I have not often spoken about my meeting with Lauren Faust.
A few close friends can put together an idea of what that bizarre event was like for me, perhaps; and yet, they would remain puzzled that I have given the account in outline only. No doubt this would be the case in the pony community at large. So, why the obfuscation? Am I, by some impulse of elitism, a relisher of privation? Or am I a mere liar?
Were that it were so. The truth is rather that my love for My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is so strong, my faith in the latent truth of its bonny universe so abiding, that I can’t allow myself to injure its place in the hearts of the people by the retelling of my short interview with its enigmatic creator. However, since there is a contest with a Derpy shirt on the line, I have no choice but to revisit the curious encounter; let us comfort ourselves with the observation of Socrates in Ion, that the artist does not understand their art, and charge bravely forward.
A few years ago I had the occasion of breaking bread with Ms. Faust, as part of a promotional event to support her famous appearance at Bronycon 2012 (which would later go on to be part of a documentary). Leading up to the convention, Hasbro had announced its notorious “Best Night Ever” competition, where winners were to receive all-expense-paid trips to the con, as well as a private dinner with Faust herself. The contest was this: participants were to organize local meet-ups with their friends and other fans of the show, and demonstrate their appreciation with a group photo—banners, cosplay, and creative use of merchandise were all encouraged. The best photos passed the qualifying round, and the triumphant groups were then informed via e-mail that they had entered the “winner’s bracket”. The e-mail also indicated that, once in the winner’s bracket, only one person from each group could receive the grand prize; and that the second part of the contest, therefore, was for each group member to explain why they, and not their friends, were the most deserving of it.
It wasn’t difficult for me to make it through this final phase of the competition. Several of my chums, though “willing to pose with [their] Rainbow Dash plushies [for the world to see],” showed trepidation at the thought of “going to New Jersey” (I myself had once been stranded in Newark as a lad, thanks to an incompetent flight attendant, and had inured myself to its hardships during that stay); it became merely a matter of using the technique of argument to undercut and sabotage the image of some supposed ‘friends’, and I was already on my way to the land of hat pins and print-outs.
The operation was very secretive. Somehow, the facilitators in connection with the contest were able to ascertain my travel and lodging information, and slipped a note under my hotel room door on the evening before the first day of the convention. The note revealed the whereabouts of a liaison who was to guide myself and a handful of other winners of the contest to the secret location of Lauren Faust, at an appointed time; this turned out to be where the fanfiction discussion panel was supposedly taking place, yet there was nothing behind the curtain but a gigantic brick wall with a vaulted door.
The liaison led me down a long flight of stairs to a kind of bunker, secured behind another steel door, where Faust and the other winners were already waiting. I was seated between a man in an Applejack costume and agreeable-looking fellow who had apparently been stranded at the hotel, and had arrived here out of sheer luck. Like myself, the other guests had come unprepared, that is, without dinner; and so we watched Lauren Faust eat her pot roast in polite silence. She appeared flushed in the face, and indeed, had a small pile of emptied wine boxes beside her on the floor.
We ate in silence; or rather, she ate while we watched her in silence, until the gentleman in the Applejack costume spoke up from behind his mask:
“That’s a really nice sweater, Ms. Faust,” he said.
Lauren Faust put down her fork and grinned—a wry, contemptuous grin—before turning to us and asking:
“You know why I got into animation, kid?”
None of us had an answer. We waited uncomfortably for her to continue, listening to the ticking of the clock on the blank wall.
“You enjoyed doing it as a child…?” I ventured to reply.
Lauren Faust sniggered to herself. She leaned over and scooped up a bucket, and spit a wayward bone fragment from her pork roast into it. Then, emptying her wine glass, she grabbed a box and filled up another round (I presumed that she would have offered some to us, as well, if we had been thoughtful enough to bring wine glasses).
At last she said, “Because my mother forced me to. Said it was the best way for me to do good in the world. Imagine that? But here I am. Or here I was, rather.”
The tone of her last remark conveyed to me the hardened bitterness of a professional whose starry-eyed optimism had been snuffed like a set of birthday candles by a life-leeching industry, many an eon ago. All I could do was watch her stab at her roast with the greatest feeling of pity; until the hotel castaway, perhaps interested in changing the subject to something more agreeable for the whole company, posed a new question—but he would find it to be a Faustian bargain indeed.
“Were there any ideas for the show that never made it on air?”
