Aragón at Bronycon 2019 -- Day One · 3:36pm Aug 14th, 2019
Bronycon 2019 was the last of its kind. I was there. I can tell you all about it.
Let’s hype the fuck out of this.
Disclaimer: The purpose of this blog is to show you the way Bronycon felt, as realistically as possible. Due to the nature of storytelling itself, this sometimes implies taking some minor liberties.
Everything told in these blogs is true, and dramatised to the best of my memory. Every line spoken has been kept verbatim whenever possible, and only changed when the flow of the scene or the grammar of the sentence required it so.
That said, while everything explained here happened, some events have been shuffled for convenience’s sake and to make it easier on the reader to follow the narrative. As such, the order of every scene here shown isn’t strictly chronological.
PART ONE
The flight attendant is tall, but he moves like a short person. His face is round and pleasant, and his voice is rough but it feels gentle—because he enunciates everything carefully, he speaks very slowly. He registers as a cool guy.
“We’re very sorry,” he says to the microphone. “We’re missing one crew member, and we won’t be able to take off until they get there, so the flight has been delayed. Again.”
“AW HELL NO.” A woman sitting right behind me in the waiting area suddenly rises, yelling at the top of her lungs. “FUCK THIS. I’MMA TRY AND GET SOME FREE SANDWICHES THEN.”
“YEAH LET’S DO THAT,” says the woman next to her. There’s like seven of them. They’re all dressed with pink t-shirts that read “Girls of the 90s”. They’re clearly all way over fifty years old.
I fucking love these women.
“GET ME SOME WITH TURKEY,” yells another of the 90s Girls, one that never bothered to stand up. She’s just sorta slouching over there, eating from a tupperware. You can’t bring food past the TSA, but she’s still carrying a fucking tupperware. Blatantly full of homemade food she brought herself. She gets a knife and a fork from her ba—
She’s carrying a fork and a knife with her? I can’t wear a belt past TSA without people thinking I’m carrying a nuclear bomb, and this woman has an actual steel knife in her purse?
The tupperware is full of turkey meat with vegetables. “TURKEY SANDWICH,” she clarifies to the 90s Girl who got up first. She points at the food with her extremely illegal knife. “I LOVE TURKEY.”
“Y’ALL ALREADY EATING THOUGH,” says a fourth 90s Girl. “WHERE DID YOU EVEN GET THAT FOOD FROM.”
“I WANNA TURKEY.”
“FUCK IT. EVERYONE GETS TURKEY THEN.”
And they just leave. They just get up and fucking leave. Towards the food court they stride. I’ve got half a mind to say that—hey, I don’t think fucking Starbucks of all places is going to give you free food because your flight got delayed, but what the hell do I know, I don’t have a knife.
“You think she’s going to make it?” The woman next to me—not a 90s Girl, so not half as cool, but still nice—asks. She’s patting her sleeping daughter’s head. The kid’s seven, I know cause she just told me. “She’s going to get free food for us all?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” This woman is not Spanish, but she speaks Spanish, so we get along. “It would be cool I guess.”
The woman pats her daughter’s head again. “She doesn’t actually like turkey that much, though?”
“Attention all passengers to Flight 9383.” The attendant has the microphone again, and everybody perks up. “Good news is, the crew member that we were missing is on her way, and will be here in ten minutes. The bad news is, now we’re missing a second, completely independent crew member.” He bites his lip. “So, uh. We’re delaying the flight again.”
There’s a chorus of angry groans all around me, and some people approach the flight attendant. There’s fear in his eyes. It’s way past midnight.
I’m checking my phone while this happens. My housing plans are interesting this year—some friends’ AirBNB reservation got surprise cancelled, so they had to rush to find a new place, and then they needed an extra person to fill the quota. Seeing how they were my friends, I said, fuck it, why not me.
“Oh shit Aragón is here?” That’s Pearple Prose, in the chat. “That’s sick. Someone rename the chat to ‘The Fuckhouse’.”
I nod, and put my phone down. “Off to a great start, looks like.”
“What?” says the woman next to me.
“Nothing.” And just then, something catches my eye. “Ah?”
There’s a woman near the counter where the flight attendant is fighting off angry, sleep-deprived passengers. She’s facing the other way, so I can only see her back—but I recognize the hoodie. It’s the Noble Jury hoodie, from Shortskirtsandexplosions’ Austraeoh series.
Kind of a limited item, if I remember correctly, so that person’s definitely going to Bronycon. Better yet: she’s probably in Fimfiction, and quite fucking into it, if she’s got merchandise from a niche fanfiction. So I get up with a “hup!”, making sure not to wake up the 7-year-old who doesn’t like turkey, and walk up to the woman.
“Hi!” I say, peeking from the side once I’m close enough. “You going to the convention, too?”
The woman turns around to look at me. She’s shorter than me, which is borderline a surprise at this point, seeing how this is America and I am, y’know. Aragón.
She turns to look at me—she’s young, either my age or very close to it—and I realize she was talking to someone else; a character dressed in all black, carrying a Sunset Shimmer bag.
“Oh, hey!” Noble Jury Woman waves at me, and steps aside so I can join the conversation; we’re all standing in a circle now. “Hi! You going to Bronycon too?”
“I am!” I smile, and point at her hoodie. “I dig the hoodie, by the way. Austraeoh?”
Noble Jury Woman’s eyes lit up. “You’ve read it?!”
“Not really, I’m terrible at reading long fics. But a lot of my friends are really into it, and a couple are like, actually super close to Skirts themselves.” I rest my hands on my hips. “So I’m very familiar with it.”
“Oh! I've talked to Skirts before! He namedropped me as a character once, so I know he knows I exist, at least.”
“Huh.” I blink. “Funny that.”
There’s a pause. I realize we’re both thinking the same thing. If this person actually participates in Fimfiction social circles…
Fuck it. I’ll check it. “Who are you, anyway?” I say. “Like, your Fimfic name? If you’ve got a Fimfic account, that’s—”
“I’m Autumn Rush.”
I perk up, and the pitch of my voice rises three octaves. “Oh my gosh!” I say, bunny-hopping on the spot. “I’m Aragón!”
“Oh my gosh!” she replies, in an even higher pitch.
“I know!” I say. Higher yet.
Goth Sunset Shimmer frowns at us. “What the hell fuck am I witnessing.”
“We know each other!” we both yell.
Autumn Rush and I have never really talked online, but we have enough common friends for that not to matter. I give her another look, now that I’m finally assigning a real person to the username.
She looks like she solved mysteries in high school, leading a gang of teenage detectives. She’s tiny, though she always looks taller in your mind. She’s good at talking and better at chit-chatting, and while she’s energetic, she never feels manic. When she talks to you, she tilts her head to the side.
As she effortlessly leads the conversation, making sure both Goth Sunset Shimmer and I can join in, the flight attendant makes another announcement.
I can taste the fear in his voice.
“Attention all passengers to Flight 9383.” He never stutters, though. He carries on like a champ. “The last crew member has arrived, but we have to wait for the pilot to arrive still, since his previous flight got delayed, and then we’ll have to wait and see if he accepts to fly to Baltimore tonight. The flight has been delayed again, and if the pilot doesn’t agree to fly again tonight, or if his shift ends before takeoff, the flight might be ultimately cancelled.”
