As related here, I’ve been having a delightful time recently with oral surgery. But just now I had two new frights at the surgeon’s office.

1. I just ran into Phil Spector there. When I signed in, I saw that the name ahead of mine on the sign-in sheet was “Phil Spector” in childlike blocky letters. Assuming it was a joke, I turned around and was about to say something along the lines of, “Which one of you has the gun?” But because my usual fun-loving character evaporates upon exposure to the oral surgeon’s office, I decided something along the lines of “fuck it” and glumly sat down with my magazine. (Appropriately, The New Yorker, with more dire reportage on Iraq and presidential malfeasance. In other words, mood lifters.) Then when one of the assistants announced that “he” was ready and up jumped the 40-something tired-looking blonde in garb designed for a culture 20 years younger than she (plush sweatsuit with jacket, oversized baseball cap, flashing Bluetooth accoutrement in ear, chunky white sneakers — think, “costume by Sean John, worn by Carmela Soprano”), I noticed that her jacket was emblazoned with “Team Spector” on the back and the ass of her garb with the mere “Spector.” (I can think of worse things at the moment to have to do to draw a paycheck, but when it comes to wearing clothes at this particular point in time that say “Spector” on the ass, it takes a lot of thinking. And being part of “the team” must be even worse.) Then a Very Large Black Man in another sweatsuit got up; in L.A. iconography, this would be “the bodyguard.” So now I was sure that Phil was in the building and, that if someone present felt instantaneously suicidal (as has been said to happen in his presence at least once), trouble would ensue. I got the restroom key and went to splash cold water on my face, arriving in the hallway just in time to see said music legend — who has filled my ears with so much joy over the years and, the accusation is, has filled someone else with holes — exit via the private doorway into the elevator area. He look dazed and wan, clutching a cold pack to his jaw line, and for a moment, given my recent travails, I truly understood how it feels to be Phil Spector.
2. As scary as that was, here’s a line I will never forget, uttered by my oral surgeon (a professional I share with Mr. Spector) after he examined my ongoing misery:  “Hm. I see what’s bothering you. It’s that bit of bone sticking up through the gum. I’m just going to make an incision and flick it out of there.” And yes, “flick” was the precise word he chose. Never in my life have I anticipated either having a bone protrude out of its natural location or having someone offer to “flick” it out of there. He made it sound so carefree:  “I’ll flick it out of there.” Of course. Like a ladybug from one’s shoulder. He offered to do it on the spot and assured me that it would hurt for only a little while. Given past history and my newfound lack of trust, I told  him no, I would have to schedule that for later. Which, given that there is indeed a bone sticking up in my mouth, I believe I will have to do.

This entry was posted on Friday, July 13th, 2007 at 9:57 am and is filed under On seeing, Thoughts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.