A Friday the 13th to Remember!

Ready to draw! (No, not draw blood,
draw people).

You might know a few people who stay home on Friday the 13th because it's a bad luck day, and leaving the house for unnecessary errands would just be tempting fate. I not only left home, I drove a couple hundred miles and dressed up like a nurse! (Luckily there is a costume / fetish shop near my house where I was able to pick up a last-minute nurse's hat to go with super-red lipstick.)

See, I know a few people who see Friday the 13th as a great reason to throw a party. This past weekend I traveled to Southern California to participate in a really wacky event that is part outreach, part fundraiser, part "I dare you" party, and part reunion.

Margaret Downey introduces her volunteer staff of "doctors and nurses," ready to help "cure" the crowd of any lingering superstitions.

In addition to the table centerpieces, there was an area with
food  and food-related superstitions.

Margaret Downey, a longtime activist, equality warrior, and friend of mine, has been throwing these "Friggatriskaidekaphobia Treatment Center" parties in different parts of the country for nearly two decades now. The event always draws interest from the secular and skeptic communities, and news stations see it as an interesting angle to highlight during a dreaded Friday the 13th. As you may have figured out, "Friggatriskaidekaphobia" simply means "fear of Friday the 13th." It's not the only superstition highlighted at the event. A walk around the tables provides an educational tour of many historical and cultural-specific superstitions you might not have been aware of, as each table was topped with a unique centerpiece illustrating a particular item and it's superstitious significance.

This mid-1990s look for the MGM was putting off too many
rich Asian gamblers, who thought it was a little too close
to "walking through the mouth of a lion."

Superstition might be all fun and games (as certainly they were that evening), but many skeptic writers have explored and criticized how this type of thinking can be detrimental. Buildings avoiding the label of a 13th floor, people not shopping on unlucky days--all of it adds up to a dent in the economy and bizarrely missing elevator buttons. Here in Las Vegas there's a famous local story (one that cost our economy millions of dollars) involving the MGM lion. The gigantic Strip resort had invested much time and money into a glamorous art-deco lion entrance during the 1990s, but developers had to scrap the entire frontage soon after reopening. The architects had placed the main entrance right under the lion's mouth, and that's very bad mojo according to Asian superstition. So pretty soon the whole front of the MGM was scaffolded up again so the hotel could be resurfaced with better feng shui in order to entice wary (and highly superstitious) Chinese gamblers.

But economics aside, some superstitions are a deadly business (in a literal sense for both those words). There are some African superstitions that claim albino people can bring good luck--and not in a cheerful way, like you should befriend an albino person or buy them some coffee, because they are lucky to be around. No, to gain luck from an albino person you must (according to the superstition) steal parts of their body for use in magic spells and luck-bringing potions. The killing and mutilating of albinos, called muti murders, are a continuing problem in Africa. According to the Red Cross, at least fifty albinos have been murdered in Tanzania and Burundi in recent years, as Ben Radford mentions in a recent writeup for Discovery News.

Awwwwww! 

The anti-superstition bash at the Fullerton Howard Johnson was a lighthearted affair, however, so there was not much talk of death and murder. Black cats were brought out by the Kitt Crusaders, who facilitate adoptions and fostering of cats and were there to educate people on how black cats are adopted at far lesser rates (and therefore euthanized at much higher rates) due to the superstitious baggage associated with them. No one at the party was able to adopt then and there, but the cats got lots of cuddles and pets, and literature was taken home.

Now, I had drawn at a Friggatriskaidekaphobia party a few years back in Philadelphia, so I knew sort of what to expect. In fact, it was nice seeing so many folks walking around in a shirt I had designed: a few years ago Margaret had asked me to craft a logo for these treatment parties, and I'd settled on an adorable little rabbit amputee. That, along with a trash can full of luck charms, adorned the signs and t-shirts around the event. We even put up balloons (in bunches of 13) and there were little quotations about luck put up all over the ballroom. Margaret really does think of everything.

Ladder limbo!