It’s almost 1:00 AM. At the absolute fucking earliest, we’ll make it to Baltimore at 3:00 AM.
“Okay,” I say. In the background, the other passengers move like this is a zombie movie, and we’re the horde. “We live in Charlotte now,” I say, looking at Autumn Rush. “I think this is our new home. I’m so fucking tired.”
“Ugh.” Autumn Rush is frowning. “Yeah, I think we’re at least staying the night at this rate.”
“I just—”
“WE MADE IT. Y’ALL.”
The voice comes from my left, opposite of where the flight attendant is. It comes from the food court.
“No fucking way,” I say, turning around.
Yes fucking way. “WE’VE GOT FREE FOOD.” The two 90s Girls who went on an adventure are back, and they’re carrying like. A shitton of food. Like I can’t even put it in words it’s just—they’re wobbling under the weight. Of so many sandwiches. “WHO WANTS SOME. WHEN’S THE PLANE TAKING OFF.”
“WE’RE WAITING FOR A PILOT,” says tupperware 90s Girl.
“WHAT. WE DON’T HAVE ONE?”
“THE ONE WE HAD LEFT.”
“WHAT?”
“I THINK THIS IS TURKEY.” The other 90s Girl carrying sandwiches raises one in the air. “WHO WANTS SOME. PRETTY SURE IT’S TURKEY.”
“GIVE ME ONE,” says tupperware 90s Girl. She hasn’t finished her tupperware full of turkey. She grabs a sandwich anyway. Bites into it. Smiles. “IT’S TURKEY.”
And then they just start handing out sandwiches to everybody. Not just among themselves—there are way too many sandwiches for that, trust me—but like. Among all passengers.
Like they’re just there giving out free food. Even the flight attendant looks confused.
“What the fuck,” I say. “I love these women.”
“Did they actually get free food?” Autumn Rush is staring. “Is that a thing? You can just go and ask for it?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“I BELIEVE THERE’S TURKEY IN THIS.” Second original 90s Girl is talking to the Spanish Speaking Mom. Her seven year old who doesn’t like turkey is awake now. “I ASKED FOR TURKEY.”
“She doesn’t really like turkey, though, so…”
“NAH DON’T WORRY.” 90s Girl reaches down, and produces an entire fucking box that’s full of other food. She was also carrying that. I didn’t see it under all the sandwiches. “WHAT DO YOU WANT.”
“Do you have chocolate cookies?”
“YEAH HERE YOU GO.”
And she just. She just reaches into the box, grabs a bag of chocolate cookies, and gives it to Spanish Speaking Mom. Like she just does that. She just had—they got all this shit for free. They’re a walking fucking grab-all-you-can-eat buffet. Motherfucker.
“There’s something so oddly wholesome about the camaraderie of people stranded together,” I say, looking at everything with a weird sense of pride. “If only I weren’t fucking dying right now.”
“That tired?” Autumn asks.
“I woke up at 6 AM in Spain. Local Barcelona time right now is, I’ve no idea. 7AM?”
“Ooof.”
“Attention all passengers to Flight 9383.” Relief in the flight attendant’s voice. He’s lived through another day. “Our pilot arrived. Please, Group One, commence boarding…”
Relief washes over us all as we shuffle around sheepishly. Autumn Rush and I are going to board at the same time, so we keep chitchatting while Goth Sunset Shimmer disappears.
“YOU WANT A SANDWICH?”
One of the 90s Girls—completely new one, where the fuck was she up till now—is offering me some food. I smile at her from the very bottom of my heart because I would fucking die for these women, and then shook my head. “No, thank you very much.”
“PRETTY SURE IT’S TURKEY, I’VE BEEN TOLD.”
“Not hungry, seriously, but thank you.”
“SURE.”
And she goes away, and we board the plane. I’ll arrive to Baltimore at 3AM, and Autumn Rush will pay for my Lyft. I want to think, in her head, I look like one of those teenage detectives of her youth. I wonder if tupperware 90s Girl finished her turkey sandwich. I wonder what the fuck was up with the knife. I kinda wanna know where the fuck they got the food from.
I fall asleep as soon as I sit down in the plane, and I never find out the answer to any of these questions.
Bronycon 2019 starts.
Bronycon 2019 is a nightmare.
“ELEVEN THOUSAND PEOPLE.” I’m standing atop the second floor, looking down on the masses. I am the Pope, and they are my faithful. I wave at the crowd. “THIS IS WHAT THAT LOOKS LIKE.”
Pearple Prose is by my side. “Oh, no,” he says, lazily resting his elbow on the railing. He’s wearing clip-on sunglasses. His posture is relaxed, like he’s slouching even while standing. “There’s a lot of people.”
I’m grinning, in that way that makes your eyes wide and your pupils tiny. “THIS IS GONNA BE OUR LIFE FOR THE NEXT FOUR DAYS, PEAR,” I say, pointing at the people moving in awkward clumps, the massive lines, the general lack of air in the room. You can’t turn around without poking someone in the eye. “THIS IS PEAK PERFORMANCE.”
“Oh wow.” Pear’s voice is a perfect monotone. He never even blinks. “Oh, wow, I hate this.”
“ELEVEN THOUSAND PEOPLE.”
Later that day we’ll learn not even half the attendees claimed their badges the first day.
Pearple Prose feels like a cat made entirely out of elbows. Aloof, feline, but his movements sometimes feel jerky, too quick for the eye, charming clumsiness peeking through. He’s thin and pale, and moves silently, gliding from one place to another with long strides, constantly forcing you to keep up. He’s always standing right behind you, exactly where you can’t see him, but he can always see you.
He speaks fast, and he speaks a lot, but only when it’s needed. He’s British, but his accent only shines when he makes a point. He’s pensive, and sometimes he gets lost in thought, but he’s quick to smile—especially at his own jokes.
“You know.” Pearple Prose readjusts the neck of his shirt, and turns around to look at me. “We used to play a game at Galacon.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He points with a thumb behind his shoulder, at the crowd below us. “Every time you see a fedora, you get one point. One leather coat, two points. Katana, three, and so on.”
I look down at the crowd. Fucky pillows of boob-brandishing anthro Celestias look back. “How much for a Yu Gi Oh duel disk?”
“That’s just too powerful. No score gives it justice.”
I nod silently, and look at the crowd again. You can’t play this game at Bronycon.
Mind you—there’s some absolutely splendid cosplay at the convention too, never think otherwise. Ninety percent of the attendees are clearly having the time of their lives, and this kind of event demands for a bit of silliness. Over there, I can see a girl with bright green ears dancing to an anime song; over here a dude with a sign that reads “BRONIES ARE JUST DIET FURRIES” is accompanied by his twin, brandishing the logo of “BECOME A FURRY: FULFILL YOUR DESTINY”. They’re having an absolute blast, and it’s a pleasure to see it.
But there’s also a lot of people carrying fuck-pillows around. Like. Holy shit. Dude there are so many. Like there are so many of the bloody things how horny do you gotta be to just carry something like this with you at all times what is the thought process behind it, I can’t—
“Wow. Look at that Rarity.” Pearple Prose points at one person carrying a Rarity fuckpillow. “Over there.”
