Teeth, Part Four (And Last, Finally)

Time to wrap this puppy up. Here's the first three parts, if you want 'em: 1 - 2 - 3.

I now had some swell front teeth, but there was a long way to go before my dentist's could sleep. For instance, they had to make me look like this...


That's me three days after the actual implantation of the titanium rods in my upper jawbone. I was healing then. It was a bit worse the day before, more black around the eyes.

Before I got that look, though, there was a whole 'nother round of molds taken of my mouth, multiple extractions of molars, fitting of a second set of prosthetic teeth (still attached to the incisors, but this time extending a couple of tooth-spaces beyond them, covering where the molars had been) and then the repair of that set when it snapped in half while I was eating pizza.

Yup. Pizza broke my teeth.

I love The Pleasant Cafe, so I want it known that the story I'm about to tell you shouldn't reflect badly on them in any way. They make the best pizza in Boston. The waitresses are wonderful. The atmosphere wouldn't be everybody's cup of tea, but it suits me just fine.

Anyway, MY WIFE and I are sitting there eating some pasta and pizza. I had just recently completed another round of extractions, and had been fitted with the second prosthesis. I was happy as a clam. All the work seemed to be going well. I had no discomfort. I was eating good food in one of my favorite dives. I picked up a slice of pizza and bit into it.

*CRACK*

Since my mouth was mostly closed around the pizza, the sound resonated in my head. It apparently made no noise outside of my head; MY WIFE told me later that she didn't hear a thing. Well, I knew it had to be something bad because you don't hear a big old *CRACK* inside your noggin unless something serious has happened.

I felt around inside my mouth with my tongue and immediately found the damage. The new prosthesis had snapped almost in half. It was no longer firmly anchored to my incisors, either. The two halves were still attached, but barely, and if I opened my mouth, the whole works might have plopped out into my dish of spaghetti.

MY WIFE looked up from eating and saw what must have been a look of some terror on my face. She immediately said, "What's wrong? Are you OK?"

By clenching my teeth together, the prosthesis stayed more-or-less in place where it should have been. I had to be careful speaking because I could have cut my tongue on the sharp edge where it had broken. I said, through the clenched teeth, "My... plate... broke."

She looked down at my spaghetti.

"No... the... plate... in... my... mouf."

It took a moment for that to register. Once it did, she knew I couldn't eat anything else. She said she'd get the waitress to come and pack up our food so we could go home.

While she looked for the waitress, I sat there with my jaw clenched, embarrassed. I was sure that everybody else in the restaurant knew I was a guy sitting there with a broken plate in his mouf.

On the ride home, MY WIFE told me about her conversation with the waitress.

"My husband just broke his plate, so could you please pack up our spaghetti and pizza to take home?"

"Broke his plate? We can get him a new one. You don't have to leave."

"No, he broke his plate."

"Really, it's no problem! I'll be glad to get him a new plate of spaghetti."

My mouth had become an Abbott & Costello routine.

When I went to sleep that night, I took the broken plate out of my mouth, of course. I laid it on the bureau. I could now feel where I had no teeth, but I still never looked at the empty spaces.

(The next morning, Dr. D'Amico repaired it rather easily, with superglue or something similar. He explained that I'd never have this problem with the permanent prosthesis. It was just that this one was anchored in only two places, rather than the four places that were planned for the final, so there was more stress on it where it had snapped. There were no further problems with it after the repair.)

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I'm going to tell you about the actual placing of the implants now. This was what resulted in the puffy face and two bruised eyes in the photo above.

First, I'll tell you that it wasn't as painful as my face looks.

(That didn't quite come out right, but you know what I mean.)

OK, here's what happened. Save for two molars and the incisors, all the rest of my uppers were removed. I was getting four implants. The two molars - the furthest back on each side - were left in to provide extra chewing surface. The plan was to possibly add two more implants, where these molars were, at a later date.

(Thus far, I haven't had this done, as the prosthesis I have now is plenty good enough. I've actually had one of the two molars since removed. Know why? Another toothache. Yup. Anyway...)

I wore the second temporary prosthesis - the one that broke on the pizza - while the extraction sites healed. Once the healing was complete, I was ready for the implant procedure. In other words, once my gums healed, it was time to slice them open again.

Sorry. I know that sounds nasty. It is what happened, though. Dr. Strauss opened my gums down to the bone, and then he drilled into that bone, in four different places, for the placement of the titanium screw rods. This is what the rods look like.



I got that picture from a site called Your Dentistry Guide. Here's a really good explanation of the actual procedure, from the same site.

After the initial pilot hole has been drilled into the appropriate jaw site, it is slowly widened to allow for placement of the implant screw. Following this placement, a protective cover screw is placed on top to allow the implant site to heal and the dental implant to anchor (osseointegration). After several months, the protective cover is removed and a temporary crown is placed on top of the dental implant... The process is completed when the temporary crown is replaced with a permanent crown.

In my case, replace the word "crown" with "full prosthesis", since it was to replace 12 teeth, not just one.

The holes were drilled, and screws placed, with only novocaine for an anesthetic. I was awake throughout. It wasn't fun, that's for sure, but it truly wasn't as bad as it sounds. By this time, I had become pretty used to invasive procedures. I wasn't freaking like I did when my first teeth were extracted. And I got another scrip for a decent-sized bottle of percs, so that was a plus.

Now it was time for the bone to heal. In order for the process to be a success, the bone is supposed to grow around the screw. What's happening is that you're tricking the bone into thinking the screw is a tooth, really. If the bone doesn't heal properly around the screw, the implant will not take. In that case, rejection happens and the procedure needs to be repeated. Luckily, all of mine took - no rejections.

This last was somewhat surprising to Dr. Strauss. He knew I smoked, and he knew I was a catcher on the ballfield. He would have preferred I did neither of those things. Smoking is supposed to bring on a much higher rate of rejection in these procedures, but it didn't affect mine - Thank God. And if I had taken a fastball in the mush, who knows what would have happened?

(One thing I didn't have to deal with, but which some patients undergoing the procedure do, was a bone graft. If there isn't enough healthy bone tissue in the site where the implant is to be made, an extra piece of bone must be taken from somewhere else in the body and grafted on, giving the implant a stronger anchor. This is, as you might imagine, not a pleasant thing. However, if it's needed, what else can you do?)

Finally, after the initial implants had healed, it was time for the placing of the permanent prosthesis. I had another mold done by Dr. D'Amico. Then, while the prosthesis was being manufactured, I returned to Dr. Strauss for him to open my gums again, for placement of the final pieces to which the prosthesis would be attached. Once those sites had once again healed, and both doctors were sure that everything was hunky-dory, I had my incisors extracted. Then, finally, the permanent prosthesis was attached.

Whew!

And that's finally that. I have had no problems with it since I got it. It is permanently in my mouth, just like real teeth. It is far stronger than my rotten original teeth were. I can do just about anything I could previously do. The only exceptions are, say, chomping into an apple or eating corn on the cob. I could probably do both of those things if I was careful, but it's just as easy to cut up the apple or eat corn off the cob. It's not worth another $8,000 for me to find out if I could do them, in any case.

There has been a decided drop-off in the number of colds, sore throats, earaches, and other minor maladies that were no doubt exasperated by the toxins I harbored in my bad teeth. In addition, I lost the possible toxicity of some 9 or 10 amalgam fillings - although whether or not those cause health problems later in life is still somewhat unconfirmed.

And here I am, very happy with my lovely new smile, a month or so after everything was completed.


And you know what? It's six years later and I'm still smiling.

Teeth, Part Three

(Backstory here and here.)

When I began writing about this, I expected it to be a two-parter. Now it looks like it will end up being twice that. I'll try to keep it as brief as possible. I'll give the larger details of the procedures I had done, but I'll be scarce with some of the minutiae. You don't need to hear every gruesome bit.

I mentioned Dr. D'Amico in the preceding parts of this tale. While he was responsible for the diagnosis and recommendations that resulted in me not losing all of my teeth, he only did part of the actual work on my mouth. For the surgical placement of the implants themselves, he referred me to a friend and colleague, a Dr. Strauss. If you're in the Boston area and considering anything similar, I have no reservations concerning an endorsement of their services. They were both great.

The first procedure undertaken was to have a mold made of my then-current dental situation. A gelatinous goopy rubber was applied to my teeth and gums by Dr. D'Amico. When this dried, he peeled it off, giving the prosthesis manufacturer a perfect impression of my mouth. The initial temporary prosthesis would be fashioned using this. Once the prosthesis was manufactured, then some of the teeth designated for removal would come out.

(I should explain that there were a series of three prostheses used during the course of the treatments, with the third and final one being what I've had in my mouth for the past six years. I'll explain the extent to which each one replaced actual teeth as I go along.)

After the impressions were taken, my next appointment was with Dr. Strauss for the root planing. I was given local anesthetic (Novocaine) and he then went to work digging deeply under my lower gums, cleaning out plaque and debris below the gumline. There was a decent amount of blood and, even with the novocaine numbing my tongue, I could taste the putrid gunk he was bringing up. It was not a pleasant or gentle procedure, although Dr. Strauss certainly performed it as gently as was possible. It was a thorough hour-plus of determined scraping of tooth and surrounding tissue. I was given a prescription for Oxycodone (Percodan) following the procedure. By the time the novocaine had worn off, I was buzzed on the percs, so I had no problems with pain. The prescription was for four days worth, which should give you some idea of the rigorousness of the procedure.

