Highlights of Horseman

Copyright 1999 Journal of the California Dental Association.

Following is a collection of favorite Dr. Bob columns, a mere sampling of his 20 years of work. They were selected by many of the people who put this issue together, with some help from Journal readers Frank and Ruth Blair and Dr. Horseman himself. We hope you enjoy reading (or re-reading) these timeless classics as much as we enjoyed picking them out.

Dr. Bob's Favorite

I have been unjustly accused of frivolously addressing the many problems confronting dentistry today. That's why I wrote "Dental Engineering." This scientific-intensive report is the culmination of in-depth interviews I conducted over a period of days with many scientific individuals, several of whom had teeth of their own. That their opinions coincided with my own only confirmed the validity of the survey, the conclusion of which is that human dentition is a flawed design, but better than nothing. Or maybe not.

-- Robert E. Horseman, DDS

Dental Engineering

There is not a dentist throughout the world who, at one time or another, has not considered the human dentition to be a huge design error, a sort of oral Edsel. Had he been consulted during the initial stages of design, he is quite certain he could have come up with a much more practical production model. Meaning no disrespect, but teeth seem to have been an afterthought, perhaps near the end of the sixth day when, along with broccoli and fire ants, things were being created in haste without enough research and development or prototypes in order to meet a Sabbath deadline.

Take deciduous teeth for example. Every child gets 20 teeth. Along about 5 or 6 years of age, the teeth start migrating to a place under the child's pillow until by 12 or so the supply is exhausted, the parents having bought back the originals from the Tooth Fairy for an amount equal to the kid's first semester at Yale. The loss of these first teeth may seem a good thing, bathed as they have been by daily applications of Popsicles and Gummi Bears for a decade, but is it really? Why didn't these teeth grow bigger along with the jaws? The kid's arm didn't exfoliate at age 11, to be replaced by a bigger arm whose fingers reached beyond the top of his head when fully extended. You never hear of the Foot Fairy leaving cash under the covers in exchange for a foot that has outgrown a pair of $35 shoes every three months for the last 10 years.

So the 20 baby teeth are now replaced by what? -- 32 new and bigger ones, which as we all know is way too many. Does anybody really need 12 molars? I think not. We have been told by anthropologists that Paleolithic man required all these teeth for the diet he enjoyed, mainly roots and dinosaur steaks and the occasional pterodactyl in the original recipe with 11 herbs and spices. Couldn't Divine Providence have foreseen that phasing out the dinosaurs in favor of mashed potatoes and Boston cream pies would most certainly lead to impacted third molars and $3,000-a-week fat farms? Is this clear only to me?

Only the oral surgeons have benefited from this faulty design concept. They have also profited from the discovery by their colleagues, the orthodontists, that eight premolars are too many by half. There are those who maintain that if all these teeth were not necessary in the scheme of things, God would not have invented dentists, who in turn invented fluoride, which nearly put them out of business. It's a moot point.

The real tragedy, however, is that all this new dentition is wasted on prepubescent children who couldn't care less except as a Tooth Fairy extortion scam. I contend that by age 50, a third set of natural teeth would be embraced with open arms (or mouths) by the geriatric set, which is fed up with its old worn-out, patched-up teeth that dentists over the years have ground down to powder and rebuilt with whatever was in favor at the moment. I don't see how a benefit like this could possibly have been overlooked. I also fail to understand why a full head of hair can't be guaranteed up to age 85 or why it costs 15 cents to mail a penny postcard.

What's perfectly clear, however, is the fact that the incisors for Homo sapiens have fallen far short of the mark. Why the heck was this such a big problem? They are too thin for one thing. Eight times out of 10, the lower ones are crooked and they break easily when the owner's face comes in contact with swings, baseball bats and fists. Animals have emerged with the long end of the stick in this regard. Have you ever seen a tiger or a lion with a six-unit bridge or a dopey-looking beaver with a missing central?

