Each time I go to the dentist it seems as though they want to crown me, and not to bestow jewels on me (not like my cool faculty crown), but to lay on me a new tooth, a fake one in place of a real but faulty one. So they were busy with drills and buffers and goop getting me ready for another crown to replace one that popped off. Too bad the old one's not worth much; it sure cost me a pretty penny when they put it in there.
Of course, there's an upside. The wife and I just suck our TV channels freely out of the public air, but it's slim pickings, so the dentist chair is one of the few places I get to wield a remote that commands more than three channels. This morning I was there about long enough to watch Peter Lorre in Mad Love, where he plays wacko surgeon Dr. Gogol, who loves a woman (played by Frances Drake) married to a pianist, whose hands get crushed. When the wife asks Gogol to save her husband's hands, he grafts a murderer's hands on him secretly. The hands take on a life of their own, but the end of the movie only shows Gogol getting a knife in the back, not what happens to the pianist/murderer and his lovely wife.
Then I got to see just the beginning of Lorre in The Beast with Five Fingers, another pianist, another hand problem.
Leaving the dentist's office, my mind wanders into what implications there are to having a manufactured tooth, if the tooth might influence me like it did the pianist, rendering me more machine than I was before, perhaps leaving me less genuine, less earth-friendly. Who knows.
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