Following the planing, Dr. D'Amico did some drilling and filling of the lower teeth, plus a small cosmetic procedure (bonding) to rebuild one of my incisors. He again took an impression of my mouth for the prosthesis, making sure that there had been no significant change during the time between the initial mold, the planing, and the current general dentistry.

The above took a month of weekly visits to accomplish in total, between the two offices.

Now it was time for the moment of truth. I was to have my front teeth removed and replaced by the first prosthesis, which was actually a very snug-fitting bridge filling the gap that would be left between my incisors, or eye teeth. This bridge would be anchored to the eye teeth with a strong glue, fitting over them and sitting directly on the gums between. It was one-piece replacing six teeth, basically, as my actual eye teeth would be inside of it. As soon as the four front teeth were removed - and the bleeding stopped - the bridge would be fitted. I would go home the same day with new teeth in place of the old ones.

I'll be honest and tell you that I was scared witless that day. Up until then, I hadn't had anything done that was irrevocable. This was entirely different. Once the four front teeth were extracted, there was no way to put them back. If it turned out that I regretted the decision - that the prosthesis was in any way worse than the teeth I had removed - then I'd regret it for the rest of my life.

MY WIFE accompanied me to the dentist's office for this part of the procedure. I was glad to have her there, although she didn't need to be. I think she was under the impression that I might not be able to drive afterwards or something. Anyway, it was good to have someone to keep me relatively calm.

I was escorted into the chair and had a bib tied around my neck. As Dr. D'Amico was giving me the novocaine shot, I saw the prosthesis for the first time. It was sitting on a table to the side of the chair. It was smaller than I had imagined. I hadn't realized, until then, that there would be nothing touching my palate. The only contact would be with my gums directly over where the extractions were to take place. For some reason, I had imagined it to be like the dental plates I had so often seen at relative's houses during my youth, with a big piece of pink plastic extending back from the teeth themselves to provide suction with the roof of the mouth. This was all white, just teeth, and looked as though it would be much less intrusive. I was happy about that.

The shot took effect and the doctor went right to work. He had me open wide. I did with my mouth, but I shut my eyes tight. I didn't want to see my teeth leaving. I felt a tug, then another, a third, then the fourth one. There was no difficulty at all on his part. My teeth had so little anchorage left to the jawbone, they just popped right out with only the slightest strength used on his part.

I sat there with my eyes still shut, sweating. I was afraid to use my tongue to feel where my teeth had been. I had felt the slight tugs, but I wasn't positive he had taken them out, due to the lack of any struggle in his doing so. I said, "Ah ay ow?"

(Translation: "Are they out?")

My eyes shot open wide. There was nothing for my tongue to hit against in pronouncing certain letters! Since my livelihood in large part depended upon my being able to speak clearly and distinctly, I was transported into a small state of shock.

The doctor, with his back to me, said, "Yup. Four of the easiest extractions I've ever made. There was almost nothing aside from your gum tissue holding them in." He turned to me, with a smile on his face, and then he saw how I looked. I was pale, sweating, and otherwise as though I might have just seen a ghost.

He got a look of concern on his face. "Are you OK, Jim?" he asked.

"I nuh no... I ink doe." ("I don't know. I think so.")

He said, "Just a few more minutes and we'll put the prosthesis in. Hang in there."

Because I was so nervous, I very badly had to take a pee. I said, "Id id alrigh if I guh duh deh medzruh?"

He said yes, it was alright if I went to the mens room. He warned me not to rinse my mouth.

In order to go to the mens room, I had to head back towards the lobby. MY WIFE saw me coming towards her like some sort of dental zombie, bib still around my neck and blood on my chin. I gave her a little wave and tried to grin. She - much less afraid of the sight of a lack of teeth in my mouth than I was - asked me to show her where my teeth used to be. I shook my head no. I didn't want her seeing that. I went into the mens room, where I not only avoided rinsing my mouth, but also avoided looking in the mirror.

(To this day, I have still never seen my mouth without a full set of teeth in it. The prospect of losing my teeth was so frightening to me, I assiduously avoided looking when the small windows of opportunity presented themselves. The first time that Dr. D'Amico had to remove the prosthesis for another mold to be made, after I had had it in my mouth for a couple of weeks, I was visibly shaken. The device fit so well, and I had become so used to thinking of it as an actual part of me, it was like losing my teeth for a second time. He told me - sincerely - that if he had known how much it was going to disturb me, he would have sedated me for my own well-being.)

Long story short, after I returned from deh medzruh, the doctor placed the bridge in, securing it onto my incisors. He adjusted it a bit here and there, asking me to bite down gently and then tell him if it felt right to me. And it did. It fit perfectly; no pain at all, which amazed me. I was able to eat - gingerly - as soon as I got home. I was very careful, as I was afraid of how strong the thing actually was, but I needn't have been. It was easily stronger than the teeth that were removed.

After eating, I was very sleepy. The procedure was taxing mentally, and a new round of percs was coursing through my bloodstream, sending me to la-la land. I went into the bathroom to take a pee before heading to the bedroom for a nap. As I was washing up, I looked in the mirror. Looking back at me was a fellow with a lovely white even smile, and that smile grew bigger and bigger the longer he looked.

It dawned on me that not only wouldn't I regret this decision, but it was probably one of the best decisions I had ever made. I went into the bedroom and lay down. While there was still much more work to be completed, I drifted off to sleep very happy with what had transpired thus far.



(Go To Part Four)

Teeth, Part Two

(I gave you some background yesterday. If you weren't here then, you should probably read that stuff first.)

After my many dental problems - as well as my decided lack of care concerning my teeth - I finally got smart in 2001. As is usual in my case, the intelligence came from an outside source.

I had another toothache. It led to another extraction; the 10th of my life to that point, as near as I can recall.

(You may think it somewhat odd that I can't say with certainty how many teeth I had pulled to that point. It would seem that a routine poking about of my tongue, in order to count my teeth, and then subtracting the number of remaining teeth from 32 [the usual adult allotment] would provide an immediate and accurate answer. The problem is that, in the procedure I'll tell you about shortly, I had a large number of teeth taken. I don't know that number, so I have no reliable way of knowing how many there were prior.)

This latest pain in my pearlies was the first I had had since moving to Watertown in late 1994. Since I hadn't paid a visit to a dentist in any of the seven intervening years, I now had to find one to yank this most recent offender.

I didn't care if he had the chairside manner of Torquemada, as well as roaches scrabbling across the spitsink, so long as he had a DDS following his name and could get the damn thing out of my mouth immediately. I opened the Yellow Pages to "Dentists" and looked for the one closest to home who could do the job. As it turned out, I was extremely lucky. I found a wonderful dentist simply by chance. His name was Domenic D'Amico. He told me to come by as soon as I was able and he would perform the needed pull.

I entered the office and only had to wait in the reception area for a few minutes. I was then escorted into a chair, given a bib, and told that the doctor would be by right away. And so he was.

He asked the usual questions - how long since you've been to a dentist, etc. - to which I gave the usual embarrassing answers. He never once gave me an exasperated sigh or a lecture or anything else that I would have found off-putting. He made some notes, then gave me a blessed shot of novacaine. As relief flooded my face - I believe my shoulders literally dropped about six inches from the tension release - he explained what he was going to do, and then went about the business of removing the painful tooth. It was over quickly and easily.

I thanked him, left the inner office, and paid the receptionist. I then met MY WIFE at a spot we had planned to meet that night, a wad of absorbent cotton in my cheek, telling her that her husband had one less body part than he had that morning.

Fast forward a couple of months. I decided (with much input from MY WIFE, who was - as now - a smart woman with way more common sense than me concerning health matters) to have an actual full dental check-up. I finally decided to get onto the right path and take care of those teeth I had left. I was hoping that I might forgo any further toothaches. I had easily had enough of them to last a lifetime.

Instead, the dentist I visited (who was NOT Dr. D'Amico; I went to this guy, instead, because I had a coupon for a first visit special) told me that all of my teeth had to come out.

He was of the opinion that they couldn't possibly be saved. I numbly listened as he outlined how they could all be plucked in one visit, and dentures fitted the same day. I nodded as he spoke, but in my heart of hearts I was not ready for this. I had expected a stern lecture again, but not a death sentence.

On the ride home, I tried to figure out some way to tell MY WIFE this news with a cheery sort of face. I didn't want her to feel any of this pain I had very much brought on myself. I pretty much talked myself into believing it would be for the best. I certainly wouldn't be troubled with toothaches any longer, that's for sure. My breath would be better. And all of my relatives had gotten along for years and years with phony grinders. I supposed that I'd be OK with it, too, after a while. I decided to put on a somewhat brave front.

I told MY WIFE the marvelous news. She would have none of it. She was immediately non-accepting of this guy's diagnosis. She firmly told me to get a second opinion. Aside from not believing that all of my teeth had to be removed, she had concerns - which I hadn't even considered - about my ability to perform my job (commercial voice work, mostly) with dentures.

I am forever in her debt for that wisdom.

We talked about it, and I figured that I'd go back to Dr. D'Amico. He had been such a nice fellow the last time when I had that tooth pulled; very non-judgmental, and gentle in his work. I made an appointment to discuss my dental options with him.

In the end, he was of the opinion that my lower teeth could be saved for a fair while through means of a root planing. This is a procedure wherein an oral surgeon goes below the gum line and removes as much junk as possible, literally scraping the unseen portion of the teeth clean. It would be a bit painful, but performed under novacaine and there would be pain meds provided afterwards. This last sold me on it completely, of course. Save my teeth and get high? Sign me up!