And whose idea was it that we needed 32 individual teeth? This led, of course, to interproximal cavities, 9 mm perio pockets and places to stock meat between meals and -- you guessed it -- orthodontists. What would have been wrong with one big tooth that ran from the distal of #2, clear around to the distal of #15 and another from the distal of #18 around to #31? Of course it would put a dent in a crown and bridge practice. I know that -- I didn't say my idea was perfect, but listen, no interproximals to worry about, no constantly nagging people about flossing and no problem with half a dozen systems of numbering teeth. We could have just called them #1 and #2, or if that would be confusing because of other bodily functions similarly named, simply A and B.

My ideal dentition, had I been asked for advice, would feature no pulps. Even to endodontists who get rid of them as fast as they can, nothing is more useless and causes more trouble than the pulp. Do we really need a pulp? Is this part of the punishment for the Original Sin? A compassionate endodontist took the pulp out of one of my molars years ago, replacing it with a much more sensible material, gutta percha. I have 27 other teeth with pulps, and if I hear one peep out of any of them, they get the same treatment. I say we have no more need of pulps than we do for genital warts or punk hairdos.

So there you have it -- my nomination for a trouble-free oral cavity. Two teeth, one upper, one lower, in either shade B1 or, for the more conservative, A2. No pulps, no endodontists, no gum problems, no periodontists, no individual teeth barging off on their own, no orthodontists and, I almost forgot, no prosthodontists either. Just us GP guys and gals inlaying an occasional diamond or ruby for the flamboyant patient and doing prophys with a big rag wheel. But then, nobody asked me.

Managing Editor's Favorite

I start editing every issue of the Journal the same way many people begin reading it -- with Dr. Bob's column. Although satire about the intricacies of procedure codes, OSHA regs, and insurance coverage don't resonate much in my world, his humorous view, writing style and word choice are always entertaining. My favorite was easy to pick out; it's Dr. Bob's homage to those old Bogie detective movies from the 1940s. Imaging Bob as a hard-boiled, down-on-his-luck dentist and you've set the stage for "To Have and Fill Not." -- Jeanne Marie Tokunaga

To Have and Fill Not

Monday, 10 a.m. My name is Krautzmeyer. Dudley Krautzmeyer, P.D. That's Private Dentist in case you've forgotten. This is my office. All this stuff is mine, mine and the bank's. I've just knocked back three fingers of sugar-free Swiss Mocha and am feeling no pain. Lonely, but no pain. The Maytag repair guy is a raving extroverted party boy compared to me. My Rockports are crossed at the ankle up on my desk, gown zipped down to the xiphoid process and mask hanging from one ear. I'm reading an article in Dental Economics about a guy in some little jerkwater town in Texas telling how he built his 12,000 square foot office with imported Italian marble and has a laser and imaging system in all 10 operatories. Oh sure, I could have a swankier place. Every day in the mail I get an offer I can hardly refuse. One hundred new patients a month, guaranteed. Sign here and I'm on Easy Street.

I take another slug of Swiss Mocha, straight, no creamer, wet my finger to pick up the last crumbs of the prune Danish I had for breakfast and wonder again if I'm doing the right thing staying aloof from the PPO wars. Ophelia, my girl Friday, is here this Monday, busy filing. I know the routine --filing, filing, filing. One nail after the other. Then, squinting through two-inch Dynal lashes, carefully painting the frightening results with Watermelon or Firehouse, one of those 57 varieties of red. Every day it's the same. We're waiting for the phone to ring. The last time it rang, I think Carter was president.

"Did you pay the phone bill?" I call across to her.

"What with?" she snarls. "Cigar coupons?"

I ignore her. If she remembers cigar coupons, she's a lot older than she claims, and I don't want to start her up again. I owe her six weeks in back salary and she won't take any more Plax samples.