I look. I blink. “Hey there! That’s explicitly pornographic.”
“My favorite part is that Vendor Hall isn’t even open yet.” Pearple Prose throws a lazy smirk at me. He’s still resting his elbows on the railing. “He brought that from home. He just had it laying there and brought it out for a walk.”
“You think we’ll ever get to enjoy life as much as people who refuse to not be horny in public spaces?”
“Hahah. Absolutely fucking not.”
Price you gotta pay for not loudly declaring that you want to ram Rarity against the wall at all times is a lil’ bit of ennui, turns out. Such is the life of the artist, forever pressed to hide their true desires by this ruthless society.
“Okay, let’s go to Quills and Sofas,” I say. Majin’s not here yet, which means… “No horny people at Quills and Sofas for the time being.”
“Oooh that sounds like a plan.”
We immediately get kicked out of Quills and Sofas.
“God dammit, not enough horny people.”
Only partially true.
Last year, Quills and Sofas was a writer’s haven, a temple for all the fucking nerds to hide and be slightly less horny than the general public. However, this year, the people in charge of organising the con knew I was coming—and they took the appropriate measures to prevent me unleashing my full power.
So Quills and Sofas is not a thing anymore. It kind of is—we got a whiteboard, hastily wrote QUILLS ’N SOFAS in it, and placed it next to a door—but we gotta share it with the artists, in some kind of venue they have so they can host events and contests and shit.
Which means, fuck off, writers. The Actual Talented Folks need this space. Shoo. Shooo.
“This is such a travesty,” I whine in a manly, husky tone. I’m sure in that moment I’m even more attractive than usual. “When do you think they’ll let us back in?”
Like half of Fimfiction is there with me, since, y’know. They all kicked us out. We’re standing in front of Quills and Sofas, glancing at the door with rueful melancholy. Quite the crowd.
ROBCakeran, whom I just met for the first time fifteen seconds ago, is talking to someone else. I hear parts of the conversation:
“…Keeps happening.”
“Yeah, Everfree Northwest treated us better.”
“We’ll get back in soon enough.”
“EVERFREE NORTHWEST TREATED US BETTER.”
We try to wait in front of the door to get back in as soon as the artists have finished claiming their space—but a security person kicks us out anyway, saying we’re congesting the corridor or some shit, safety issues. So we fuck off, all of us at once, and for a moment there’s a genuine pilgrimage of writers running around the convention, which is only slightly less sexy than you think it is.
I’m hanging out with four, five people by this point, and we decide to go to Vendor Hall, since I said I wanna check the bookstore. One of the books they’re selling is mine, I explain, and nobody’s foolish enough to get in the way of my massive ego. So, we head to Vendor Hall.
I get separated from my group as we get to the escalator, though. ROBCakeran’s in front of me, talking excitedly about something—and the sight makes me smile.
Rob, case you didn’t know, is the man who wrote My Little Dashie—and he honestly does not deserve that burden. Online, he’s fun but reserved, plays up the gruff character, we joke about him being an old man, asking children to get off his fucking lawn.
In person, Rob is Santa Claus with a mean streak.
His face is round and jolly, and he laughs loudly and with his mouth wide open. He’s big, but more huggable than imposing. He looks delighted at the tiniest things, and there’s always a spark of laughter in his eyes. He’s tall, but in a Lord of the Rings play, he’d play Gimli, and absolutely crush it. My accent is too thick for his ears, so he can’t understand anything I say to him, but he still laughs at my jokes, every time.
“I gotta admit,” I say to no one in particular, resting my back on the banister as the escalator brings us down. “Rob is nothing like I expected him to be. He’s all joyous and shit, and I thought I was going to meet a grump with a bottle of whiskey in his hand at all times, y’know?”
Rob can’t understand me when I talk, but he still heard me, somehow. He turns around, glee in his eyes, cheeks red with happiness. “DID SOMEONE SAY WHISKEY?!” he asks, reaching into his pocket, showing me what he’s carrying with him.
It’s a metallic flask. Blatantly full of whiskey.
The words “FUCK U” are engraved on the bottom. That way, when you drink from it, it flips everybody off.
This is the man who wrote what is unarguably the most significant story in our fandom. The My Little Pony fanfiction, like it or not. This man singlehandedly and without effort introduced thousands to the concept of fanfiction.
Rob shows us the flask some more, giggles, then walks out, and God knows where the fuck he’s going. There’s spring in his step. He’s just so goddamn happy.
The world’s a good place, sometimes, is what I want to say here. I want Rob to meet the 90s Girls. I think they’d be best friends forever.
“Sorry, you can’t be here.”
We’re immediately kicked out of Vendor Hall.
Turns out it wasn’t open yet and nobody could get in, so it’s not like it’s because we’re writers, but I am a petty motherfucker and this is the narrative I’m building, so. They kick us out.
We’re not a gigantic crowd anymore. More people are with Pear and me at this point—Autumn Rush, whom we met while picking up the badges, is there now. So’s Swan Song, who will be featured at length on Day Three.
And so’s Miller Minus.
Miller feels like a cowboy, one from the golden era of Spaghetti Westerns—when the men were full of mystery, and you could speak without saying a word. It’s easy to picture him, rolling up a cigarette with just one hand, riding into the sunset. His delivery is always flat, he speaks detachedly, but his eyes are very expressive. He never looks away, and he lets you know he’s listening. Every comment he makes is cutting—but you can always feel the love.
“Ah.” As we walk away from the door to Vendor Hall, I glance at Miller. Swan Song and Autumn Rush leave; they will have their own adventures. “Miller, before I forget—you don’t mind me being jokingly touchy, right? Cause I’m really touchy.”
Most of the people I’ve met today I already knew from last year, you understand, but Miller ain’t one of them. I’m the kind of guy who enjoys interlocking hands with my friends, looking them dead in the eye, and softly whispering: “I just farted,” then not letting them go. Absolutely hilarious, but it’s cool to set some boundaries. Some people aren’t into jokey physical affection.
“So like,” I keep telling Miller, “just telling you in case you don’t—”
Slap.
Wordlessly, never varying his expression, Miller has grabbed my face. As in his entire hand is laying on top of my face. Glasses and everything. He’s got big cowboy hands.
“Right,” I say against his hand, which comes out muffled, and it sounds like “rrgghtm.” I grab his wrist and shove him off. “Okay, I’m taking that as a—”
Slap.
He places his other hand on my face.
At no point has he ever said anything, or changed his expression in any way whatsoever.
“Y’know, I like Miller,” Pear says by my side. “He’s chill.”
These are the people I choose to hang out with. Willingly. These are my trusty companions. Motherfucker.
I meet a lot of people this morning. Bronycon is chock-full, and it feels like everybody’s here—or, almost everybody. Some absences are felt more than others, and some people we could honestly do better with, not going to lie.
“Hi, excuse me.” A dude walking by stops near us. “Sorry for the bother, but could you please tell me where the Hall of the Moon is?”
“Oh, sure.” Pear is quick to reply; he glides in front of me and points in the right direction with ease. “Over there, you can see the sign from here.”
The dude follows Pear’s finger, and smiles. “Oh, I see! Thank you very much. Well then.”
He nods at us, and leaves.
