Billy Crystal -- Did You Hear The One About The Dentist?

The dentist.  Oy Vay!

I went to the dentist yesterday morning for a teeth cleaning and I'm soooo glad it's over.  My dentist is a really nice guy and tries to make it as painless as possible but I really hate going.  I try to do all the things you're supposed to do to take care of your teeth but in the end, it's just so boring.  A dentist visit may be healing but there was definitely no laughing or crying going on during my appointment.

Just relief!

I think it's a bit of a carryover from having many teeth extracted and then wearing braces as a child.  Don't get me wrong, I know dentists are important, for they can detect signs and symptoms of lots of different conditions such diabetes and heart disease. 

Still, compared to doctors, dentists don't get much respect.  And the always funny, brilliant comedian Billy Crystal, in this comical ode to dentists below, tells us how he handles a dental appointment . . .

Drilling for Laughs: Billy Crystal Goes to the Dentist
Published in November 2013 Reader's Digest
             

Robert Sebree

I shouldn’t complain so much. Life at 65 is good. I have had one house, one wife, my real nose, my real name, and most of my teeth. And the last part is a major reason why life is pretty good. Because when you hit your mid-60s, you have to take care of your teeth. It’s a generational thing—I learned it from my 86-year-old grandmother.

 

Susie Gabler had perfect teeth. White beauties with no cavities. She took great care of them—always kept them by her bedside in a glass of water. The first time I saw them come out of her mouth, she was in bed, and I was sitting next to her. In the middle of saying how proud she was of me, she suddenly reached into her mouth and pulled out her entire set of uppers and lowers. Splash, into the glass of water they went, and suddenly my beloved grandma looked like an 86-year-old hockey player.

 

“Take care of your teeth, Billy. Take care of your teeth.” I think that’s what she said, because with her lips flapping in the breeze, she could have said, “Pass me the marble cake.” I was shocked—and slightly nauseous. It was a terrible thing for a grandson to see, even though I was 32 years old.

 

She lost her teeth because she never went to the dentist. Mainly because the Cossacks had killed him. None of my grandparents had good teeth. Sometimes when my grandfather was eating the Thanksgiving brisket, his dentures would be hurting so much he’d remove them at the table, keep them in his hand, and manually chew the rubbery meat until it was ground down enough to swallow. While we all watched in horror, he’d take the “chewed” meat, dip it in horseradish, put it in his mouth, and swallow it with a great sigh of satisfaction. He’d then say something inaudible, and Grandma would reply, “Don’t talk with your hand full.”

 

Take care of your teeth! It’s why we baby boomers should floss, it’s why we should brush, and it’s why we should go to the dentist, because we know dentists are important people, even though they weren’t smart enough to get into medical school. It’s sad; dentists don’t get the respect they deserve. You never hear, “Is there a dentist in the house?”

 

You would think that taking care of our teeth in 2013 would be easier than it was in 1963, but it’s not, and that’s because the whole dental experience has changed. Back then, a dentist was a one-man show. He would clean your teeth, show you how to brush, do bridges, take X-rays, pull teeth, fill cavities, drill root canals, make appointments, validate parking, and rub your leg when he thought you were under anesthesia. The only specialist in 1963 was the orthodontist, who thought his job was to ruin your puberty. Now it’s all about the specialists.

 

When I turned 65, I decided to celebrate by making an appointment for my cleaning. I showed up on time and read the Sports Illustrated from 2010 until the maître d’ (it’s L.A., don’t ask) escorted me to my examining room.

 

I’m lucky. I go to a very prominent dentist. My dentist is the fifth guy. You know when they say, “Four out of five dentists prefer” whatever it is they prefer? Mine’s the one who doesn’t. When people find out he’s the fifth guy, they go crazy. “He’s the fifth guy? What’s he like? You gotta get me an appointment!”

 

When the dentist came in, he asked if I’d been flossing, and, like we all do, I lied. Then he pulled a chunk of lobster meat from between my molars. As the jazz trio played him off and he left the room, the parade of specialists began.

 

First it was the cleaning expert—the hygienist. She came in looking like one of the riot police in South Korea. On some people, a large Plexiglas face mask isn’t flattering. You can’t imagine the noise the tool made as she chiseled that stuff off my bottom teeth. I don’t have tartar; I have coral. That’s why dentists’ offices always have fish tanks. You could sculpt Michelangelo’s “David” out of my plaque.