The uppers? Not such good news. No doubt - they did have to go. If I didn't have them out now, I had nothing but pain and sorrow ahead, and quickly, too. However, there were better options than plain old dentures. Dr. D'Amico felt that I was a good candidate for implants.

Some of you may not be familiar with just how dental implants work. I'll give you the quick explanation now. I'll try to get it as completely as possible, while allowing for the possibility that not too many of you will want a boring lecture about it.

Basically, small titanium rods are implanted into the bone of the jaw. A prosthesis is attached to these rods. When completed successfully, the implants are fairly much as strong as natural teeth. In my case, it was also a wonderful chance to have a better appearance cosmetically. I not only received strong permanent teeth; I also received a smile I would not be ashamed to use.

I had become very used to having rotten ugly teeth. So much so, that I had taken to grinning rather than smiling. Not that I never smiled, mind you, but if I had a chance to think about it, I kept my teeth covered. I knew they were hideous. Now, I would be able to just relax, and smile without giving thought to hiding anything. That alone has pretty much been worth the cost.

Speaking of cost, it was considerable. It took close to $8,000 and months of work to get what I have now. It was worth every penny and every minute.

Tomorrow, I'll give you the details concerning the work that was done. It will get grody, so be prepared. However, keep in mind the results and you'll be happy - just like me.




(Go To Part Three)

Teeth

A recent post might have led you to believe that there was no way on earth I could possibly look more grotesque. You’d be wrong. As you are about to discover, I could have easily looked worse.



Yes, those are my real teeth. Or, at least, they were my real teeth. Here’s the story of how they became my former teeth.


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For as long as I can remember, the Sullivan side of my family has been at war with their teeth. Only one relative older than me hasn’t had trouble with them, and that’s because he took action, early on, to avoid battles later. He had his teeth capped. They look damn good, too. Everybody else in the family? Dentures.

Some of them didn’t need to have dentures, but they ended up with them anyway. My grandfather had no teeth except those he paid for, but I just recently found out it didn’t have to be that way. In a telephone conversation with my Uncle Jim, he told me that Pa had beautiful teeth until he ran into a quack doctor.

It seems that Pa had developed a hideous rash on his legs. He had no idea where it came from, and nothing he did had any real soothing effect. About the best there was to offer in those days was calamine lotion – no hydrocortisone or other better agents of relief. After itching, scratching, and generally going crazy for a couple of months, he finally went to see a doctor about it. This doctor told him that the reason he had developed the rash was because of bad teeth. Pa asked the quack what the solution was. He was told that he should have all of his teeth removed, and that this would cure his rash.

Now, you or I, with the wisdom of this current age at our disposal, might have sought out a second opinion on the matter. However, this was 60-some-odd years in the past. At that time, you rarely questioned a doctor. You assumed that he knew his business, and that his diagnosis was correct. Also, Pa had been going nuts with this thing, so he wasn’t in the best frame of mind to make a rational decision. So…

Yup. He had them all yanked. Beautiful, pearly white, perfectly healthy, and not a single one of them left in his head. The worst part of it was that the rash didn’t go away. If he had at least gotten that out of the deal, it might not have been a complete horror story.

(Eventually it went away, of course, but not in any sort of immediate manner that would lend credence to the quack’s diagnosis. Pa suffered with it for another couple of months, with the added inconvenience of having to gum his food in the meantime. Amazingly, he didn’t sue the quack. As a matter of fact, I believe this idiot remained the family physician for decades. It was, as I said, a simpler time.)

(There seems to be a general reticence, among the Sullivans, to seek compensatory damages. I had a great aunt who, in the course of an eye examination, somehow had ether poured into her eye. It blinded her in that eye instantly. Forever after, the iris of that eye was a pale milky blue, a source of great wonderment to me as a child. That guy didn’t get sued, either.)

My grandfather’s loss of his teeth is a pretty horrifying story, but my own father’s story wasn’t much better. He eradicated HIS teeth without any advice from a physician. He just decided, one day, that he had had enough of them, so he had them all removed surgically, opting for a lifetime of dentures.

This all happened either when I was very young or before I was born; I’m not quite sure which it was. However, in photos I’ve seen – none of which would reproduce well here, otherwise I’d show you - they weren’t outstandingly pretty. They weren’t hideously ugly, either, but they very much resembled my teeth at a similar age, which means they were likely headed to the state of mine in the photo at the top of this page, which is hideously ugly. I don’t know how bad they were, insofar as pain might be concerned, but I would have to suppose it was more than just cosmetic. Anyway, he had it done - and regretted it almost immediately.

One time, when I was discussing my own dental woes, he told me that the decision to have his teeth removed was the biggest mistake of his life. He related how, soon afterwards, he sat in his bed with his mouth aching, able to eat only a soft piece of bread soaked in spaghetti sauce, and wishing to God he had the ability to go back in time and not have done it.

(One of the things he did get from having the procedure done so early in life, and what he had done it for, really, was a mouth that took the dentures beautifully. He was a sure speaker and utterly fearless with the things, for the most part. They fit snugly and I don’t ever recall seeing him have a problem in public with them. They were good looking teeth, and he never suffered the facial deformity – sunken cheeks, protruding lower jaw – that many people with dentures [Pa for instance] acquire as they age.)

All of my other older Sullivan relatives – every uncle and aunt; every granduncle and grandaunt; also my grandmother – had false teeth. You couldn’t walk through a Sullivan household without sooner or later spotting at least one glass full of water with plastic choppers soaking in it. Given this, it’s likely that both my grandfather and my father might have eventually gone the route they did, anyway, so that softens the tragedy a bit.

Anyway, I grew up knowing there was a good possibility that my own teeth might not last. It was not a pleasant thought. Combine that with my Dad’s story about so strongly regretting the loss of his own teeth, and I was fairly much haunted by the prospect.

I’ve thought about it at length and I don’t know if how I’ve treated my teeth had something to do with a subconscious realization that they were going to go sooner or later anyway. Growing up, I didn’t do much to make it any less of a probability. I regularly ate copious amounts of candy. I more-or-less soaked my teeth in sugar for much of my childhood, having a fondness for butterscotches, Canada Mints, bubble gum, Sprite, Pixie Stix, Sweet Tarts, and many other despoilers of dentifrice. And, while I made brushing of my teeth at least a twice-daily occurrence – sometimes a four or five times a day thing, in my 20’and 30’s - I would often have something to eat or drink before bedtime that made the ritual useless, leaving a corrosive coating on my enamel for the 7 or 8 hours I slept.

My visits to the dentist always resulted in drilling and filling of cavities. The cleanings were regularly accompanied by stern lectures – none of which had much effect other than a day or two of half-hearted flossing, followed by a return to the candy counter.

Another mitigating factor in my failure to truly take care of my teeth may have been the fact that my dentist let me administer my own nitrous oxide, otherwise known as laughing gas.

I’m not kidding. He actually let me hold the bulb that, when squeezed, released another dose into the tubes that led from the tank into my nostrils. He told me that anytime I felt more pain, I should have another pump or two. As you might expect, I often felt more pain. I always got wasted in the dentist’s chair. Unlike most of the populace, I looked forward to dental visits.

My teen and young adult years were filled with toothaches, and the toothaches were followed by extractions. I had something like eight or nine teeth pulled between the ages of 14 and 40, all molars. Each extraction was preceded by days of hideous pain, often accompanied with overdoses of pain medication and/or destruction of household property.

I once took an entire bottle of aspirin in an attempt to alleviate a toothache. I didn’t just shovel them all into my mouth at once, of course. I took a couple and they had no effect after a half-hour, so I took a couple more, with the same result. I was insane from the pain, so I then took three more. Then four more. Then a handful, and another handful, crying all the while. I don’t remember passing out, but I certainly did. I woke up about two hours later, on the floor of my father’s bedroom, dizzy and nauseous – and with my tooth still agonizing me. I eventually got to a dentist. I was lucky I didn't end up in a box.

MY WIFE could tell you, with some embarrassment (which I have much less of) about the time I took a door off its hinges in the throes of a toothache. I accomplished the door unhinging via the expedient of punching it with all my might. I put my fist halfway through it – it was a fairly solid wooden door - and it tore the hinges out of the doorjamb, the door flying into the bedroom and crashing to the floor. I’m sorry to have to report that this experiment in pain relief didn’t work. It did take my mind off of the pain in my mouth for about, oh, fifteen seconds, but it was hardly cost effective.

At other times, I tried - I kid you not - to extract one of my own teeth via such implements as a spoon, a pair of pliers, and even one memorable attempt at replicating a Three Stooges routine, wherein I tied string around my tooth and then the other end around a doorknob. I slammed the door, with the result being what a sane person would have expected. The tooth remained intact, while the doorknob was neatly extracted from the door.

**************************************************************

Well, I've given you a couple of interesting stories, and also shown you why you should be extremely grateful if you have good teeth, but that’s hardly telling you about how my old rotten teeth exited my mouth. I promise I’ll get to it tomorrow. See you then!

(Go To Part Two)

Aunt Jemima's Mattapancakes? JB Sash & Dorchester?

Just a few things I need to get out of my brain (in order to make room for lines, should Martin Scorsese offer me a speaking part.)


This is just so that those of you who know me only from yesterday's posting (see link above) will not continue to labor under the mistaken impression that I can't help but look like a mental patient.

Now, on to matters of genius.


