Creative Outlets

One thing I've never understood is people who bitch about their jobs.  If you hate your job enough to complain about it daily, why not redirect that energy into finding a new job, perhaps one you hate less?

 

At a certain point, the buttons you keep winning just aren't worth it.

Yet sometimes, bitching is still easier than the stress involved in applying, interviewing, waiting for HR, signing the forms, and getting oriented.  I know this because my stress levels are through the roof.  Next week is my last week at my current job and it's not a moment too late.  Our staff has been at about 50% of what it should be and it's working me to the bone.  I'm exhausted all the time, and even if I didn't have this new job lined up, I would have probably put in my two weeks' notice anyway and started searching.  On top of my stress due to overwork, there's the stress of worrying about my new job.  Will I be good at it?  Will it be challenging?  Will I mess up?  Will I have fun?

For those just joining us, my new job is as the head researcher / lab manager of UCLA's new gnotobiotics lab.  Note that "head researcher" just means "researcher who's been there the longest" and "lab manager" just means "person who orders more pipette tips."  The true boss is the PI, which stands for Primary Investigator and not Private Investigator, which would be far cooler.

According to stock photography, both professions use magnifying lenses to an excessive degree.

Gnotobiotics is the study of microbial influence on neurological development.  This is also called the "brain-gut" axis.  Whether you like it or not, the reality of the situation is that you are mostly microbe.  You have ten times more bacteria than cells that are "you," and when you take a dump, 30% of the mass of that dump is E. coli.  With that amount of bacteria floating around in your body, it's inevitable that some of it is going to have a degree of influence over your thoughts, perceptions, and increasing cynicism about your job.

Then again, it's not really your microbes' fault that you got a liberal arts degrees.  ...OR IS IT?

Since switching over from one job to another takes time, I've been in a sort of career limbo where I'm not yet established at my new job, and tying up loose ends at my old job.  I'm feeling increasingly anxious about starting anew and being given new challenges and responsibilities.  It's a lot to think about.  The paperwork alone is a daunting, Sisyphean task.  My response to this has been to sleep a lot and to try to find creative outlets at home.

As usual, RedditGifts is one of my major hobby projects.  I signed up for two "secret santa" exchanges: an animal-themed one and a pet-themed one.

Here's a pretty typical wrapping job for the animal-themed exchange.  As you can see, each package has a dirty limerick attached to it, lovingly crafted and hinting at the contents of what's inside each gift.

I was especially proud of this one.  (The person I was gifting to mentioned that her boyfriend really likes ducks.)

As for the pet exchange, Andrew and I make a snake hut for someone with snakes.

  Lol, snake puns. 

Not that I spend all of my time at home painting houses for snakes, of course.  That would make me crazy.  And I'm certainly not crazy, which is why my friends often rely on me to get things done for them.  For example, one of my friends, a professional drag queen, was doing an Elvira act over the weekend and asked for two 4-ft.-tall cardboard cutouts of Elvira's dog posing with a boombox as stage props.  Does that sound crazy to you??? 

Here's the outline, and then the finished product.

Wow, this post has had a lot of artsy-fartsy stuff, huh?  Don't worry, blog.  I'm still a scientist and absolutely not a crazy one.

If I were crazy, my dog, who is also my captain, would have honorably discharged me by now to get some of that top-notch mental health care that America provides to its veterans. 

Next time, on iAlbatross: My picks for what Voldemort's Horcruxes should have been, two new short scary stories, and a charming Halloween video to ring in autumn 2015!  Also, some science stuff: insects and fish, and the world's smallest horse!

Also, sorry for the infrequent updates.  As always, please feel free to visit Andrew's more frequently updated but immensely less endearingly batty blog, SHRAD.ORG.  The name of his blog is not, regrettably, any sort of reference to a death metal band.  In fact it's quite the opposite.  For example, he recently wrote about an excellent date we went on to see Audra McDonald the soprano sing at the Hollywood Bowl, followed by a ballet performance of Fancy Free.  Not especially hardcore, but nonetheless amusing.

Fancy Free is a ballet about some totally heterosexual sailors, and the resemblance to Carlisle is uncanny.

On service animals, therapy animals, and taking your dog with you to the store: an essay

I have a friend of a friend of a friend who, earlier this year, decided that she wanted a hedgehog.

Specifically, she wanted a "service hedgehog." See, she had been at the mall and there had been a guy there walking around carrying a hedgehog. She asked about it, and he explained he was "allowed" to, because it was a "service hedgehog."

There's at least three things wrong with this scenario. First, we live in the state of California, where hedgehogs are illegal (with rare exceptions; you must own a special permit to own one and justify why you have one).

Second, there is also no such thing as a "service hedgehog." I suppose you could have a "therapy hedgehog," but even if you did, it probably wouldn't be allowed in the mall or the state of California.

Finally, hedgehogs are notoriously grumpy animals. If you needed emotional support of any kind, a hedgehog would be one of the last animals I would recommend.

I had to explain all this in excruciating detail to the friend-of-the-friend, who really, really wanted a hedgehog. Her central argument was "But they're so cute!" It's hard to argue with that, because it's true. They're really cute.

Fortunately I managed to explain to her why she couldn't have a service hedgehog. I don't know whether the guy with the "service hedgehog" was lying or if he'd been completely misinformed by someone else, but this is not the first time I've heard someone misuse or misunderstand the concept of service animals and the legality of taking them into public spaces.