The phone rings, cutting through the quiet like a test of the Emergency Broadcast System. Ophelia fumbles with the Cutex and answers, "Dr. Krautzmeyer's office, we cater to cowards. Visa, MasterCard, Discovery and American Express accepted. No reasonable offer refused."

"If it's a patient, tell em to come right in. Two chairs, no waiting."

Covering the mouthpiece with her fist, she hisses like a puff adder, "It's the lab. They want their check."

"Tell em I'm in the Seychelles, be back in three weeks."

"Ding-dong." Red alert! I spring to my feet. I mean foot -- the underneath one has gone to sleep and I fall flat on my kisser. I look up just in time to see a dame about 7 feet tall sashay through the door. She's dressed all in white and built like a brick restroom with every brick in place. Right out of Ascot or the runway at Christian Dior's. As she undulates in several planes toward the front desk, I think I hear a drumbeat, more like one might hear on the runway at Minsky's.

Ophelia is impressed too and swallows her Trident. "My name is Pamela Dianne Rockingham-Schwartz," the Amazon breathes, "and I'd like a second opinion from Dr. Krautzmeyer."

"OK," I volunteer, noting that she looks like a million bucks in after-tax dollars. "What was the first opinion?"

"Nine thousand and sixty-three dollars," she says. "I've been to the offices of the Cosmic Spectrum Dental Group, and that's what they quoted me. Sixteen porcelain crowns, 11 root canals, 12 veneers and 38 composite fillings."

"Holey moley!" I gulp. I didn't know people had that many teeth. "Ophelia, look that up, OK? And call the lab. Tell em not to worry."

Adjusting the loupe I always wear to give patients the impression I know what I'm doing, I'm mentally calculating how much of that nine grand I can cut back to convince Ms. Rockingham-Schwartz that her dental future lies with me and not with those highbinders at Cosmic Spectrum. Fortunately, she has a mouth the dimensions of which would make Carly Simon and Julia Roberts writhe in envy. Hm, that could be fun to watch.

I usually use a No. 4 mirror. This is a case for a 7 or 8, if they make mirrors that size. But what's this? Pamela, my financial windfall, my burner of the mortgage, has a nearly perfect mouth. We take a full-mouth series, I sharpen my explorer, I put 30x images on my intraoral camera monitor. Nothing. I do it all again, probe, percuss, cuss. Still nothing.

"I'm terribly sorry, Pamela, you don't know how sorry I am," I choke. "I find nothing wrong with your teeth."

"Ms. Rockingham-Schwartz, please," she murmurs, rising from the chair in a kind of liquid motion that looks like a lava lamp.

"May we make you a cleaning appointment?" Ophelia hopefully offers the departing bonanza.

"I think not," she says. "Dr. Krautzmeyer doesn't seem to be as experienced as the doctors at Cosmic Spectrum. Perhaps he should consult an ophthalmologist."

Monday, 5 p.m. Swiss Mocha dregs are not good cold, I conclude. "Another day, another dollar," I remark cheerfully to Ophelia, conscience intact and ethics polished.

"Not quite," she says. "Mrs. Grunge called to say the prophy you did last month was no good. The stains are back and she wants the same for her money."

Contributing Editor's Favorite

Once upon a time, there was a minstrel of the latter 20th century named Horseman. We gaze into his mirror on the world of dentistry, see a bit of the ridiculous, and laugh at ourselves. Among the best of his verse is "The Good Toothe Faerie." His fractured fairy tale on the true story behind the tradition of the tooth fairy is a superb illustration of his stream-of-consciousness style. Written as a parody of Old English, we don't know where the narrator is taking us in his storytelling. That's the magic of Horseman. We are engaged, willing passengers on his monthly journey through his imagination. For awhile, we have been amused. -- Steven D. Chan, DDS

The Good Toothe Faerie

As a member of the American Academy of the History of Dentistry, it is my sacred duty to be forever on the alert for some historical discovery, i.e., anything that predates George Burns, so I can pass it on to my colleagues, most of whom are getting pretty historical themselves.

