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The World Without Taco Bell

August 21, 2023 / Kyle A. Massa

The World Without Taco Bell

Would a world without Taco Bell be worth existing in?

I’m unsure, reader. But sometimes the best way to appreciate greatness is to imagine our lives without it. So, in the spirit of celebrating everybody’s favorite subpar brand of cheap, grade-D ground beef-based fast food, let’s start imagining. In a world without Taco Bell…

…There Would Be Far Fewer Five-Year-Old Taco Sauce Packets Stuffed Into Drawers

I love Taco Bell, but seriously, they give you way too many sauce packets. Sometimes they’ll stuff them in there without even asking, making me wonder how the bag doesn’t rip from the weight of all those individually packaged condiments. It feels like a waste to throw them out, so you’ll end up cramming them away, only to rediscover them years later in the dark recesses of your cabinets.

The good news is, there’s so much sodium packed inside that they’ll never go bad, no matter how many decades into the future you rediscover them. Enjoy!

…We’d Have Fewer Late-Night Options

We all know why people order food after midnight, and it’s not because they’re looking for fine cuisine. It’s because they’re drunk, high, or both, putting them in the perfect mind state to make bad decisions. Enter Taco Bell.

To be fair, Taco Bell is like Samuel Adams beer, in that it’s always a good decision…or maybe it’s simultaneously good and bad. Good in that it tastes good, bad in that it’s bad for you.

…Sylvester Stallone’s Acting Career Would’ve Ended

Let’s step back into the 90s for a moment. Sylvester Stallone is making a lot of movies, though few of them are any good. I mean, when’s the last time you watched Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot? Other than 1993’s Cliffhanger, it’s a rough decade for the Italian Stallion. But there was another glimmer of hope: Demolition Man.

I first watched this movie with my dad, who specifically encouraged me to see it. When I asked him why, he answered, “You’ll see.”

In this sci-fi action flick, Stallone plays a reckless cop who’s cryogenically frozen in 1996 and thawed out in 2032, finding himself in a puritanical future. I enjoyed the explosions and the random cameo of Jack Black as “Wasteland Scrap #2.” But most of all, I enjoyed the police banquet scene.

Why? Because the banquet is catered by Taco Bell. Yes, according to Demolition Man, we can all look forward to a future where Taco Bell is given the respect it deserves. My dad knows me well.

In a world without the Bell, this movie would lose a critical plot point. And without this movie, Stallone would lose one of his only two good movies in the decade. Talk about Live Más.

…I’d Be Deprived of Treasured Childhood Memories

Once upon a time, there was a young lad who lived down the street from a combination KFC-Taco Bell restaurant.

The young lad’s favorite item on the menu was a combo meal of two chicken strips and two tacos, plus two sides of his choosing. This was not a healthy meal, nor was it high-quality, but it was delicious. Whenever the young lad’s parents asked him what he wanted for dinner, lunch, and sometimes breakfast, he’d answer, “A number six combo meal, please.”

When the young lad grew into a man (or at least a little less of a lad), his beloved KFC-Taco Bell closed down, ceding its building to an ostentatious conglomerate known as Starbucks. Nowadays, the man often drives past that Starbucks location, and when he does, he sighs longingly, thinking about what once was and what will never be.

In other words, down with Starbucks. Bring back my KFC-Taco Bell!

…I Would Lose Out on a Favorite College Tradition

Yes, the Bell has been a lifelong obsession. When I was a student at Ithaca College, for example, I formed a tradition for myself. I would stop at Ithaca’s Taco Bell (still thriving to this day), then order a chicken quesadilla and a Crunchwrap Supreme. Next, I’d head down the road to the nearest gas station and purchase a Monster energy drink. As you can see, I was a very health-conscious individual.

During my three-hour drive back to Albany, I’d eat, drink, and listen to an audiobook on my iPod Classic. This tradition was enjoyable for two reasons: First, because I got to eat Taco Bell, and second, because there were no viable rest stops between Ithaca and Albany, so I always made excellent time.

…Long John Silver’s Would Die

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Long John Silver’s fast food location without a Taco Bell attached to it. This is likely a parasitic relationship, with Taco Bell being the proud lion on the savanna, and LJS being the tape worm living inside the lion’s colon.

…A Thriving Community Would Vanish

And I’m not talking about the Roanoke Colony. I’m talking about Taco Bell fans.

