The Moth - The Moth Podcast: Full Costume

Episode Date: July 25, 2025

On this episode, we’re putting on our masks, getting our makeup ready, and donning our costumes. This episode was hosted by Kate Tellers. Storytellers: Annie Wiborg learns that dressing up as McGruff the Crime Dog is a bit more difficult than it might appear. Paul Davis struggles to reconcile his dreams of being an artist with his day job as a party clown. To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoices

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Welcome to The Moth. I'm Kate Tellers, and on this episode, we're putting on our masks, getting our makeup ready, and donning our costumes. Comic-Con, which is happening this week, has us thinking about things we do in order to become someone or something else, even if only for a moment. Whether it's the oddly aggressive Elmos in Times Square,

the tiger mascot at your high school pep rally, or Mickey Mouse walking through Disney World, costumes can transform people, give them permission to inhabit someone else, with all that that entails. First up, we've got Annie Weiberg, who told this story at a Twin Cities branch summer. Here's Annie, live at the Mild. It was a beautiful summer evening in Minnesota, the kind where neighbors are outside,

talking to each other while their children play. I was located a block away from such a neighborhood gathering. But I was lying in the back seat of a police squad car, my heart racing, my head pounding. I was desperately trying to calm myself, a process made more difficult by the fact that from the neck on down, I was draped in the hot and heavy costume of an anthropomorphic dog wearing a trench coat.

And after a few minutes, the officer in the front seat turned to me and said, look, you're not the first person to discover that putting on the head of a McGruff the Crime dog causes claustrophobia. But this is National Night Out and I am committed to delivering the crime dog to five neighborhood block parties. So I really hope that you can find a way to push through this. And with those words, I sat up, took a deep breath, and pulled that head on again. Now what had brought me to this moment? Well, in the weeks preceding it, I had been looking for a way to become more involved

in my community. And our local police department had an urgent need for someone who would commit to dressing as McGruff the crime dog and being escorted to a number of community events over a period of time. I had raised my hand and national night out was my debut appearance. Now exiting that squad car, I quickly learned that in addition to making both breathing and anxiety control nearly impossible, the only way to see out of that costume was through the nose holes and my gruff snout.

And so the officer had to guide me up to a group of little children where I proceeded to pretty much just stand there because it was taking everything I had to not pull that dog head off again. Back in the squad car on the way to the second block party, officer not that friendly drove in judgmental silence. And somehow I made it through that night, but in the weeks that followed, I became only marginally more comfortable in that costume. And now with each additional appearance, I felt my fear of failure ratcheting up. And my instincts were strongly telling me I needed to up my game and move beyond the lame high fives and waves

and find a way to make my gruff more interesting. So I decided I would have him say a few words in a low and growly voice. So at the next event I said, take a bite out of crime. So at the next event I said, take a bite out of crime. And a little boy nearby shouted and pointed, hey everybody, that's a girl in there. Now I might have been tempted to shove that little brat, but I couldn't see well enough through the nose holes to be sure who had said it. But it was clear I was not going to be nominated for an Oscar in the best costume character, pretending to like other people's kids category.

And now I was out of ideas. Now a few days later the chief of police called me and asked me to come in. And when I did, he thanked me for my service and told me that someone in the community had come forward who really wanted to take on the role of McGruff. And I knew the chief was lying, and he knew I knew I was lying because nobody really wants to be McGruff.

Clearly, he had recruited my replacement. But I wasn't angry with the chief because I figured he had recruited my replacement. But I wasn't angry with the chief, because I figured he had been getting complaints. Because the truth was, I somehow managed to make an already creepy character even creepier. But at that moment, I was at a tipping point. Because for every other moment in my life up until that one I had associated failure with shame

But in this case I had kept my commitment and despite the poor quality of my performance. I had been trying my best So in this case failure was liberation And I walked home from that meeting and the sky was a shade of blue I'd never seen before and I know it was crazy but I kind of felt like some little birds were escorting me home. I had no idea failure could feel so good. Thank you. Thank you. That was Annie Weiber. Annie is retired after working decades in the telecommunications industry.

She loves to get up early in the dark, drink coffee, read, journal, and meditate while the sky gradually lightens. She finds that telling moth stories is equal parts thrilling and terrifying and hopes to tell many more. If you've met me for five minutes, you know that I grew up in Pittsburgh. My then fiance and I blew his Florida family's mind when we announced that Pittsburgh would be the location of our destination wedding. No sunny beaches, steel town, baby. They were further surprised to touch down and learn that we had accidentally scheduled our wedding during the annual Anthrocon,

a convention which, in their words, celebrates anthropomorphics, which are human-like animal characters such as have fascinated mankind since the dawn of human imagination. As my soon-to-be in-laws drove through the streets of downtown Pittsburgh, taking in the, dare I say iconic, buildings and bridges. They could also spot a fox having coffee with a skunk or a person in a three-piece suit with a tiger tail peeking out. This joyful and quirky spirit was a welcome and memorable energy over the entire weekend. So much so that as I was on my way to the ceremony,

I spotted a few furries, as they're sometimes called, jumped out of the car and asked for a photo. They obliged and then asked to attend the ceremony. I had to tell them no, but I left them with, I hope should you choose to get married, you feel as happy as I do right now. And then I raced off to tie the knot that remains fastened 14 years later.