So you can imagine my elation while browsing through a bibliotheca at the local library, to come across a dusty tome by Victor Appleton entitled Tom Swift and His Electric Plaque Removal Instrument.

Within this treasure chest of dental history, I chanced upon the origin of the Tooth Fairy myth as related by one Verdegris Gruenstik, a soothsayer in the court of King Ludwig the Ludicrous, Plenipotentiary and Supreme Muckimuk of the Sovereign State of Moronia. The soothsayer's tale went like this:

And it cameth to pass that Hard Tymes had descendeth upon the land of Moronia. The serfs were revolting in some areas, especiallye those of personal hygiene and social graces. Many of the shoppes had already goneth down the Toobes withe piteous whimpers and those remaining did seeketh refuge in Chapter VII. Zut alors! Because the Court Scribe had yet to sendeth in the galley proofs for Chapter VI, there was no Chapter VII and it DID appeareth certain that Moronia, Home of the Indentured and Site of the IXth Interdenominational Witch Hunt, was Kaput.

Now there dwelleth in Moronia, a comely lass of 10 yeares, daughter of a poor but scurvy stableman, who because of his worke, had fewe companions withe clear nasal passages. He was wont to complain bitterly to no one in particular and imbibeth heavily from a flagon of bootlegge vanilla extract he tucketh in his vestments. One nighte after a verye vexing day, he lieth down, sousedeth to the gills, and Lo! There appeared to him in robes of golden brocade and stone-washed denim, a Vision who, like spake, "Tremulo, thou lowest of lushes, when thy daughter's first deciduous molar falleth out, place it under her pillow at nighte and in the lighte of daye there will be moola in its stead, placeth there by yores troolye, the Toothe Faerie, gratis, no charge."

And it cameth to pass the daughter's tooth DID falleth out and was slippeth under her pillow, whereupon in the morning there DID appear two pfennigs as promised by the Toothe Faerie, which was enough to buyeth four more drams of the sauce.

Word did spreadeth rapidly through Moronia, so that by eventide, a hundredfold younge teeth had dissociated themselves from theire owner's jaws and been placed under pillowes, to be replaced by pfennigs in the morn. Still, the Dow-Jones droppeth 88 pointes withe only Jujubes showing modeste gains in lighte to moderate trading, accounting for the sudden loss of the hundredfold teethe.

King Ludwig, adviseth by the Royal CPA that he sitteth upon a goldmine, decreed that henceforth and like, right now, ALL subjects would placeth under theire pillowes, theire entire supplye of teethe and deliver the Toothe Faerie Loot to the Royal Treasurer by 9:30 A.M. sharpeth.

And so it cameth to pass that Moronia, the firste edentulous country on recorde, became prosperous again, especiallye the prosthodontists and purveyors of mashed potatoes, tofu and custardes.

As any history buff knows, The Good Toothe Faerie, facing a fiscal boo-boo of monumental proportions, enlisted the help of parents everywhere and was thus able to remain solvent and have some reconstructive plastic surgery, enabling her to get a job with Steven Spielberg.

Former Publications Director's Favorite

A Dentist's Best Friend

It seems to me that the only subject I took in dental school that retains its validity today, many years later, is anatomy. The bones, muscles and nerves all appear to have the same names and functions they have had for years. For that I am grateful, though mine are deteriorating at an alarming rate. I suppose I could stretch a point and admit that histology is probably still pretty much the same, but since I never understood much of it to begin with, I'm not sure I'd recognize what changes have taken place, if any.

The gospel according to the perio department, circa 1940, was chromic acid or tincture of Meteghan delivered to pockets via the beaks of cotton pliers. Really. The instructors looked us straight in the face and told us this and we, innocent lambs all, believed it as if it were engraved on Ticonium. The operative department heads gave us a choice -- silicate or gold foil for class IIIs. The prosthetic department was reluctantly deciding that acrylic might eventually replace vulcanite, but we'd better go slow on this -- look what happened to Bakelite.