Ms. Faust didn’t look up, and continued to muse over an answer to the question for some time. At once she cast a glance at the unfortunate fellow and asked, “You really wanna know?”
“I guess so,” was the trepid reply.
She took a deep breath. “Why not. You got this far, right?”
And she leaned closer and gave us the following answer:
***
***
‘ Back in the early days, I was living out of my studio apartment in Los Angeles, which was part of a glass skyscraper which I also owned, that I had purchased during my days as a storyboard animator on Powerpuff Girls.
After Hasbro had accepted my pitch for a new series based on My Little Pony, a caucus of staff and executives would gather on the roof of my penthouse suite to discuss notes and refinements to make my bible more suitable for television broadcast.
These ‘penthouse talks’ were usually made up of myself, Hasbro exec. Charles Bartleman, supervising director Jayson Thiessen, producer Sarah Wall, and Ron Renzetti, who would become the story editor. Indirectly part of these meetings was Megan McCarthy, who at the time worked at my cabana designing clipart for the poolside menus.
One afternoon, I remember, we were discussing some of the final revisions for story ideas whilst relaxing in my dollar-sign-shaped super jacuzzi.
Jayson Thiessen, as was typical for him, was challenging some of my better episode ideas: on that particular day, it was my idea to have Rainbow Dash encounter some kind of gang of deer, which would naturally lead her to an identity crisis.
“I just don’t see why it’s necessary,” he told me, avoiding eye contact while adjusting his stupid glasses. “I don’t think children are going to be able to relate to that type of dilemma.”
It was all I could do to must my professionalism and reply, coolly, “Well Jayson, I don’t think you can speak on behalf of every child in America, can you? When I was in fifth grade there was this sporty tomboy who used to brag about her trophies and all the sports teams she was on. She had a sister or something that was on a varsity team in high school. Man I hated her. I would just sit there looking at the back of her head all day, daydreaming about dropping her in an Aztec civilization where she would see how meaningless the accomplishments which she hung her pride on really were.”
After this, there was one of those stupid awkward silences that were like a leitmotif to the penthouse talks.
“Another smoothie, Mr. Bartleman?” Megan McCarthy broke the silence. Thank god for that chick.
“Yes, please… Ms. Faust, while I personally ‘feel ya’ on this one—as I’m sure many of us do—maybe we could just present this theme in a less direct way, so as not to startle the kids?”
“Yes! Sow the seeds to leave room for the imagination of the viewer!” Rob Renzetti chimed in. He could never mind his own fucking business.
But I told them, “I don’t want to sow seeds or leave things undecided—I want a real, raw, in-your-face cartoon. Why can’t you people understand that!?”
“That’s another thing,” Thiessen returned. “I feel like this ‘Scootaloo’ concept is just… taking it a bit too far. I mean, I get that representing handicaps in children’s media can be positive, but… a wheelchair? A speech impediment? You’ve written here ‘a little less quick than the others’? The public relations official inside me says that we should be careful about this… but the parent in me just feels that we should be more sensitive to very personal challenges our audience might face.”
I just gave him that look, like, you wanna fucking go?
“She fell on a railing the wrong way during a skateboard trick or something,” I explained. “This kind of stuff really happens, Jayson. Not everyone can live a fucking bourgeois Gameboy Advance lifestyle like you.”
Here’s what he says: “You know what, Lauren? I’ve been putting up with your negativity for long enough. If you wanna ruin your fucking show with your stubborn attachment to gritty realism, fine. Maybe I’ll just take my things and go back to my own skyscraper.”
Of course, though I was personally happy to see him go, this would be a major setback to our production deadline. Nobody really knew what to say, so we just watched him dry off in a huff. That is, until Sarah said, “I have an idea that can maybe help both sides of this. Why don’t you two have a casket match to determine whose vision of Scootaloo goes through to production?”
Rob Renzetti again. “What’s a casket match?”
“Well… basically, we rent a boxing ring and put a large casket at one end of it. Lauren and Jayson would fight bare-fisted trying to knock each other into the coffin. The idea is that the person in the coffin would be so beaten to near-unconsciousness that they wouldn’t be able to get out. Person who closes the casket door over the other wins.”
“Are they limited to the ring?” Renzetti asks.
“Oh no. They’re free to roam around and find whatever weapons they can to bludgeon each other with.”
Megan McCarthy came back with Bartleman’s smoothie. “Oh, yeah, my sister and I used to have those all the time.” She was lying—she doesn’t have a sister.
