The Secret Joys of Dentistry, Or: What I Just Purchased

Admit it. Every time you find yourself walking through the grocery store or pharmacy, and pass the toothbrush aisle, you catch a look at those powered toothbrushes. And then you think something along the lines of: "Six bucks? Who the hell would spend six bucks on a toothbrush!" Well, to answer that riddle, me. I would buy a powered toothbrush. And here's why: I've always wanted to play dentist.

The simple joy of toothbrushing has long passed from my nervous system. Perhaps the moment that my last baby tooth fell out and I could stick my tongue in the new space one last time and feel the brush curl over it as it went about its cleaning duties. Perhaps it was after my 7 wisdom teeth (I swear that that is completely true and accurate) were pulled and I had to spend a week only gargling because of all the stitch work needed. Whatever the case, dental hygiene is not something I put much thought into aside of the "my teeth feel like fur. Let's brush!" and "my breath smells like burning fur. Let's brush!" Within nanoseconds of brushing, I've forgotten the whole event took place (unless, of course, I used the awesomeness that is Listerine toothpaste. That stuff you can't help but notice for a good ten or fifteen minutes as it continues to tingle your mouth in that way that only Listerine can...)

And this is not to say that I have bad dental hygiene or a mean case of halitosis. I do not. Never had a cavity, despite being a completely lousy flosser. And like most people these days, I spend an inordinate amount of time and money gathering gums and mints to soothe the effects of coffee and garlic-based sauces. But, generally, you could not consider me to be a dental enthusiast. Until now. And it's all because of one tiny little vibrating toothbrush that cost me six bucks.

As perhaps a sign to my newly discovered passion, I still recall coming across my first powered toothbrush. It was owned by a friend of mine in Los Angeles who, as I recall, had some minor nerve issue or perhaps were susceptible to gum recession. The toothbrush was surely dentist-prescribed. And it cost perhaps $100. Which is ludicrous, until you realize that it's the primary tool in keeping your choppers for your entire life. I was intrigued, as most would be, at the powered toothbrush. Just as I was when I was little and, for play, liked to pull out my parents' water flosser (I wish I could recall its name) and shoot it into my mouth at high speeds and then around the bathroom like it was a machine gun. It can surely be said that I have long been subconsciously been fascinated with dental technology. I even enjoy going to the dentist's office. And one of my good friends from college grew in stature when I found out that he had finished dental school and was now an Army dentist (it does help that, during said dental school, he once got to assist in some work on the actress Tiffany Amber Thiessen, right as "Saved By The Bell" was reaching its end and she was popping up on various web sites in various gossamer outfits of the most revealing. Which is to say that I was very proud of him when he said, "I just had my fingers in Tiffany Amber Thiessen!" and we got a good laugh out of that and perhaps a bit more in our minds...)

Anyhow, back to the champion at hand. The powered toothbrush. It's an Oral-B (my preferred brand, although I do have lots of good things to say about Mentadent toothbrushes) and runs on one AA battery. Which probably won't last particularly long. And so now I have to start housing a surplus of batteries in my bathroom, which surely will make my roommate Euge curious. And, being two single guys, we've already had the obligatory discussion on other (im)practical uses that a vibrating toothbrush might be good for, especially for a certain segment of the general population. But, critically to me, the toothbrush is everything I could have asked for. I am a dentist with a buzzing tool in my maw. I feel fresher after brushing and decidedly happier. Partly because of the newness and partly because I somehow still have an automatic back-and-forth arm motion (I know that's not the proper arm movement, but, again, no cavities, ever.). All in all, it's pretty fun. I highly recommend it. In fact, I can't recommend it enough. Go out today and buy yourself a powered toothbrush. Beat. The Rush. You'll thank me later. And with a minty fresh, glowing white smile.