All of which makes me wonder if it was really necessary to spend all those years at school if today I am using so little of what I was taught. Of course, the tuition in those days was only about $4,000 a year, so maybe with the current assessment of $20,000 or so, you might expect to get a more permanent type of instruction. To be fair, some things I learned in school have stood me in good stead, like you never precipitate silver nitrate with eugenol on anterior teeth and you should always put cocoa butter on a new silicate. Unfortunately, nowadays anything with palm oils is suspect, so probably another axiom is about to bite the dust.

Despite the apparent transitory nature of dental education and the unsettling impermanence of what were supposed to be basic tenets, one thing stands out today as just as pertinent and trustworthy as it was 45 years ago. I remember it as clearly as if it were only four decades ago, that morning during the first week of the freshman year when the more astute of us were angling to get a seat in the rear of the room where we wouldn't be noticed during the coming four years.

The lecturer, god-like in his white gown with the red stripes on the sleeves indicating his celestial authority, was delineating the attributes of a dentist in tones one might use in speaking to a not very bright gerbil.

"He must be immaculate," intoned this high priest of the lecture hall. "That means hair cut, shoes shined, clothing neat and clean, fingernails short and dirt-free."

Could he have but foreseen how everything except for the clean nails would be up for grabs in the Scruffy Sixties, he might have opted for hari-kari on the spot, but mercifully he was still under the illusion that he had the final word on everything.

"And," he concluded, "he must carry a pocket knife. No dentist can be a real dentist without a proper pocket knife always in his possession."

"Yes!" I cried with the fervor of a Moonie convert. "I want to be a real dentist. I will get a pocket knife forthwith."

And I did, little realizing how dependent I would become on that little piece of steel. One must wonder if that most important bit of advice is still being imparted to the dental students of today.

Consider that this indispensable tool not only cleans fingernails, but cuts, scrapes, opens, screws, smooths, roughens, tightens, loosens and can be fondled like a worry stone whenever the going gets rocky. Think of what 100,000 Egyptian slaves with pocket knives could have done when it came time to assemble the pyramids. They could have turned on their masters and stated, "This is the dumbest idea we ever heard of!" and made it stick, but that's beside the point. A knife's uses are only limited by your imagination. The smooth feel of it in your pocket with your change and keys is enough to keep you on the quivive right until bedtime.

There's not a man jack among us who wouldn't rather lose his wallet and all his credit cards than lose his knife. If anybody ever asks you whether you would rather suffer the loss of your wife or your knife, think carefully before you answer. Remember, you can always get another wife, but a good knife, one that fits your hand perfectly, one whose blade has been lovingly honed over the years and whose dependability and loyalty is beyond question, is an enduring treasure. The dentist's knife is not an impressive one compared to, say, a Swiss Army Knife with its 72 functions weighing in at 2.75 pounds, or a hunting knife that has to be worn in a sheath on one's belt and lacks any dental function except perhaps to open a skylight in the operatory or disembowel a moose. No, the dental knife is smooth and flat so that it can always be carried in the left front pocket without making it appear that the owner has an inoperable tumor on his thigh. The blade should be forged of the finest steel and the housing lovingly crafted from some indestructible material that will last forever. You will not find this precision instrument in K-Mart nor will you pick it up for $1.98 at a check-out stand. Get a loan if necessary, but get a good knife. Remember, this talisman is what separates you from other members of the healing professions.

This final plea to the ever-increasing numbers of women in our profession whose traditional way of fixing things has been with bobby pins and hairpins: Because one almost never sees a bobby pin or a hairpin anymore, it is imperative that you get yourself a good pocket knife and a pocket to keep it in. For heaven's sake, don't lose it in your purse with all that other stuff or it will never be accessible.

We can't let this valuable asset to our armamentaria and to our daily lives disappear like the buggy whip and the antimacassar. Like death and taxes, a good knife is forever.