And so, if you've heard of this, considered it for your pet, or want more information, here's the scoop.

Disclaimer: I researched this only for my own interest (and to talk the friend-of-the-friend down from getting a hedgehog), and I am not a lawyer. These rules apply only to the United States, and some states may have other laws and amendments, so be sure to do your own research before you start taking Toto with you to Target.

Let's start with definitions. What's the difference between a SERVICE animal, and an ASSISTANCE animal?

A service animal is defined by the Americans with Disabilities Act as a dog (or other animal, but generally a dog) that is individually trained to do work or perform tasks for people with disabilities.  Under the ADA, service animals MUST be dogs or miniature horses.  No other animal qualifies as a service animal.  Furthermore, the work or task a dog has been trained to provide must be directly related to the person's disability. Dogs whose sole function is to provide comfort or emotional support do not qualify as service animals under the ADA.

For an animal to be covered by ADA law, there must be a clear correlation between the disability and the animal; if you're blind you can't demand to be allowed gerbils in your dorm.  Your service animal must perform a specific, trained task that has a clear correlation to your disability.

What's more, a service animal cannot have service "transferred." Beware of scams that claim to have licensed "service animals" that you can buy and take anywhere. If you're not blind, you can't just go out and get a seeing-eye dog to take to Steak n' Shake with you, no matter how delicious their new Mint Oreo Cookies n' Cream Shake™ looks. Also, beware of sites like this that let you "register" your animal. This site and others like it are NOT government-supported and do NOT make your dog into a legal service animal. There is no such thing as an online registration process that magically makes your dog into a service dog, only sites that help you convincingly fake it. Misrepresenting your animal as a "service dog" is a federal offense. Laws very by state, but misrepresenting a dog as a service animal generally carries a penalty of a fine and/or jail time. In my state of California, the fine is $1,000 and/or 6 months in jail.

How do you train a service dog? There are no official federal licensing rules, with the exception of the Guide Dogs for the Blind. They are classified differently from service dogs and fall under the jurisdiction of the Department of Consumer Affairs. Training of guide dogs is done by instructors who are licensed through the state.

For other service dogs, most training is done through private organisations that have vetting processes for the disabled to obtain a trained animal.

But what about "assistance" or "therapy" dogs? An assistance animal (such as a therapy animal or an emotional support animal) (also called an "ESA") does not perform a specific task but provides general comfort or support. (Although there's some debate, federally, seizure dogs are indeed currently covered by the ADA for doing a specific task, called an "alert.)

The difference between a therapy dog and an ESA is that therapy animals help other people, while emotional support animals help their handler."  Both can be called "assistance" dogs. However, neither is a "service" animal.

Assistance animals (ESAs) are covered under the Fair Housing Act. Therapy dogs are not covered under this law. Property managers/landlords are NOT required to make a reasonable accommodation under the Fair Housing Act for either assistance or service animals in these special cases:

• Buildings with 4 or less units where the landlord occupies one of the units.
• Single family housing sold or rented without a real estate broker.
• Hotels and motels are not considered dwellings under the FHA, but are considered places of public accommodation under the Americans with Disabilities Act. So if you're blind, your dog is allowed at the Embassy Suites, but if you're depressed and have an emotional support dog, the dog doesn't need to be allowed.
• Private Clubs.

Public universities are required to comply with the Fair Housing Act, which includes allowing emotional support animals into college dormitories and residence halls. Private universities may or may not be required to comply, however. They are not allowed to charge you for keeping the animal but may request a refundable deposit in case the animal does any damage.

Laws allow a property manager to accept a letter from the tenant's licensed mental health professional (LMHP) for an ESA, and may require a verification form to be completed by a physician or LMHP, confirming the tenant's physical/emotional/psychiatric disability. You are not legally required to say what your disability or emotional problem is; you only need the letter stating that you have a disability and need the animal. Landlords may not ask you "why" you need the animal or what the animal does; this violates HIPAA privacy law.

Note that in order for verification to be accepted, it must come from a LICENSED mental health professional; a general practitioner of medicine, a non-licensed counselor, or a social worker wouldn't count.

Although your landlord cannot refuse your animal on the general basis of weight, species, or training, they CAN charge you for any damages the animal does to the property, and they CAN evict you if the animal is destructive, unruly, or causing undue disturbance or distress on the property. Please note that the law says "reasonable accommodations" must be made, so while your landlord might be forced to allow a pitbull even if he has a "no pitbull" rule, he does NOT have to allow a tiger, or to install a pool for your duck. "Reasonable accommodation" means the landlord must allow the animal but doesn't necessarily have to make extreme accommodations; for example, installing a doggy door or otherwise altering the property for the animal. It also means the burden of caring for the animal and keeping it from destroying property falls on you, the owner of the animal.

Note that under BOTH laws, private institutions and residences are not covered. A condominium, which would be a "private residence," does not have to allow your dog in.