“Man,” Pear says. We keep walking. I’m following the guy with my eyes as we do so, but MIller and Pear are looking at each other. “That dude was super polite.”
“He was nice,” Miller agrees. “I liked him.”
“Wha. What?” I turn around, start walking backwards so I can look at them both, frowning. “Really?”
They both look at me. “What?” Miller says.
“We’re not addressing the dude’s jacket?” I point at the dude.
He’s almost lost in the crowd—almost—but you can still see his jacket. A jacket full of—
“Orgasming faces,” I say. “All over the fucking—it’s a goddamn ahegao jacket! Look at it!”
“Oh, wow.” Pear looks at it. “Oh, wow, I hate this.”
“Man.” Miller is frowning too. “I didn’t notice.”
“How the hell do you not notice that? It was a pony ahegao jacket, too! Not the normal one!” I hate that there’s a ‘normal’ one, by the way. It’s really one of those things humanity didn’t need in the slightest. “It was custom-made!”
On the very center of the dude’s back there’s a big picture of Rarity, making a face drawn by someone who’s clearly never kissed a woman in their life, and she’s completely covered in spunk. As we’re saying this, children are running around the place, followed by their parents.
Public-ass space, yo.
“You really can’t play the fedora game at Bronycon,” Pear laments. I feel the melancholy in his voice.
So, yeah—everybody’s here, but some people’s absences are sad, and other folks, I feel we could do without. Far from my intentions to be a prude, or to shame people for liking what they like, but I do think there are places where you can show your picture of Rarity covered in cum, and the corridor where children aged five or younger happily run around ain’t one of them.
“The moment Vendor Hall opens,” I promise, turning around so I’m walking normally again, “I’m gonna point at every piece of softcore pornography I see and I’m going to loudly announce that I’m seeing it. Mark my words. This is going to be an explicit afternoon for all of us.”
“O-oh,” Miller says.
Pear rests his hands on his hips. “Yeah I can see you doing that.”
“I mean, fuck it, might as well make it funny.”
We’ve picked up people on our way. There’s like five of us now, and they’ve all made the mistake of acknowledging me as the leader of the group, the guy who says where we’re going and what we’re doing.
So, obviously, I’ve found a quiet spot in the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere so I can recite my Evangelion Rant. It consists on me ranting about Neon Genesis Evangelion for forty-five minutes, unprompted and uninterrupted. Nobody’s having fun except for me. It’s the best thing ever.
“…And then Anno got severe crippling depression! Again! And that’s why the third movie is so great,” I explain, waving my hands around excitedly, talking to a completely still audience. “It’s the best!”
“So.” Miller is the one who made the mistake of mentioning he’s never seen Evangelion before; as such, he feels compelled to address me, as if I weren’t embarrassing everybody around at the moment. “He made the show, and halfway through he got depressed.”
“Yeah!”
“Then he got better, made two movies, and got severe debilitating depression again?”
“Yeah! You can tell when he wants to die because the quality of the story goes way up.”
Miller nods. I can’t stress enough how deadpan his delivery is. His eyes are sparkling, but his mouth never twists into a smile, his tone never wavers. When making a joke, Miller is Robocop, if Robocop had been played by Clint Eastwood. “I think I’ve got an idea on what’s making him sad.”
I’ve met so many people by now—and I’ll meet so many more—that I can’t introduce them all whenever they pop up. As the blog series goes on, I’ll simply introduce those whom, I feel, own the scene. If you see people I mention but don’t properly explain, chances are they’ll be introduced later—but that said, I feel it’s important to explain who’s with me at this point in time.
Two of the people you already know—Miller and Pear, obviously; the cowboy and the elbow cat. But there’s also Singularity Dream, there by my right, and Soge in front of me.
To my left, there’s DJThomp.
Everybody else with me right now, I’ll hang out with more later in time. DJThomp, though, he’s gone with the wind soon, and it’s always a shame that we never manage to spend as much time together as we both would like to.
Thomp is taller than me, and broad of shoulders, and last year he picked me up and twirled me around effortlessly. Before this convention is over, he’ll do the same again, because I am very cute and feel nice to hug and play with. He’s that kind of guy.
He wears his avatar as a pin on his baseball cap, and he walks with swagger. His voice is deep, but not as deep as you think when you see his face. He closes his fists and waves them in girly fashion when he’s excited, and I don’t think he himself is aware of that. He’s a big guy, manlier than most of us, and he pulls off the cute act without even trying to.
Some people register as cool, some register as clever—but Thomp just seems like honest, good people. There’s a certain charm in that you don’t get anywhere else.
“So that was your Evangelion Rant?” he asks me once it seems like I am, finally, done with my bullshit. “You’re finished?”
“For the time being.” They laugh. They think I’m joking. I’m not. People keep underestimating me, and one day, that’ll spell their doom. “It’s like a convention tradition. Every time I go to one I end up talking at length about Evangelion, and I’ve no fucking clue why.” I press a hand against my chest. “That’s my curse.”
“At least it wasn’t your My Hero Academia Rant.” I think it’s Singularity Dream who says this, because Singularity Dream has this habit of staying quiet, up till the moment he’s not, and then he just throw a red-iron needle into the conversation before leaving again. The little shit. “Last year you tried to say it but you didn’t get to.”
I perk up. My eyes fucking sparkle at this clear provocation, and I mean it in an absolutely good way, cause Dream’s a real one if there’s ever been any. “Holy shit,” I say. “The My Hero Academia Rant. Dude.”
Soge can smell danger. He looks around, frowning. “My Hero Academia Rant?”
Miller also sees what’s about to come. “Uh.” He tilts his head, squints, sorta looks at me. “Isn’t that the super popular show.”
“YES!” I raise both hands in the air. “It is! Last year I kept trying to tell people why My Hero Academia has some truly fucking garbage moments, and I kept being interrupted! It was so fucking frustrating.” I get more comfortable, by my side I see Pear disassociating so he can be free of another Passionate Aragón Anime Rant, but I can’t be stopped at this point. “Look, every time I say this, all the fans get super angry, but like—”
PW-FWHOOOOOOOO.
Silence.
“…But like, My Hero Academia is—some things it does really well, and when it’s at its strongest points it’s genuinely great, but like every time he tries to do an action—”
Singularity Dream is already looking around. “What was that.”
“It’s 6:45.” Miller is looking at his watch. “Vendor Hall should be open by now.”
“Oh.” Everybody’s looking at me. I look down. “O-oh. I guess we can go check it out if you w—”
“Vendor Hall sounds good!” Thomp says. “Let’s go!”
And everybody gets up. Immediately. Forty-five minutes of uninterrupted Evangelion has taught them that if you don’t take Aragón seriously, you pay with your life.
So I sigh, and I get up too. Truth be told, I do want to get to Vendor Hall. Checking the Bookstore sounds like a spectacular idea, and I’ve got half a mind to—
PW-FWHOOOOOOOO.
“Okay what the fuck is that though.”
We start moving, join the crowd again—soon enough people are getting separated again; the Bronycon walk is a neverending game of the dwindling party, seeing friends disappear in the blink of an eye and you don’t find them again until seven hours later. Still, like three or four of us make it to the escalator, and we can see the giant queue that’s formed in front of the door that leads to Vendor Hall.