Editor's Favorite

The early 1980s was a time of frustration for many dentists who noted a lack of "busyness" in their practices attributed to a surplus of dentist manpower. The October 1985 "Be a Dentist" piece provided a much needed shot in the arm to a profession in need of an image boost. In the warm, humorous fashion that has become his trademark, he gave dentists from their mid-20s through their 60s an opportunity to reminisce about positive images and experiences associated with their profession. -- Jack F. Conley, DDS

"Be a Dentist" He Said

When I was 23, it was a very good year. I had just fulfilled my father's fondest dream and was graduated from dental school in the top three-quarters of my class.

"Be a dentist," he had advised me from my 10th year. "Everybody has 32 teeth, and at any given moment there's bound to be something wrong with 10 of them. You'll never run out of work."

Even at age 10 this made sense to me, although we agreed to little else thereafter until I was about 25.

Entering the service after dental school was an easy transition, like another three years of boot camp, but I found my father to be wrong on two counts -- everybody did not have 32 teeth and there was a lot wrong with more than 10 of the ones they did have.

He was right about the work, though -- we never ran out. My mother called me Doctor. It was a very good year when I was 23.

When I was 26, it was a fabulous year. Mustered out of the service, I found a suitable shingle, inscribed my name thereon and negotiated an impressive loan with an eager banker who called me Doctor.

I had a cream-colored Model E Ritter unit, a matching hydraulic chair with a head rest that articulated in nine planes, and a girl who answered the phone and called me Doctor.

When I was 26, I had a 32-inch waist, 20/20 vision and dated a girl whose mother thought that having a dentist in the family was probably the next best thing to having a "real" doctor.

When I was 35, it was a marvelous year. My three kids had 58 teeth among them, some coming, some going. My friendly banker, the same one who arranged the loan on my car and the mortgage on my house, insisted on giving me more money so I could have three operatories and a hygienist who called me Doctor.

My wife's hair was an interesting shade of red when I was 35. I had a 34-inch waist and my patients paid their bills, when they paid them at all, with cash or check and I didn't know a procedure code from a predetermination. I was planning to invent the high-speed handpiece and the diamond bur, but got busy developing flavored Vaseline to help mouth-breathers from dehydrating their silicates. It was an exciting year, so I grew a mustache.

When I was 46, it was an absolutely terrific year. I was wearing loupes that I thought made me look like I knew what I was doing, an illusion I encouraged. My wife had stunning ash-blonde hair. My son's hung down to here and my own was rapidly receding and was of a color quaintly referred to as "muckledun."

My equipment had become obsolete because somebody else had taken my ideas for the high-speed handpiece and the diamond bur and marketed them while I was bogged down flavoring X-ray film with oil of wintergreen and working closely with the Rit Company for color-coding cotton rolls.

When I was 46, my banker called me "fella" and suggested I submit profit and loss statements for the past five years and keep my eye out for a co-signer.

Many of my patients had dental insurance and assured me they were covered 100 percent and asked not to be bothered with co-payments or money down. It was the year the "float" was discovered and the year in which the term "quantum leap" was first applied to college tuition. A terrific year. I decided against a beard.

When I was 55, I got my first pair of size 36 pants and the IRS went into hysterics when I told them I had gone into cattle feed lots. It was an astonishing year. My equipment edged into obsolescence again, and 3,000 dentists graduated and came to practice in my town.

My banker said he'd call me back, but he didn't and composite resins were invented in spite of the fact that, in my opinion, there existed absolutely no future for them. I traded my Porsche for a Chevy Nova and began wearing a tie again. The grandkids of my first patients came in and had no cavities.

When I was 65, it was the best of all. I knew the administrative staffs of 63 insurance companies by their first names and submitted my 38th request to kindly stop putting staples through my X-rays.

My waist was 38, but so was my chest, so the net effect was a nice solid appearance on the order of Fred Flintstone.