Under the ADA, service dogs are NOT required to wear the vests we so often see them with. Your dog doesn't need a vest or a special harness or tags. It doesn't even need a lead! It DOES need a license and a rabies vaccine, just like any other dog, though. The reason for the vests are a handy way of displaying the service license to avoid unwanted attention or questions, and also a handy way of preventing other people from trying to pet the dog. (Most vests will say "DO NOT TOUCH; WORKING DOG" on them.) But strictly speaking, you cannot be turned away from a business if you have a service dog that isn't wearing his vest. A service dog is a service dog regardless of whether or not he's wearing a vest. What's more, business owners cannot legally ask you for your service dog's ID or license. If you say it's a service dog, they must allow it (provided that it is not shitting on the floor, jumping on anyone, barking, or otherwise causing mayhem). Business owners are allowed to ask what what specific task the dog is trained to do, however.

How about service puppies, or service dogs in training? NOT covered by the ADA (varies by state; clauses in Texas and Arizona allow service dogs in training to go into stores). "In training" doesn't fall under the ADA because they aren't performing a specific task, and the handler isn't themselves disabled (usually).

Disabled people are allowed to train their own service dog, but while the dog is in training, it is not considered a true service dog.

A lot of people ask why dogs aren't allowed to go with them into every business. You've all probably heard the "health issue" argument. But there's more to it than that. Even a well-trained dog that doesn't shit on the floor might cause allergic reactions in other patrons. The owner of the business also has to worry about liability/biting issues, and whether the dog might destroy something. Finally, just because YOU are comfortable with your pet doesn't mean other people will be. Some people are genuinely frightened of dogs and unfamiliar with them. Even a friendly dog might seen scary to someone who doesn't like dogs. Not allowing a dog into a business is the business owner's attempt to protect the property, merchandise, and other patrons from allergies, feces, vomit, biting, nuisance, or general unruliness.

"But my dog would never bite anyone!"

Maybe not, but the business owner doesn't know that! And let's be honest: we all have blind spots when it comes to our own pets. We love our pets, and many owners fail to see their dog's bad behaviour.

So why are service/therapy dogs different? Most service or even therapy dogs have undergone extensive training.  For therapy dogs or hospital visitation dogs, there are organizations like Pet Partners or TDI that have obedience tests that far exceed the standards set by pet organizations like the AKC.  Hospitals set their own standards; here's Cedars-Sinai's page as one example.

Service animals must demonstrate that a dog remains under the trainer or owner's control even when distracted. Part of the reason service dogs are allowed in public spaces is because of a "guarantee" of good behaviour. A service dog should, in public, keep its nose to itself, and should not whine, pace, or be distracted. A business owner can ask a person with a service animal to leave if the service animal goes berserk.

Before dragging your dog out in public, ask yourself:

• How housetrained is it? Can it/does it let you know when it has to go?
• Does your dog ever jump up when excited, either on people or furniture? Does your dog ever bark?
• If you dropped the lead, would your dog run away? What if there was another dog, or the temptation of food?
• Is your dog easily startled? When startled, does your dog become difficult to control?
• Are there "triggers" your dog has, such as loud noises, squirrels, or people wearing hats?
• How readily does your dog obey your commands? Does your dog sit, wait, lay down, and come when called EVERY TIME, even when distracted?

Here's an interesting article in the New Yorker about a journalist who went about town with various animals to see how it worked. The short answer is, if your animal is well-behaved, a lot of people won't question the animal's presence, and most people are unfamiliar with the legal difference between an emotional support animal and a service animal.

If reading over this information has caused you some internal debate about dragging your pet around town, never fear! There are pet-friendly businesses that do allow dogs, even if they are just pets and not licensed service animals. Here's some places that have been previously lauded as dog-friendly:

• Home Depot, Lowe's, and other hardware stores.
• Petco, PetSmart, or other pet stores.
• Pottery Barn, Michaels, and Jo-Ann Fabrics.
• Bed, Bath, and Beyond.
• Some Targets. (Note: many will require your dog to ride in the cart.)
• Barnes and Nobles, as well as many other book stores. (Cafes often excluded!)
• Macy's, Gap, Bloomingdale's, Urban Outfitters, Anthropologie, Footlocker, Bebe, Nordstrom, Old Navy, TJ Maxx, Homegoods,and Marshalls are all stores that, while officially refusing dogs, are known to allow some dogs.  It varies by store and by the policies of the individual store manager.
• Some Goodwills.
• Some shopping malls.
• College campuses.
• Some CVS and Walgreen's locations (double-check; in Los Angeles, you are often asked to carry the dog.)

Keep in mind, although these stores are GENERALLY dog-friendly, they allow or disallow pets at their discretion. Each franchise can make its own rules, and various states and localities have their own laws. If you're not sure, call and ask.

If you want more information about this issue, I highly recommend this article, which says pretty much everything I just did and more. Please check the legality of getting or using a service or assistance dog before you do, out of respect for both the law and the truly disabled. Misrepresenting service dogs can cause discrimination problems for the disabled.

The purpose of this post was to help educate those who find these laws complicated and want to learn more.

Thanks for reading!

Saying "Yes" To Gnotobiotics!

In case you weren't aware, "gnotobiotics" is pronounced as "NO-TOE-biotics."  So now you've learned something, maybe!

What's gnotobiotics, and why am I saying yes to it?

Back story: recently I decided that it's time for me to seek out greener pastures, career-wise.  I like my little husbandry position just fine and I love my supervisor to death, but at the end of the day, I've grown as much as I can hope to, and I'm very much over-qualified.  The last time I applied for a job it didn't end well; I was given an offer lower than what I currently make.