PW-FWHOOOOOOOO.
And the dude playing a war horn on top of it, signalling that the gates have opened, and you can now buy your pony merchandise.
“The hell,” I say. Everybody else is moving towards the escalator, being led by the flow of the masses, but I stay there watching. “I didn’t know Bronycon was so dramatic.”
PW-FWHOOOOOOOO.
It’s an actual horn. Like, it looks like a bull’s horn, but it’s hollow and brownish rather than yellowy white. I can see the mouth piece from where I’m standing, and the dude playing it needs to wet his lips and take a small break before he plays it again. It’s clearly taking an effort.
PW-FWHOOOOOOOO.
Thing echoes through the convention center. Someone else is next to War Horn Dude, talking to him.
“…got to play it!”
“Yeah, man! I can’t believe I finally got to play it. It’s been so long!”
I stare. I say nothing. I just stare.
“He’s not even affiliated with Bronycon! He just carries a fucking war horn with himself at all times for no reason!”
“Holy shit.” Pearple Prose is waiting in line with me, and Vendor Hall is so close we can almost touch it. “What the fuck.”
“Yeah! He just—I guess he just brings it everywhere with him, and then he saw they were opening the gates to Vendor Hall, and went ‘oh hey here’s my chance’ or something?”
“Man.” Pear looks up, at the spot where War Horn Dude used to be ten minutes ago. “Imagine how happy he must have been. He saw his chance and he took it.”
“He was like, fuck, I was born for this moment.”
“Oh, yeah.” Pear looks at me again. “Did you see Saxophone Guy?”
Miller is with us too. He arches an eyebrow. “Saxophone Guy?”
“There’s a dude going around with a saxophone and he just randomly plays bits of songs here and there.”
“Ah, that guy?” I frown. “I saw him earlier, when we were going to that spot in the middle of fucking nowhere. He was alone, right?”
“Yeah he just walks around with a saxophone.”
Miller blinks. “And that’s all he does? He just. Walks around the convention. Playing the saxophone to himself.”
“I’ve never seen him talking to anybody,” Pear says. “Someone was complaining about him in the fuckhouse chat yesterday. Said he spent like twenty minutes in the queue to claim his badge and literally never stopped to breathe. I think that’s just how he communicates.”
There’s a pause.
Miller frown. “Sorry what. The what chat.”
“The fuckhouse chat.”
“What.”
“Guys, the line is moving! The line is moving!” I push them forward and they start moving, too busy keeping up with me to continue the conversation. “Come on! I wanna check the Bookstore! I wanna see my bo—LOOK AT ALL THAT SOFTCORE PORNOGRAPHY.”
Pear stares. “Holy shit.”
Miller frowns. “Um.”
I grin. “HALF A SECOND IT TOOK ME. SOFTCORE PORNOGRAPHY IN THE VERY FIRST STAND WE SEE I CAN’T BELIEV—THERE’S MORE OVER THERE.”
“Holy shit,” Pear says again.
“LOOK AT THAT FLUTTERSHY’S ASS. IT’S MASSIVE.”
We’ve made it to Vendor Hall.
Even though the line to get to Vendor Hall is massive, it moves rather quickly, and there’s enough space to walk somewhat comfortably while in there. I think they’re just asking people to enter in small groups so the gates don’t get completely blocked from the get-go, to prevent people getting a heatstroke or something. The place itself is spacious, a conglomerate of vendor stalls assembled in rows and squares, people aimlessly walking around them, talking to the vendors.
Out of every five stalls, like. Three are pornographic.
“LOOK AT THAT FUCKPILLOW.”
“Oh huh.” Pearple Prose likes the ‘point and yell at pornography’ game; he immediately joins in. “There are so many body pillows. Oh wow.”
“Hey is it me or is that pricetag supposed to cover Spike’s massive penis?”
“I think it is. Oh wow.” Pear stops me, and points. “Look at that Luna.”
I look, not quite seeing what he’s pointing at yet. “What?”
“It’s fucking spicy.”
“What are you t—” I see it. My eyes go wide. “Oh fuck. It is fucking spicy.”
“Right?” Pear says. “I don’t think it’s supposed to be out like this.” He gets closer to the spicy Luna. Anthro art, you know how it goes. You can see everything. “They got ‘em mixed up or something. Supposed to be under-the-counter stuff.”
Miller Minus is just staring at us at this point; the most he mutters is “oh god” and “oh man” every time we see something particularly egregious. So, every five seconds or so.
We follow the porno like a trail of breadcrumbs, only instead of bread it’s titties. I see a jokey fuckpillow with a tied-up Daring Do that looks exactly like the one in that appeared in the show, right next to an actual fuckpillow with a tied-up Daring Do, in which it’s clear she’s expecting you to hump her ass. All very classy. I point and laugh very explicitly, because mentally speaking I’m not just a seven-year-old, I’m a douchey seven-year-old.
Some breathtaking art here and there too, though, and I mean in the nonboner sense. Pinkie Pie with silver balloons, Discord and Fluttershy being poetically linked together. A lot of Starlight and Trixie, which warms my heart, and not nearly enough Octascratch, unless you’re willing to withstand massive amounts of beefcake. Figurines, canon and otherwise, and plushies that reach exorbitant prices.
A sound comes from the East right then. Ftwo-twoooooo-two, ftwo-twoooooo-two.
“Oh, hey!” Pear says, walking away from a plush toy stand, looking around the crowd. “It’s Saxophone Guy! He’s in here!”
I’m frowning. “Wasn’t that the Soviet Anthem?”
Pear looks at me. “What?”
Ftwo-twoooooo-two, ftwo-twoooooo-two, comes the sound a second time, from a completely different direction.
“Holy shit,” I say. “That was the Soviet Anthem. Why is Saxophone Guy playing the first few bars of the Soviet Anthem at Vendor Hall.”
“Just who the fuck is this dude.”
“Guys.” Miller comes in just in time to interrupt our inquiries, and he’s pointing to the next corridor, just around the corner. There are two fuckypillow stalls by it. “I think I’ve found the bookstore.”
“Oh!” I immediately perk up. “I want to check my book! Let’s go!”
We go.
We’re immediately kicked out.
“SORRY GUYS YOU HAVE TO LEAVE.” The security person is waving his hands, pushing the frankly ridiculous line away. “This is not safe! YOU HAVE TO LEAVE!”
There’s a moment of confusion, as we’re all forcefully dragged out of the place.
So the Bronycon Bookstore was a massive success, of the kind that you legitimately can’t stress hard enough. Too successful, even. It’s in the middle of one of the corridors, and the line is so big, the crowd trying to get to the books is so massive, that we’re absolutely congesting the line. Blocking the way.
It’s not a fire hazard as much as it’s literally just an impromptu class in suffocating people. I can see the people working the bookstore from where I am, and I recognize the people there—Monochromatic, Wanderer D, Aquaman, Paul Asaran, among many others. They all look like a weird mixture between happy and absolutely fucking dead inside, which is what you get when you’re working retail but also you’re your own boss, I guess.
Man, I think at this point. I’m friends with like, half of these people, and acquaintances with the other half. I’m sure if I offered to help they’d gladly take me in, and I’d probably be of help.
