Wednesday, December 24, 2008

All I want for Christmas is a REAL dentist...

What the hell has happened to dentists? Those guys, and now gals, you used to go see for check-ups and the occasional chopper related problem seem to be nothing more than traffic cops these days. If you need anything other than a routine cleaning or somebody to tell you not to brush "like you're killing snakes", well...you're out of luck.




All my life I have been one of those people who makes a dental pit stop twice a year mostly for the ego boost of hearing: "You really have nice teeth. How old are you anyway?" My wife hates me for this as she has had nothing but dental dread all her life. My teeth--bullet proof; hers--as fragile as Madonna's morals.
Imagine my surprise when last week I visited my local dentist because I, for a change, had been having some pain in a tooth somewhere...back there. First of all, this was demoralizing for a guy used to checking in for his "Atta boy!" every six months, but also for what I heard as the doc peaked into my gaping maw.
"This looks like either a root canal or an extraction. Let me get you a referral."
WHAT?? My mind was racing. "You can't take care of this here...and NOW?"
That's when I learned the modern day dental facts of life. Unless you are there for a check-up or cleaning, most dentists will send you to a co-conspirator who will do their dirty work for them. The bastards have figured out a way to charge you "a la carte" for what used to be an all inclusive not so Happy Meal.
Here's how it went for me: ( I have time for this as I rest and wait for the swelling in my jaw to subside.)
My regular dentist charges $67 to tell me that he can't fix my tooth and that I need to go see a root canal guy. The root canal guy tells me, "It will be $1385 to do this job." I reluctantly agree and get ready for some pain. Fifteen minutes into the root canal I'm told that "The root is cracked and further work is useless." Doctor Root Canal charges me ONLY $385 to tell me this and to recommend yet another doctor who actually owns a pair of pliers that, "GASP!", remove teeth. He tells me that he has called the "yanking dentist' and that I can see him tomorrow morning at seven. I am one lucky patient!
The very next morning I show up at Dr. Yank's tooth extraction emporium ready to rid myself of my ever more painful tooth. I spring for the upgrade to "laughing gas" because it IS Christmas and I haven't copped a buzz in years. In just a few minutes I'm whacked on nitrous oxide and minus a honking big toothache. Good job Dr. Yank!
And...he only charged me $300.
The swelling has gone down some since I started writing this rant and I must also confess that my sinuses have never felt better. But, I still want to know why I had to spend $752 and see THREE different doctors just to rid myself of a molar that turned on me.
Next time maybe I'll just head to a biker bar, find the biggest, meanest, nastiest guy in the joint and say something unkind about his mother. I'm sure the tab will be less than $200.




My younger brother, Steve, laughs at me from his home in Illinois. He'll have turkey tomorrow. He has yet to learn about today's dentistry.
The Tooth Dude abides.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

It Ain't Christmas 'Til Ralphie Gets His Gun

My wife and I were about the only people in the theater when we first saw "A Christmas Story", Jean Shepherd's recollection of a kid's Christmas in the Midwest of his youth.
I thought the movie was brilliant. It was funny and pitch perfect in its recall of kids and their lives before television, computers and dads who wanted to be their pals instead of their father.
In short, it reminded me of how it was when I was a kid, right down to the pesky kid brother. I never understood why the movie didn't do well in its initial 1983 release. Probably it was lousy studio promotion. But, it has become a TV classic.

I should admit that I was a longtime Jean Shepherd fan. The first time I heard him on the radio, for that's where he began, he was sneaking into the speakers of my little transistor radio via the 50 kilowatt power of New York's WOR. It was late at night when I should have been sleeping. I had never heard anyone like him before when I roamed the nation from under the covers of my cold Michigan bed. In addition to New York, I would listen to stations from Boston, Chicago, sometimes even Los Angeles and dream of someday escaping my small town prison and MAYBE even being able to work at one of these magical stations.

As I said, Shepherd was different. He didn't play the hits. He told stories...his stories, stories like the Christmas Story. Listening to Jean Shepherd was a nightly stream of consciousness that covered everything from his childhood, his time in the Army to what he would be doing tomorrow. He was amazing. If you never heard him, I can't explain. If you are familiar, well...you know what I mean. He made you feel like you weren't alone. You and he shared this special world together, and he was FUNNY.