All the while our good friend Mr. Bartleman had been scratching his chin, taking it all in. “…I’m liking this idea! Can we televise? We could air live portions of it between episodes in a Strawberry Shortcake marathon. It would probably boost ratings.”
“Sure! If you guys are up for it,” Wall asked, glancing between Thiessen and myself.
“Of course!” he says. “It would be my pleasure.”
Now the onus was on me. Guess I had to fight for the future of girls’ cartoons.
“I’m in.”
Bartleman was able to procure an arena without great difficulty; there was a spare studio on the DHX lot that was cleared and set up for the fight. Once in on the idea, it turned out that Rob Renzetti had a cousin who built coffins for a living. All we needed was a small crew to build the ring and prepare the studio for a live audience.
Much as I hated Thiessen, I knew he would be a motherfucker in the ring. I pushed any thoughts about the show outside of my mind and spent the next two weeks preparing for the bout. In the mornings I would run parkour drills on the rooftops of L.A., and sometimes the cabana girl would join me.
“You know,” she panted as we landed a jump from a high-rise onto an office platform, “I really hope you take Thiessen out. Your victory will do so much for the place of women in the animation industry.”
Making another jump, I caught a flagpole attached to a much taller building and used it to propel myself up a story, where a promenade formed a circuit around the perimeter of the building. McCarthy followed.
“I feel like you’re paving the way for people like me, who have gotten their ideas shot down for so many years.”
Couldn’t resist this one. “Heh. Maybe when you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you won’t be as thankful,” I quipped.
She smiled. “Thank you, Lauren. I know that thanks to you, one day, animation for girls will be treated with the seriousness it deserves.”
Coming up to a ledge, we somersaulted into the air, making our rapid descent down toward the city streets; we landed on the awning of a local pizza shop and sprang back safely onto the sidewalk.
“I hope you’re right, Megan,” I told her.
So, as was becoming the norm in my professional life, one day a staff meeting, the next a blood-fisted struggle to settle a creative decision. Ever pushing the envelope of children’s broadcasting concepts, Bartleman papered the studio with all the children he could gather in such a short time, along with their restless and uninterested parents, I imagine as part of some package deal with the local Ninety-Nine restaurant. In addition to the ring and the surrounding audience, Bartleman had orchestrated a massive dirt mound by the left side of the entrance ramp, a “grave site”, giving the impression of the plot of ground from which the casket came—which I thought was a nice touch. He even brought in a young composer, Daniel Ingram, to compose original songs for the entrance of the competitors: for me, it was a catchy little up-beat shuffle with some mandolin on top, about “putting an end to your smiles; for Thiessen, I can’t recall—it wasn’t very memorable; something to the refrain of “taze this broad”.
At the moment Thiessen and I made eye contact in the squared circle, I nearly regretted the truculence and wanton disrespect I had paid him through the last six weeks, seeing the unbridled hatred that now flickered across his eyes. I say ‘almost’, because before I could think my own rage at seeing his stupid glasses impelled me to lumber forward in a shrieking blitz. And so we grappled, no doubt by some savory twist of cosmic fate, like Transformers, over the fate of a secondary character in My Little Pony.
The bout was, as critics in the Wall Street Journal later described it, at first “mat oriented”, and probably boring for most of the children. But when Thiessen realized that he would not be able to take me down so easily, he had a surprise in store: a pair of brass knuckles which he had concealed in one of his undershirts! You can imagine my shock when, feigning fatigue to lure me over, I was blasted in the jaw with that metal equalizer. ’
(At this point in the narrative, Lauren Faust pulled back a lip to display her famous missing teeth, an oddity I had personally always been curious about, seeing promotional images of her online.)
‘ “Ref…! Ref…!” I cried as blood spittled down my chin. “Think it’s a good time to step in?”
As I lay there in agony, a suit had come down from Bartleman’s box seat and made his way to some ringside officials. My heart sank as they carried out a short discussion.
Then, sure as eggs is eggs, came the announcement:
“Ladies and gentleman… the sponsor of the event, Mr. Charles Bartleman, has ruled that this contest will have no disqualification!”
I was dizzy. My jaw felt like it was going to fall off. But somehow, I managed to prop myself up onto my elbows and shout, “Bartleman, you bastard! You were in on this the whole time!”
As Thiessen pulled me up by the hair, I saw that deep down there was a part of me that wanted to trust Bartleman and his cronies. I thought they cared as much about family animation as much as I do; but it was obvious now that, once he had wrung me out for cute designs, he wanted me out of the picture. My jaw wasn’t the only thing hurting; I felt foolish for offering to trust this man and what he stood for; and stung, for having been betrayed.