I mean, I’m obviously not going to fucking do that, death first, I’m not an idiot, but it’s nice that I could, y’know. Shame I’m a dick. Real shame.
Anyway—everybody’s pushing each other, you can’t quite see what’s in front of you, you can’t hear yourself over the noise—and that’s when we’re kicked out. I don’t have the chance to see anything. They just kick us out, and say fuck it, you can’t wait in here. Let’s move the line somewhere else.
So they do. They grab everybody and we’re moved to a very spacious, very empty corner somewhat near the Bookstore. Like thirty people waiting there while a Bookstore worker—Capn_Chryssalid, actually! Dude who wrote Best Night Ever! That’ll be relevant later—tries to calm us down and explains that, yes, we’ll be making it to the Bookstore, but only once all the current customers have finished their purchase. Here’s the catalogue of books we’re selling so you can pick your poison beforehand.
Soon enough they’re selecting the first group of people who can go, and Miller has disappeared again, lost in the crowd. Pear and I are selected—at first Capn_Chryssalid says seven people may go to the bookstore, which means only Pear or I could go at the same time, but he seems to rethink his policy when he sees I’m linking arms with Pear, and mouthing the words “WE’RE TOGETHER”. So, they let us pass, and we really go to the Bookstore this time.
We leave Miller behind.
What happens next, I wasn’t there to see. I was told about it, so I can’t swear by the accuracy of the scene—but I trust the people who told me. I believe this is true.
While I was gone, Miller found his way back to the front of the line, and was handed the catalogue. The first thing he saw was that—
“Oh, God.” He says this out loud, in his classic deadpan tone, though I like to think a bit of emotion shone through. “Aragón’s book is on the first page of the catalogue. This is going to go to his head so hard.”
“Why?” the person waiting in line behind Miller asks. “Is he arrogant?”
Miller blinks. He turns around to look at the guy.
He doesn’t reply at first. He just stares.
Then, finally, Miller closes his eyes. “Well—”
“Holy shit, I’m on the first page of the catalogue! Pear! Pear, look!”
Pear looks. “Oh, nice.”
“I’m so good at this. I’m so fucking good at this.” I tap the first page of the catalogue, caressing my own name. “Fuck, I’m the best at selling my book.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I was made for this. I’m not even trying and I’m already this good.”
We’re waiting in line, and about to get kicked out for the fourth time in a row.
Now that the massive crowd has been kicked off for safety reasons, the line to the Bookstore is shorter—but still too long. More people are arriving and we can’t kick them out to the new waiting space fast enough, so the place is getting crowded again.
“Hey there!” Wanderer D makes a sudden appearance at this point. He’s walking down the line, greeting acquaintances and old friends. “How’s it going! Glad to see you here, man.”
And then he gets to Pear and me, and suddenly, he’s squinting.
“You.” He speaks to me in Spanish. His voice is sharp all of a sudden. “You know your people aren’t allowed here. Get the fuck out.”
I grin, and reply in Spanish, too. “Glad to see you too, man.”
And then we do the handshake-hug thing us dudes do when we want to hug each other, but in a manly way. Pear’s watching, after all, and I am easily flustered.
Wanderer D’s a bro. Last year I commented on him being a man with authority but a mischievous streak, and I stand by it—but everybody changes as time passes. He could be the guy who owns this moment, he really could, but sadly enough, I won’t have time to introduce him yet, since just as we’re about to start talking, just as I mention the Bookstore seems to be doing well—
“Excuse me, sorry. You have to get out of here.”
Security guy appears again.
Indeed, as I was saying earlier—the crowd’s gotten too big again. The Bookstore is so fucking successful it keeps self-sabotaging, which is probably better than what Aquaman ever expected, but also a million times worse. The security guy specifically addresses the end of the line, which means Pear, me, and the few guys in front, and we’re about to start complaining when—
“Sorry. Can I talk to you for a second.” Wanderer D takes command. He’s in full authority mode; you can tell he’s used to giving orders. He seamlessly passes an arm over the security guy’s shoulders, and drives him away, swagger in his voice. “They’re with me, you see. We’re just—”
They leave, not without winking at me for a second. Wanderer D is the only reason I ever get to the Bookstore, even though this is definitely a safety hazard again. The power of nepotism, folks; never underestimate him. Security guy never returns. I’ve no fucking clue what Wanderer D tells him, but it works wonders.
Shame D himself doesn’t return either, but worry not—we’ll talk later as the con goes by, he’ll have his own scene. This one, though, this moment while we’re waiting in front of the Bookstore? Someone else appears, out of kind of nowhere, and that’s who I’m going to talk about.
Skywriter enters, stage left.
Pearple Prose is the one who recognizes him, since the Bronycon badges have a tendency to turning the other way around while you wear them, in just the exact way needed to hide your name from the crowd. Pearple Prose and Skywriter met each other last year, though, at Galacon—so suddenly I’m seeing Pear perk up and wave at Sky, and Sky waves back. He’s carrying a shitty piece of cardboard, where someone has scribbled the words “NOT THE END OF THE LINE”, and he’s supposed to stay there to make sure the crowd knows not to wait in here.
It is too small to be read unless you’re literally next to Skywriter, and the crowd is gathering at the opposite extreme of the Bookstore, so it’s probably the single most useless sign in all of Bronycon, a place that at one point literally asks you to become a furry and fulfil your destiny.
“Wait.” Sky himself notices this at one point. “Are you telling me nobody’s coming here.”
“Not really,” Pear says, pointing behind his back with his thumb. “The line’s happening over there.”
“Then why am I holding this? Goood dammit.” Skywriter dramatically throws the sign down, with the fury of a god—and a passer-by security guy immediately picks it up and gives it back to him. “Oh. Well, dang.” So he keeps holding it up.
“Skywriter!” I jump in front of Pear, smiling ear to ear, cause that’s what you do when you meet Skywriter. “Holy shit! Pleasure to meet you!”
Sky smiles at me. “Glad to hear that.”
Here’s the thing about Skywriter: everybody else you meet at Bronycon, you almost always go ‘oh yeah, makes sense they’re like this’. There are only two exceptions to this rule, and Skywriter is one of them.
There’s a definite sense of quiet dignity to Skywriter, of classical elegant composure. He’s a rock standing in the middle of the sea, and his true self wears a top hat and a victorian-era long coat. He stands with his back straight and his chin up, and his eyes are stern and feel ice cold. Wrinkles appear all around his eyes when he smiles, and his voice is all soft edges. He’s relaxed, he can sound affable, but he’s a man made out of iron.
“I’m really glad I got to see you!” I say, excitedly. “There’s like—five really great comedy authors in the website. You, Horizon, Blueshift, Chuckfinley, and GhostofHeraclitus. Everybody else is just desperately trying to stay afloat while you guys cruise on a fucking longship.”
“Well, yes. You know what, I agree with your professional opinion. I think you might be right, I am very good.”
“You are! You know, the first story I read of yours wasn’t even pony? It was the one you wrote for Machine of Death!”
Skywriter gets visibly surprised at this. “Torn Apart and Devoured by Lions?”
“Yeah! I quoted it as my favorite in the entire book and someone went ‘you know that’s Skywriter, right’, and I went what, no fucking way. And that’s how I discovered you!”