MY WIFE has come up with the solution for the state's fiscal woes. Her plan will allow the Commonwealth of Massachusetts to forgo selling its soul to casino operators, as well as make the elimination of the income tax a realistic feasibility to even the most ardent liberals.

We should sell naming rights to our cities and towns to the highest corporate bidders.

Well, why not? Sports teams do it all the time. TD Banknorth Garden, the Staples Center, Arco Arena, Tropicana Field - the list is gigantic. And if they're shelling out millions of dollars for the right to throw their name and logo onto such small pieces of real estate, imagine how much they'd be willing to fork over for the ability to name entire towns!

An obvious one is our own home of WATERTOWN. Why not ask Coca-Cola for a couple hundred million for the right to change it to DasaniTown? I'm pretty sure we could get a bidding war going. Do you think Coke will stand idly by while there's the possibility of our burg being called AquaFinaVille? I don't think so! And they could draw their product right from the Charles River and nobody would know the difference.

The possibilities are almost as endless as the stream of revenue would be.

Dr. PEPPERELL; Jimmy Dean Breakfast SAUGUS; Magic SHEFFIELD; NEW Improved Kingsford Charcoal With Less ASHFORD; I Could Have HADLEY a V-8; CHIC-Fil-A-OPEE.

Old jokes could be recycled for profit. Dick Hertz from HOLDEN? Use Vaseline!

SALEM? MARLBORO? CHESTERFIELD? We could sell 'em to the tobacco companies and they wouldn't even have to change the names! I bet D'Angelo would be willing to go to war with Subway and Quisno's for the rights to SANDWICH. And Alka Seltzer would pony up a pretty penny for BELCHERTOWN.

(I dread to think what the folks from Preparation H could do with ATHOL, but we need the bucks.)

We could even throw out a few bones to registered philanthropies. ACTON could become The Aids Acton Committee. DUXBURY could be known as Ducks Unlimited Bury. How about Save The WALES? READING Is Fundamental But That's Not How You Pronounce This Town.

Selling just ONE name to only ONE company would make us all millionaires. MasterCardAchusetts. I rest my case.



I own this CD. All I can think of, whenever I look at the cover, is that somebody in the Columbia Records art department must have been royally pissed at Goodman. "Here's my chance to shove that clarinet of his right up his ass!"



Tomorrow, the Boston Celtics play the Minnesota Timberwolves. I marked this on my calendar as "New Celtics vs. Old Celtics." This is because the Timberwolves have something like 6 ex-Celtics on their roster, the most notable being Al Jefferson (seen lurking in the background of the above picture.)

The calendar I marked it on came from a funeral home. MY WIFE had gone to pay her respects to a relative of a friend, and they had Pope John Paul II calendars - free for the taking - in the lobby on the way out. She knew I needed a calendar for my office, so she grabbed one. It's rather nice, actually. It has lots of room on each date to write notes concerning things of importance, such as when the current Celtics play their alumni. Since it is a Catholic calendar, it also has the feast dates of various saints included.

As I was writing "New Celtics vs. Old Celtics" in the space for January 25th, I noticed that it was also The Feast of the Conversion of Saint Paul. I won't pretend to know enough about Paul Pierce's character to make a judgment concerning his eligibility for sainthood, but I did somehow find it rather fitting. And maybe that's a halo he's wearing, not a sweatband, eh?

Let's see. Anything else of importance to say?

Oh, yes.

Soon, with more better stuff.

Certifiable? I Can Only Hope!

Courtesy of Beantown Bloggery comes the following news:

Grant Wilfley Casting is opening a satellite office in Boston for the feature film ASHECLIFFE directed by Martin Scorsese and starring Leonardo DiCaprio. Filming begins in the Boston, Mass. area in March 2008. An open call will be held from 10am to 4pm on Saturday Jan. 26 at Boston University (George Sherman Union- Metcalf Hall) 775 Commonwealth Ave. Boston, MA 02215 to cast extras for the feature film.

Casting for people to play mental institution staff (doctors, nurses, orderlies, guards), mental patients (including interesting, quirky or unusual character faces), the malnourished and emaciated concentration camp prisoners (many of whom will have their heads shaved), and people to play WWII American and German soldiers (young athletic types, people with military or law enforcement experience and knowledge of firearms, police officers, fire fighters, ROTC, etc).

What caught my eye was...

... mental patients (including interesting, quirky or unusual character faces) ...

I figure I can do that. The other roles? Not so much. I'm not malnourished or emaciated, that's for sure. Young and athletic? I used to be, but not now. I might be able do one of the institutional staff, but my strength is certainly more towards the institutionalized.

So, I went home last night and took photos of myself. These are just normal poses, of course. I didn't try to look insane.



























































I realize that publishing these has blown any chance I ever had at becoming Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. And there are certain people, with whom I've had political arguments, who think these represent me perfectly well as I really am. I don't care. I want to be a movie star. Mr Scorsese? I am yours to do with what you will. I'll be waiting by the phone.

Looking For The Perfect Groundhogs Day Gift? Here You Go!

Now that Christmas is long past, and gift-giving opportunities are rare, I’m going to tell you about two wonderful presents you could get for someone. This is in keeping with a long-standing Suldog tradition: the imparting of semi-useless information.

For instance, in the past I’ve given you a fairly detailed history of the Libertarian Party; a complete listing of the retired uniform numbers of the Boston Celtics; the story of how MY WIFE and I ran naked through the snow in New Hampshire (which still gets more people to this site, via Google, than any other piece I’ve done, disappointing huge numbers of perverts when they find that there are no photos); and telling you (among other listings of fives) my five favorite bass players, none of whom you had probably ever heard of before or given a rat’s ass about since.

(I could have given you links to all of the above, but I deliberately chose not to. This is because I’m fairly positive there are enough NEW perverts among you who will gladly still go looking for the naked snow jogging piece even without a link having been provided, trusting your imaginations to supply the necessary graphic images, and you’ll probably stumble on the other stuff along the way. The rest of you, of course, are my loyal readers [that is, the OLD bunch of perverts, who came to see jiggly bits in the snow, but stayed because... well, I haven’t quite figured that out yet] and you’ve already seen everything worth seeing here, more or less [or moral-less, which is how you arrived.][or even morale-less, which is how you might leave][or Pedro Morales, if you watched the WWF in the old days.])

(By the way, have you ever noticed how I fill this space with positively mind-numbing parenthetical constructions that would leave most professors of English gasping for breath, yet I give YOU credit enough to find your way through them without getting lost? The fact that you get through them is, indeed, testament to your intelligence, but it has little or nothing to do with any preconceived notions on my part concerning your wherewithal, I’m sorry to tell you, so there you go and wherever you go, there you are. Here, for instance.)

Jiggly bits in the snow.

(Just thought I’d throw that in to hold the attention of the new and lazy perverts who didn’t feel like expending any energy looking for the co-ed naked snow-jogging story.)

Now, getting back to the subject at hand – which probably means something entirely different to the perverts than it does to you, but I digress – here are the two wonderful gift items I promised to tell you about, lo, these many paragraphs ago.

(You know, it just hit me that the people who worked so hard to produce these works will probably be less than delighted to see their ventures included in this sludgy assemblage that seems mostly concerned with NAKED PEOPLE IN THE SNOW for no discernible reason. Oh, well. We’ve come this far, so we may as well go on.)

WOLFGANG’S BIG NIGHT OUT

On this, the latest from The Brian Setzer Orchestra, classical music is given a re-working in various jazzy settings, mostly big band swing. I haven’t removed it from my car’s CD player since I got it.

(I’m tempted to say "That’s because the eject button isn’t working!" but I won’t.)

(OK, I did. Sorry!)

This is a near-perfect CD. The only flaw is that I scraped it with a fork while trying to pry open the packaging, so it skips track 16, but that’s OK because it only has 12 tracks to begin with. Hah! Any of you perverts got a snare drum? Barump-bump!

Really, honestly, truly – the one major flaw on this album concerns some of the endings to the songs. I don’t know whether a conscious effort was made to try to appear not totally serious, or if the arrangement is just incompetent, but four or five of the endings are either unflinchingly corny or just jarringly off-key.

(I know. Believe me, I know. Of all the people who might complain about something being corny or off-key, for me to do so is beyond the pale, and I’m one of the palest folks around. It’s just that while I’m certainly the type who appreciates a quote from the opening riff of Smoke On The Water following some Offenbach, you might not be, so I figured I’d warn you.)

Setzer’s guitar playing is magnificent throughout. He easily transitions from straight renditions of the original lines, to purist jazz, to his beloved rockabilly licks, to paeans to such diverse stylists as Django Reinhardt and Terry Kath. It’s a tour-de-force of epic proportion. The rest of the band is hot, too, but this is Setzer’s showcase. Aside from some clarinet reminiscent of that heard during Goodman’s small combo days, and some stunning drum breaks from Bernie Dresel, there are few other solos from the ensemble. I might have found one or two improvisations by members of the brass section enjoyable, but there aren’t any. Small quibble, really, since Setzer is fairly mesmerizing the whole way through.

The opener is an adaptation of Beethoven’s SYMPHONY #5; I suppose chosen for that spot because it contains the most recognizable opening in classical music. It’s fun, but nowhere near the strongest cut. I’d say that honor might come down to a choice between the hot jazz rendition of FUR ELISE, which contains the aforementioned allusions to Reinhardt and Goodman (as well as Reinhardt’s partner, violinist Stephane Grappelli) or the album-closing GOD REST YE MERRY GENTLEMEN, featuring a Duane Eddy-like reverb in the opening, and an acid-tinged wah-wah workout (Kath) in the close.

