Bronycon 2017 is Decadent and Depraved: Part 2 · 5:55pm Aug 14th, 2017
Friday the 11th of August, the first day of the con.
This was where the real fun started. I awoke with a groan at 9 AM, buried under my long coat and on the opposite side of the bed from our fourth roommate, who had been in no mood last night to deal with bullshit and had gone right to sleep, nerf gun still clutched in hand, as soon as the safe opportunity presented itself. Breakfast was starting to close soon, and by God, was I hungry. Fortunately, the angel of mercy that was my housemate and second roommate, Joe, brought us a feast from below, undoubtedly acquired by esoteric means involving a lot of gibberish, a spoon, and a lot of inane nodding and smiling. The rest of our party arose quickly and devoured our breakfasts, ravenous wolves tearing into turkey sausage and bacon and half-stale biscuits drenched in gravy like we hadn’t eaten for days. I soon gathered my wits and my clothes about me, finally refreshed, and set out for the convention, eager to see what would await me this year.
I wanted to have complete access to this wonderfully insane conglomerate of candy-coated chaos this time, all of it. In former years I had just wandered about in a confused haze with a map tucked under my nose, missing the pageantry, the spectacle, the people. Not this time, by God, I swore I wouldn’t. And with that in mind, my first destination was the entrance hall and the ticket line.
My first glance of the convention centre that morning was, as expected, something dredged out of my most bizarre hallucinations. Or perhaps not. At a scene like this, hallucinations are entirely superfluous; reality itself is too surreal and twisted. After a while, someone can get used to casually watching colourful patterns swirl around a room, or seeing their dead grandmother waving at them from a balcony three stories above them. But the fact that any person can walk into this convention centre dressed as Deadpool in a gorgeous, floor-length dress and be considered perfectly ordinary? There is no getting used to that, and dear sweet Jesus, that’s why I love it. It’s complete and total madness under a shell and structure of respectability and order, where the strangest and most bizarre things are taken for granted as long as they’re given a nametag and fill out the right paperwork. Truly, there was nothing more decadent and depraved than a Brony convention in full swing, for all its’ family-friendly taglines. And I don’t mean that in a bad way; it’s absolutely part of the appeal, at least for me.
For those who have never been, the convention centre itself is a vast, confusing, non-euclidean monster of iron girders and glass that appears to have been designed either by drunkards or massive trolls. There are four levels to the thing, at least two of which have areas are only accessible from one particular escalator, and all of which are a confusing maze of stairs and halls and balconies, jammed with bustling lines of enormous Scootaloos trudging past in fursuits, bearded Princess Big Mac’s in red cocktail dresses, and a conglomerate of horn and wing-wearing cosplayers in shirts that boldly proclaimed why they were here. Not that there was ever any question. The trouble is getting past them all when they are all going in one direction, chanting in unison phrases like ‘SWAG! CRUSH! KILL! DESTROY!’ that I’m sure would have terrified me if I wasn’t stone-cold sober, forming impromptu conga lines while dancing to 80s hits, and yelling greetings at each other to be heard over the crowd.
“You here for the Opening Ceremonies?”
“No, they’re already over, I think! I’m here for the Riffing is Magic panel. Flew all the way in from Calgary. You?”
“Goddamn, that really you? Don’t you remember me from BronyCan? I flew in from Toronto!”
“Vancouver and Seattle over here! Hey, wanna grab a coffee after this?”
“Sure, if the line ever starts moving! Let’s just hope they don’t try to rob us with those little ‘tall’ frappes like they do at the ones back home!”
At 10 AM or so I wandered my way into Quills and Sofas, the writer’s refuge from the whirling, garish loony bin of fun and carnival-esque silliness around them. Or perhaps it’s just the eye of the storm, since God knows fanfic authors know how to go as nuts as the best of them, just with a lot more patience to wait for it. But I’ll get to that later.
Because in the confines of that wretched little writer’s lounge, surrounded by half-empty tables manned by sleepy authors manning typewriters and clacking away, I found exactly who I was looking for; my friends, Leapingriver, No Raisin, and a couple of other people I didn’t know. I soon found myself being very nearly dragged out of the con centre in a mad hunt for coffee, which was to be found at a Starbucks some distance away from the convention itself. In a room where we found ourselves crammed into little-bitty chairs around little-bitty tables, we laughed, snarked and swapped stories of how our lives had been while diving face-first into the decadent, unhealthy, but-so-satisfying goodness that is a shit-ton of sugar, whipped cream and caffeine in a tiny plastic cup.
Soon enough, we made our way back across downtown and out of the stifling warm air of outside and back into the oddly-freezing atmosphere of the con centre. By the time we got back, it was time for Riffing is Magic, the first of many panels of the day.