“Ready to go for a ride on the magical mystery express?” Thiessen whispered, ready to send me for a ride over the ropes. The velvet interior of the casket felt nice to tumble into. I could have almost gone to sleep, lying there, bleeding, exhausted, and worn out by my battles.
I saw his hand go for the lid.
“We can discuss the changes at the next meeting,” he said with a wicked grin.
I’m not sure where the energy came from. Perhaps I had a few extra imaginary friends helping me that night. But, I would be damned if I was going to let him close that lid.
My left hand shot up and caught the door before it could close. I held on for dear life as the struggle ensued, one step between me and a metaphorical grave.
“Take the fall, Lauren!” he shouted in frustration.
“Sorry… but I’ve never cared much for fall weather friends!” To seal the deal, I spit in his face, sending him jutting back away from the ropes. Seeing him there rubbing his eyes, I decided I would do a little cheating of my own—a blow to where Celestia’s sun doesn’t shine (not in my imagining of it, anyway).
He fell to the ground, paralyzed. My body was desperate for a chance to recover, but I knew I couldn’t wait long—I had to act, had to find a way to finish the job while I had the chance. I staggered outside of the ring in search of a weapon. Luckily, it seemed the set-up team was foolish enough to leave a pile of folding tables under the ring.
I knew what I had to do.
If one table was painful, I reasoned, then three stacked on top of each other ought to be enough to put this nerd out for good. Unfortunately I had underestimated how long it would take Thiessen to recover as a positioned them near a turnbuckle, and the climb to the top became harrowing. We traded blows as I dragged him by the over shirt up the ropes, until I thought that my body couldn’t take any more kidney punches. Once we made it to the top, I needed only one more fit of energy.
I picked Thiessen up over my shoulders and powerbombed him through the tables, snapping all three in half like burnt bread.
For a moment I couldn’t feel anything. I think the crowd liked it, I couldn’t tell. At any rate I was certainly in better shape than Thiessen was; but a feeling of dread came over me as I realized that my last task would be to drag his broken and bruised body over to the coffin with my broken and bruised body.
I couldn’t possibly imagine how to begin doing that, especially at that moment of intense struggle. Then a figure came running down the ramp—it was McCarthy! The cabana girl. She was just the assistant I needed to finish the job. I gave her what must have been a glazed look of appreciation as I motioned for her to grab an arm. I took one on my side and hooked it around my elbow, and gave her a cue to lift.
Then in a whirl I heard a crack, and I found myself down on the mat. Turns out McCarthy had found a steel chair by ringside, and used it to enforce her own brand of justice across the back of my skull. Surely she had been going for Thiessen, and missed!
This was my thought as I slowly pulled myself to my feet using the ropes. I guess I was optimistic. Almost, audaciously optimistic. Like the world could be a better place if we just wished it to be so. I could see it in my head, even—friends gathered together in a world where the sun shined and people wore their inner children on the outside. Where everyone had a place, and saw the value of it in a multifaceted and accepting community.
I turned and looked at her.
She smiled. “Every little girl wants to be a princess.”
With that, she delivered the final blow across the side of my head. I went sprawling over the rope and landed with a thud back inside the coffin.
“Thanks for paving the way for me, Lauren. Enjoy your party of one,” I heard her say as she slammed the lid down. ‘
***
***
“And so, Scootaloo got her normal characterization,” Faust said, finishing up her story. “The rest… is history.” With a pensive air, she took a toothpick from her plate and began to pick at her teeth with a pensive air.
“Aw, Scootaloo is handicapped? Poor Scoots! I has a sad, now,” said the castaway.
“I couldn’t stay for much longer after that,” Faust went on. “I made up some bullshit about a professional opportunity but… the real reason I left was because my colleagues betrayed me in a wrestling match. I mean, would you have stayed?”
“Probably not,” I answered.
“Let that be a lesson to you. Beneath the charming veneer of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic rages the soulless libido of corporate greed and corruption, a shit shoot where good friends are willing to turn their backs on each other at the chance of another skyscraper or helicopter.”
“So, kind of like The Wall.”
“Exactly like The Wall.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me… I have a panel to attend…”
And my meeting with Lauren Faust came to a conclusion as she stood up, and, spreading her arms in a t-shape, spun out of the room like Zangief.
