Heaven, Heber and Hell

It's been a busy summer for the Boneman--Disneyland, Las Vegas, some of the world's most celebrated fun spots. This past weekend however, I was to pay an unexpected visit to the a couple of famous places not of this world. I had a busy weekend scheduled, my cousin's big fancy wedding, parades and rodeos in my wife's hometown, then on Sunday I'd booked studio time to record a tune for the new local compilation CD "Homegrown 2."

Let's start at the top--one of my favorite cousins (hell, one of my best friends) was getting married to the richest woman in Utah (this is true, incidentally, and something I'd really meant to do.) The Wedding and reception dinner were held at this amazing place called La Caille--a surreal acre of celestial splendor nestled at the foot of Salt Lake's Little Cottonwood Canyon. I didn't know such a place existed. In the midst of the secluded grove is sprawling French Villa like something out of a Fairy Tale. I don't know what La Caille means, but as far as I'm concerned it's French for Heaven. What a set up, an open bar, a huge buffet of crab legs, lobster, jumbo shrimp, the works. The party was packed with Utah's elite, from politicians, Larry Millers, TV celebrities to Karl Malone's wife and kids--all kind of hoity-toities. I didn't give a crap, I've been on something of a starvation diet for a few months and as soon as the "I Do's" were done, I hit that seafood spread like Tom Hanks. I haven't heard the end of it from my wife. "Maybe you should pick the shells out of your beard, there Castaway--this isn't "Survivor." We both think we're pretty damned funny.

It's a good thing I videotaped the event or I don't think I could distinguish the evening from a dream. The grounds were populated by exotic animals like Peacocks and Llamas, and after a few visits to the bar I began to notice even more rare creatures, for example small herds of feathered, green cats that moved gracefully among the guests, everyone at peace with the universe. Dinner consisted of Filet Mignon and Lobster tail and was served up by a host of beautiful young women in little French maid outfits that encouraged their entire breasts to spill out before your very eyes. It was an "adults only" affair, and I'm not surprised, because there were peekaboobs galore. There was no direction one might gaze that wasn't met with huge, heaving hooters. I really like boobs--as I think I may've mentioned. For some reason their nipples were obscured from view, perhaps through the use of sandpaper and spray paint, or some kind of special French make up, but the effect just made everything all the more magical. I had to constantly pinch myself to make sure I was still in Utah. To keep it all from vanishing into the vapor of a dream, I whispered it to myself like a mantra "open bar, open blouse, open bar, open blouse."

"Life is good," I remembered pondering as I dozed off that night (with the help of an undiscloseable number of free G&Ts) "Life is so, so good." Sadly, it would be only a handful of hours before I would pay dearly for this trespass beyond Heaven's gates. Yes fate would twist on me like a sonofabitch, as the new day brought with it a miserable, throbbing molar. Horrible pain. Wrath of God pain. Pain that cuts through all your fake niceness and pleasantness right down to the asshole that you really are. "Why now, oh Lord, visit me with such sore vexation--I've still got a big weekend ahead?"

Saturday is not a good day to wake up in strange town in desperate need of a dentist. In a matter of hours I'd gone from a man brimming with warmth and harmony, to a man full of hate for everything. "If there's one thing I hate, it's everything." This was my new mantra. No more booze and boobs, just hatred and pain. Endless horrible pain.

As my efforts to contact a dentist failed one after another, my tooth took this as a cue to step up the pitch well beyond ordinary agony toward a kind of mental paralysis. Handfuls of over-the-counter remedies were being swatted away like silly little bugs, and I actually considered wandering from farm to farm asking for Pain pills. "Hello, I'm staying with those people way over there, and I was wondering if I could borrow a cup of sugar and, oh yea, Lortabs. We're making happy cake . . . for the rodeo clowns." I did ask a few nearby relatives and neighbors if they had any non-over-the-counter-remedies, but came up dry. I'm convinced that their medicine chests were crowded with codeine, but they lied and said all they had was Tylenol, because they wanted their damn pain-pills all for themselves. I don't fault them for this--that's what I'd say.