I was introduced with an ambiguously hyperbolic "She is the best caricature artist in the world of skepticism!" . . . which I think is sort of like being the best tapdancer in the world of taxidermy. For a suggested donation of $13, guests could get their caricature at the party--and I did get things started with a few freebies just to warm up the crowd. It was hosted by the California "backyard skeptics" so I was to expect a little skepticism! In fact, many made that joke as they sat down. "I wasn't going to get one until I saw you were good--because, you know, I'm a skeptic, got to see it to believe it!" Those silly skeptics, jeeeeeez. But skeptical or not, they all plunked down varying donations, some quite generous, and I ended the night with over $200 to contribute to the hosting organizations.

Dancing under umbrellas, while "unlucky" added a fun little
  intimacy for couples hiding their pre-Valentine's day kisses!

As I drew, I got a nice view of the goings-on: there was a crowd umbrella dance, where couples swayed under open umbrellas on the dance floor as crooner Dave Deluca belted out some classic Frank Sinatra. Between musical acts and the dancing, Buck Bowen, the energetic emcee, led folks through ladder limbo, a ceremonial smashing of a mirror, and "level the leprechaun" bowling. Volunteers dressed to the nines as doctors and nurses put people through a superstition obstacle course of sorts, having them spill salt or duck under a ladder. There was a playfulness with all of it that helped people mingle and enjoy themselves. 

Some of the happy couples who (skeptically) sat in my chair at the party.

Once my time in the chair was up, I happily turned off my spotlight and headed to the drink gypsy (doesn't every good party have a drink gypsy?) and purchased one of her $13 "love potions." Normally I NEVER would imbibe at a gig, but this was a pro bono event for a friend, and these were my people. Little did I know, a $13 love potion would probably make up for all my previous parties of staying dry. It was sixteen ounces of solid alcohol and radiated a strange blue hue that should have warned me away from ordering it. Yeah, I got a little tipsy by the end of the night. (Thank you, Margaret, for kindly hosting me and driving to and from the party!)

Fangirling with Wendy Hughes.

As I nursed my giant blue radiation-infused drink, I was able to enjoy the skeptical comedy of Ian Harris, who delighted the crowd with his monologues about meandering through an irrational world. The horoscope rap done by Buck Bowen was delightful, and I even got to meet up with Wendy Hughes, who helps run TheOddsMustBeCrazy.com and contributes to the podcast Skepticality with stories of seemingly wild coincidences (then breaks down the odds with the help of statisticians).

There were a few luminaries in attendance that were not in the entertainment lineup. There were two fellows running around with a film camera and a fake mustache and wig, filming little snippets of the wigged actor "freaking out" over various superstitious omens. He asked one of my models if they were worried I was "stealing his soul" while I drew the caricature--the guy responded dryly "What's a soul?" A camera man and interviewer from one of the local news channels showed up. And Brian Keith Dalton, also known as "Mr. Deity," swung by. Luckily he enjoyed his time and we did not have to face his omnipotent wrath! Roy Sorge, retired captain of the Queen Mary, also attended.

Margaret checks Mr. Deity for signs of everlasting life.

A surprising guest was Mr. Scott Smith, a local photographer whom I did not even recognize at first. Last time I had seen Scott, it was the 1994 Northridge earthquake. He is the brother of my original cartooning mentor, Gary Smith, who lives and works in Baltimore, Maryland. Gary and I had visited southern California around the time I graduated college, and Scott had kindly hosted us (his home was just a few miles from the epicenter). I had joked about how cool it would be if there was an earthquake during our visit--and then immediately we got one! So Gary of course blamed the earthquake on me and said it was "very bad luck" for he and I to travel together . . . . so it was fitting to hang out with his brother again at an event refuting the very existence of luck and superstition!

Me (in sunglasses, because I was SO COOL) surveying the damage back in '94. I think Scott actually took this picture. Then there's me and Scott now, 21 years later. I think we held up pretty well--earthquake damage notwithstanding!

At the end of the night, Margaret and her head nurse Christine Jones did a little routine to the Secret Sisters' "Good Night, Good Luck, Goodbye" as they tossed (artificial) rabbits' feet into the crowd. Then the lights came up and many of the volunteers and some of the braver participants lined up in a group hug/dance, everyone swaying to John Lennon's "Imagine." It was a fun night of meeting new faces, reuniting with a few old friends, and learning new things. So glad I was able to be a part of it.