But I can't sit around in my underpants forever, writing Avengers/GotG crossovers, and subjecting my poor readers to them, so I decided to give the job seeking thing another go.

It's never a good thing when fandoms cross.

The thing that prompted me was an interesting post on /r/biology about, what else, gnotobiotics and the gut-brain axis.  Gnotobiotics means "known microbes."  Your body, as you probably are aware, isn't just made up for "you" cells, but also of tons of little other cells that help you out.  (Incidentally, termites have symbiotic, prokaryotic parasites that live in their guts and help them digest the wood when they chew through your porch.)

How many microbes do you have?  Roughly ten times more microbial cells than "self" cells.  You are mostly microbe.  The microbes play a key role not only in what you can digest, but also in how you develop, how you act, and your general perceptions and reactions to your environment.  They're kind of a big deal.  Studies on the "gut-brain axis" are very, very big right now in the science world.

For more information, go read this book here.

So a "gnotobiotic" animal is one in which we know what microbes inhabit its gut.  Everyone has different microbes, and they cultivate our gastrointestinal track over our lifetimes.  Because we all live in filthy, filthy environments, there's no telling what types of bacteria reside within us.  To get a gnotobiotic animal, you start with a sterile animal (called "axenic," -xenic meaning foreign and the a- prefix meaning without; these animals have no foreign microbes inside them) and then you introduce it to the bacteria you want it to have.  So if you have Mouse A, with Bacteria A, and Mouse B, with Bacteria B, and Mouse C, with no bacteria, and you notice that Mouse B can eat carrots without getting diarrhea and that Mice A and C can't, you can conclude that Bacteria B within Mouse B is helping Mouse B eat carrots somehow.  And if Mouse A is a total asshole but Mouse B and Mouse C aren't, you can conclude that Bacteria A might have some affect on aggression; perhaps Bacteria A influences the mouse's body to ramp up testosterone production.  Or perhaps Mouse A is simply an asshole.  We don't know, which is why we're studying this.

To search for jobs, I went to a few university and hospital websites and typed in the word "mouse."  Not very inspired, I know.  I just wanted to see what was out there, and I knew I wanted to keep working with rodent models.

Lo and behold, UCLA had a single opening for a researcher, and that opening was... get ready for it... in a brand-spanking-new, first-of-its-kind, state-of-the-art gnotobiotics lab.

And then I asked how much it paid and HR just mailed me back this picture.

I applied and got a call back.  The PI (aka the primary investigator; the lab boss) and I had a great chat but she expressed concern that I don't have much experience of benchwork (doing things like pipetting fluids and looking into microscopes).  I replied with an eloquent argument that basically boiled down to, "Yeah, but, this work is so interesting.  I'm really enthusiastic.  C'mon.  Just give me a chance."


I assumed that was the end of it, but a few days later she called and invited me to come tour the lab.  Joy!

On Saturday morning, Andrew asked if I'd like him to accompany me to UCLA. I said yes because I wasn't sure how easy it would be to find parking. He drove me to UCLA's campus and dropped me off. After parking, he went looking for the building I was in to wait in the lobby.

Meanwhile, I had found the building and the PI, who had locked her keys in the lab. We ended up conducting the interview outside. The campus was nearly empty and while we were talking, suddenly, Andrew appeared. He was actually heading toward us, but when he realized it was us, he changed course. Instinctively, I waved to him.

The PI paused, and then asked, "Do you know him?"

Sudden embarrassment washed over me. Oh God, I thought, How silly and childish will I look if I say that's my boyfriend?

I heard myself saying, "Yes, he's a lab manager at Cedars-Sinai."  (Important note: he actually is.)

"Oh! Do you collaborate with Cedars-Sinai?"

"Yes, we've got some mice from them in quarantine right now."

I couldn't believe how smoothly I'd managed to save a potentially devastating situation.  (Important note: without lying.  I'm not going to lie at a job interview.  Thank God Andy's a lab manager and not a musician, or I would have looked like a real chump.)

The PI told me at the end of the interview she'd like to offer me the position, so now I'm just waiting on an e-mail from HR.  I should start sometime in late September or early October.  My duties include setting up isolators, giving mice C-sections, doing fecal assays, and monitoring the colony for contamination.  Also, she's going to be sending me to the AALAS National Convention in November!  Woot!  I felt like we really clicked and I can't begin to describe how eager and excited I am to have a real influence on research being done, to contribute to the scientific community, and to feel like my work matters.  This might also be the first step on the road to my getting my Master's degree. 

For more information, here's her old website.

And here's a TED Talk she gave on her work, which I'm sure even the scientifically illiterate among you will agree is fascinating.  AND I'M GOING TO BE A PART OF IT!!

And now, for those who come here for my fiction, here is my latest and greatest work, inspired by the writing prompt, "An ancient evil awakens; a modern evil doesn't like competition."

 A Modern Curse

The door to room 309 opened slowly, casting a soft beam of fluorescent light on its occupants. Mark Horowitz, age 89, lay sleeping on the hospital bed, his heart monitor beeping out a steady tattoo.
The man who entered room 309 was not a doctor, but might have been a patient. He was gaunt and bony. His skin had a grey, waxy appearance. His teeth were too widely spaced and appeared too loose to be healthy; his eyes were rheumy and slightly yellow. His nails were too long. His hair, black, was greasy, thinning. His breath rattled in his chest, and from every pore came a sickly sweet smell that was reminiscent of rotting things. He was not wearing a patient's gown, however. He was wearing a neatly tailored pinstripe suit.