Flick gets his tongue frozen to the flagpole

So, here we are a week from Christmas and I'm ready. I think TBS is the channel that runs "A Christmas Story" for all twenty-four hours of Christmas. I've still got plenty of time to check my TV Guide, but rest assured that I'll catch it at least twice before the big day is done. Like I said, it ain't Christmas 'til Ralphie gets his gun...Oh, and the Old Man gets his Major Award!
Merry Christmas...
Don't put your eye out, kid.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Custer, Wounded Knee and Me...

In the late 1960's I was a student at the University of South Dakota.
I was a broadcasting major and, thanks to a job as a disc jockey at KVRA radio in Vermillion, I was able to pay for my education and get hands-on experience on the radio at the same time. Ted and Doris Dolney owned KVRA and were like a second set of parents to me. They allowed me to program the radio station, host the morning show and indulge in flights of fancy that would have most likely gotten my ass canned anyplace else. I owe them big time.


Wet Vermillion




Dry Vermillion




Because I was in charge of station programming, the
bulk of available hours were hogged by yours truly. Most of the other guys at the station were students too, but I had been there the longest and was the closest to Ted and Doris. This meant that most weeks I worked seven days. Like I said, I was a student and I needed the money.


In those days the FCC required radio stations to carry a lot of "public service" shows designed for the betterment of their communities of license. It was all boring crap that NObody wanted to hear, but the government thought was good for us all. HA! Up yours LBJ!

Since South Dakota is smack dab in the heart of Sioux Indian country, one of the programs we were asked to carry was called "Oyate", which is Sioux for...Uh...Beats me?
Anyway, we were required to run all thirty minutes of the pre-recorded show which was entirely in the language of the Lakota Sioux.
Naturally I scheduled the show to run in what we radio types referred to as the Sunday morning ghetto. It ran someplace in that wonderful 6AM to 10AM corral between the Back to God Hour and some Baptist thing. Who knew? Nobody was listening on a Sunday morning, not even me.
It was really a sweet deal. Here's how it worked:
The radio station was located on Main street in Vermillion and had a huge picture window into the primary On-Air studio. This allowed people walking or driving by to look in and see the disc jockey doing his show. (It was a simpler time and folks were easily entertained.) There were, in addition to the usual microphones and turntables, a couple of large reel to reel tape recorders that were used for the playback of shows like Oyate. It was necessary to merely slap the tape onto the recorder; hit PLAY and the announcer on duty could exit the studio. An easy way for a guy to turn a buck on a Sunday morning. If I had been smart I would have gone somewhere for a snooze every Sunday after starting the tapes. BUT Nooooo.
Vermillion, being in South Dakota, had about nine million bars lining Main street. In fact there were two saloons directly across the street from KVRA. One of them, "Our Place", was owned by two guys named Freddy and Duane who looked like two escapees from the Planet of the Apes movies. Nice guys...but goofy looking. As luck would have it, they were always open on Sunday mornings beginning at 6.
It was really too perfect. I would arrive at the station just before 6, load the tape recorders, push "start", place the phones on HOLD, and then mosey across the street to greet either Freddy or Duane as they opened their swinging doors. It was easy to watch the tapes roll and the phones flash in our "Window on Main Street" as I kept watch from my perch on the stool closest to the door of the bar. I'd shoot the breeze with Freddy or Duane as I enjoyed a "big red one", the always big in South Dakota...tomato beer. Sometimes I even shot some pool. The boys always had the radio behind the bar tuned to KVRA so that I could closely monitor our very fine Sunday morning programming.
The Oyate show was on every Sunday during my years at KVRA. I never understood a word of it and neither did Freddy or Duane. Hell, who spoke Lakota Sioux?? It always sounded really strange to me.
Years after I was long gone from the frozen and dusty plain of South Dakota I discovered that Oyate had always been shipped to us "tails out". For you non broadcast types, that was how lots of reel tapes were shipped in those days. Some engineer had figured out that tapes lasted longer if they were sent out backwards and required a re-wind before playing.
I had been playing Oyate backwards for at least two years. No wonder the damn thing sounded so sing song!
So, here we are forty years later... I'd like to apologize to the entire Sioux Indian nation. Hey, why didn't any of you guys call?? (Oh yeah, I had the phones blocked.)
In fact, if you're ever in the San Diego area, I'd like to buy you a tomato beer...
Kemosabe?



