It's March 1971 - You're A Teenager - You Have A Mouthful Of Cavities -

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You held out as long as you could. You were hoping it would go away. Threshold of pain blew past you days earlier. You can’t even negotiate a Cinnamon Crumb cake at Nutrition – forget the hot chocolate. You are throbbing – You are starving – you have a mouthful of cavities.

Head hits the desk during Geography. Face resembles a weather balloon. Marched off to the Nurse’s office.

One look. She shrieks. Call an ambulance? No – get your ass to the Dentist.

Mom scoops you up – you get the lecture – a life full of Abba-Zabba bars is a recipe for pain. Swell. Maybe a car will plough into you on the way to the Dentist – best you can do is stare out the window – Sunny day – just your luck.

Novocaine – needle the size of a Pontiac – Cherub-faced Dr. Lovejoy – lab coat reeks of Chesterfields – you want a cigarette – your lips feel like a pontoon bridge – the nurse shakes her head, curls her lip and grabs your mouth.

You can’t feel anything – oh yes, you can – the sawing-drilling/smell of burning teeth – mouth full of cotton and cardboard – you’ve entered new vistas of pain – all you can do is grunt and get teary-eyed by the bucketful as Dr. Lovejoy digs.

It’s never going to end. Dentist asks if you’ve ever brushed – you can’t talk – mouth full of cotton, blood and tooth bits – blinded by the searchlight staring at your face. A voice says “spit” every few seconds. The green dish under your chin – do you have any blood left at all?

You heard they knock people out – give them laughing gas – give them headphones and play music. Not you – not this dentist – he laughs – your mouth is a joke – you’ll need dentures by the time you’re eighteen – five cavities and counting.

Nurse produces a foot-long toothbrush and gigantic set of Cartoon teeth and shows you how to brush. You are drooling all over yourself. You’re too weak to kill and too sick to die.

You are handed over to your mom who looks at you like you’ve been through a firing squad. Nurse gives you a gift toothbrush and a bag of dental floss. The receptionist hands your mom the bill – she gasps. You want to sleep.

Home – bed – ceiling – Novocaine wearing off – jaw feels like it was pulled out of your head, beaten with a hammer and put back sideways. Mom hands you aspirin – you want narcotics – you want “do not operate heavy machinery” drugs. Nothing – more lectures.

Radio on your nightstand – thank god for Jethro Tull.

Here’s 45 minutes worth of the newly christened KLOS (formerly KABC-FM) from March 1971.