Other interesting interpretations abound. THE WILLIAM TELL OVERTURE (otherwise known as the theme from The Lone Ranger, to the uncultured of my generation and older) is given a mid-tempo swing chart that reminds, in spots, of 1950’s-era Dorsey - excluding the electric guitar, of course, which Dorsey abhorred. Mussorgsky’s IN THE HALL OF THE MOUNTAIN KING features hip lyrics and female backing harmonies. And then there’s Setzer’s frantic workout on FLIGHT OF THE BUMBLEBEE (which includes the female vocal chorus chanting “Faster! Faster!” and then going into mock orgasmic cries.)

Overall, this is just plain fun, and it will delight the person in your life who enjoys both electric guitar and swing music, as well as those classical enthusiasts who don’t mind a mild send-up.

The other wonderful choice for gift giving is Bill Bryson’s latest book, THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE THUNDERBOLT KID.

I’m a huge Bryson fan. He holds a spot in my literary heart similar to that of his spiritual predecessor, Mark Twain. In his body of work to date, he has easily shifted from linguistic archaeologist to travel diarist to writer of memoirs. This current offering is from the latter category, with a sprinkling of historian thrown in for good measure.

The best praise I can give this book, I suppose, is that I laughed out loud again and again. I used to do that fairly often when I was a teen and discovering some folks worthy of guffaws, i.e., S. J. Perelman or Allan Sherman or Twain, but Bryson is one of the few to do it to me in these latter years. And I’m not talking just a choked and short exclamation of "Ha!" I’m telling you that I had actual tears running down my face from laughing. It’s that good.

This is the book that MY WIFE has, in her loving over-estimation of my skills, been trying to get me to write for the past four or five years. It is about growing up as a boomer, with all of the ridiculous-yet-endearing trappings of what was probably the last great innocent epoch of American childhood. Now she’ll have to get on me to write something else entirely, because there is no way in hell I could come within ten miles of doing as good a job of it as Bryson has done. I wouldn't subject myself to the ridicule and scorn that would inevitably result from an attempt to match this book.

Seriously – there will never be a better book written concerning growing up in the 50’s and 60’s. It is absolutely pitch perfect. If you know someone between the ages of 45 and 60, with a birthday or other occasion for presents coming up, buy that person this book. Or buy it for yourself, if you qualify. I’d stake my life on the fact that you won’t be disappointed. I’ll commit suicide if any of you don’t have enough sense of humor to enjoy it.

(OK, I know damn well that there are plenty of people without enough sense of humor to enjoy this book, but none of them would have toughed out my writing to get this far, so I’m in no danger of having to fulfill that promise.)

So, buy these things for someone you love. If you don't love anyone, buy them for yourself. However, you won't enjoy them, because if you don't love anyone, you're the type who won't enjoy them, so there.

Let’s see. What’s a good closer? I suppose the following will have to do, although it’s getting tiresome and some might quibble with its authenticity. Soon, with more better stuff.

Italian Story

One of my readers, the always-delightful Lime, recently told a story concerning her grandfather and his use of a tremendously off-color Italian curse. Her reminiscence led me to recall the story that follows. I originally posted it as a response to her piece, but now I've figured, "Why not use it here?"

I've told you before that my Dad worked for the airlines. I was, therefore, fortunate enough to grow up being able to travel to many wonderful places that otherwise wouldn't have been possible for a kid from a middle-class neighborhood in Dorchester. This story takes place in Italy - Rome to be exact - where I had traveled with my parents in 1970. I was 13.

Now, my Dad often used to hang out in the North End of Boston, which was (and is) the Italian section. He did so because many of his friends, fellow airline employees, lived there. He enjoyed their company, and they enjoyed his. He was sort of the token Mick, being the only non-Italian member of a social club called The Sulmona. Anyway, because of the time he spent immersed in this culture, he became facile with certain idiomatic Italian expressions.

Most of these expressions were innocuous enough. He might call someone a shadrool, for instance. I have no idea if I'm spelling that correctly, but it's certainly the way it was pronounced. In any case, it meant cucumber - or so I was told at 13 years of age. Perhaps it meant something resembling a cucumber; a dick, in other words. All I know is it was bandied about easily and caused nobody any particular embarrassment.

Back to Italy in 1970. The World Cup was going on, and Italy was in the semi-finals. It was an exciting time to be in Rome. The semifinal match, against Germany, was being telecast and there wasn't a single place in Rome that didn't have the game on the television that night. The entire country was glued to it. My Dad and I were watching it in a common TV room at our hotel. My Dad, in his usual gregarious fashion, had become quick friends with many of the Italian men with whom we were sharing this spectacle.

The game was a real nail biter, even for those of us (me, my Dad, my Mom) who knew shadrool about soccer. Italy led 1-0 for most of the match, but Germany tied the game in extra time, in the 92nd minute. In overtime, there were FIVE goals scored, with the Italians finally winning by a score of 4-3. The city went berserk following the game. The noise was deafening, and nobody - least of all us in our hotel on a main drag - slept that night.

(Italy lost the final to Brazil, as I remember. We were in Denmark by that time, so it didn't impress itself upon me as much as the semi-final did. However, I digress.)

Back to the night of the game. We're sitting there watching the overtime, on the edge of our seats, and a member of the Italian team takes a kick at the ball and misses an open net by a wide margin.

One specific phrase that my father learned, while hanging out with his Italian friends from Boston, was used to express strong dismay. I'm not sure if my father knew the literal translation of it, but he knew the sentiment of it, and he now wished to show solidarity with his new Italian friends. He wanted to assure them that he was strongly rooting for the Italian team and sorry that they hadn't scored. My father uttered the phrase, loudly.

The room went completely and utterly quiet, even in the midst of what might have been the most exciting overtime ever in World Cup history. Eyes bugged out all around. From the reaction he had gotten, my Dad might just as well have announced his intention to go find an Italian flag and wipe his ass with it. My Dad looked back and forth, from face to face to face, and found nary a single kind one.

Finally, one man had the courage (and manners) to say, "Eh, Mr. Sullivan, 'at's-a no sometin' you say inna public. At's a very, very bad saying." There was a general nodding of heads around the room. My Dad looked appropriately ashamed, and he blushed. This won him a few smiles, as many of them realized he probably had no idea what he was really saying. Since my Dad was a good one for jollying along anyone he may have inadvertently offended, he worked his way back into their good graces before long, and we all cheered and hugged when the Italian side finally won.

As I later came to understand, the phrase was roughly translated as "Your mother is a whore", but it may have contained other less-printable (even for this blog) obscene shadings. I would put it out here, spelled phonetically as I remember it, but I don't want to risk offending anyone inadvertently. I try very hard to offend you only on purpose, as you know.

Soon, with more better stuff.

Further Proof Concerning My Idiocy (As If Any More Were Needed)

The following will give you an idea of why I married MY WIFE.

This morning, while we were getting dressed, she heard a news report on the radio. It informed her that the FDA has approved the eating of cloned animals. Immediately she said, "Yeah, it tastes OK, but it probably repeats on you."

Stuff like that is why I made an error in judgment while writing yesterday's post. As usual, I'll explain in an impossibly long-winded fashion.

In an attempt to be funny, I made a joke concerning Dennis Kucinich's ability to get laid. I could have chosen any reasonably well-known public figure for the joke. All I needed was a guy who seemed to be lacking in the general handsomeness one might think was a prerequisite for humping Charlize Theron. Mr. Kucinich is, by most standards within our present society, not a particularly attractive man.

(This is not to denigrate him in any way other than superficially, of course. He seems to be a nice fellow otherwise - reasonably intelligent, well-dressed, able to string together sentences in a coherent fashion, and possessing a sense of humor concerning himself. It's just that his stature and appearance suggests that of - for lack of a better term - an elf.)

So, I made my little joke. I was rather proud of it, all things considered. It appeared to me to be a winner. In addition, I was able to refer back to it for my closer. I thought it was all neat and charming and worthy of the praising comments that would (no doubt) soon rain down upon me for my wit.

Unfortunately, I chose, as the butt of my joke, someone who is already married to a fairly stunning babe.


Open mouth, insert computer keyboard.

A shame, really. If you've been hanging out here for any considerable length of time, you know that I don't generally go in for denigrating the looks of other people. If I feel the need to make a joke concerning something physical, I usually reserve such insults for myself. And with good reason, I might add. I've been told, through the years, that I most closely resemble the following folks: Ron Howard, Chris Elliot, Bozo The Clown, and Howdy Doody.

(On the pages of this blog, note has been made concerning my supposed resemblance to Brett Favre. That comparison was made by a fellow of - to be charitable about it - limited mental capacity. In addition, a commenter - in what I'm sure was meant NOT to be an insult - asked if anyone had ever noted my resemblance to Abraham Lincoln. When you get told that you might bear a passing likeness to the consensus homeliest American ever, you probably have good reason to believe that you're not one of the beautiful people.)

As a sort of visual Mea Culpa, here is stunning proof of my own non-pulchritude. This photo was taken about 10 years ago. Things haven't gotten better since.



Getting back to yesterday, I could have used myself as the butt of the joke, rather than Dennis Kucinich. As it turns out, that would have been the better choice. However, the reason I didn't do so was because I love MY WIFE.

