In the summer `79 I was 10 years old. I was into KISS about as much as any rural-Michigan pre-teen could be; obsessed after the KISS Meets The Phantom of the Park movie debacle, in proud possession of Alive!, Alive II, Double Platinum, Destroyer, and the solo albums, and glued to my local FM station day and night, suffering through Donna Summer’s “Bad Girls” knowing that “I Was Made For Loving You” had to be next.

 Most summers, my family would take a couple weeks and head north, into Michigan’s Upper Peninsula (before we moved up there in 1983), to camp, fish, boat, and hike Michigan’s unspoiled woods and lakes. This summer was no different - afternoon hikes, evening cookouts with the staticy FM feed of “Bad Girls” and “I Was Made For Loving You” providing the soundtrack. We were at Muskallonge Lake State Park, with our pop-up trailer, nearing the end of one of those stretches, when my sister and I pushed the canoe out into the lake behind our campsite and jumped in for a lap around the inlet that skirted our side of the park. It was getting dark, we didn’t have much time, but our parents were happy to have us out of the way while they cleaned up after dinner, and we were happy to get in one last adventure before stoking the campfire and cooking up some s’mores.  

Somewhere in the middle of that little bay, a few minutes into our voyage, I must’ve become bored because I decided we needed to drop the anchor, normally used when a prime fishing spot was procured. We weren’t fishing that night, but that anchor was going in. As I prepared to toss it overboard, I made the fateful, unexplainable decision to put the rope in my mouth. SPLOOSH! The anchor hit the surface and headed down, the rope tightened in an instant, tugging rapidly and ferociously at my jaw, ripping one of my adult lower incisors (#23, lower left, if you’re keeping score) forward and halfway - but not all the way - out of my skull. It all happened in a split second. The tooth was propelled forward, stuck solid in place, pushing my lower-left lip out, the gap in my gums pouring blood onto my clothes and the floor of the canoe. Welp, that was a mistake.

I frantically pulled the anchor up and into the boat and started feverishly paddling in. My sister sat in the front of the canoe facing me, not looking scared or shocked, but a little puzzled. “You look like Gene Simmons puking blood.” she said, probably hoping to comfort me with an analogy I was sure to love, but I most likely barked at her to shut up, and got us back to the little beach behind our campsite where our father was waiting (alerted with the rest of the campground) by my scream from the accident.

I held a dirty, smelly dish towel to my jaw to soak up the blood as the family piled into the short-scale station wagon for the 30 minute drive to Newberry, the closest city, and certainly the closest hospital. The portly, greying trauma doctor with bad breath and massive protruding ear and nose hair shook his head and admitted there was nothing he or anyone else within 100 miles was qualified to do, and that we should get home to our family dentist downstate and have them decide on the best course of action. We headed back to the campground, now under pitch black skies in the Michigan wilderness, tooth still protruding from my skull, throbbing with each step, each bump in the road, each breath.  

The next morning I sat miserably at the picnic table in a light drizzle as my parents and sister packed up our campsite into the short-scale station wagon. Vacation was over, a couple days early. We drove south, across the Mackinac Bridge, and eventually home, where we made plans to meet the orthodontist the next day (Sunday) at noon. This thing had been sticking out of my head for 24 hours now, and I was ready for whatever was next. I was in pain, but I may have embellished it along with the anxiety just a bit when my mom bribed me with a promise to get the new KISS record if I was a good kid at the appointment the next day, knowing there would likely be some trauma involved. I agreed to do my best. 

We pulled into the empty parking lot of the medical center and parked near the door where the doctor let us in. I didn’t know this guy, but he didn’t seem too bothered by the Sunday call. He took a quick look, asked how it happened, cringed when I told him, and said it would have to come out. He numbed it up, grabbed some pliers, and yanked that sucker out of my skull with a few good pulls. It hurt like hell, even with the Novocain, and I could feel every nerve tear from every root. It was traumatic, but I was glad that I could finally close my mouth again and to know that the healing could start. He said that even though this was a permanent tooth, I still had a few baby teeth to lose, and chances are that the gap would fill itself in (it eventually did), so I most likely would not need a bridge or braces, and in time, it wouldn’t even be noticeable. Time would tell. Talk to your family dentist about it. Have a good day.  

We went straight from that clinic to Giantway, a local dime store that sold everything from fishing gear to furniture. Dynasty was displayed on an end-cap in the music department, next to Donna Summer, ELO, and Gary Newman, waiting for my swollen face to see, grab and embrace. By evening, the Novocaine was wearing off, the throbbing was back, and it would be a couple long days before I started to feel normal. Fortunately, I had Ace, Gene, Paul and Peter to help me through. For the next 40 years I’ve had to explain to various dentists and orthodontists who asked me why, after a surprised second-take, I was short one tooth. Not often, but occasionally there’s a follow-up question or two, but usually they just reach for the next utensil and get to work.

Dynasty is still one of my favorite KISS records. I think it’s under-rated in their catalog, though I do understand the backlash against the disco-feel of the hit single and the revelation years later that Ace and especially Peter had limited involvement.

And I don’t put ropes in my mouth anymore.  

Jeremy Porter lives near Detroit and fronts the rock and roll band Jeremy Porter And The Tucos. Follow them on Facebook to read his road blog about their adventures on the dive-bar circuit.
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