Ha ha, I have been to the dentist and I have conquered! (He drilled into my teeth while I lay helpless, my jaw numbed, and expending all my energy just trying not to drool, how is that conquering anything?) Quiet, you. The aforementioned dentist was Dr. Tom, my new dentist, son of my old dentist, Dr. Bowles, from whom he is inheriting the practice. Dr. Bowles is George Bowles, DDS; Dr. Tom is Thomas Bowles, DDS. Now, Dr. Tom was kind enough to let me come in today, even though he normally doesn't work on Fridays, but I'm not yet comfortable around him. Dr. Bowles has been my dentist since I was a wee tike; I almost looked forward to his disapproving stare at the end of my cleanings. It was a very central part of the ritual of going to the dentist. Most importantly, we didn't call him Dr. George, we called him Dr. Bowles. He wasn't your friend, he was a competant professional. I understand that Dr. Tom might not want to be called Dr. Bowles so as to establish his own identity, rather than assume his father's, but if he really wanted to be his own man, he shouldn't have taken over his dad's practice.