I now report how I watched this week's presidential debate. Nazalene, my Indian housekeeper of 11 years, had made lamb curry. One bone and out went my front tooth. A hole the size of the Lincoln Tunnel. My dentist Dr. Marc Lazare was on the island. Knowing he once did an emergency session in Liza Minnelli's own bathroom, remembering he once flew somewhere to help Gina Lollobrigida, I called. Late at night, as Obama was again telling us, "Let's make one thing perfectly clear," the doc drove back to his 74th and Park office. At 10 p.m., this creature whose smile looked like somthing out of the Ozarks was under novocaine. I am suggesting sainthood for Dr. Marc Lazare.