“Oh. Well then!” Skywriter smiles, pleased. “I’m glad to hear that. It’s a shame I didn’t make it to the second book.”
“Yeah, that was bullshit.”
All through this conversation—Pear is eyeing the books, we’re finally close enough—Skywriter has been eyeing my badge. I finally notice, and then I see that my name was hidden, so I flip the badge around. “Ah,” I say. “By the way. I’m Aragón.”
“Oh! Aragón!” Skywriter blinks and smiles, surprised. “I was just thinking, man, this person’s awfully nice, I wonder who he is. I’m very glad to meet you!” We shake hands. “You’re one of the most consistently entertaining authors on the website.”
Might as well have Jesus himself tell you you’re good at praying. “Thank you!” I say. “I really try!”
“He used to.” Ah. That voice. Robocop as played by Clint Eastwood—Miller is right behind me now; he’s finally made it to the real queue. “Then he realized he could just write blogs instead, and stopped trying.”
I punch Miller’s shoulder, just as Skywriter starts replying behind me. “I don’t know,” he says. “I think that latest one he had with the comic had a lot of effort put into it.”
Holy shit, if I liked Skywriter already. “MMM-HMM.” You can scream a guttural noise, turns out. I’m just nodding really fast, my mouth a thin hard line, my eyes wide as plate. “MAN. YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE IT.”
“Like, it was a really long comic.”
“IT TOOK DAYS. WEEKS, ALMOST.”
This isn’t the last time I talk to Skywriter, but it’s the end of our current conversation—because we’ve made it to the bookstore, and I can see Monochromatic running the stand. “Mono!” I yell, turning around, waving. “I heard your book sold out! Congratulations!”
“Thanks!” I ask for three copies of my own book—one is for me, the other two are for friends who couldn’t come to the con—and she hands them to me, then smiles. “You just sold out, too! Those were the last copies we had!”
“What! Holy shit!” I turn to look at Pear and Miller. “Guys! My book sold out!”
“Oh, fuck,” says Pear.
“Oh, no,” says Miller.
“My book sold out! I’m so good! I’m so fucking good at th—”
It’s four hours later.
“You know, I don’t like to talk about it,” I say, pressing a hand against my chest, holding my chin up high. “But my book sold out.”
Everybody around me groans.
Like five hours have passed since we got out of Vendor Hall. I’ve met many more people, I’ve done many more things, but the blog is long, the day is longer, and we both need a break. There’s more to come. There’s still so much more to come.
But, in the meantime.
“I heard!” Monochromatic is next to me. We’ll talk much more later, but this is the first time we hang out for more than thirty seconds, and we’re walking side to side. “Then, you know, we found another box of your books, turns out it was just around there.”
“Well, you know.” I wave a hand in the air. “My family doesn’t need to know about that. And you sold out too!”
“I did!”
We’re all so fucking tired.
There’s many people I haven’t introduced yet; Lord knows Monochromatic herself deserves a better scene. She’ll get one, of course, but this moment has a sense of finality, as I walk down the street, away from the convention center, to have dinner. Sometimes the best thing about a story is that you choose to stop telling it at the right moment.
There’s three days in front of me. The last Bronycon, I think. The end of an era. The show is about to end. This is the culmination of what we are.
This is us, is the funny thing, I keep thinking. This is what comes to mind when I imagine Fimfiction. Not the show itself, not even the stories we write, but the friends we made along the way.
“Where are we going anyway?” I ask, looking around. “To have dinner?”
“Place called the ShakeShack,” I get told. “Over there.”
“The what?” I am immediately kicked out of my own melancholic daydreaming. “What’s the name again?!”
“…The ShakeShack.”
“The ShakeShack!” I repeat, my pitch high. “Oh my God! It sounds so explicit!” I raise both hands in the air and wiggle my hips. “If you wanna have fun, come to the ShakeShack.”
“…It’s a milkshake place.”
“Not in my head! Man.” I look at my friends, grinning, knowing fully that I am literally never going to mention the ShakeShack, ever again, without shaking my hips in erotic manner. Mark my fucking words. “I love America sometimes. Did you see Saxophone Guy at the con?”
“You mean War Horn Guy?”
“Similar, but no.”
Something catches my eye then. Right in front of me, the stars have aligned—every single one of my roommates are walking side to side, by total concidence. All six of them, and it’s the first time I see them like this ever since we got out of the house. Oroboro, Eliott, Curtis, Appletank, R5h, and Pearple Prose.
“Oh, hey.” I elbow Monochromatic, and point at the guys. “Look, It’s the fuckhouse.”
Monochromatic pauses.
“The.” She looks at me. “The what.”
The last Bronycon was an experience. There are so many things I haven’t had the chance to talk about, and I hope I’ll get to at some point. Not in my wildest dreams would I have guessed that people would finance a trip of mine to America, two years in a row, just so I could experience it. But it happened.
That’s why this blog is so long. That’s why I told everything in absurd amounts of detail. Cause I think it’s the least the convention deserves. It’s the least I can give to the people who couldn’t make it there. It’s silly, to take cartoon horses this seriously—but that’s what makes it special. We’re all being silly together.
That’s how I remember the ending of the first day of the last Bronycon. That’s what makes me smile right now. Simply walking down town, so many people around me that I can’t possibly list them all, basking on it. Thinking, y’know. I don’t like to talk about it—but my book sold out.
“No seriously. Aragón. What the hell is the fuckhouse.”
See you guys in the next blog.
“Aragón stop ignoring me what is the fuckh—”
Next time: Swan Song, the Fuckhouse, Dubs, Majin, and pretty much everybody who was here but whom I couldn't mention yet cause holy shit this is long. Sorry folks, I didn't forget about you, y'all pop up during days 2 and 3, trust me.
To all five people who actually read the whole thing: i hope you liked it. Toodles.
Hooray! i still can be included!
5105844
I'm loving all these blogs because my entire first day at the convention was just running books.
I truly get to experience Mono's bewilderment and I needed that in my life.
I don't think anyone's book sold out as many times as yours did.
Taking you to the Shake Shack was a mistake. We spent the rest of the convention trying to make sure people didn't think we had some kind of orgy on Thursday night because of that goddamn sexy dance you'd do every time you mentioned it.
I think we succeeded, but now I'm hearing rumors of a Bronycon orgy that actually happened, so who knows.
WHERE’S MY PROPER INTRO, YOU BITCH
Also this was very good!! I love the part with autumn
Heh. It's always fun to be around you at the convention. I believe you're the first person on the video I took for the There Cant Be Only One panel.
I think my one regret about this brony-con (aside from it being In Foreign Parts and thus in the laughing-hysterically-and-then-deadpan-no level of personal reach) was that poor Estee had such a hard time with it. I had sort of hoped that Estee would run across you, honestly, because I think that might have been good for them, given your infectious jollity.
I may be tempting fate, but I'm pretty sure I heard the start of the hero academia rant last year, and also the JoJo rant, possibly? Either way, I'd have loved to hear it, even if I'm a crazed fan at this point.
Also, I wonder if those 90s ladies just bought food and lied about it being free.
Christ.
I had forgotten the war horn guy
It was great to meet you at Bronycon, Ara. Your face felt exactly how I expected, and I really respect that in a person.