"Hey gramps."

The man in the suit stopped by Mark Horowitz's bed and noticed, for the first time, a young man sitting beside him. The young man was in jeans; his t-shirt was well-worn but clean. He had blond hair held into a stubby mohawk with gel. His chin had a few lightly colored hairs, and it was clear he was attempting, and failing at, a beard. His face was an open, honest one; he looked like a guy who might be on the football team but wasn't the star quarterback. A handsome (if forgettable) fellow.
"Hello," said the man in the pinstripe suit in a gravely voice. This prompted a wet, hacking cough. He grabbed one of the hospital bed's guard rails to steady himself. His hands shook.

The young man didn't even watch. His attention had been diverted to the phone in his hands, where he was playing Candy Crush.

"So you're Pestilence, huh?"

"H-how... did you know?" asked the man in the suit between coughs. Shakily, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. He offered it to the younger man, but he waved it away.

"I've heard about you, from Famine. I'm Disconnection. But they all call me Dis."

"A pleasure," gasped Pestilence, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief.

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry you wasted your time but he's going to be okay."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Mark." Disconnection twisted in the chair so that his legs dangled over the armrest. He tilted back his head, holding his phone over his face. The screen illuminated his blond goatee, or what was supposed to be a goatee. His fingers texted rapidly as he spoke. "The doctors are going to get him a liver transplant so the cirrhosis is probably not going to get him. Sorry to disappoint you."

"They're curing him?" asked Pestilence, dumbfounded. "But... the pneumonia..."

"Antibiotics. Hey, do you have FaceBook?"

Pestilence looked down at Mark. He didn't look 89. He looked much younger, and his face was peaceful.

Pestilence looked up at Dis. "But where are his grandkids? They weren't vaccinated. They're supposed to be here, catching the measles."

"Sorry bro. They're not coming. Aiden's got a raid and Mackenzie is a mod for Advice Animals, so they're sort of busy."

"But he's dying."

"No he's not. Do you see Death here? Nope. Because the doctors took care of it. Modern medicine, man. It's something else. Hey, do you play Candy Crush?"

Pestilence shook his head. "I don't have a cell phone."

Dis looked up briefly in surprise. "For real? Oh man. Well... uh, good for you, I guess."

Pestilence reached out and touched Mark's face. His brow furrowed in his sleep, and the heart monitor began beeping more rapidly. In an instant, the door flew open and a nurse rushed in. She pushed Pestilence out of the way without a second thought and bent over Mark to check on him.

Mark's eyes fluttered open. "Sheila?" he gasped.

"You're okay," said the nurse, patting his chest. "It's just me. You're just fine. We're taking good care of you."

"Where's Sheila?"

"She went home, Mr. Horowitz. She'll be back first thing tomorrow, though, I'm sure."

Mark reached up weakly. "Could you stay with me?"

Disconnection grinned at Pestilence and wiggled his eyebrows. The nurse's pager began beeping. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket, checked it, and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Horowitz. I'm a bit busy right now, but I'll come back shortly." She began texting on her phone, and walked out of the room with her eyes focused on the screen.

Pestilence and Disconnection looked at each other.

"It's incredible, isn't it? People." Disconnection paused to take a selfie. "You bring them war, famine, floods, plagues, whatever, and somehow, they always find the silver lining. They unite and they grow stronger. They feed off each other. But then, you give them access to information, and it all falls apart. Knowledge is power, and power is corrupting. Humans love information, and they love stimulation. They crave amusement. Their natural curiosity is all-consuming, and they poison themselves with it. Give them access to the media, to each other, and everything good about them evaporates in a cloud of liking and sharing and inflating their sorry little egos for some virtual validation. You shrink their world, and you shrink their very souls. Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it easy?"

Pestilence took a few shaky steps back. "You... you're a monster. That's not how we do this. That's not how we do any of this! We're supposed to cause them hardship, not... not turn them against each other!"

Disconnection stood, his face illuminated by the screen of his phone, his grin manic in the electronic glow. "Wanna know a secret?" he whispered.

Pestilence shook his head, rooted to the ground, unable to run. Disconnection took a few steps toward him, his phone beeping softly over Mark's heart monitor, and spoke anyway.

"...I'm really good at Flappy Bird."

The Fifth Horseman has spoken.

When Fandoms Collide

Andrew told me about a fan theory he read online.  I took it and ran with it.  Allow me to present...

THE AVENGERS PLAY D&D

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 (Like this, but in reverse.)

"The name of the game is Dungeons and Dragons," announced Tony to the Avengers.  Seated around the table, they watched him with masked curiosity.  He had used a wide variety of lies to get them to come to his home.  Most of them had known he was lying, and most had come anyway.  They were used to Tony's eccentricities as much as Pepper was.

Tony's basement, garage, and basement were one and the same.  An expansive, modern concrete structure, he had a den that was perfectly suited to his purposes.  He had unceremoniously pushed all his tools, wires, microchips, potato chips, and poker chips off of the largest coffee table and dragged two mismatched sofas over to it.  The sofas faced the open garage with his collections of classic cars; Tony faced away from them, toward the other Avengers and a flickering neon sign advertising a beer company that had long since gone out of business.  The decor was purposefully, artfully decrepit; the stained glass chandelier hanging over the billiards table might have looked tacky if he hadn't paid six figures for it and hired a professional designer to help him install it properly.