Now, I will say this much about it; it was not what it said in the description. Instead of riffing on MLP episodes, we got an hour of some godawful made-for-tv or possibly even direct-to-video movie called ‘My Best Friend', featuring a talking horse that sounded suspiciously like Kyle Rideout, a barrage of farm animals, and what looked like the extras from Brokeback Mountain who needed to pay off a parking ticket or three, and signed their kids up for the film to double the pay.
The film was mercifully cut to the end, with a plethora of snarky comments from our panelists, ending in a somewhat anti-climactic battle between what appeared to be Doug Dimmadome and Otto from Malcolm in the Middle over a shovel, because... I guess someone was evil and wanted to whack him in the head and steal his lunch money? Hell if I could figure it out. My mind is not designed to wrap itself around mind-screwy movies made with a budget of all the cash they could fit in a shoebox. That is what booze and other things are for. But the drinking would come later.
After this, it was time for a jog back downstairs, a break to grab some lunch at the Jimmy John’s across the street (which is a lot harder than it sounds. Never underestimate the volume of forty people trying to jam themselves into a small building, all clamouring and squinting at menus and tapping tables impatiently in hope of acquiring their sweet, meaty Viaticum faster before running back to the con to join the herd once more. We didn’t have to wait too long, and after at least four of us managed to finish our food, we dragged ourselves back into the building for a panel simply known as ‘And That’s How Equestria Was Made.’
This particular panel was hilarious, though I don’t remember very many of the details due to recovering from the onset of a food coma at the time. All I remember distinctly was something involving 10 gallons of custard, a swarm of parasprites in Celestia’s castle, an unamused and thoroughly confused Princess, and Appplejack doing Applehorse things.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur between meet-and-greets in Q&S and being dragged down to the vendor hall, which sold so many body pillow sleeves the ‘family friendly’ label was looking more dubious by the second. Q&S is a very special place, by the way. Along with the usual Fimfiction moguls like Rob, The Abyss, Monochromatic and The Parasprite, the quasi-notables like myself that are more known for knowing other people than actually having the talent or drive to write much, the up-and-coming rising stars with a need for advice and being noticed by all the senpais, there was also the most common type of writer or reader as well. Every fanboying dingbat who ever had pretensions to writing with 500$ and within 1000 miles of Baltimore would show up to squee, stroke a lot of egos, share their fifty-thousand word Displaced fic and generally make themselves obvious. Not that I’m much better, as God knows I myself turn into a fanboying dingbat when faced with such people as Monochromatic, praise be unto the Goddess of RariTwi.
As the sun began to set and the sound of typewriters began to fade into the distance, myself, Leapingriver and No Raisin gathered our party and ventured forth into the bowels of the building, on the hunt for the spectacle known as My Little Pony: Karaoke is Magic. It was of utter importance that we got there before the line got long, as at least a couple of us, myself included, wanted to sing our hearts out and generally not care about making complete fools of ourselves in front of a hundred people.
To our immense horror, we soon found that not only was there a long line, but there were numbers assigned to designate who would get first pick to go on. So with that knowledge, we sat quietly in the back of the line, fuming silently as we waited for those ahead of us to go on.
The first singer would set the tone for the entire event, which was a shame, because he was one of the few who was actually good. His rendition of ‘Kindness’ actually had me spell-bound, enraptured as I gazed on. I remember thinking that if this was the bar for what to expect, then this would be even better than we’d thought. With baited breath, we waited for the next singers.
It wasn’t better. In fact, the bar quickly went from ‘trained professional’ to ‘teenagers doing their best impression of American Idol’ levels of quality. My poor, abused ears suffered through the indignity of fandom favourites like ‘Discord’ ‘The Magic Inside’ ‘The Moon Rises’ and ‘Apples to the Core’ being butchered horribly not once, but multiple times in a row. It was sort of like staring at a trainwreck in motion- it's horrible, but you can’t bear to pull yourself away. Though there was also the hope that there would be a few good singers in there, and a least a couple proved themselves at least moderately competent, by which I mean goddamn beautiful in comparison. The karaoke session ended with me as I climbed up onto the stage, legs shaking and trying not to embarrass myself too awfully as I belted out one of the songs from an Ink Potts animatic. This was surprisingly well-received, so I must’ve done at least a passably good job, I’d like to think.
After that great exertion, we met back with Kalash93 and Majin Syeekoh at the Chipotle’s across the street, downing gooey yet delicious Tex-Mex which required a fork to finish off. It was at this point that Syeekoh leaned over my shoulder, whispering conspiratorially. “Go to the Hilton- sorry, Holiday Inn- at 9 o’ clock tonight. There’s a party in the room number on the paper. Follow the pizza guy, and if anyone gives you trouble, tell them Syeekoh sent you.”
What sort of moron would I be if I turned down this opportunity? The last time I’d been to a party at Bronycon was in the Marriott last year with a weird mixture of brony analysts, VAs, podcasters, and one sexy-looking trap in a Trixie outfit, heh. That one is kind of a blur, however. But the one that night is still vividly clear, despite being viewed through very, very thick whiskey glasses.