If you'd like to see that photo, we have it on our website, themoth.org slash extras. After the break, a costumed crime fighter of a different sort. Be back in a moment. Welcome back. Our final story is a favorite from the archive. Paul Davis told this in an LA Grand Slam,

where the theme of the night was, appropriately enough, identity crisis. Here's Paul live at the Moth. My first year in LA, I was a birthday party clown, and I struggled a lot with my identity because I viewed myself as a filmmaker, but everyone in my life viewed me as this ridiculous day job. To make matters more confusing, being a clown, it's like an identity masking job. You wear makeup to cover your features.

For certain parties, I'd have to go as a specific character. And the way that would work is someone from the company would drop costumes off to me the night before a party at a designated pickup spot, which was always the same empty CVS parking lot at like 10 o'clock at night. So it was like the worst drug deal you've ever seen because instead of drugs I'm getting a trash bag filled with a costume that smells like the

broken dreams of every failed actor that's worn it before me. So they'd be like tomorrow you're gonna be Mickey Mouse or Spongebob Squarepants but those are registered trademarks so at the party you're gonna be Mickey Mouse or SpongeBob Squarepants, but those are registered trademarks So at the party I'd actually be Ricky Mouse or Sponge Guy short pants So one night they hand me my trash bag and say tomorrow you're going to be Batman and I know what you're thinking Well, he's got the physique for it But keep in mind at at the time, as I do now, I have a giant mustache. And I know, a clown with a mustache, that's huge red flags for parents. But I didn't want

to alter my physical appearance for that job, because that was me subconsciously admitting I was more of a clown than I was an artist. So for the party as Batman, I opted not to shave. Bold choice, I know. So the next day I go to the party, it's at this huge public park, and I have to park far enough away so that the kids can't see Batman pulling up in a PT Cruiser. So I'm all the way on the outskirts of the park, and the only way for me to get to the party is to just walk to them. Now normally at these parties, all you have going for you is the element of surprise.

You pop in through the front door, surprise, Batman's here, all the kids go crazy. And my element of surprise is just shot because they see me coming from like a quarter of a mile away and I think, should I try to make more of an entrance for them, should I run? But they don't wanna see Batman sweaty and panting from a brisk jog, so I just keep walking and I really have time to reflect and I am truly starting to regret my choice

to not shave. I'm thinking, God, this party is not going to go well. And sure enough, once I get close enough for them to actually start making out the features on my face, the entire party breaks out in laughter. And I am so embarrassed. I want to turn around, run back to my Batmobile, but then the laughter kind of merges and changes into cheering and applause. And I'm not sure at first what's triggered the change in these people, but now I'm actually

starting to feel pretty good. Feeling kind of warm and fuzzy inside, and I'm thinking, is this what encouragement and support feels like? It's so new. And then I think I do want to make an entrance for these people. I'm still about 20 yards away from the party, but then I just start running, and they all start cheering louder in my cape. It's

billowing in the wind and mustache or not. In that moment I was Batman and I run into the party they're all high-fiving me and I see the birthday boy with his dad and the dad is laughing and he says, you see I told you son, I told you Batman has a mustache. And I think that's a weird thing to have told your kid in the first place. But then he takes me over to this huge birthday cake with a frosting Batman drawn on it and the Batman on the cake has a mustache. I just stare at it in disbelief. I think that's gotta be a botched mouth,

but it's a thick black line right underneath his nose, curls around the side. It looks just like my mustache. Now that's why everyone was laughing so hard when I first walked out, because when they initially brought the cake out all the kids scoffed and said Batman doesn't have a mustache and Instead of just admitting that the cake was messed up the parents tried to save face and said no Batman always has a mustache

he just shaved it for his movies and Naturally the children were dubious Until in a bizarre twist of fate my mustache became the detail that confirmed what the parents had said and convinced the kids that I was actually Batman. And those kids were at the perfect age where they still believe in miracles and heroes and that the world is an inherently good place. You know, all the stuff that's so difficult for us to keep believing is we grow up in

a cold and increasingly hateful world. That year I struggled a lot with my identity, but that day at least there was no doubt in my mind what I was. Now I may not have been the hero that they ordered, and I certainly was not the hero they expected, but that day I damn sure was the hero that they needed. That was Paul Davis. Paul is working on a solo storytelling show and also writes and directs horror movies. His last short one Screamfest and Ravenheart,

and he's currently at work on a feature film. If you're interested in learning more and possibly supporting it, we'll have links to that on our website, themoth.org slash extras. That brings us to the end of our episode. Thanks so much for joining us. From all of us here at The Moth, we hope that whatever costume you put on, what's underneath it remains joyful. Kate Tellers is a storyteller, host,

senior director at The Moth, and co-author of their fourth book, How to Tell a Story. Her writing has been featured in Mixweenies and The New Yorker. Annie Weiberg's story was coached by Chloe Salmon. This episode of The Moth podcast was produced by Sarah Austin-Ginness, Sarah Jane Johnson,

and me, Mark Salinger. The rest of The Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Hab-Ginness, Sarah Jane Johnson, and me, Mark Salinger. The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Marina Cluchay, Jordan Cardinali, Jennifer Hickson, Suzanne Rust, and Patricia Urena. The Moth podcast is presented by Odyssey. Special thanks to their executive producer, Leah Reese Dennis.

All Moth stories are true, as remembered by their storytellers. For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story, and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.