HELPING DAD
When I told my father that I was going to major in philosophy, he was supportive but not exuberant. I think he began to sense that I would be better at thinking about money than making it. When I announced that I wanted to go into journalism, Dad shrugged wearily and told a friend of mine, "Well, at least he'll be able to write down all the things he's wondering about." I think then his suspicions hardened into certainty: The only way I was going to stay out of poverty was through generous loans and subsidies from the First National Bank of Mom & Dad.
I tried to balance the scales by telling Dad having a philosopher-journalist son could be a handy thing if the revolution comes. I might be sufficiently proletariat to keep him from "political re-education." He responded that my deepest commitment to socialism was an abiding interest in free beer, so he wasn't too comforted by my theory. Anyway, the commies cashed their checks soon after, and I lost that hole card.
However, I was still determined to prove my worth to the family. The best way to do this, I decided, was to help Dad with his business. Though my father was a successful dentist and I had no training whatsoever in his field, I knew I could help him. How? By being an idea man, by coming up with plans to grow his practice that no one else could have thought of. Unless they were speed-eating peyote buttons.
One of my first ideas was to offer Dad's patients more than just dentistry, to give them a little entertainment, to amaze them. I thought Dad should try a few magic tricks on is patients. He could, I suggested, sit a patient down in the dental chair and ask him to open wide. Then Dad could crack open an egg and dump it in the patient's mouth, following it with milk, sugar and flour. Dad would then place a silver kerchief over the patient's face, tap three times with a magic wand, remove the kerchief and voila! there would be a little cupcake in the patient's mouth. Extractions? Instead of using forceps to pull a molar, Dad would simply have to reach behind a the patient's ear, pull back a tooth and ask, "Is this the tooth you wanted pulled?" Of course, the magic would be short-lived if there wasn't enough gauze at hand.
Beyond belief, Dad rejected this idea.
Another idea was to give Dad's office a cinematic flair. I figured Dad could re-enact scenes from famous movies at his office, movies like Marathon Man. "Is it safe?" Or maybe Blue Velvet, with Dad playing the Dennis Hopper character. Dad could have strapped on the nitrous mask whilst working on patients, with hilarity ensuing. But nothing from Little Shop of Horrors; Dad can't sing a lick, and that might have driven away patients.
Again, Dad was cold to my proposal.
Dad could have given his patients a chance to play a game. After all, most of us love games. I thought Dad could introduce something called "Call Your Shot" in which Dad would present a patient with two syringes, one filled with novocaine and one filled with a mix of hallucinogens and Prozac. Whichever syringe the patient picks, that's the one that will be used on the patient. And if the game needs to be juiced up any, Dad could inject himself with the remaining syringe.
No dice.
Oh, I had other ideas, such as retro Wednesdays, when Dad would use dental technology from the 1920s and back to the Old West. But nothing could shake my father out of his stodginess. In fact there was only one idea I came up with during that time that Dad fully embraced.
My idea to move. To North Carolina.
When I told my father that I was going to major in philosophy, he was supportive but not exuberant. I think he began to sense that I would be better at thinking about money than making it. When I announced that I wanted to go into journalism, Dad shrugged wearily and told a friend of mine, "Well, at least he'll be able to write down all the things he's wondering about." I think then his suspicions hardened into certainty: The only way I was going to stay out of poverty was through generous loans and subsidies from the First National Bank of Mom & Dad.
I tried to balance the scales by telling Dad having a philosopher-journalist son could be a handy thing if the revolution comes. I might be sufficiently proletariat to keep him from "political re-education." He responded that my deepest commitment to socialism was an abiding interest in free beer, so he wasn't too comforted by my theory. Anyway, the commies cashed their checks soon after, and I lost that hole card.
However, I was still determined to prove my worth to the family. The best way to do this, I decided, was to help Dad with his business. Though my father was a successful dentist and I had no training whatsoever in his field, I knew I could help him. How? By being an idea man, by coming up with plans to grow his practice that no one else could have thought of. Unless they were speed-eating peyote buttons.
One of my first ideas was to offer Dad's patients more than just dentistry, to give them a little entertainment, to amaze them. I thought Dad should try a few magic tricks on is patients. He could, I suggested, sit a patient down in the dental chair and ask him to open wide. Then Dad could crack open an egg and dump it in the patient's mouth, following it with milk, sugar and flour. Dad would then place a silver kerchief over the patient's face, tap three times with a magic wand, remove the kerchief and voila! there would be a little cupcake in the patient's mouth. Extractions? Instead of using forceps to pull a molar, Dad would simply have to reach behind a the patient's ear, pull back a tooth and ask, "Is this the tooth you wanted pulled?" Of course, the magic would be short-lived if there wasn't enough gauze at hand.
Beyond belief, Dad rejected this idea.
Another idea was to give Dad's office a cinematic flair. I figured Dad could re-enact scenes from famous movies at his office, movies like Marathon Man. "Is it safe?" Or maybe Blue Velvet, with Dad playing the Dennis Hopper character. Dad could have strapped on the nitrous mask whilst working on patients, with hilarity ensuing. But nothing from Little Shop of Horrors; Dad can't sing a lick, and that might have driven away patients.
Again, Dad was cold to my proposal.
Dad could have given his patients a chance to play a game. After all, most of us love games. I thought Dad could introduce something called "Call Your Shot" in which Dad would present a patient with two syringes, one filled with novocaine and one filled with a mix of hallucinogens and Prozac. Whichever syringe the patient picks, that's the one that will be used on the patient. And if the game needs to be juiced up any, Dad could inject himself with the remaining syringe.
No dice.
Oh, I had other ideas, such as retro Wednesdays, when Dad would use dental technology from the 1920s and back to the Old West. But nothing could shake my father out of his stodginess. In fact there was only one idea I came up with during that time that Dad fully embraced.
My idea to move. To North Carolina.
posted by John Parnell at 12:18 PM
1 Comments:
back in the saddle I see...excellent post.
Love the game you came up with, all dentists should try it ;)
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