 

Next came the X-ray technician, because God forbid the hygienist should have to do two things. The technician put a heavy lead blanket over my goodie basket and sprinted out of the room. That’s comforting. I figure with 60-plus years of X-rays, my family jewels have been covered with more lead than a kid’s toy from China.

 

Then the dentist came back in after looking at the X-rays, meaning that he would be charging me for a second visit. He said, “Billy, you need a root canal.”

 

“Now?”

 

“Oh, I don’t do them—you’ve got to see Dr. Jack Wu for that. He can see you in about three weeks.”

As soon as he’d said that I needed the root canal, my tooth started to hurt. “Three weeks of this kind of pain?” I asked.

 

“No, not this kind of pain—tomorrow you’ll have a worse kind of pain. I’ll give you these pills I got in Mexico. They may constipate you, and if they do, call Dr. Ari Weitzman.”

 

“How about my wisdom teeth?”

 

“Right now, they’re fine, but if you want them extracted, Dr. Abrams does uppers, and Dr. Hunter does lowers.”

 

“So what exactly do you do?” I asked.

 

“Oh, I do fillings and crowns and sit by the pool you paid for.”

 

I currently have six dental specialists. My dentist farms out everything. I’m looking at the pictures on his desk, and I say, “Are those your kids?”

 

He says, “Technically no, I didn’t handle that. I sent my wife to Dr. Feldman.” 

6 American Optimists

Readers: start your engines!

If you are anything like me, you probably have days when it's just plain hard to get into gear and get going.

 

 

To help you move it along today,  here are six Americans (I am inspired by Gabby Giffords!) who told Reader's Digest that life is better when you think positive and here's what they have to say about looking on the bright side of life:

Spirtual Adviser

Billy Graham, 94, Christian minister, says, "If I didn't have spiritual faith, I would be a pessimist.  But I'm an optimist.  I've read the last page in the Bible.  It's going to turn out all right."

Educator

School principal Kenyetta Wilbourn, 36, carried an aluminum bat through the hallways of Detroit'd Denby High when she started there in 2009.  Now, while the neighborhood is still troubled, Wilbourn has transformed Denby into a clean, calm center of learning  "This city is not the 'diamond in the rough'; it is the actual diamond," she says.

Journalist

Katie Couric, 55, broadcaster and author, says, "Find the joy.  When you feel it, le t it wash over you.  And take a moment to appreciate it.  Be grateful for the people in your life, for waking up feeling good and pain free, and for the stretch of road ahead that's so full of possibilities.  When you encouter bumps, keep going and don't look back."

Politician

Gabrielle Giffords, 42, the former congreswoman from Arizona, wrote the final chapter of 2011 book, Gabby: A Story of Courage and Hope, in her own words: "Hope and fatih.  You have to have hope and faith. . . Long ways to go.  Grateful to survive.  It's frustrating.  Mentally hard.  Hard work.  I'm trying.  Trying so hard to get better.  Regain what I've lost. . .I will get stronger.  I will return.

 

Sports Enthusiast

Grant DePorter, 48, a Chicago restaureur and leading Chicago Cubs fan, is sticking by the team, which last won the World Series in 1908.  "No one knows more about optimism than a Cubs fan.  After waiting 104 years, it's our optimism, and not the winning, that binds us together.  We really do believe the next year will be the year," he says.

 

Business Leader

Former Google executive Marissa Mayer, 37, was named CEO of the struggling internet giant Yahoo! last August.  She's the sixth person to hold the post in the past five years.  "My view is that the core of Yahoo! is incredibly valuable and a great platform to build on," she says.

Who inspires you?

Steve Martin Remembers His Father

Comedian Steve Martin in 2011

Comedian Steve Martin is obviously an incredibly multi-talented, award-winning funny guy.

 

To me, Steve Martin is one of those celebrities that I just accept as being the way they are as they present themselves in their work.  I don't think of him as a little boy or as having parents.  He is who he is as he appears in the roles of his television and his film work.

 

To the public, Steve Martin is the hysterical stand-up comedian who played the "wild and crazy guy" and many other characters on Saturday Night Live or he is the star of the movie "Father of the Bride" along with lots of other films.

 

So I was surprised when I was googling for an article on hospice care and up popped this story that Steve Martin wrote in 2008 about his father.  Thank you Google!

 

It is touching and sad and sweet and serious.  A whole other side of Steve Martin that is usually kept private.  I'm happy he decided to share this emotional story with us because it brings home and poignantly reveals how we all have complicated relationships with our parents whether you are a celebrity or not.

 

Steve Martin grew up thinking that his father didn't love him.  As a child, Steve Martin's father was stern and distant but all that changed as they both grew older.

