Then I went to bed.

At around 7pm, I woke up with fairly obnoxious stabbing pains from my new fillings. I hoped the pain wouldn't be a permanent legacy of today's dental experience. Slowly, though, the pains abated. I went off to Cocke Hall to do a little Web work, then returned home to begin a prework nap at about 10pm.

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http://asecular.com/blog.php?970429