Finding The Best In Air Travel, Or: Why Miami International Airport Needs An Amputation

In case you haven't been through Miami International Airport (MIA, for reasons that will become abundantly clear in a second), the only appropriate way to describe it is: war zone. Since I relocated my life and livelihood to a more Caribbean angle, I have had the good fortune of flying through Miami pretty much every time I travel, as 1) MIA is the hub for American Airlines, 2) American, for all their flaws, is the only reliable airline I can travel down island on, and 3) the other option is to avoid Miami and fly through San Juan, Puerto Rico. Which is somehow both worse and better. But Miami is one-of-a-kind. And not in a good way. They continue to be under full construction in terminals C, D, and E. I think A might be done. And if you could manage to not have to re-clear through security, I could tell you about the wonders that certainly reside in terminals F, G, and H. But, as they say in Maine, "you can't get there from here."

The real reason to fly through Miami (if you're flying east-west) is to get what I like to call "the big plane". If you pick up San Juan, you're bound to get a turboprop. Which isn't so bad, except that a lot of the local travelers on said turboprops invariably applaud when the plane reaches its destination. Which is nice and fun in a "isn't that quaint?" sort of way, until you realize that the same people, when on the big plane to Miami, don't clap at all. Unless the ride sucked. So I like to avoid San Juan and the fearsome turboprops. That, and American likes to stick everyone in San Juan in a airport purgatory, what with losing luggage, canceling flights, and generally being late for most of the day. So, with gritted teeth, I pick Miami (unless I'm flying from New England, in which case, get a direct to San Juan and hope that 1.5 hours you bought flying direct aren't lost as you stand at Gate 1A (the commuter gate) watching as plane after plane gets canceled...)

Returning from my Christmas holiday (and a big Ups! to all my friends who I got a chance to see), I was on the 5:30 bigboy plane to Miami. Which was late. And when it did show up, it was painted in a retro 1950s decor. Or maybe, what with American re-organizing their maintenance schedule to save money and fend off bankruptcy, this was the last plane in the bullpen. All in all, the flight was nice and I managed to work on most of the crossword puzzle while also marvelling at the good luck of both 1) flying directly over my island house on takeoff (always a treat to see your home from the air), and 2) flying directly past South Caicos, TCI (a former residency nigh 10 years ago). It was as if American was treating me for all the abuse that would come from MIA in 2 hours time.

And I use "abuse" lightly here. Upon arriving, I discovered I had a relatively easy walk to my next plane. With all the construction going on, you can easily find yourself walking 20 minutes for a plane that is closing its doors in 15. And it was even out on the isolated bubble end of Terminal E, which is only accessible by tram (the only people mover at the airport). I discovered Terminal E gates 20-34 a few trips back when I was desperate for a restaurant serving beer and sandwiches (in that order). So I was naturally excited. But, being MIA, the tingling feeling was quickly lost. Gates 20-34 (I assuredly have been here before, now that I think about it, waiting for an international flight) is a cross between a Moroccan bazaar, a New York Subway, and an insane asylum. Every three seconds, the debilitating muzak (how's that for an adjective?) would get interuppted by a different gate attendant who, it seems, was literally screaming into their microphone to announce the departure of a flight to Montreal or Paris or Chicago or St. Louis. The decibel difference between the muzak and the announcements couldn't have been greater. And having fought an ear infection (from diving, mind you), it literally hurt. Add to this the idea that the design team decided to place a speaker roughly every three feet, so that no matter how self-reliant and responsible you were to make sure you didn't miss your flight, you couldn't find a quiet place anywhere. It was less than pleasing and definitely contributed to my overall discomfit when I finally boarded my connection and spent the next 2 hours bouncing over the Gulf of Mexico on my way back to Houston, a city that, at night, has all the charm of the future city depicted in Blade Runner.

Of course, while fighting off the urge to sleep, working on the remains of the crossword puzzle (I had to peek to finish), and wondering who is in charge of American's inflight entertainment (they were showing an episode of "Seventh Heaven" with a cast that 1) no longer included Jessica Biel, and 2) did include Ashlee Simpson. WTF?), I decided that there must be a way to fix MIA. Being that it's Miami, American home of the all-night dance club, if they're going to blast us with volume in a wondrously out-dated and worn-out 1950s decor waiting lounge, at least they could turn it into a dance club with some good music. With nary a tv in the joint, they could easily pull off a nice disco. It can't be any worse than what they got now.