There were six of them in total.  Clint Barton (code name Hawkeye) was poised on the back of a sofa behind Bruce Banner, who was sitting in a rigid posture next to Natasha Romanoff (code name Black Widow).  Not knowing why they'd been gathered, Clint had a quiver slung over his shoulder and a Kevlar vest on, while Natasha was in a bodysuit with several tell-tale, knife-shaped bulges along her forearms and thighs.  Tony sat across from them, leaning forward eagerly, pushing papers toward them, oblivious to their dress.  He had already set up a screen around his section of the glass coffee table; one of the dog-eared pieces of cardboard was leaning precariously against Thor's hammer, which took up the end of the table.  It was within grabbing distance of Thor himself, who was leaning back on the loveseat, aloof, while Steve Rogers (code name Captain America) was leaning forward, brow furrowed.  He had already been admonished several times for peeking over Tony's cardboard dividers.

"And this is a training exercise?" asked Steve incredulously, picking up one of the papers.

"Yeah, yeah, sure.  Me and Hank and Reed used to play in college.  It was great.  Hey, Bruce, remember that time I got a Book of Vile Darkness from the spider witch queen and razed that whole goblin village to the ground?"

"Why should we partake in imaginary, inconsequential quests for immaterial glory?" demanded Thor.  "Would it not be better to defeat our foes and reap honor for ourselves in actuality?"

"Well, in D&D, there's no consequences," explained Tony.

"Ahh," said Thor, head bobbing.  Natasha was also nodding.  The idea of indiscriminately killing people who annoyed her without getting in trouble seemed like a good enough reason as any.  Steve, however, looked hopelessly confused; he was examining a dwarf miniature with a look of overwhelmed befuddlement.

"Okay, so we start by picking a DM.  A dungeon master."  Tony clapped his hands together decisively.  "He needs to be a natural leader, someone who already knows how to play the game.  I mean run the... the simulation.  He needs to be good at math, a quick thinker..."  He let his sentence dangle in the air for a moment.

Only one person took the bait.  "Impartial," added Bruce,  "and fair."

"Bruce," said several people at once.

"Him?" protested Tony.

"Sure, I know how to play," said Bruce with a shrug.

"But..." began Tony.  His eyes scanned the room.  "But he needs to be... I mean..."

"Impartial, good at math and knows how to play.  That's Bruce!"  Natasha gave Bruce an encouraging push off the couch.  With a glare, Tony relinquished his seat behind the cardboard screen and switched places with Bruce.

Bruce cleared his throat.  "Well, we start by making our characters.  You pick your race first.  You can pick from this list."

"I'll be the leader," said Tony quickly.

"What?  No!  I will be the leader!" protested Thor.

"No, I'm the leader.  I know how to play so I'll be best at leading the group."

"I demand to be the strongest!"

"Guys, stop," protested Bruce weakly.  He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.  "There's no leader, okay?  And even if there were, the leader doesn't have to be the strongest."

"I am the strongest," said Thor.

"Sure, okay, you can be the strongest.  Just play a barbarian.  So you roll the dice like this and that number goes here..."

"He shall be a barbarian of noble stock, on an honorable quest for vengeance!"

"Okay.  Okay, sure, that's fine.  Tony, human rogue, I'm assuming?"

"Human rogue," confirmed Tony.  "Unlawful good.  Plays by his own rules.  He's on the run from the law.  And he gets a lot of ladies.  He has a really cool helmet that's like, red and gold..."  He had begun sketching as he spoke.  Under his hand, a helmet not dissimilar to his own Iron Man helmet was taking shape.  Natasha rolled her eyes but Tony didn't see.  "I'm almost done," he continued.  "I just need to name him.  I was thinking something sharp, like Arrow, or Quill."

"You're joking," said Clint dryly.

"No, why?"

"Are you serious?  Quill?  Arrow?  You don't think you're ripping off my thing just a little bit?"

"Uh, no.  He's a human rogue, not an archer.  What's the problem?"

"How would you like it if I named my character Jet, or Rocket, or Tank?" challenged Clint.

"I wouldn't care."

Clint searched Tony's face for a moment, then scribbled something on his character sheet, mumbling about intellectual property.  Tony shrugged and went back to drawing.

"Wait, hold on, I don't get it.  What's the difference between wisdom and intelligence?" asked Steve hopelessly, staring at his character sheet.  "I got race, I think, and class... wait... wait, I'm confused, no I don't."

"Let me see your sheet," began Bruce, reaching.  But before he could, Clint shoved a sheet into his hand.

"Is this okay?  He's a little guy who everyone underestimates, but he's got a big long-range gun.  He's a gunslinger basically."

"Yeah, so you want to put your highest roll into dexterity, here, and then your race modifier goes here... wait, this isn't a race on the list."

"No, it's my own race, he's been like, engineered.  Like he's been experimented on and genetically modified.  He has a really dark past."

"You asshole!"

Clint whipped around; Natasha had stood and was staring daggers at him.  "You looked at my sheet!" she accused.  "You stole my backstory!  My character has high dexterity and my character is genetically modified!"

"Bruce, I don't get this..." murmured Steve, holding his head in his hands.  "What does charisma do?"