That last statement has probably provoked general head scratching, but it's the truth. You see, while MY WIFE is a supremely funny woman, and about as pretty a person as a slug like me should have an expectation of marrying, she sometimes has low self-esteem issues. She's forever denigrating her physicality, even though I keep assuring her that she looks fine.

(I once made the mistake of telling her that she looked swell. She replied, "You think I look fat, then, is that what you're saying?" I've been more careful in my choice of words ever since.)

Earlier this year, I used Charlize Theron in a post. As part of a joke within that post, she was bestowing oral favors upon me. MY WIFE, while not quite driven to beating me over the head with a frying pan, was nevertheless still not entirely pleased with that literary device. So, since I still wanted to use Charlize Theron - and what red-blooded he-man doesn't? - I decided to make the other person in yesterday's joke Dennis Kucinich rather than me.

I only found out about my gaffe when MY WIFE's brother left a comment. He said, "Have you seen Dennis Kucinich's wife?" He also provided a helpful link, so that I could go and find out what a dope I had been.

(Funny how blood will tell. When MY WIFE finished reading the piece last night, the very first thing out of her mouth afterwards was, "Have you seen Dennis Kucinich's wife?")

Anyway, that's how it happened, why it happened, why it shouldn't have happened, and everything else you ever needed to know about it, but were afraid to ask because you knew I'd go on and on for about 1,500 words, when a simple "I fucked up" would have been sufficient.

Soon, but no promises concerning quality.

It's All My Fault - Sorry!

The Boston Celtics lost for the second time in a row last night. This is their first losing streak of the year. Prior to these two losses, they had been the non-winner in only four other games. Thus, their loss total has increased by a full 50% over the last two games.

I blame myself for this sorry state of affairs. Please allow me to explain. I'd appreciate it if you don't throw rocks at me until I'm finished. I'm going to try to make amends.

For the past two years on this blog - for the past three years, if you wish to count the time before I began blogging - I predicted greatness for the Celtics. I was sure that Delonte West, Gerald Green, Ricky Davis, and Ryan Gomes were going to lead The Green to the promised land. To wit, from November of 2005:

It was opening night at TD Banknorth Garden. Red was in attendance, as well as The Chief (who was looking particularly dapper), and Paul Pierce was all smiles. Ricky Davis started and finished. Mel Blount (now pronounced Blunt for some reason) looked like he was actually worth the money. And Delonte West...

Oh, my. What a game Delonte West had. He came within one rebound and one assist of a triple-double on opening night. If you factor in his (yes, he's a six-foot guard) four blocked shots and three steals, while committing just ONE turnover? I think Tommy Heinsohn was underrating him by saying he looked like a young Lenny Wilkins. Just a magnificent game from Mr. West.

So, the C's just need 81 more wins to go undefeated.

(The entire piece, should you have the stomach, is here)

Later on in the year, I had this to say:

I haven't been so thoroughly entertained by NBA basketball, as I have been by the Celtics' first four games, in perhaps 15 or 16 years...

As I wished in this space the other day, Ricky Davis got the rock for the final shot. He sank it from just beyond the free throw line. He then was carried, for a short victory lap, by Delonte West, while the Garden crowd went bananas.

I'm delighted to have to say that Paul Pierce - whom I said might have a slight tendency to gag under pressure - came through big...

Big Al Jefferson had a significant impact, contributing 8 points and 4 rebounds in 15 minutes. The resurgent Mark Blount continues to impress and Delonte West had another blocked shot. Has a point guard ever led the league in blocks? Well, OK, it's not going to happen this year, either. However, West does have 8 of them through the first 4 games. Has a point guard ever averaged two blocks a game?

... And they'll only get better as the season progresses, since so many of them are still learning each other's moves and tendencies, and just beginning the process of fitting their own styles into the team's system.

(Again, the entire mess is available.)

And, one more time, from November of 2006:

If you've been with me a while, you know I started predicting good things for this team last year. I said that I expected them to contend for a championship within a year or two. I meant that and I'm not backing off of it. I think this team has a collection of young talent that can gel together into a consistently winning unit. They had last year to get to know each other and for Doc Rivers to figure out his rotations and roles. This year is when it starts to pay off.

I'll throw out an early prediction. The Celtics go 48 - 34, winning their division by a game or two over New Jersey. How far will they go in the playoffs? I don't think a championship is beyond reason...

(Nope. I'm not giving you a chance to read all of that one. I think I gave you more than enough already.)

All of the foregoing establishes my lunatic credentials as concerns the C's. I bleed green as much as anybody who ever actually played for the team. However, as witnessed, my predictions for them have been uniformly ridiculous.

Fast forward to this past spring. They traded Al Jefferson, Ryan Gomes, Gerald Green, Delonte West, Wally Sczerbiak, a couple of draft choices, and a bag of deflated balls, in exchange for Kevin Garnett and Ray Allen. Here's what I had to say about that:

You knew that sooner or later I'd have to weigh in with my opinion concerning the Celtics' recent trades. So, here's my opinion of the Celtics' recent trades:

They stink.

This is not to belittle the absence of Gerald Green or Delonte West or anyone else involved in the trades, nor to minimize the loss of the draft choices. However, there's one huge reason why these trades suck, and that's the loss of Jefferson.

Jefferson is going to be a franchise player for the next 12 or 15 years. He was the Celtic's future. Now he is Minnesota's future. I can't believe that Ainge traded this guy...

However, instead of keeping this gem and assuring themselves of some future, the C's decided to go for the gold ring right now. In so doing, they allowed themselves to be robbed blind by Kevin McHale and the Timberwolves. Jefferson and a draft choice for Garnett? OK. I still don't like it, but we can discuss it reasonably. Throw in Green? Extremely iffy. Jefferson, plus Green, plus three more guys and two choices and maybe Danny's first-born grandchild? The Celtics got raped.

Obviously, I am an idiot of the first magnitude. The team is - even with the current "losing streak" - 30 and 6. They are the absolute terror of the NBA. Even Las Vegas agrees. The Celtics are among the favorites to win the NBA championship.

Of course, I've never been happier to be so wrong about something. It's a great kick to know that championship # 17 is a real and distinct possibility, rather than a crack-pipe dream.

Well, here's the point of today's post, and about time, too. I'm firmly convinced that I'm the cause of their latest woes.

See, I decided to publicly state my high opinion of the team. I did so in a conversation with my buddy, Sean, this past Saturday. I told him that I expected this team to win the NBA championship. I said they looked unstoppable for any extended length of time. I said that they might lose one game, here or there, but I couldn't see them going on any sort of losing streak, at all, all year.

DOI!

Every time I open my mouth concerning the Celtics, the exact opposite happens. Even as the words launched themselves from my throat, I knew I had delivered a curse upon them. I doomed them to immediate and irredeemable ruin.

They have not won a single game since I said those fateful words!

Now, I must make up for that. The only means I have at my disposal? More words. So, for the benefit of the team I love, here goes.

Hah! Told you so! The Celtics are losers! LOSERS!

Didn't I tell you that trading Al Jefferson was a hideous decision? You bet I did! And now, look at the NBA stats. Big Al is averaging almost TWO rebounds a game more than Kevin Garnett. He is also outscoring him by almost a point a game. I was completely correct! Me! Me! Me!

Wally Szczerbiak is outscoring Kendrick Perkins! Delonte West is averaging more assists per game than Ray Allen! Statistics like these don't lie, folks.

And now these poseurs who call themselves "Celtics" have lost two games in a row. I knew it! I predicted this long, long ago. And I now predict that they won't win another game all season! They suck! They're frauds, fakes, impostors, jackanapes, and swindlers!

If they win the NBA Championship, I'm a three-legged goat with halitosis. They have no more possibility of finishing this season on top of the league than Dennis Kucinich has of finishing the year on top of Charlize Theron. If this collection of wannabes and has-beens wins the championship, I'll eat my own testicles in Macy's front window on July 4th!

There. That ought to do it. When I'm sitting in Macy's front window on July 4th, looking extremely forlorn and lacking testes, please remember that I did it for the good of the team.

And I'll expect more than just a "thank you" from Dennis Kucinich, too.

Snow Time Like The Present

(This is just a generic photo of some snow. Actual photos of today's snow come later, if you care.)

When it snows around here, everybody blogs about it. This morning, I was thinking, "Man, that's so boring! I'll blog about something else. Who the hell wants to read another snow blog?"

Then, I got to thinking about it. Maybe it's a big kick for people who live in Hawaii or Florida or Australia or Vienna to read about snow. Those places don't get near as much of the stuff as we do here in the Boston area. And, since I have readers in those places, I'd be doing them a disservice if I didn't relate the details, telling them all about my wonderful adventures in the white stuff.

So, if you come from one of those places, enjoy the following. If you come from, say, Canada, feel free to ignore it.

You may remember what happened to me the last time it snowed. Well, today it is snowing again; the first snowfall of any magnitude since that time. As I write, we have about six inches accumulated and it is still falling.

Thus far, I am the only one to have made it into work. I'm hoping that my boss calls any moment now and says, "Jim! What in heck are you doing there? Go home!"

(I'm also hoping to poop $100 bills the next time I have to go, but I'm not counting on it.)

Update: My production partner, Dan, just called. He's going to work from home. I don't blame him. His commute is from Worcester, and he lives on a hill. Everybody in Worcester lives on a hill. Anyway, his street is very steep and leads directly into a feeder of Interstate 90, the Massachusetts Turnpike. He takes his life in his hands if he tries to negotiate that hill before it's plowed.

Update: Kim, our office manager, just arrived. The first words out of her mouth? "This sucks!" I can't argue with that.

