University of Southern California School of Dentistry - El Molaro (Los Angeles, CA)

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Let ' s turn m a false alarm and watch the fun WHAT IS ANATOMY? — looking at a dead body for the first time — not being able to eat lunch for a week — getting used to the smell of formaldehyde on yo while eating dinner — praying that you ' ll get Butterworth for the ora — tracing an efferent nerve impulse from the sella sphincter muscle of the navel and back via th left mandibular lateral incisor and explaining with referred pain — picking fascia — trying to find your dissection kit — coffee breaks on the terrace — trying to explain what happened to the aorta to — trying to get Dr. Cardey to touch the cadaver — trying to write thru the grease on your practicu — after two hour ' s work, finding out your cadavei — the lab open the night before the exam — Founder ' s Hall for the written . . . seated three — somebody must be cornering the market on p Night cap One of my kangaroo rats just died! v;fl sliK k Notice how I turn these pages , 21

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Anatomy BRACHIAL PLEXUS . . . from the thorax to the digits via the pit!

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S=::C THE MANY MOODS OF INKY DR. WILLIAM HARRISON you ' ve carved first central . . Did I e ei tell i)u how I got m name? nd today it ' s Til ' pie wax . . . ir should we . . jiaine what do x.u think? luthern Comfort, -h ' 22 Xv We woke up one morning with a central incisor in one hand, and an Inky knife in the other. Looking down upon us was a little white-haired man pointing, with what we assumed was his index finger, at a pile of strange instruments on the table beside him. He was explaining the use of each as he packed them into a knapsack for the precarious journey ahead. There was the Boley gauge to plot our course, next our map for the trip ... the Linek tooth carving manual, the Hollenback carver to dig toe holds into the sides of the hills, a Bunsen burner to light the way in the dusky hours, the wax plane and wire screen to smooth the paths, and the rapidograph pen to keep our course straight and true . . . and most important our check cards upon which our daily progress would be recorded. The next day began our journey down Harrison ' s Wash into the canyons of the central groove delta, scaling the precipitous heights of the triangular ridges to the summit of the cusps where the view was magnificent ... on a clear day you could see the Cusp of Carabelli. We made camp for the night there. The last pink wax tent post was just about to be pounded to place when we were besieged bv a whoopine Indian shooting toothpicks from his bow strung with dental floss. From his belt hung a roll of toilet paper. He bombarded us with fiving theories of oral hygiene . . . dirty plates, and bleeding gums. We battled back with sleepy eves, and giggles. Finally, a cease fire was declared when our peace offering of Southern Comfort was accented, and the peace pipe smoked. At the campfire that night we were enthralled bv the ancient legend of how the great white warrior Inky got his name. He was the first person in the great new territory of Colorado to own a fountain pen . . . which leaked! The next day our journies were to be toward home, and our dreams were of packing up in the morning and heading out. On the trail that next dav we encountered a grizzled white-haired old trapper leading his beast of burden, loaded with supplies of tin foil, for the remote edentulous ridges. This kindly trapper gave us instructions on how to reach a small Chinese settlement where we could rest before continuing our journey. The settlement was indeed small ... it contained one distinguished Chinaman, sans que. He said he had retired many years ago (when a coup of northern chiefs overthrew the southern forces . . . who were wiped out except for a few braves ), and was just tending his garden here on the plateau until time to meet his ancestors. He showed us his soap carving . . . giant Hs and little tooth-shaped objects which he claimed to have carved in fifteen minutes. Finally rested, we proceeded on our journey home. As the sun slowly sank into the West we came to the end of our journey down paths never to be crossed again, for little did we know that our friendly guide would give up the struggle for men ' s minds and retire to his little shack in Beverly Hills. But, it was a good journey, and we survived As Chinese say . littou bit mowr Is a llttow better — Never did know nothing about histology . . .