Shortly after another stroll towards the Q&S, in which I leafed through someone’s fan book left on one of the tables- Yes, not a fic, a 700 page book- I was finally ready to head to this party. I was craving excitement, adventure, and fun; the kind of fun that only the unique combination of copious amounts of alcohol and thirty or so fanfic writers crammed into a small suite can create. I grabbed Kalash as my designated drinking buddy, and we set out for the vague direction of the Holiday Inn, while trying not to be blinded by the pouring rain that soaked us down to the bone. I figured Syeekoh would not be far behind, though it was a shame I wouldn’t be able to utilise one of my patented ‘A Priest, a Muslim and a Jew walk into a party’ jokes.
After a few wrong turns and a necessary buttoning-up of my coat, we found ourselves in the lobby of the Holiday Inn, looking like nothing more than a pair of half-drowned rats and trying not to slide across the floor. By some stroke of luck, we spotted a figure bearing pizzas and scrambled after him to the elevator, riding with him up to the second floor.
We heard the party before we ever saw it. The sound of a number of drunk guys in a small space is an unmistakeable sound, one which has struck fear into the hearts of hoteliers since Raoul Duke stumbled into a Las Vegas Hotel in 1971 and left behind a trail of broken rum bottles, shrimp cocktails and the disintegrated remains of a club sandwich on the floor. The sight that greeted us when we opened the door was much like that, only considerably more chaotic. There was barely a foot of standing room to spare, between the revelers laughing like hyenas and slapping backs and hugging in the way that only drunks can, tables of drinks and half-empty cups, and dishevelled bags piled up along one wall. Rob, The Abyss, and several others were sprawled either on a couch or on the floor, downing gulps of Bacardi and some weird blue drink in between clumsily handling a game of Cards Against Humanity and going to town on one of the newly-arrived pizzas.
“The biggest, blackest dick. Now what would your grandmother find disgusting, but oddly charming?”
“No you moron, you say the question first, not the answer- oh, hey, Rob, try this moonshine! It’s good, trust me.”
“What the hell is this? And will it kill me?”
“No, it’s good, just drink it. No, not from a cup, from the jar like a big boy. Oh hey, Brasta! Wanna try some?”
As I drank down some unholy cherry-flavoured concoction that I’m pretty sure burned my lungs from inhaling the fumes, Masked Ferret pushed past me in a hurry, her eyes blazing like a hawk’s. “Need alcohol. Where is it?” Kuairu sat in one corner, drinking quietly and eating pizza, while Petrichord wandered about with glazed-eyes with a drink in hand. I myself was unable to get any pizza before it all disappeared, so I settled for a bag of chips and a single Snickers bar or the like, before hunting down the nearest drink table and pouring myself a 7 and 7, which I downed with gusto. The only way to handle this sort of affair was to get roaring drunk and watch the people go by.
The rest of the night passed in a wonderfully drunken blur, as I sat in a chair near the corner and contemplated my life as Masked Ferret gulped down a can of wine and Kalash sat on the couch, losing at CAH but still enjoying himself immensely. A few wine bottles had been acquired, and just as quickly drained and left alone and empty. Things naturally began to take a turn for the sillier as drinking continued and my vision began to swim. I’m one of those drunks who gets very sleepy when plastered, so I sat with my head bobbing slightly as I watched through narrowed eyes, occasionally pinching myself to try and stay awake. About half the party had moved into the other room at this point, as I noticed when I got up to see who was in there. Jake The Army Guy, Syeekoh, and a couple of others were more-or-less strewn across the bed in what looked like an awkward, platonic cuddlepile, the sort in which no one could be inclined to move or care to move even if they wanted to. Petrichord lay thoroughly passed-out in one corner, an overturned, empty cup nearby and snoring away without a care in the world. Various others looked on the verge of passing out as well, including Rob, who was so utterly done he had to be physically carried back to his hotel room; his second biggest accomplishment after My Little Dashie.
By about 1 AM or so, I finally judged that I had had enough, and after somehow trudging back to the con centre while extremely pissed, I managed to make it inside and find a comfy chair to collapse in until con security found me and woke me up. At that point, I shot Kalash a text, and upon finding me, we half-stumbled our way to a cab, and headed back to the hotel to meet the embrace of sweet, sweet sleep.
That was probably when I was realizing I had seriously fucked up by drinking about half a bottle of Bacardi rum in 2 minutes, without any food in 5 hours.
Ask Kalesh about what it was like trying to bring someone who spoke in Guarani and screwed Spanish to the convention center. I know I'm a lightweight because I haven't begun my alcohol tolerance, but imagine a lightweight on 20+ shots of 100+% proof alcohol.
Do I really snore? Frig, I'm sorry about that.
Since when does wine come in a can?
And I can't believe "Crush kill destroy swag" is still a thing. That was the meme du jour when I went to BronyCon last.
I'll whisper conspiratorially into your ear whenever you want.