The next day was Valentine's Day, and I relaxed with Margaret and we swapped stories. She told me about various death threats she had received from Boy Scouts back when she was leading the fight in court to make them accept all boys regardless of religion or sexual orientation if they were going to use public money and be linked with the US military. Apparently Boy Scouts can be pretty graphic when describing how they're going to kill you, the Eagle Scouts especially! I've had no death threats aimed at me, personally--though a few coworkers had experienced the ol' death stare and "I'm gonna kick your ass!" from angered patrons who took offense to their caricature. And Margaret did enjoy hearing a few of the very very inappropriate offers I'd heard from drunk men (or couples!) while I drew them. I'm grateful for Margaret for fighting the fights, while I sit back and draw funny pictures. (Though the next day she texted me with news of the cartoon-inspired shootings in Denmark and said that maybe my job WAS more dangerous than hers.)

As a final bit of "good luck" after this event, the Southern California highways were clear and my drive home was smooth sailing! I may have to thank Mr. Deity for that little miracle--I was able to get back to my husband (and interrupt his bachelor anime fest) well before the stroke of midnight!

The Fallacies that House Built

First, a disclaimer: I am not a doctor and I am not giving medical advice. I'm more of a couch potato giving advice on how to watch TV.

What the hell does being a doctor, or watching TV, have to do with a caricature blog, you ask? Well, Hugh Laurie has an awesome face. I played around with it and did a quick digital doodle of him, but I'm not quite satisfied yet. I'll be drawing him at least a few times more. Rich features and bone structure there. You can see his young face (and native accent) on Laurie & Fry, an old British comedy also available on Netflix instant, for any of you who want something Monty Python flavored but who have memorized all of Flying Circus already.

House has long been on my list of things to check out. Dr. Gregory House is based on Sherlock Holmes, as Baker Street fans already know, which makes for some quirky dialogue and fun relationship friction . . . and every now and again a direct reference makes its way into the show. Doctor Wilson (who is the de facto Watson of the show) at one point talks about "hearing zebras instead of horses," and then in a later episode tells a group of doctors a lengthy lie about "Irene Adler," some woman whom he claimed House was infatuated with. And instead of a solution of cocaine, or the occasional bit of morphine that the original Holmes indulged in, Dr. House is hooked on vicodin and sometimes other, stronger pain-killers.

Netflix has all the seasons available on the instant download, and I found them perfect for what I needed. See, I recently took on a huge pile of commission work and it drives me bananas to not have something in the background as I draw. Some find that distracting, and I would never recommend it if one is doing something verbal-based (for instance, I can't watch TV and write, I need silence for that). But for repetitive actions like filling in swaths of color? I love me some podcasts, talk shows, or interesting-but-not-too-enthralling TV shows. I cannot work during really impressive shows like Game of Thrones or Walking Dead, because every frame is gold. House though? It's pithy, but for the most part predictable. While House has been trumpeted as a "skeptic" character and launched a thousand memes with snarky quotes from the show, I'm not exactly watching it with eyes glued to the screen . . . and if I really want to see the explosive bloody diarrhea that just coated the guest star's hospital bed, I can just pause and rewind.

I'm up to season 5 so far and have seen quite a bit of explosive bloody diarrhea.

The show introduces one or two medical mysteries that are resolved by the end of the episode (think Law & Order, but with doctors), and so it's no surprise the scripts are formulaic. But there's a sort of comfort to formula 42-minute dramas . . . Law & Order has eight hundred spinoffs for a reason. Not to mention the cool guest stars that sometimes have popped up. I got to see Jeremy Renner as a punk rocker who coughs up tons of blood, Felicia Day as an organ recipient, and Dave Matthews as a brain-damaged savant. That last episode is worth checking out just to see Hugh and Dave jam on the piano together.

But medically. Oh, ouch, medically. As I said above, I am not a doctor. But I am not a moron either.  This show gives me flashbacks to college, when I tried watching Chicago Hope with my roommate, who was working at a hospital and attending dental school. Between laughing fits, she would say "Uh, no, that doesn't happen," quite frequently. When one episode showed the transplant-harvest lab monkeys being brought down to the cancer ward so that sick kids could play with them, she near about had an aneurysm.

Paging Dr. House . . . it's 34 minutes into the episode!

