On retainer

Like a few of my high school girlfriends, retainers are not pretty, but sometimes they are necessary. Especially if you've spent thousands fixing your teeth and intend to keep them that way.

When I was a kid, I somehow managed to escape wearing braces. First of all, my teeth were always fairly straight (operative word is fairly - more in a minute). And, back then, braces were a subtle yet sturdy blend of heavy metals combined with chain link and eighty-gage wire. Also, my parents were struggling to make ends meet as it was, and braces were way down on the list below things like food and paying the bills.

However I was reintroduced to the world of braces when my kids needed them. Apparently brace technology - a term you don't hear often - has made big strides over the years. Materials are lighter, they blend with the tooth color more easily and, in fact, some are even almost invisible.

Hence the name Invisalign.

When I took my son and daughter to get their braces, I asked the orthodontist what it would take to correct my one tooth in front on the bottom that was overlapping another one. No one else had ever noticed or commented on it, but I had focused on it for years. When I would smile - which was a lot of the time, because as anyone who knows me will tell you I'm a happy-go-lucky, easy goin' guy - it's the only thing I'd see. The good news was he said it was a simple correction and could be done with Invisalign, a plastic brace molded to the shape of your teeth that you change every two weeks to accommodate the teeth moving. Sounded good to me.

Besides, once you're in for a few thousand on the kids hardware, what's a few thousand more?

After a year, my teeth were straight, bleached and beautiful. And I thought that was the end of it and I was done. All I'd have to do from now on was smile. But apparently I didn't read the small print.

Seems teeth, like creative directors, have a memory of their own and always want to retreat back to their original position. To prevent that, I had to wear top and bottom retainers at nighttime. When I asked how long, my orthodontist kind of looked down at his very expensive shoes I'm sure I paid for and said one word: forever.

Since forever is a long time I opted for the traditional plastic and metal retainers shown here. I'd be wearing them at night so no one except my wife would see them, and she was stuck with that "better or worse" clause. Also, I was fine wearing plastic during the day, but for some reason sleeping with it on my teeth bothered me.

To keep the retainers clean, I have to soak them for fifteen minutes every night in a glass of Efferdent Denture Cleaner. Nothing makes you feel young again like using denture cleaner for anything.

But let's not forget the point of it all (yes there is one). My teeth are straight, I'm happy and having to wear retainers each night is a small price to pay to keep it that way.

And when I say small price to pay, I'm speaking figuratively.

Rate of exchange

If you've followed this blog at all - and really, don't you have better things to do - you know that I've written here about the pure extortion the Ahmanson Theater practices if you want to upgrade season tickets.

Yes, I understand this is a terribly first world problem to have.

Anyway, the wife and I were supposed to go see Backbeat there yesterday. But as so often happens, once we actually looked at our calendar, we had a divide and conquer day which would leave both us getting home around five and in a state of complete exhaustion.

Once we realized this, we also realized we'd better exchange the tickets. As Ahmanson season subscribers, we have that benefit as well as the convenience of doing it online, as opposed to having to drive up to the box office and do it in person.

Their website not only lets you see available dates and select seats, it shows you the view from those seats. I wound up with center orchestra seats that are 10 rows closer to the stage. And they only cost $10 each more to upgrade from where our season seats are.

In my other Ahmanson post, I mentioned we donated $600 once and didn't get an inch closer to the stage.

So here's how the math works out: for four shows, if we're able to upgrade at least 5 rows for an average of $10 a ticket, it would cost us $80. Much better, and much less than any donation we'd have to be robbed of before they'd consider moving us closer.

Getting good seats at the Ahmanson has always been filled with intrigue, double-crosses, jealousy and greed. After all, it is the theater.

And where I used to have two words for the Ahmanson management that made it so hard to improve our seats after being subscribers for over a decade, after discovering this little loophole in their rules about upgrading I only have one.

Bravo.

Meeting the deadline

Let me apologize right up front for the New Age-iness of this post. It's very unlike me, and yet here it is.

The other day I heard someone say they were "getting close to the horizon." It was a romantic notion, a wistful way of perhaps saying they, at this point in their life, had more yesterdays than tomorrows. They were looking out to what the future holds.

I'm pretty sure it was a metaphor for dying.

My guess is they felt time was moving too fast (SPOILER ALERT: It is). And there were things they wanted to accomplish that, as they were getting "close to the horizon", realized they'd probably never get around to.

To which I say, join the club.

I don't have enough blog space to list the things I'd like to do before I go. But while I keep trying to check items off the bucket list (I know, I don't like the term either), I do try to focus every once in awhile on what I actually have done.

I posted here about my attempts to get my helicopter pilot's license. I was talking to someone about it, bitching and moaning (so unlike me) that I hadn't seen it through to the finish line. They reminded me even though I didn't get it, I did at least fly helicopters for a while. How many people can say that?

Well, I suppose every helicopter pilot can, but I choose not to think about that.

The point is to own my accomplishments instead of constantly lamenting the (yet) unfulfilled ones. I have a house, something my parents never had. I have two beautiful kids, again, something my parents never had (they just had one beautiful kid). I've met people of note, traveled places and seen and done things I've always wanted to.

I think when people start talking about approaching the horizon, it's good to keep in mind life's accomplishments aren't always marked with a bang (insert agency Christmas party joke here). Sometimes they arrive with a whisper.

The minute we're born, all of us begin our one-way trip heading closer to the horizon.

I keep reminding myself the trick is to enjoy it.

Stop sharing

It probably says something about me that I won't let go (figuratively, not literally) of the fact Al Roker admitted on national television to pooping his pants. Or as the kids so delicately call it, sharting.

It bothers me because, and feel free to color me old-fashioned, I still believe that even in these Kardashian-esque days of everybody revealing everything, there's still some information that just doesn't need to be shared.

