And what better way to celebrate my first weekend off work in more than two years than … moving really slowly?
Oh, I had things to do. But whether they were getting done when I decided I was going to do them was another matter.
So there I was at home, padding around, when I heard someone knocking.
I looked through the peephole. I really shouldn’t have opened the door. But I did anyway.
A young guy – maybe 15 or 16, tops – was selling a newspaper subscription as part of a program that would earn him some money to go to school. And as I listened to his spiel, really, how could I refuse.
So I gave him the subscription payment, and as he double-checked to make sure all the fields were filled out, he arrived at “method of delivery”.
As he wrote in “to door”, he mentioned that one of his previous subscribers actually requested a little rainbow symbol to be drawn on the top of his newspaper … because he was a fan of My Little Pony.
As in, the cartoon I used to watch when I was 8 years old, and one of the toys that I used to own (complete with comb to maintain its lavender mane).
As in, the cartoon that was recently rebooted in 2010 as My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.
As in, the cartoon that my young newspaper salesman asked if I had heard of it, to which I replied, “Yes, I used to watch it years ago”, to which he responded, “Yeah, but it’s way better now,” as his face lit up like a Noma Christmas tree.
Even as I shut the door, I could hear him talking to his little friend about how awesome My Little Pony was.
Yep. I just had my first encounter … with a Brony.
What the hell are you talking about, you ask?
I’ve only just recently heard about this myself … but apparently there is a legion of males (and females, who call themselves Pegasisters) over the age of 10 who LOVE these pretend cartoon ponies with a passion. And unlike other fanboys and girls, these folks are in a league of their own.
Now, to be fair, I looked up an episode online to see what the big fuss was about. I attempted to watch … for about six minutes. But like the quinoa I tried to cook this evening, I couldn’t get into it. I had to give up.
I mean, I know why the eight-year-old me liked the show. But the 34-year-old me is slightly bemused as to why teenagers and grown adults (without children) are so fixated on the show.
Call me a parasprite, but this one (of probably many) I will never understand. Sorry.