here's a story i found on the internet
The end of a rock concert begins a painful dental saga.
By SUSAN J. PARK
The Orange County Register
The Red Hot Chili Peppers had just left the stage. I stood still in the front row of people, waiting for enough space to leave. Then I saw a man in a plaid shirt behind the drums. He picked up a drumstick and whipped it into the audience. I felt a sharp blow to my face. I could taste the blood filling my mouth and felt a shard floating in it.
A little dazed, I spat into my right hand. In the splatter of red, I saw a white remnant of my tooth. The fans around me were scrambling for the drumstick, the cause of my pain.
It was the start of my crazy tooth experience.
I was at Hullabaloo, a concert fundraiser for the Silverlake Conservatory of Music this month at the Henry Fonda Theater. The concert, hosted by Woody Harrelson, featured a series of acts ranging from the conservatory's students to the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Eddie Vedder, the lead singer of Pearl Jam.
My college friend, Roger Dmochowski – a rabid Vedder fan – was still in school in Chicago and couldn't come. Since his birthday was coming up, I thought I'd try to get him an autograph of his idol.
But it was more than the bands that drew me. The organization provides instruments and music lessons for underprivileged kids. Being a former trumpet-playing band geek, I was moved by the cause to give $250 of my meager reporter's salary so other kids could get as much out of music as I did.
I thought I had endured enough pain for music by pushing my braces-laden teeth against a metal mouthpiece for hours. That was until I had been whacked with a drumstick, causing half of my left front tooth to end up in the palm of my hand.
So there I was: bleeding, shocked and alone in a crowd.
I was pressed against a barricade and couldn't escape, so I motioned to a security guard. I blended into the crowd that was still clamoring for the Peppers and scrambling for the drumstick. Finally, a guard came over. I opened my hand, showed him my tooth and shouted what happened. After he saw the blood dripping from my face, he lifted me over the barrier and led me to a restaurant at the venue.
Sitting at the bar, I felt my bottom lip begin to throb. I went to the bathroom, looked in the mirror – and panicked. Until then, I was stupidly hoping the tooth in my hand wasn't really mine. My split lip was oozing blood, and more than half of my left front tooth was gone. I decided I had to be calm to make sure I would get the care I needed. I refocused, and went back to the bar.
Then came the parade: the production manager, the band's lawyer, the coordinator of the event, a representative of the venue. I tried to calmly collect the contact information from them, while asking for ice for my aching lip.
By then I had been there for about seven hours and I was exhausted. I felt as if everyone was lurking around just so I wouldn't sue. When I spoke, I could hear an extra hiss with every "s." All I wanted was for my tooth to get fixed.
Then I realized I hadn't met the guy who threw the drumstick. I became angry he hadn't apologized.
"I want to meet the guy who did this to me," I demanded. "I want to show him what he did."
A representative of the venue led me out of the restaurant, through the building and finally backstage, passing by Harrelson, John Frusciante (guitarist for the Peppers), Vedder and Flea (bassist for the Peppers). I was clutching a napkin of ice to my busted lip, and my eyes were bouncing from celebrity to celebrity.
Finally, I spotted the plaid-shirted drum technician and marched over.
"Look what you did to my face," I said. "What were you thinking?"
He looked incredibly apologetic, and he acted it. I saw he was sorry, and then I went into mother mode. Phrases like, "Don't ever let it happen again!" and "You should known better!" came out of this injured, 23-year-old mouth.
He introduced himself as Chris Warren. He assured me that they had the best dentist, who would take care of me; he knew first-hand because he had fallen during the band's tour and cracked several teeth.
"So what's this?" I asked, pointing at my face. "Paying it forward?"
He shook his head and we laughed. There was no point in being angry anymore.
Warren got me a pair of drumsticks, and I recognized I could be milking the situation for my buddy Roger. Warren asked if there was anything else he could do.
"Get Eddie Vedder to sign a poster for my friend Roger and I'll get out of your hair," I said.
He looked a little surprised and then grabbed a yellow flier with Hullabaloo on it and folded it in half. I followed him into the next room, where Vedder was talking to a group of people. Vedder nodded and smiled as Warren talked to him, and then he walked into a dressing room and grabbed a pen.
I walked over, thanked Vedder and asked him to make it out to Roger. He wrote the dedication and talked to me with a friendly ease. He drew three sets of waves and wrote a personal message, more than I expected. We shook hands and exchanged names and he walked out.
Then Warren and I came upon Flea. My eyes were level with his separated front teeth, and I showed him mine.
"Hey, we match," I said. (As I'm writing this I'm inwardly groaning and can't believe I said that.)
"Yes, we do," he answered politely, and I could see his eyes flicker, which I interpreted as, "Who is this weird girl?" He tried to hide it, but I guess his short acting stint in "Son-in-Law" didn't teach him enough of the Method.
Then I fled. I wasn't looking forward to the 45-minute drive to Orange County. I arrived home at about 4 a.m. and fell asleep on my couch. When I woke up two hours later, I felt terrible, a preview of the pain to come.
At about 9 p.m. Sunday I had an emergency root canal. I had the start of an infection, so I needed additional painkillers. I whimpered like a sick puppy as the dentist worked before the numbness relieved me. About two weeks later I had four hours of cosmetic dentistry, which shaved my tooth to a nub to be covered with a temporary crown. I'm waiting for the permanent replacement and dreading the additional treatment. The band's insurance is covering the costs.
As for the show, it was amazing, and the conservatory's trainees were delightfully talented. Though I got to talk to people I never expected to meet, I would rather have left the concert with all my teeth. The worst was speaking with the band's lawyer a week later. He misunderstood one of my requests and snapped, "Why don't you cover your own bills up front and stop making us jump through hoops?"
I felt so insignificant and frustrated that I almost broke into tears at work. Instead I just bawled on my drive home. Even in the car I can't escape. Every time I hear a Peppers song on the radio, I shout angry invective and switch the station. I want to be able to listen to my favorite band again!
At least I got Roger's birthday present. That kid owes me, big time.