House, indeed, has unrealistic medical things all over the place, and the very nature of the 42-minute-drama formula plays into the false medical information. The doctors (who should be used to seeing blood all the time, I mean, they're doctors) never seem to get really worried until that precise moment in the show, around minute 34, when a patient starts gushing blood from a particular orifice--or all of them. The writers use blood as a touchstone because of its visceral value to all human beings: most of us get panicked when we see it. So, like clockwork, the patient will become an Old Faithful of the red stuff whenever the story needs to signal viewers "okay, shit's getting real now!" Blood gushes from noses, or ears, or it gets vomited out, or comes out mouth, nose, and eyes simultaneously, or gets pooped all over the bed, or a catheter bag that should contain urine instead has--you guessed it--blood, and even once they had a doctor get wide-eyed and say "you're sweat . . . you're sweating blood!" as the camera zoomed in on little blood droplets and dramatic music crescendoed. The blood on this show has its own theme music, it's really one of the stars.

And then by minute 38, Dr. House, or his team, in conjunction with some teeny tiny clue they found while illegally breaking into the patient's home (when was the last time your doctor cared so much that he or she broke into your home?), figure out the diagnosis. And usually they save the patient. Not always, but usually. Not only that, but the out-on-a-limb nutty diagnosis is usually the right one, and House often dismisses previous doctors, who had made perfectly sound diagnoses based on the presenting symptoms, with "They're idiots." I wondered how doctors felt about the show . . . but then I remembered the internet! People post opinions on the internet! Indeed, some doctors had actually compiled a list of medical quibbles, dissecting every episode point-by-point. And you thought I was a skeptic busybody.

The Amazing Randi, who is a delight and generously gives
of his time to skeptically pose with many attendees at TAM.

Speaking of skepticism, this past weekend I was able to attend The Amazing Meeting, a yearly get-together of skeptics, science educators, and activists who seek to spread rationality and combat bunk. And, oddly enough, House came up. This year's theme was the brain, and Dr. Steven Novella, a neurologist who runs my favorite weekly podcast, The Skeptic's Guide to the Universe, mentioned the show and how it has changed the assumptions of some patients who come to see him. Dr. Novella told the crowd about a patient that had presented with a laundry list of what are typically referred to as "non-specific symptoms." Fatigue, headaches, soreness, and so on. She had been to some other specialists but none had found anything wrong, so she was now getting an MRI. When he went over the results with her and said there was nothing abnormal in the MRI, she started crying. Not crying in relief, just crying, agonized that there was nothing visibly wrong.

He said he's been seeing more and more of this type of reaction, and he has termed it the "Dr. House Effect." Patients have taken the House formula to heart: on that show, they run test after test, and the victorious moment comes when the really smart doctors finally make a successful diagnosis and treat the patient, who then gets better. If they cannot beat the clock and diagnose something, well then, that patient dies. No specific diagnosis = death. That's what this poor woman was internalizing; she thought that having a normal MRI was actually bad news. Dr. Novella had to reassure her that the "normal MRI club" was definitely where she wanted to be. Having a confirmed brain tumor or neurologic defect is way worse than having some symptoms that seem mysterious because they're unexplained. And, in actuality, not every set of non-specific symptoms gets diagnosed. Nor should we expect doctors to ever be able to do that. Human bodies are terribly complex, we aren't just walking sudoku puzzles that have a specific answer if you just connect all the right numbers. In cases like this patient's, Novella said, you just prescribe some lifestyle changes (exercise, better diet), see if you can mitigate the symptoms (try some headache drugs or muscle relaxers), and clinically keep an eye on things (see them for future appointments, see if anything gets worse).

So bear this in mind the next time you get frustrated at doctors for not having a cut-and-dry explanation for exactly what might be your health issue. Many popular TV shows have contributed to reductionist thinking in America, and I think House is a good example of that. Watch enough of that type of medical drama and you start to expect that doctors are all either idiots or geniuses, and lack of diagnosis means you'll be dead by the end of the episode.

But knowing all that, I'm still anxious to see the next episode. Drs. House and Cutty are coming dangerously close to a liaison, and, even if the hospital shennanigans are pumped with bunk, they are also fun to watch. Plus I have a few more angles I want to try with a Hugh Laurie drawing.