I called my banker, but he had been replaced by an ATM that was down at the moment, flashing a digital readout requesting me to try again later.

I raised my fees 15 percent to cover the 350 percent raise in my malpractice premium, a move overdue since my rent went up 25 percent. Several insurance companies wrote telling me that if I wanted to be one of their preferred providers and thus gain a mention on their list of other preferred providers, I could reduce my fees 25 percent and maybe we could play ball. I decided maybe we couldn't.

My wife's hair was white when I was 65, and I thought she would have looked great in a powder blue Mercedes coupe if we'd had one. I had a Medicare card and found I could get a 20 percent discount in certain restaurants during the week.

My son had entered the practice. "Be a dentist," I had told him. "People have 32 teeth and there's bound to be something wrong with at least one of them if you wait long enough."

Grandaddy was right, you'll never run out of work, although it may seem that way now and then. What if you had become an eye, ear, nose and throat man? What kind of odds are those? There are only four things to go wrong. Or a proctologist?

When I had been in practice 42 years, I received a brochure from a dentist who had been in practice for six years. He offered to tell me how to make a million plus dollars a year like he did. I could have used this information 30 years ago, but he was only five then. I'll bet he was a smart little rascal though.

A Foolish Consistency

Ralph Waldo Emerson once revealed that "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds." Inasmuch as Emerson is considered the leading exponent of American Transcendentalism, I feel that those of us who understand transcendentalism (as well as those of us who haven't a clue and couldn't care less) should pay cover that "dental" is cryptically hidden in the word. As a firm proponent of several avenues of dentalism, some of which transcend others, I think Ralph was trying to tell us something about consistency, although comparing it to a hobgoblin certainly dates this observation. The last recorded sighting of a hobgoblin was in 1832 in Haversham, Mass., by one Felton Bliesteft, who awoke the next morning in a cemetery, sorely besotted.

But I digress. As a dentist I am committed, either by inclination or government edict, to cleanliness and above all, sterility. Although I have never actually seen any, I know there are vicious pathogens of every stripe lurking on every surface, crack and fissure and behind even the most unlikely places. I pride myself on following all the barrier techniques to the letter, not wishing to be the instrument of transmission nor the hapless victim of these crazed viruses and bacteria rampant in the world today.

That's why, when I went into a restaurant recently, I did not think it a foolish consistency to expect the same attention given to asepsis there that I exercise in my office. This was an upscale eatery, somewhere between Denny's and the Ritz-Carlton. Upon being seated, however, I got my first inkling that the management and I were worlds apart in our concept of barrier techniques. Just opposite my table was a young man preparing a table for waiting guests. This was no spray/wipe, spray/wipe operation sanctified by the clean, sweet smell of Lysol. This chap, using a rag issued to him sometime during the Carter Administration, employed the single, looping swipe technique that took in both the table top and the seats, leaving behind an iridescent sheen on both. An instant later he was back, laying out the silverware. To my horror, he wore neither rubber gloves nor mask, and the cutlery was not encased in sterilization pouches as one could reasonably expect of things that would shortly go into someone's actual mouth. He then set out the water glasses, touching each with his bare hands. After standing back to briefly survey his work with satisfaction, he headed for the kitchen.

I followed him surreptitiously, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sterile area where the food was prepared and the dishes made ready. Shock upon shock! Not a single autoclave was visible, nor did I discover any ultrasonic units cleaning up used utensils. Instead, ungloved employees with heroic disregard for salsa- and gravy-borne pathogens, were milling about, perspiring like sumo wrestlers on a 10K run. Wearing formerly white T-shirts bearing the unmistakable evidence of home laundry, they were busily engaged in touching everything in sight, including those areas that itched.

