Highs and Lows

"I don't know why I go to extremes
Too high or too low
There ain't no in-betweens"
--Extremes, Billy Joel

I spent the early part of this day in La Canada and was able to travel from one end of the spectrum to the other in my various morning activities. I experienced one of the greatest things mankind has ever seen and one of my least favorite things in life within a matter of hours. It may not have been a Laker-esque emotional swing (like the Duncan/Fisher shot sequence--from the depths of despair to the throngs of joy in mere minutes), but it was close.
I was able to enjoy a breakfast burrito from our friends at Lucky Boy, the first one I've had in months. Last time I had one was when I phoned in the order and Holly picked them up--somehow ended up with chicken and no chili on Side's, though I asked for bacon and chili. Shady. Anyways, I skipped my morning shake in anticipation today, needing to keep the room free in my stomach for that thing, and I was able to savor every bite as a result. Has there ever been a better food item anywhere? Is there anything else that can be truly enjoyed as much at 8 a.m. as it is at noon or dinnertime or 2 a.m.? Somebody please come up with a time when it's not good to have one of these bad boys. I remember the first one I ever ate, with Side and B the morning of our senior houseboats trip, and never in the 10 years (wow) since then have I regretted eating one. For someone whose diet is a source of ridicule to many (including one of our editors at Fox, who today labeled me a "carrot-and-jerky-eating freak" who has "the diet of a deer"--what does that mean?), the consumption of this heart attack wrapped in a warm tortilla is of no small consequence.
After a spell on the treadmill at the YMCA (thanks, free Outlook membership) and a shower (far too many naked old men for my blood; frankly, one is too many), I had a dentist appointment. Sweet.
There are several dental assistants at Dr. Kenneth Ho's office, most of which seem very lovely, including a new one I'd never seen before who can pretty much clean my teeth anytime. However, instead of the kind and gentle young ladies, I'm saddled with the foreigner (not meant to be derogatory, just generic--I really can't place the accent) who quite obviously takes pleasure in my pain. Everytime I get her. Why don't they rotate, spread the love, give us a little variety? She stabs and pokes and prods and hacks, pausing every so often to drain the significant amount of blood that's been pooling in my lower lip. Her not-so-friendly reminders to "floss more" and "brush longer" have grown stale on this, the nineteenth time I've heard her tell me these things. I brush twice every day and I even floss five or six times a week, so if that's not enough for euro-hygenist, then I guess my best just isn't good enough. As William Hung put it, "I have tried my best, and I have no regrets."
After she's left me bloody and battered (in the immortal words of Brodie Bruce: "Women. Always leaving you when you've just had the crap kicked out of you"), in rolls Dr. Ho, who must have the sweetest gig in the business. He's like a politician, a figurehead of sorts. He lets his underlings do all the dirty work--the x-rays, the ultrasonic whatever, the scraping and the stabbing--and then he sits down, smiles and makes conversation, glances at the teeth for like five seconds and tells you how great they look. He's out. Just made like a grand. I should have gone to dental school.
So after my breakfast b and my pain session, the day has returned to normal. A little hangout time with Garett, Colby and Taylor, lunch with French and then back to work, where hockey preparations abound.
Still haven't forgotten about Superstars, hopefully that'll be the order of business tonight after bible study. Peace.