Until the other day, I hadn’t been to the dentist in a long time. Like a long long time. Like such a long time I have trouble translating the true length of my dental hiatus into language. When I finally did go the other day, my new dental hygienist asked me how long it had been:

“A long time,” I said.

“How long?” she asked.

“Years, actually.”

“How many years?”

“Oh I don’t remember,” I lied.

“Like five years? Or ten years?”

“Probably between five and ten years,” I lied again.

Like I said, these aren’t words that come easily. . . .

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Yesterday marked one week that Pulao has been in India, while I’ve remained in Minneapolis.

So far, things are deteriorating rapidly. Last night, I had beef jerky for dinner. I’ve also decided that growing a goatee is a good idea, even though my face lacks the proper follicles to support manly hair growth. I’ve even looked into the mirror, rubbed my budding peach-fuzz goatee with two fingers and mused, “Mustache . . . ?” Uh-oh.

A week may seem fast to have descended into the depths of mustache-musing, but remember: I work at home. I may not see another living . . .

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Because the best time to make a list of your favorite albums of the year is less than three hours after you’ve had two teeth yanked from your lower jaw, with the dentist breaking one in the process and having to poke around in the hole to tweeze out all the root fragments—right?

10.  Mission of Burma, The Obliterati, 2006
It has its flaws, like the too-sludgy sound throughout and the fact that they let their drummer, Peter Prescott, write a few of the songs when they shouldn’t.  But I’ve been missing guitar breaks for a while, . . .

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