Update: My boss just showed up. Looks like I'm here for the duration.

Oh, well. Since I've got little else of interest to write about, here are some quick snaps of our building and parking lot.


This is the front of our building. As I took this, a fellow with a snowblower was just beginning to make his way down the walk, clearing it.




This is my car, "Roddy". He is the world's greatest snow car, despite how he got stuck in the previous story. That was my fault, not his.





And here's the view of the other side of the building. Beyond that big tree is a cemetery, which is always fun to look at whenever I come outside for a smoke.

My camera ran out of power just after I snapped that last one, so you've been spared any further shots. And that's about all I've got until tomorrow. See you then.

Hey, Daddy-O, I Don't Wanna Go

(Ramones fans may recognize the snippet of lyric I'm using for my title, in which case they will have an inkling of where this is headed. It's really not enough to give away much, of course, but it does at least give a clue as to where I end up. The rest of you will just have to wait.)

In the pantheon of incredibly stupid moments during the life of Jim, yesterday secured a hallowed place. Let me tell you about it.

It began innocently enough. I had left work early on Tuesday with a headache and slight fever. It felt like the beginnings of the flu. Being a kindhearted and thoughtful fellow, I didn't want to expose my co-workers to it any more than I already had, so I went home.

Come Wednesday morning, and I still feel fairly punk (which is a decent pun, when you consider my choice of title, but I digress) so I called in sick. As MY WIFE is leaving for work, she reminds me that she will be working late. She holds a part-time second job, in a retail clothing chain, as a sales person. Her scheduled shifts are generally Wednesday evening and most of the day on Saturday.

(I would tell you the name of the store, but the idiocy that follows might reflect badly upon her - and thus upon the store - for having married someone so stupid, and why denigrate Talbots for no good reason?)

(Oops!)

Anyway, she wouldn't be home until about 10 pm, an hour or so after the store closed.

I went about the usual business of a person home from work sick. I first lounged around on the couch, watching an old Rosalind Russell - Bob Cummings romantic comedy on Turner Classic Movies. I think the name of it was I'm In Love With A Sarcastic Bitch Who Has Really Given Me No Good Reason To Want To Re-Marry Her, And Her Miserable Bastard Grandfather Uses Every Opportunity He Can Conceive Of To Fuck Me Over, Giving Me Every Right To Strangle The Old Coot In The Final Scene, But This Is The 1940s, So We All Live Happily Ever After, Instead, but I may be mistaken. I also took a nap.

Upon awakening from the nap at 3:30, I'm hungry. I'm not feeling too bad - perhaps all I needed was some extra rest - so I decide to go out and get a sandwich.

(This is where the fun begins, so pay attention.)

Our house has an odd feature to it. Our kitchen door, rather than leading directly to the back yard, leads instead to a small common area shared with the upstairs tenants. This common area has a door that leads to the actual outside world, as well as a door that leads to the basement.

Once you venture outside, the door to the outside world requires a key to get back in, of course. The door to our kitchen does, also. When we go down to the basement - to do laundry, usually - we always have to remember to unlock the kitchen door. Otherwise, we will be unable to re-enter the actual living area of the house.

I put on a sweater and a hat. Even though it was reasonably warm out for January (I think it was about 50 degrees yesterday) I did have some sort of cold or flu or was just plain run down, so no harm in keeping a chill from my body. I went out the kitchen door, into the common area. As I was considering what type of sandwich I would drive to get, I pulled the kitchen door closed behind me. As soon as I heard the *CLICK* of it locking, I realized - with that horrible sinking feeling one gets in the pit of the stomach whenever one has been an idiot - that I had forgotten to take my car keys with me.

And my house keys.

The keys were both on the same keyring, hanging where I always put them, next to the kitchen door SO I WON'T EVER FORGET THEM WHEN I GO OUT.

I immediately knew that there was no way for me to get back into the house. However, I explored all of the possibilities.

I made a circle of the house, checking all of the windows to see if one might be unlocked, and through which I might crawl. Nope.

I tried the front door, hoping that MY WIFE might have forgotten to lock it on her way out that morning. Nope.

I went back into the common area. I took out my credit cards and drivers license and library card and tried to do that thing you've seen in movies where a guy slides a credit card between the doorlatch and the molding, somehow miraculously making the lock pop open. DUH! Nope.

I went down into the basement, found a key that goes to the garage door, and went back upstairs and tried to jiggle it around inside the kitchen door lock, hoping against hope that it might somehow open it, even though the key for the garage was about a quarter inch shorter than the actual key I needed. Nope.

I returned that key to the basement, and found a small screwdriver. I took the small screwdriver back up the stairs and tried to jimmy the lock open with it. I am happy to report, to all law enforcement authorities who may someday be interested, that I have no facility whatsoever as a burglar. The door remained locked.

I considered other avenues of re-entry. I could break a window and then reach in and open it. No, I wasn't so desperate that I needed to incur the expense of replacing a window, nor have the possibility of slicing my wrist open and bleeding to death. I could kick the door down, but that would be even more expensive. I could call MY WIFE at work and have her come home to let me in. No, I wasn't about to cost her a night's pay because I had been imbecilic enough to lock myself out. If I had still really felt sick, I might have, but I didn't feel all that bad.

I finally resigned myself to the fact that all I could really do was call myself a frickin' moron and wait six hours or so for MY WIFE to come home and let me back into the house.

The saving grace in this absurd situation was that I still had access to the basement. We have a storage room as part of our rental, where I keep my old phonograph records and a combination record player/radio, and other things - boxes of musty old magazines and books; some odd musical instruments, like a ukelele, a harmonica, a thumb piano, and a bagpipe chanter; and old furniture, including a ratty easy chair - so I could reasonably entertain myself in relative comfort for a while. Also, we do our laundry down there. I'd make myself useful during my captivity by washing some clothes.

And so that's what I did. I loaded the washing machine, and listened to scratchy old records by Focus, Wishbone Ash, David Johansen, and Black Oak Arkansas. When it got to be 7:30, I put the Celtics game on the radio, hearing them lose for only the fourth time this season, which was somehow fitting considering my situation. I strummed the ukelele, thumbed the thumb piano, and blew the harp and chanter, realizing quickly why I kept each one in the storage room and not upstairs with the instrument I can actually play, the bass.

Thankfully, I had been smart enough to put on the sweater and hat, even though it had been reasonably warm out. As the evening progressed, the basement became chillier. I would have been somewhat miserable - and probably exacerbated whatever cold or flu I had - if I hadn't had that tiny bit of foresight.

Periodically, I thought I might have heard someone walking around upstairs, so I'd go outside (being careful to unlock the outside door before doing so) and check the windows for lights. Every time, it was just my imagination, so I returned to the basement and flipped through old copies of Blackjack Forum magazine, left over from my days of heavy involvement with card-counting and other ultimately non-productive gambling daliances.

All in all, it wasn't a horrible six hours. Aside from calling myself a dope at regular intervals, it was mostly enjoyable.

Finally, at a bit after 10 o'clock, I heard sounds from upstairs that let me know without a doubt that MY WIFE was really home. I went up the stairs and knocked on the kitchen door.

MY WIFE said a somewhat cautious "Yes?" through the door, to which I replied with a somewhat embarrassed "Hi, it's me."

She then let me in and I related to her the sorry tale you've just been told. And then, because I never did get the sandwich I had originally gone out for and I was hungry as hell, I made myself a dinner of macaroni and tomatoes, which I enjoyed while MY WIFE no doubt wondered how she ended up married to such a whack job.

The first thing I'm doing after work today is going to the hardware store and have about sixteen extra keys made. I'm going to secrete them in various places around and about the yard, in my car, underneath welcome mats, and inside Ram Jam and Budgie record jackets. Something will happen to make all of that precaution totally useless the next time I do something similar, of course. Perhaps I'll somehow trap myself on the roof next time and need a ladder, instead of a key. However, until that happens, I'll be prepared.

Soon, with more better stuff.

Poinsettia Tales

There appear to be two kinds of people in this world.

The first are those who have read (or heard) Pointy The Poinsettia and enjoyed it. A couple of these folks liked it so much, they felt compelled to tell me about their own saved poinsettia plants.

The first was my Hawaiian friend, Kuanyin. Her poinsettia’s name is Poinsettiakiki. Her tale was one of supposed happiness, then neglect, then glorious salvation.

After the holidays, Poinsettiakiki was planted in the warm Hawaiian sunshine. This would seem to have been the beginning of a wonderfully long life, seeing as Kuanyin (and thus Poinsettiakiki) lived in Maui. Talk about plant paradise! It’s doubtful there could have been a happier poinsettia than one living in the rich warm soil of that tropical island.

However, while Kuanyin was on vacation – and just where does one go on vacation, when one lives in Maui? – Poinsettiakiki didn’t receive the care a poinsettia needs. Upon her return, Kuanyin found leaves shed on the ground and a somewhat bald poinsettia. Kuanyin was as I am, though. She was a poinsettia optimist. She wasn’t one to give up hope until all hope had been exhausted. She nursed Poinsettiakiki back to health. As a result, Poinsettiakiki thrives in the Hawaiian islands today. She is expected to live a long and somewhat bushy life.

MY WIFE and I also heard from our good friends, John Paul and Ginny King. Their tale came as a complete surprise, even though we’ve known them for over 15 years as a couple.

It seems that John Paul has a pet poinsettia.