Friday, December 5, 2008

No Cocktails Necessary For This Guy...

I used to meet the most interesting people when I was drinking.
Or, perhaps they were interesting because I was drinking.
With a backward glance through nine years of sobriety, I now realize that many acquaintances required massive rounds of wobble water to make them anything close to interesting let alone fascinating. It's the main reason I don't get out much anymore.
No offense, but most people are a snooze.

Eleven or twelve years ago when I was still in the broadcast dodge, I had a rather predictable ritual that wrapped up the work day.
After a rigorous and grueling four hour morning show in San Diego, I would wend my way homeward via stops at some rather stimulating establishments that dispensed alcoholic beverages. You know...BARS. It was sort of a Cheers experience squared. Instead of hearing "Norm!"upon entering, I was greeted as "K.C!", or if accompanied by one of my degenerate companions, it was.."The Boys!". Whatever the case it was a hearty "glad to see you " kind of thing that made me feel warm and welcome.

For a few years I stopped regularly at the Fish Market Bar in Del Mar, California. It was, and still is, a terrific place to eat oysters and other fruits of the sea as you knock back potent potables. I'm fairly certain that there are still martini molecules holding hands with oyster molecules in my bloodstream today. ( This is where the song "Memories" comes up and under. )
One chilly winter day as I sidled up to the bar for a liquid lunch I noticed a peculiar looking fellow sitting a couple of stools away. He looked to be in his seventies and, hard as this is to believe, was dressed even worse than I was. An FBI cap sat atop his out sized head and he was resplendent in his tattered flannel shirt and worn bluejeans. We smiled at each other as I waited for bartender Dave to wet down my infield with the usual pour of Jack Daniels. When Dave had made me happy the older man summoned his attention with a "David...It's time.". Immediately Dave produced a chilled martini glass from the freezer and lifted a stunningly beautiful bottle from beneath the bar. He then dropped an olive into the glass and proceeded to fill the glass with a deliciously clear liquid from the bottle.

"Perfect David...You've done it again," said the old gentleman.
As he savored his drink, the man turned to me and introduced himself as Sidney Frank of New York and Rancho Santa Fe.


Sidney Frank

Liquor tycoon extrodinair and snappy dresser


Sidney, as he explained to me, was one of the most successful liquor importers in the United States and the delightfully clear liquid he was consuming before me at the Fish Market was the now famous Grey Goose Vodka. It was a brand new beverage he was importing from France and he thrilled as he explained the process of Champagne filtering that produced Grey Goose's wonderfully smooth taste. He invited me to see for myself as he had Dave introduce me to this wonderful cold velvet cloud of a drink. I think we "bonded" after a couple of hours of tasting. Actually, he had me at: "Dave, get a glass for my new friend Ken."
The man was a genius!

Over the next few months I got to know Sidney a little more. I learned that he had married well. "It's easier to marry a million than to make a million my boy." And that he had taken what were several severely low rent brands of booze and made them hugely successful via brilliant marketing schemes. He was truly one of a kind.

Occasionally I would see him at "the Market" with an entourage of young athletes. All of them were professional golfers whom he employed so that he might watch them play a game he loved but could no longer engage in himself. He also had a staff of chefs at his home in Rancho Santa Fe who were "on call" to prepare foods that he craved or thought interesting. They worked in his massive kitchen as he watched from his custom built barber chair.
Here was a guy obviously enjoying his life to the fullest.

After I gave up "touching the stuff" I didn't stop by the Market much and rarely saw Sidney. He died a couple of years ago, but not before selling his beloved Grey Goose label to the Bacardi people for 1.75 Billion dollars. Not bad timing.
He left his staff generous pieces of his estate after making sure that his wife and daughter were set for life. His secretary got a few million dollars for her faithful service. (No, it wasn't what you think! I assume they were both a little too old to tango.) He was just a real decent guy. Brilliant too.






Sidney Frank

Here's to you Sidney! A guy nobody EVER had to drink "interesting".

Next one's on me, Sid...