"This is my character," announced Tony, holding up his sketch.  The character was a slender, well-muscled human, but whether or not he looked like Tony was uncertain, because he was wearing a silver and gold helmet with red accents that obscured his face.  He had a leather jacket on.

"Let me see your sheets.  Look, Natasha, your character is all hand-to-hand combat and Clint is doing ranged.  These guys are separate enough.  It's okay."

"He copied me!" she protested.

"You copied yourself!"

Tony and Thor nodded knowingly to each other.  They had glanced at her sheet; she'd crossed out the character's original name, "Natasha."

"Bruce..." whined Steve.

"STOP!  Everyone just... stop!"  Bruce slammed a hand on the coffee table.  One of the cardboard dividers fell over, and everyone was quiet for a moment.

Bruce took a breath.  "Okay," he said, quietly.  "How about everyone just goes over their backstory so we make sure they're not too similar, okay?"

"My character is a genetically altered assassin," said Natasha quickly.

"Genetically altered," agreed Clint.

"On a quest for vengeance!" said Thor.  He hesitated.  "Maybe altered." 

"Just let me see your sheets," snapped Bruce, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  He reached out;  everyone passed their sheets over.

Bruce's eyes scanned the papers critically.  He pushed his glasses up several times.

"Thor," he began.  Thor perked up a little.  "Thor, your character's intelligence is really low.  I mean, really low.  Even for a barbarian.  He won't even be able to understand abstract thought or metaphors with this score."

"My character does not require high-minded, scholarly thinking.  He is a man of action!" announced Thor proudly.  "He will slay his foes without hesitance and will let no man stop him!"

"Well, okay, if you're alright with that, here you go.  Uh, Natasha, looking good... Clint, your stats are fine, but I don't know about this... you just completely made up your race and class.  I don't know how to assign you any modifiers.  What class is this?"

"He's a tinkerer-gunslinger."

"Okay, but that's not a class.  And this race, what is this, a drawing of a cat?  What is this?"

"It's a creature I invented.  It's got a dark mask and heavy fur and people hunt it for its fur and it's got good night vision and a big bushy tail and stripes and--"

"You can't just make up creatures.  Look, just put down 'fey' for now and we'll sort this out later, okay?  Let's see... uhh... Tony, you're good... okay, Steve, are you still working over there?"

"Yeah, just start without me."

"Okay.  So to justify this as a training exercise, we're going to do this in space, okay?  You guys are on a spaceship."

"It's my character's spaceship," said Tony quickly.

"My character has a spaceship too," said Clint, scribbling frantically on his character sheet.

Bruce rubbed his eyes.  "You're all on Tony's spaceship, okay?  I mean, Quill's spaceship."

"Can I change his name?  I mean, I know I wrote Quill, but he's actually got a code name he uses that's way cooler."

"What, Arrow?" muttered Clint sardonically.

"Not now.  Okay, you're on a spaceship, and you've just received a communication about a threat to a nearby planet.  The threat is coming from a flagship headed by a known enemy.  The enemy is an unreasonable, uncontrollable, unstoppable monster who causes destruction and mayhem where ever he goes.  He is a powerful, unstoppable force of nature, who destroys whole planets without a thought or care for the people who populate them..."  Bruce took a shaky breath. 

"Jesus, Bruce," muttered Tony.

"Maybe someone else should be DM."

"Don't take it so hard, buddy.  Look, switch places with Steve."

Steve looked up sharply.  "What?!  No, I can't be the leader guy!  I'm still making my character!  I don't get this!"

"So you'll be the most impartial judge we can have.  Come on, Bruce can't do it, he's already getting himself upset.  Give him your character.  He'll help you out, right, Bruce?"

Bruce nodded weakly.

Steve hesitated, then shoved his sheet toward Bruce.  The two shuffled around the table so Steve was behind the screen.  Steve's eyes read the paper in front of him quickly and he nodded.  The bad guy was a tyrant who hated peace and freedom and diversity, which made perfect sense to Steve.  Bruce, on the other hand, was looking even more upset.  Clutching either side of Steve's character sheet, his knuckles were white, and his brow creased more and more as he read.

"The enemy is a war criminal!" announced Steve happily.  "He is a threat to the whole galaxy and he must be destroyed to protect it!  He is a very charismatic leader with fascist tendencies..."

"We shall stop this monster or we shall perish in our endeavor!" yelled Thor, raising a can of Mountain Dew.

"Steve, what on earth is this?" asked Bruce quietly.

"What?"

"None of this makes any sense.  You wrote your race in the name slot.  Is the character's race and name the same thing?"

"Uh..."

Tony reached across Natasha and grabbed the rumpled sheet from Bruce.  He looked it over.  "C'mon, Bruce, this character is perfect for you.  Quiet guy who protects others.  Doesn't know his own strength.  High wisdom, crazy high constitution, good alignment... what's the matter, his name's stupid?  Maybe he can only say one thing, and it's his name and race and "yes" and "no" and everything else.  Don't be such a wet blanket, just play the game."

"He's a plant creature and this is a space story."

"So?  Clint's playing some weird fey thing, too.  You two can be buddies."

"My character's way stronger than he looks," said Clint quickly.

"My character is the strongest," said Thor.