Here's the thing: we just don't need to know this. I believe that Roker believes he's doing a service by disclosing this information. After all, he had gastric bypass surgery, and the occasional pants pooping is a common side effect. So I hear.

Being a very visible public figure, my guess is he felt he was relaying essential information to everyone watching who's either had or is thinking about having the procedure.

But you know what? That's what the doctors are for.

You don't see Mary Tyler Moore or Halle Berry rattling on in interviews about the digestive issues, nausea, constipation and diarrhea that comes from living with diabetes.

I happen to like Roker. On the Today Show he's often the honest breath of fresh air, for example here where he ripped Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag a new one, or here where he busts Matt Lauer for getting Anne Curry fired.

It's when he starts discussing business south of the border that I have to draw the line.

Life is good for Al Roker. He's got one of the best jobs on television. He makes tons of money every year. He has his own production company. And he's recognized, respected and loved by millions of people every day.

The only thing he doesn't have is a filter.

Emotionally loaded

It's 2:30 in the morning on a starless, black night.

You're suddenly awakened out of a deep sleep by the harsh sound of shattering glass - a sound you intuitively know means nothing good is about to happen. As you get out of bed to see what it is, extreme unease fills you. Your heart is pounding, all senses are on high alert. As you get to the bedroom doorway, you discover an intruder, a stranger you immediately recognize as a very bad man, moving quickly with very bad intentions down the hallway towards your daughter's room.

You see him, but he doesn't see you. Yet.

The question is what would you like to have on you at this moment. A phone to call 9-1-1 in the hopes they'll get to you faster than he'll get to your daughters' room. Maybe a baseball bat, so you can run up behind him (which he'll hear) and engage in physical combat with him. A flashlight so you can shine it on him and let him know you're there and exactly where you're standing. How about a whistle to blow, so you wake everyone in the house up making it easy for him to know where they are, and who the most vulnerable one is.

For me, the answer is a gun.

If this were the scenario in my house, I'd have no qualms about taking the guy out before he ever reached my kids' room.

I have friends who disagree strongly on this viewpoint. In fact, one of them recently posted on Facebook that you're a moron if you even own a gun. Obviously a much more emotional response to the issue than an informed one.

But that's what the emotion on both sides of the issue drives people to do: paint in broad strokes, and make assumptions that simply aren't true.

Everyone who owns a gun is not a moron, or a killer waiting to happen. I know people who own guns. In fact I know people who own arsenals. Their weapons are legal and registered. They're well trained, responsible people who secure them when not in use. They know and practice gun safety.

In the light of the Newtown tragedy, both sides have a hair trigger when it comes to the other. And it's irrational fear that's driving both of them.

I don't think there's any one answer, but we have to start somewhere. The 23 items Obama put forth today - from assault weapons ban to increased and in-depth background checks - is as good a place as any. I believe monitoring and follow-up should also be part of the mix.

It's ridiculous and ignorant in equal parts to think all people who own guns are morons, or all guns are going to be banned, or the government is going to raid your house and take your guns. What all this talk does is drive gun sales. And the most fearful people who are doing the buying are probably the ones who shouldn't have them.

Do we have a gun culture? Are our children exposed to too much violence? Does it have a detrimental effect? I don't know. Does playing with toy fire trucks mean they're going to grow up to be firemen?

These are all appropriate questions that deserve considered and thoughtful answers.

Right after I take out that guy on the way to my daughters' room.

What is glutton for punishment

I was just trying to think of something I could do to make people say, "I.Q. over 60? Please."

And I've come up with the answer (which may be the only answer I come up with - that'll be funny in a second). I've decided to do again what I've done so unsuccessfully before. I'm taking the contestant quiz to be on Jeopardy.

As you may recall, I posted here about how well it went the last time. But I'm older and wiser now. Well, at least older and fatter. And frankly I consider myself much better versed in European Capitals, Rivers Of The World and Renaissance Artists than I was last time.

The good news is in the test, I don't have to ring in with that impossible buzzer you see contestants wrestling with on the show .

Anyway, if you need me between now and tonight, you'll find me studying up on Civil War Generals, Architecture, "R"eal Words, and the ever popular Potpourri.

And of course I'll also be working on my interesting-yet-humorous-although-not-too-humorous 30-second story for when Alex briefly interviews me after the first commercial.

Wish me what is luck.

My eyes are open

I've posted before here about my problem with floaters and flashes. And I'm not talking about the kind you see downtown at midnight. Ba dum bum!

Because of all these little suckers floating around in my eyes, I have to go to my world-renowned ophthalmologist once a year so he can make sure my retina isn't detached. And every year, he gives me the same answer.

It's not detached, it's just more of a loner. BAM! I'll be here all week.

Anyway, in order to do the exam he has to dilate my eyes. An assistant comes in and puts two drops of the dilating elixir into each eye. I think one of the main ingredients is gasoline because that's what it feels like.

Once my eyes - or anyone's eyes - are dilated, they let in a whole lot of light and there's nothing you can do about it. Usually I get this exam during the day, and I have to wear three pairs of sunglasses (not kidding) to reduce the light coming into my eyes so I can see well enough to drive home.

But since this time the exam was at night, I thought I could get away with not wearing them.

So you're asking, "How'd that work out for ya?"

This is what every headlight looked like on the way home. Each one was a starburst, and every lamp shining from a lamp post looked like fireworks. It was very pretty. I think they design it that way because they know it may be the last thing you ever see as you go careening out of control across four lanes into other cars on the freeway.

The good news is it eventually wears off in about four or five hours, and then once again I'm able to see things as they really are.

Which, as anyone who knows me will tell you, was never a strong suit of mine to begin with.