Please read Steve Martin's story:


The Death of My Father
By Steve Martin
January 2008

 

In his death, my father, Glenn Vernon Martin, did something he could not do in life. He brought our family together.

 

After he died at age 83, many of his friends told me how much they loved him—how generous he was, how outgoing, how funny, how caring. I was surprised at these descriptions. During my teenage years, there was little said to me that was not criticism. I remember him as angry. But now, ten years after his death, I recall events that seem to contradict my memory of him. When I was 16, he handed down to me the family’s 1957 Chevy. Neither one of us knew at the time that it was the coolest car anyone my age could have. When I was in the third grade he proudly accompanied me to the school tumbling contest where I won first prize. One day, while I was in single digits, he suggested we play catch in the front yard. This offer to spend time together was so anomalous that I didn’t quite understand what I was supposed to do.

 

When I graduated from high school, my father offered to buy me a tuxedo. I refused because my father always shunned gifts. I felt with my refusal, that somehow in a convoluted, perverse logic, I was being a good son. I wish now that I could have let him buy me a tuxedo, let him be a dad.

 

My father sold real estate but he wanted to be in show business. I was probably five years old when I saw him in a bit part at the Call Board theater on Melrose Place in Hollywood. He came on in the second act and served a drink. The theater existed until a few years ago and is now finally defunct and, I believe, a lamp shop.

 

My father’s attitude toward my show business accomplishments was critical. After my first appearance on Saturday Night Live in 1976, he wrote a bad review of me in the newsletter of the Newport Board of Realtors where he was president. Later, he related this news to me slightly shamefaced, and said that after it appeared, his best friend came into his office holding the paper, placed it on his desk, and shook his head sternly, indicating a wordless “no.”

 

In the early ’80s, a close friend of mine, whose own father was killed walking across a street and whose mother committed suicide on Mother’s Day, said that if I had anything to work out with my parents, I should do it now, because one day that opportunity would be over. When I heard this remark, I had no idea that I would ever want to work anything out with them, that, in fact, there was anything to work out at all. But it stewed in my brain for years, and soon I decided to try and get to know my parents. I took them to lunch every Sunday I could, and would goad them into talking.

 

It was our routine that after I drove them home from our lunches, my mother and father, now in their 80s, would walk me to the car. I would kiss my mother on the cheek and my father and I would wave or awkwardly say goodbye. But this time we hugged each other and he whispered, “I love you,” with a voice barely audible. This would be the first time these words were ever spoken between us. I returned the phrase with the same awkward, broken delivery.

 

As my father ailed, he grew more irritable. He made unreasonable demands, such as waking his 24-hour help and insisting that they take him for drives at three a.m., as it was the only way he could relax. He also became heartrendingly emotional. He could be in the middle of a story and begin to laugh, which would provoke sudden tears, making him unable to continue.

 

In his early 80s, my father’s health declined further and he became bedridden. There must be an instinct about when the end is near, as we all found ourselves gathered at my parents’ home in Orange County, California. I walked into the house they had lived in for 35 years and my weeping sister said, “He’s saying goodbye to everyone.”

 

A hospice nurse said to me, “This is when it all happens.” I didn’t know what she meant, but soon I did.

 

I walked into the bedroom where he lay, his mind alert but his body failing. He said, almost buoyantly, “I’m ready now.” I understood that his intensifying rage of the last few years had been against death and now his resistance was abating. I stood at the end of the bed and we looked into each other’s eyes for a long, unbroken time. At last he said, “You did everything I wanted to do.”

 

I said the truth: “I did it for you.”

 

Looking back, I’m sure that we both had different interpretations of what I meant.

 

I sat on the edge of the bed and another silence fell over us. Then he said, “I wish I could cry, I wish I could cry.”

 

At first, I took this as a comment on his condition but am forever thankful that I pushed on. “What do you want to cry about?” I finally said.

 

“For all the love I received and couldn’t return.”

 

He had kept this secret, his desire to love his family, from me and from my mother his whole life. It was as though an early misstep had kept us forever out of stride. Now, two days from his death, our pace was aligning and we were able to speak.

 

My father’s death has a thousand endings. I continue to absorb its messages and meanings. He stripped death of its spooky morbidity and made it tangible and passionate. He prepared me in some way for my own death. He showed me the responsibility of the living to the dying. But the most enduring thought was expressed by my sister, Melinda. She told me she had learned something from all this. I asked her what it was. She said, “Nobody should have to die alone.”

© 2012 The Reader's Digest Association, Inc.