"Okay, guys, come on.  So you're on the spaceship and you have to go protect the galaxy now," said Steve, trying to adjust the cardboard partition.  It kept sliding.  With some annoyance, he moved Thor's hammer so that it would prop it up better.

"But just so everyone's clear, I'm basically the leader," Tony said.  "It's my spaceship."

"Yeah, yeah, we got it," said Natasha.  "I want to cast a spell.  Can I do that now?"

"What?  No, you can't... your class isn't a magic class," said Bruce.

"We need a team name before we can play.  C'mon guys, brainstorm with me.  We're on an intergalactic adventure and we're like, protectors of space..."  He snapped his fingers and stood.  "Guys!  Guys!  I got it!"

"What?" asked Natasha.

"From here on out, we'll call ourselves..."  Tony glanced down at his character sheet.  "...StarLord and his Pirate Space Patrol!"

The doorbell rang.  Tony glanced at the monitor on the wall.

Outside, a white-haired, mustachioed man was leaning against the gate with a large Domino's bag.  He was wearing aviator glasses and a sweater over his collared shirt.

"Oh good, the pizza's here.  Geez, these delivery guys keep getting older and older.  Okay, come on guys, put in a ten, don't be cheap, come on..."

"Excelsior!"

Rain on my Parade

Last weekend, I went to San Diego for Pride!  This was my second Pride at San Diego, and boy was it a memorable one.

Pride, for those who aren't in the know, is a sinful celebration of equality and love where people gather to show support for each other's basic human rights.  There's a parade, a festival, and a lot of rainbows.  This Pride was particularly memorable as the Supreme Court legalized gay marriage nationwide on June 26th.  Also, we also got rain of biblical proportions.

Incidentally, Noah was cool with gay lions, apparently.

There are a lot of possible explanations for the freak rain.  One is Tropical Storm Dolores, if you're into science and logic.  If you're not, you could also chalk it up to God's wrath.  (Although, as Matthew points out in 5:45, "He maketh His sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.," so it looks like God sends rain entirely randomly and isn't casting judgement when He does so.)  A third option is that there was a lot of dancing, and it stands to reason that at least one of the people dancing might have been doing some sort of rain dance without realizing it.

Dammit, Glenn Dances-With-Bears, stop gyrating!

By Saturday evening, San Diego has recorded over an inch of rain, which is more precipitation than the city had received during the entire month of July dating back to 1902. San Diego normally averages only 0.02 inch of precipitation in July.

It was raining men.

So yeah, lots of rain.  I had not expected it and showed up without a coat or umbrella because, you know, southern California.  I expected it to be 80 degrees and sunny. I'd even brought sunscreen like a chump.  Then it rained and after two hours, I looked like I'd been dunked into a swimming pool.  Everything was soaked through; days later, my wallet is still slightly damp.  Andy and I had our legs cramp with shivering, and our fingers prune up as if we'd been soaking in a bath.

Against all odds, we did have fun, though it's not an experience we'd like to repeat.

One thing I think people don't understand about Pride is that it's not really just a "gay thing."  The parades tend to be overwhelmingly composed of various businesses and organizations and groups that are there to show support for LBGT rights.

Like these guys!

So it's not just gays.  There's everything from the local ASPCA to the George R.R. Martin Fan Club, and all that's in between.

 A Lannister always spays his pets. 

The thing about equality is, it affects everyone, and everyone can get behind it.  So it's not like the ASPCA is out of place there.

Quite the contrary.

And speaking of dogs and raining on parades, I have another bit of news.  I sent a secret into PostSecret, which is an art project where basically people send in postcards with secrets on them and then the secrets are displayed for others to see.  The project is all about empowerment, facing one's demons, getting support, and demystifies issues like depression, suicide, eating disorders, rape, abuse, et cetera.  So I sent one in and it was put on display this week.

Woo!

Except not woo, because the comments were honestly not very supportive.  In fact they were downright critical, including such gems as "For Christ’s sake, it’s supposed to be one of the most happiest days of your life, for both you and your family. Why are trying to make it one of the worst?"

Inexplicably, it never occurred to me that people would be able to draw the wrong conclusions about two lines on a postcard that lacks any other context.  People thought of it as shameful, vengeful, petty, and insulting.  They also seemed to think my immediate family members are entitled to participate in my wedding, which they are not, unless they pay for it, which they are not.

For clarification for anyone reading, I don't hate my dad.  I just love my dog.  Besides, the whole "dad giving away the bride" thing is a rather outdated symbol of sexism.  I don't need anyone to give me away because I'm my own person to give.  If I didn't have a dog, I would opt to walk down the aisle alone.  But I think it seems pretty scary to walk down the aisle, so I'd just as soon have Seamus by my side.  Also, this is a good excuse to put him into a little bowtie, which is adorable.

Honestly, people's reactions bothered me more than they should have.

Of course none of this matters because I'm not actively getting married right now.  I'm not even engaged.

Which isn't to say that Andy and I aren't pretty serious.  But what's the harm in taking it slow and letting my ovaries shrivel up and slowly turning into a crazy dog lady?

A literal crazy dog lady!
 

Let the record show that I'm kidding and that was a joke, by the way.  I am honestly in no rush.  I'm just starting to recalibrate from my depressive episode, and part of that means getting my interpersonal relationships back in order.  Overall, though, this has been a great week for me, rain and all.

 

They should have used a semicolon.  That's okay, though.  I'm semi-inspired anyway.