Ginny and John Paul called us, after listening to the recording I made of Pointy’s story. They were both slightly incredulous upon hearing it, they told us. This is because it fairly much followed their own poinsettia tale.

It seems that John Paul had rescued his poinsettia from a church. There were a number of them on the altar during the Christmas season. One day after mass, John Paul inquired about them while talking to a priest. He was told that he was welcome to take one home. They would just be thrown out after the holiday season, so John Paul decided to become a poinsettia savior.

John Paul planted his poinsettia in the yard that Spring, as I did with Pointy last year. He then dug up his poinsettia and brought it back into the house that Fall, which is also the treatment that Pointy received from me.

(We all live in the Boston area. A poinsettia, as willing as it may be to live, is not going to survive outdoors through a New England winter.)

Here’s the thing: As much as I know about poinsettias these days – and it’s certainly one heck of a lot more than I knew about them BEFORE this holiday, I can assure you – I had no idea concerning their lifespan. I just sort of figured that one day I’d find Pointy bare and crumbling; that he wouldn’t respond to treatment; and then I’d know it was over. I didn’t know when this would happen. If you had asked me to guess, I probably would have said three or four years. As much as I like Pointy, I’d have to be a realist.

John Paul has been planting, digging up, and then re-planting his poinsettia for TEN YEARS now.

Shoot. Now I know that if Pointy isn’t still green and bushy after at least a decade, it’s my fault. Talk about pressure! Here I was, thinking that all I had done was to write a nice heartwarming story about an anthropomorphic plant, but it turns out I probably have a second marriage.

I said at the beginning of this that there are two kinds of people in this world. The second kind are those that hear heartwarming stories about poinsettias and become bored to tears. Since those people fell asleep during the first part of today's blog, they won't realize that I'm ripping them a new one down here.

MY WIFE handed out copies of the recorded version of "Pointy" at her job. The reviews were mostly good, which is to be expected when you give someone something for nothing. Only a true asswipe would complain about a free CD that included your spouse's voice telling a nice little story about a Christmas plant.

MY WIFE works with a true asswipe. This person told her that the story was corny, and then proceeded to tell MY WIFE that I mispronounced the word "poinsettia" throughout the recording.

First, well, DUH, of course it's corny. That is, it's corny by today's standards. Any story that displays emotion without apology, or which contains a few jokes that don't include the words "yo mama" "bitch" or "fuck", is considered corny. That's because we live in a society full of asswipes. They have been raised on the Fox Network and MTV. If they aren't entertained within five seconds, they hit the remote. The height of humor, to these folks, is someone getting hit in the testicles with a football.

(Not that someone getting hit in the testicles with a football can't be funny. It most certainly can. However, it has to happen in context. The first time it appeared in a movie, so far as I know, was in the Burt Reynolds version of The Longest Yard. It was funny because it was unexpected, was plausible, the character being so hit was hated by the audience, and it hadn't been seen before.

It has now been done to death. The best indicator I can think of to tell you if a new movie is a horrible piece of crap is if the previews contain a scene showing someone getting hit in the nuts. It is infallible as a predictor of crapitude. However, I digress.)

Secondly, it is pronounced "Poin-SET-ee-uh", NOT "Point-setta." Asswipe.

The other person who turned in a bad review was more troubling to me. He's been a friend of mine for many years. He still is a friend, despite the review, but...

He actually called me to tell me it stunk. He told me that I had discovered the modern-day cure for insomnia. He was driving when he called me. He told me that he had to hit the eject button before he fell asleep at the wheel.

I don't understand the mindset of someone like that. He could just as easily have let it slide, not mentioning the CD at all, and we could have gone on as before. Instead, he felt compelled to let me know how much he was bored by it.

Now, everybody is entitled to an opinion. If you don't like the story, or the recorded version of it, I'm not going to tell you that you have to like it. But my business is recording, voicing, etc. - all the things that went into making the CD - and I wrote the story, as well. Going out of your way to tell me that you were in danger of falling asleep at the wheel while listening to it is akin to me driving to your place of business, watching you work, and then telling you that you suck at whatever it is you do. And then adding that I thought your last e-mail to me was a piece of shit, too.

Oh, well. This is a sort of self-congratulatory self-pity, isn't it? Had to get it off of my chest, though. Sorry. No need to have bothered you with it. You're the first kind of person, of course.

Soon, with more better stuff.

'tis still The Season

While many other folks have put away their Christmas decorations, kicking their trees to the curb, that's not the way it is at the Suldoghouse.

For one thing, our Christmas tree is ALIVE. You can read about him HERE, or even listen to his story (narrated by yours truly) HERE. Aside from that consideration, however, there is another mitigating factor. We haven't celebrated Christmas yet.

I suppose I should be clearer concerning that last statement. We did celebrate Christmas on December 25th, as most of the Christian world did, but we didn't finish celebrating Christmas then. MY WIFE and I wait until January 6th to exchange our presents with each other. That's The Feast Of The Epiphany, in some traditions also known as Little Christmas.

We began our tradition, of waiting to exchange gifts, a few years back. We did so for a number of reasons, the chief one being that it allowed us to focus our attentions on friends and family during the more traditional Christmas holiday without having to hustle around like a couple of beheaded chickens trying to also prepare for each other. It makes for a much more stress-free and relaxed holiday season.

Of course, it is also a quite legitimate way to celebrate Christ's birth, even if it falls somewhat outside of the modern-day norm. The twelve days of Christmas, well-known from the song of the same name, refers to the time between December 25th and January 6th. So, those of you who already have everything back in the attic or basement have actually cheated yourselves out of a week-or-so of cheer.

(By the way, this extended post-25th celebration is one of the major reasons why I despise early Christmas advertising, early holiday music, and most of the other dreck foisted upon us by merchants intent on fattening their wallets. I know when the holidays really are, and I know I'll be dead sick of them, by the time they truly roll around, if I start going full-tilt in early November or [God save us all, but it happens in some places] late October.)

I'll be back on the 8th.

Have yourself a merry Little Christmas
Let your heart be light
From now on, our troubles will be out of sight

Have yourself a merry Little Christmas
Make the Yuletide gay
From now on, our troubles will be miles away

Here we are as in olden days
Happy golden days of yore
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Gather near to us once more

Through the years, we all will be together
If the fates allow
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough
And have yourself a merry Little Christmas now

[By the way, the illustration used at the start of this post comes from a nice little fiction concerning the Magi, found at http://www.ap.smu.ca/~turner/xmas.html]

Inestimably Valuable Knowledge

What with this being the start of a new year and all, I figured I'd give you the benefit of the knowledge I've gained during my many years on this planet.

(Some other year, I'll give you the benefit of the knowledge I've gained from my many years on other planets. Most of that can be boiled down to one sentence, though, so here's the gist of it: The only place you can get good coffee is on Earth, so be sure to pack some when you leave.)

The following bits of knowledge will be numbered, but pay no attention to that fact. Each morsel I'm about to divulge is just as important as every other morsel; perhaps even more so, when you get right down to it - which is what I'm about to do, so pay attention.

1 - Everything is better with gravy, except ice cream. And cats. Cats are just fine without gravy.

2 - Everything is better with cats, except ice cream. Nobody likes furry ice cream, unless you also have gravy, in which case you're better off with neither.

3 - Every time you think you've figured it out, you haven't. That includes everything you've read up to this point, as well as everything that follows, but not this.

4 - Or this.

5 - You're not as smart as you think I am.

6 - Wheeler & Woolsey are hilarious. On the other hand, Abbott & Costello mostly leave me cold, except for "Who's On First", which is genius stuff. So, De Gustibus Non Est Disputadum, as my grandfather used to say just before he loaded porno onto the overhead projector at church.

7 - If you wear your socks inside out, it's likely no one will notice, but try it with your pants - just once - and see what happens.

8 - Is Enough.

10 - Belongs before 9, unless you're counting down to blast off (or desperately searching for funny things to write and mostly coming up empty.)

9 - Nobody ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public. However, there's a whole bunch of us who ain't getting rich doing it, either.

11 - The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but that's the way to bet. Damon Runyan said that, and now he's dead, so there you go.

12 - If you wait long enough, it'll happen.

13 - If you happen long enough, it'll wait.

14 - Never stand when you can sit. Never sit when you can lie down. Never run when you can walk. Never walk when you can ride. And if someone else is pulling your wagon, there's little sense in you getting out to push.

15 - Unless there's a gravy-covered cat eating your ice cream, in which case all bets are off.

16 - I guarantee you can think of at least 10 things you could be doing now that would profit you more than reading this. However, most of them involve actual work, so you're probably better off here than there, and vice-versa.

17 - See #15 and exclude words # 1, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, and 16, as well as the comma following word # 10, then insert the phrase "right at this very moment!" at either the beginning or the end - your choice.

18 - If you followed the directions in #17 and then actually went to check on your ice cream supply, Bill Gates will give you $10,000 for every e-mail you send to your friends telling them about it.

19 - As pertains to #18, I am not your friend.

20 - Please see my post from December 31st, and refer to the 9th resolution.

21 - Is when you can start drinking legally, and I'd take advantage of that fact, if I were you.

22 - The joke in #10 would have made sense if I wrote "after" where I wrote "before", but you already knew that.

23 - Soon, with more better stuff.

(23a - If you commented on this piece earlier, it's been lost. This is because I'm a boneheaded slouch. However, the words of Mainecatwoman, Lime, and Emon will forever live on in my memory.)

(23b - "Forever" is herein defined as "until I go to bed tonight.")