You're totally right. I'd love to hang with those 90's ladies.
Also TYPEWRITERS, man...
5105854
Oh yeah, there's usually a Bronycon orgy in a room or two. I was invited to one once... I did not go because I value my life.
Is "fuckhouse" really that weird of a name?
This remarkably mirrors my own adventures at the con.
Just, y’know, you actually talked to people.
5105873
Based on this remark, you must love Super Trampoline.
5105881
Cons are so far removed an experience from (UK) wargames shows, which are as close as I come to phenominon, as to forever bewilder me.
Man, handling security was a recurring theme that day, but they calmed down eventually.
Presented above: The standard non-Fimfic-author reaction to two Fimfic authors meeting.
We all need a squad of 90's Girls.
I know there was at least one duel disk at the convention. One guy wore one to a Magic: the Gathering panel and no one fed it to him, to give you some idea of how purehearted our fandom truly is. But I now find myself wondering if there were more. I find myself wondering if people legitimately tried to play the game that way, arms cramping as they shouted what their cards did while standing the regulation five meters apart to make room for the giant holograms that only existed in their imagination.
Wait, no, what am I saying? There was never that much empty space available.
As for the fuckpillows, I saw one guy wearing a Limestone Pie daki cover as a cape while walking down the Waterfront. Seriously, when we were in Tir na Nog, I watched that man stride with confidence as that rock farmer's daughter lay splayed out for all to see. I will never have the sheer testicular fortitude that man enjoys on a daily basis.
It's true, they did.
Fun fact, you could get into the vendor hall early if you were helping stock. Got in twice that way. (Hey, Aqua said we were only supposed to bring books in batches of ten.)
Huh. I don't think I ever spotted the pony orgasm jacket. There was a human one, though, with matching pants. At one point early on Thursday, he danced to a stereo that was blasting "The Smile Song" as the Sax Guy played along. This was shortly after the epic showdown between Princess Big Mac and Princess Deadpool.
Bronycon, man. I will miss it most dearly.
Speaking of Sax Guy, at the risk of ruining the mystique, I can confirm that he speaks. And that was indeed the name on his badge. He had another, back in the misty depths of history, but he forsook that name and took up that which everyone was calling him anyway.
Also, last year, he belted out the Legend of Zelda theme in the middle of the vendor hall when he spotted a Link cosplayer. The guy's great. I missed the bearer of the Vendor Horn, but now I hope the two of them met at some point during the convention.
Yeah, that's what happens when Li'l Miss Jay's booth is immediately to the left of the entrance.
So, when did you realize it's sorted alphabetically by author?
... It was reading the above sentence, wasn't it?
I learned how to fix badgeflip from PresentPerfect. You have to pin a badge from an earlier convention on the lanyard so your name's facing out regardless.
Praise from Skywriter is indeed a staggering thing.
And I am thoroughly convinced that you deliberately went silent on Mono just so you could have that fade-to-black moment for this blog.
This was actually incredibly entertaining, I was giggling the whole damn time. Good shit. Thanks man.
Yeah, between all of the other people I needed to touch base with and the great book signature quest I was kind of all over the place for much of the convention.
Also, cute and manly, I'm fine with that. I was definitely aware of my penchant for talking with my hands, however.
I was /at BronyCon/ and reading these blogs is almost my favorite part of the convention. If time travel was real I would use it to include the Aragon 2019 BronyCon blogs in The Essential Aragon.
The dakis! The dakis! I'm so glad someone agrees with me about the dakis! I counted! I counted approximately 153 unique designs, which is a low estimate, and I counted approximately 20 stalls selling dakis, which means roughly one in every eight stalls was selling them. So yeah they were literally everywhere you looked, pretty much. Or at least you could see one from anywhere.
(Also, /not to brag/ but I did in fact get to stand silently next to Aragon in the bookstore line before it was destroyed and reconstituted in its final form by the emergency exit. My brush with celebrity, I guess.)
And it begins! Looking forward to reading more. Though I’m afraid that my offer to buy you a coffee expired at the end of BC, so. Y’know. If you return to the states for a future con, I’m afraid you’re on your own.
5105873
What’s this nonsense about feeling people’s faces? You never offered to feel my face. N-Not that I wanted you to! I’m just... just asking.
B-Baka...
5105902
Dakis in general continue to trip my internal bizarre-alarm, but I’ll be honest: I know exactly the one you’re talking about, and God help me but I’ve been tempted at three cons now.
aw you and autumn are so silly together i ship i--
wait
My second biggest regret of not socializing much during the con is it means I won't have as much screentime in the world famous Aragon Bronycon blogs.
Yeah, the stories you tell about ponies can't hold a candle to the stories you tell about yourself.
*popcorn*
This is just a series of good laughs. And yeah, there were a lot of dakis.
And the bookstore....wow. Tried for some Paul and Ilsaw, but of course...sold out.
Look forward to the next installment!
I read a lot of accounts, this one is my favorite. Thanks for making us feel like we were there.
This is probably the most badass description anyone has ever given of me. Every time someone online asks me what I look like, I'm just going to quote this.
Waiting on that delayed flight was horrendously awful, but unexpectedly meeting and talking with you made it completely worth it! It was just as fun hanging out when we could at the con. Lewd body pillows and even lewder, t-shirt guy aside (good to know I missed the latter). MAJOR CONGRATS AGAIN ON THE BOOK TOO!!
And in case anyone is wondering, the sandwiches those ladies brought back weren't even that good. It was very unfortunate.
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I love you too.
Well, in defense of the whole Shake Shack thing, that wasn't the original plan. The original plan was for that pizza place.
But unfortunately FimFiction people have friends and that means that the original plan for a table of four became walking up to a restaurant with hopes of getting 14 people seated without a reservation.
I look forward to reading about the second day! That's seems like when people knew who was there and the crazy stuff happened.
Goddammit, Singularity Dream was there? D: AAAAAUUUUUU--
Okay. Nothing in this blog is gonna kill me like this is killing me. XD That D!
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I'm sorry I never experienced him! :O
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It's hilarious, just reading the things he was saying as he walks into the hall, I can picture exactly which booths were being looked at. XD
There were variants of that shirt/jacket featuring Starlight and Twilight, too.
I remember seeing a local news crew wandering around on the first day. Like, have any of these, uh, special clothes accidentally made their way onto TV before? You gotta wonder how much of an impact this might be having on public perception.
On the other hand, it was nice to see actual kids enjoying themselves there.
This was a fucking blast to read! I gotta read more of your stuff dude, you're hilarious.
From the very start with the turkey ladies to fucking... everything.
I could not stop reading this (and I was reading at work so that was less than smart of me but this was addicting).
Sounds like it was quite the experience
Oh my god, I juat got home and seeing this in my feed was like finding the window broken in and you lounging in a chair smoking a pipe in the dark, I fucking loved it you sexy motherfucker, hug me (no homo)!
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“If you wanna have fun, come to Shake's Shack.”
Beautiful.
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Singularity Dream helped me get PFP books to the store!
It was great seeing you at Bronycon! Couldn't comment the day you uploaded this as I'm currently in the rural boonies of South America, but maybe you can come to Everfree Northwest next year at the same time. That way we can drag you to your fellow hipster-clothes wearing fools.