As the morning marched slowly on, lunacy tightened it's grip on the hapless Boneman. My father-in-law found me in the garage right about high noon and calmly instructed me to "put the pliers down." Ever resourceful, he had managed to round up a dentist (some kind of fork kin) in the neighboring town of Heber. The man turned out to be particularly decent chap, who, along with his lovely assistant, had seen fit to interrupt their weekend to put an end to the Boneman's suffering.

Here was my evil plan. I have an uncle in St. George, who is a fine dentist and has always been more than willing to step in whenever I'd faced major oral dilemmas. The idea was to hit young Doc Heber up for a nice little prescription, feed him the whole surprisingly true story about my uncle and the recording session the next day. It was a fine story that should have worked like a charm. Peppered with funny little jokes like, "I've got a big weekend ahead Doc, I need a root canal like a three-year-old needs a staple gun." You had to be there. I guess. I was good.

In order to be successful at croaking for pain pills the following three things are of utmost importance: 1) Act innocent. (You don't know a Percocet from circus pet). 2) Exaggerate the truth a bit, but don't get carried away. You're in horrific pain, but you hate to bother others about it. 3) Don't bring up the concept of "killers" until right at the end, then pick your spot. A casual suggestion, almost in passing. Never fails. No wonder God was out to smite me, other than my wife, no one knows better than He what a retched creation He's wrought in the form of the Boneman.

On this occasion my strategy backfired horribly. After the good doctor got a look at my x-rays, there was no stopping him from going in. "You know," I scrambled, "just enough to get me through the weekend, to my "free" dentistry?" He waved away my feeble pleas, "a bucket full of pain pills isn't going to get you through the weekend, my friend" he scoffed as he set about collecting his shiny, sharpened "shit--this is not going well at all." "I don't know how much room I've got on my credit card, sir, I'm willing to try that bucketful of pain pills option." I don't carry dental insurance because of my uncle and I really had no idea what a root canal in a strange town was going to a run a fella--more than a bottle of pain pills I was guessing (which I am insured for, incidentally.)

Here's why I have such messed-up molars. I go decades between dental appointments because of this funny little problem I have with Novocaine. It doesn't work on me worth a shot. They poke and poke, shoot this way and that, try Lidocaine, keep asking me if my lip is numb? Nothing. Maybe a little tingle. Such was the case with Doc Heber's efforts--lo' he had little faith in my claims and went right to work. You know the drill--straight down into my screeching motherlode of hell--oh, the hate. Just straight hate. Hate Ashbury. (I didn't even get any gas by the way, we were economizing.) I explained to him not to take it personally that nobody has ever managed to get me numbed-up worth a crap. But he did take it personally and it became a kind of perverse quest to conquer my evil tooth. Or else make me pay dearly for being some kind of freaky, wandering, druggy nomad. He stopped and shot me some more, we waited, La Dee Da, nothing. After failing in his second attempt to drill me down, he stormed off, in a snit.

The next thing I know out pops three fat, bald guys in wrestling tights who proceed to pin me down and subdue my flailing limbs, as Doc Heber emerges with a tool so utterly wrong as to defy description. I felt like Sigourney Weaver, it was like some kind of alien chrome alloy, fashioned into gaffing hook bigger than a pirates left hand, dripping with gooey yellow stuff. Basically the idea here was to take this ghastly tool and forcibly pierce what was left of my enamel and start gouging away until my rotten root was dead. "Die, dead, friggin' die." The poor man had long since abandoned any pretense of professional conduct and had lapsed into some kind of mental dental zone. I could only look on in horror. I must say I handled it like a sport, I get a bravery feather in my Indian cap, folks. Afterward, Dr. Hook mentioned that what I'd endured is probably the most intense pain a human is capable of experiencing. "Really?" I told him, as I wiped away the gore, "you've obviously never been shopping with my wife." Who, naturally didn't believe a word of the whole bizarre experience--particularly the bit about the bald wrestlers, but I caught a break. Believe it or not, Doc Heber actually called my house and left a message on my machine. "I want to apologize for my behavior, I think I might have gotten a little bit crazy, call me if you need any more help." I swear to God, he called.