There's more. When a waitress finally arrived, she confided to us "guys" (as in "Are you guys ready to order?") that her name was Tiffany and that she would be our server, at least until her break, when she would bring around Sherry who would be our backup server. Tiffany then, without benefit of gloves or suitable forceps, scooped up the bills and loose change left on the table by the previous occupants who, chances are, were the carriers of several diseases currently being considered for telethons. She then sashayed off to the kitchen to relay our order and to help touch things.

In slightly less time than it would take to read The Iliad in the original Greek, Tiffany was back with our meal, which she had balanced neatly on both forearms, nearly obscuring her tattoo. I don't know why I did this, I knew better, but I ate the entire meal without getting a spore count, a lab report on the pathogens in the salad, or a biopsy on the meat course.

Tiffany and Sherry finished their shifts and trotted off home wearing their uniforms with the multicolored stains of the four major food groups. The cooks, dishwashers and busboys, all blissfully unaware of the seething sepsis they labored in and shared with their customers, sweated their way through another batch of orders while visions of minimum wage bonanzas danced in their heads. They will undoubtedly marry and have 2.1 mutant children.

I, while waiting for the inevitable onset of some fatal and possibly inoperable disease, have had time before the paramedics arrive to ponder this: Dentists sometimes feel that the profession has been singled out for undue attention to our methodology and our ignorance and foot-dragging reluctance to face up to the fact that everything in our offices is a potential source of incurable pestilence. Just wait until the heat finally reaches the restaurant business. Hoo, boy! Just wait until that gloved, masked, full body-suited waitress brings the tab with the space for the gratuity and an even bigger one for "sterilization surcharge - $50!" Us "guys" may have to give up eating out altogether and consider eating at home, a sanctuary we share with several generations of germ families. But at least they're our germs.

The Language of Horseman Colorful language is part of the fun of Dr. Horseman's writing. But sometimes, it's a little too colorful -- that is, our intrepid editors have to look up a bunch of the words to make sure they're spelled and used correctly. Among the new words we've learned while editing Dr. Bob's column are: Asafetida -- the fetid gum resin of various oriental plants (genus Ferula) of the carrot family formerly used in medicine as an antispasmodic and in folk medicine as a general prophylactic against disease Bagatelle -- trifle Bombazine -- a silk fabric in twill weave dyed black Brio -- enthusiastic vigor Bruit -- 1 a: archaic NOISE, DIN b: REPORT, RUMOR 2: any of several generally abnormal sounds heard on auscultation Chimera -- an illusion or fabrication of the mind; esp. an unrealizable dream Chockablock -- full Codswallop -- Brit: Nonsense Coterie -- an intimate and often exclusive group of persons with a unifying common interest or purpose Kibitz -- to observe as a kibitzer; esp: to be a kibitzer at (kibitzer -- one who looks on and often offers unwanted advice or comment esp. at a card game; broadly one who offers opinions) Kibosh -- something that serves as a check or stop Panoply -- a magnificent or impressive array Pastiche -- a literary, artistic, musical, or architectural work that imitates the style of previous work; also: such stylistic imitation 2 a: a musical, literary, or artistic composition made up of selections from different works: POTPOURRI b: HODGEPODGE Patois -- 1 a: a dialect other than the standard or literary dialect b: uneducated or provincial speech 2: the characteristic special language of an occupational or social group: JARGON Pellucid -- 1: admitting maximum passage of light without diffusion or distortion 2: reflecting light evenly from all surfaces 3: easy to understand Penumbra -- a surrounding or adjoining region in which something exists to a lesser degree Plummy -- rich and mellow often to the point of affectation Proselytizing -- recruiting someone to join one's party, institution, or cause Puce -- a dark red Riposte -- a retaliatory verbal sally Sang-froid -- self-possession or imperturbability esp. under strain Sobriquet -- a descriptive name or epithet: nickname Tittle -- a very small part Ubangi -- a woman in the district of Kyabe village in Chad with lips pierced and distended to unusual dimensions with wooden disks -- not used technically Definitions are from Miriam Webster's Collegiate Dictionary 10th edition and Webster's Third New International, unabridged.