Meant to post about this last night, but my wee brain was still awhirl with singing horses.
I took my little one to see My Little Pony Live yesterday. For those of you without three-year-old girls living in your households, I refer to a Hasbro brand involving pastel-colored, talking equines with long-lashed manga eyes. There are picture books and videos and small plastic dolls with cotton-candy manes. The story lines are beyond stupid, the dialogue unspeakable, the songs something other than music. For three-year-old little girls, My Little Ponies are like lollipops made of crack.
And so I found myself in $35 seats at the WaMu Theater in Madison Square Garden yesterday, watching 90 minutes of stultifying trash having something to do with a pony tea party. But you know what occurred to me? This doody production is, for some hard-working person, a gig. It’s a job. Just look at the hundreds of idiot parents like me, willing to shell out for tickets and pennants and stuffed-pony dolls. That equals work for stage hands, voice actors, script writers, dancing ladybugs. Why shouldn’t they take advantage of our desperate attempts to buy our children’s happiness?