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November 01, 2012

Five, Or, A Tale Of Two Costumes

The real world, it seems, does not traffic in irony like we do here in the blogosphere. Late Tuesday, Beth talked me out of my planned Halloween costume – a battered and bloody rugby player – and into a new one. This:


For those of you who don’t spend 20 hours a day eyebrows-deep in kid-focused Internet content, I’m supposed to be a Brony. This is an ironic costume. I am not, never have been, and never will be an adult fan of a cartoon about talking fantasy horses aimed at little girls. Not that there’s anything wrong with people who are (other than, of course, everything). As we’ve done for the past few years, we took the kids to our friends’ neighborhood to trick-or-treat. Now, when I posted the above pic to my Twitter feed and Facebook page, most of my blogger friends got the joke right away. When I got out of the car, resplendent in my rainbow arm-warmers and unicorn toque, I drew stares from the parents and kids who had gathered at our friends’. Judge me not, Mom Dressed As Slutty Herminone Granger, I thought. It became clear that I wasn’t around Internet People; these were mostly surfers and triathletes, folks who spend much of their time outside, doing physically (and mentally) healthy things. They knew little of Bronies. I felt compelled to explain to my buddy Chris that I was going to go as Bloody Rugger, but Beth talked me into this, and it’s pretty funny, right?

We arrived late to the party; the gang of kids had already started down the street, and their sugar-fueled shouts cut through the darkness: “TRICK OR TREAT!!!!” Zoe grabbed my hand. “Ok, you remember who we do this, right?” “Yes, Daddy. I say trick or treat and then they give me candy and then I say thank you and Happy Halloween.” “Perfect,” I replied. Lucas had raced up ahead; he’d moved past the Star Wars and superhero phase, and was dressed as The Grim Reaper, hooded black robe and a scythe. (“Next year, I wanna be one of those guys who cut off people’s heads. What are they called?” “Headsmen.” “Yeah, a headsman! No! Wait! A ZOMBIE headsman!”) Zoe made a fine Tinkerbell, although the brisk breeze blowing in off of the Pacific had prompted her to wear a cardigan. She asked me if I was cold. “Nope,” I replied. “The arm-warmers help.” She laughed. “You look silly, Daddy. But I like your hat. Can I have it when we’re done?” We went from house to house, Zoe politely collecting her candy. Tomorrow would be her birthday, and the symmetry of it struck me as it always did: Zoe, meaning “life” in Greek, born on The Day of The Dead, proving it otherwise. Tonight I was walking around in a Brony outfit. It seemed about right.


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