For people who revere the Bell, meeting another aficionado is a momentous occasion. For instance, my brother-in-law and I have had no fewer than 30 separate conversations about the greatness of Taco Bell. Sometimes we even discuss how long it’s been since we’ve last eaten there, often in sad and wistful tones.

And that’s not all. Have you been on the Taco Bell Instagram account lately? At least 20% of their posts are pics of people heading inside after attending prom or getting married. There’s even an online literary magazine called Taco Bell Quarterly that I desperately want to publish a story in. Wish me luck.

…The World’s Collective Happiness Would Decline by 6%

I’m docking one percentage point per decade Taco Bell has existed (the first Bell opened in 1962). We have to be scientific about these things.

…The World Would Be Far Less Interesting

So would a world without Taco Bell be worth existing in? Alright, fine, I guess so. But it certainly wouldn’t be the same. I, for one, am glad it’s still here.

Kyle A. Massa is a comic fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include four books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

You can read more from the “World Without” blog series here. And if you want to see a specific topic, email kyle@kyleamassa.com.

A Fan’s Review of King Gizzard’s New Album “PetroDragonic Apocalypse”

June 20, 2023 / Kyle A. Massa

Album artwork by Jason Galea, converted to a pillow (for fun) by the author.

They promised it would be “heavy as fuck.” They weren’t lying.

PetroDragonic Apocalypse is here, and it spits pure fire. It’s the latest album from my new favorite band, King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard, and I’ve got some thoughts about it.

Opening Remarks

Billed as a sequel to their 2019 thrash metal classic Infest the Rat’s Nest, PetroDragonic Apocalypse shares an unexpected lineage with a different Gizzard record: 2022’s Ice, Death, Planets, Lungs, Mushrooms and Lava. Ice Death is known for its long orchestrations, and we see them here with Petro, too; only “Gila Monster” runs shorter than five minutes. The rest are lengthier explorations, with “Motor Spirit,” “Dragon,” and “Flamethrower” all approaching double-digits.

Still, like Rat’s Nest, the album uses heavy riffs to underscore its apocalyptic lyrics, i.e. “coal-black cloud horizon,” “miasma of hair and bile.” You get the idea. The concept of environmentalism shines through once again, albeit in a fantasy milieu rather than the science fiction of Rat’s Nest or the aquatic bliss of Fishing for Fishies.

Petro emphasizes guitars and drums throughout, with a hint of synths and throbbing bass. Ambrose’s harmonica is absent, as is Stu’s flute (though honestly, the latter would’ve surprised me). A little disappointing, but certainly not enough to slay this dragon.

Now let’s take a track-by-track look.

1. “Motor Spirit”

Stu’s doing his best impersonation of a smoker on this song, which I’ll admit is not my favorite vocal delivery. Still, the riffs are nasty, especially when we enter the track’s third act at 4:55. The two-word lines here are effective: “Burnt rubber/Grave robber/Fire starter/Spark imparter.” Really makes you want to buy a Tesla.

2. “Supercell”

This one’s appeared on touring setlists for a while, so it’s nice to hear the “official” version. It’s pure energy, with a chugging central riff and a fun call-and-answer chorus featuring Amby and Joey. There’s a pretty cruel inversion of The Wizard of Oz in the first verse, too, with lines like “Bodies flying on a rainbow/Run Toto” and “Angle grinder, a welcome friend/Dorothy’s end.”

Such lyrics could get a little eye-rolley, but fortunately, Gizzard has a sense of humor about it. In an interview with Spin, Stu described Petro like this: “[It’s] about humankind and it’s about planet Earth but it’s also about witches and dragons and shit.” Even at their most dramatic, they show a healthy sense of self-deprecating self-awareness.

3. “Converge”

I’m actually one of the first people to hear this song—or see it, for that matter. They debuted it live at Boston Calling on May 28, and let me tell you, the crowd went nuts. Seriously. I almost got swallowed by the mosh pit.

The album version inherits that same energy, opening with rapid-fire mute-strumming and progressing into vaguely Shakespearean lyricism. Stu’s guttural bellow at 4:15 is a highlight.

4. “Witchcraft”

If MacBeth was a musical, it might’ve sounded like this. “Witchcraft” is perhaps the most fantastical they get on this album, complete with a guitar solo at 3:02 that conjures Ritchie Blackmore’s fretwork from Rainbow. I feel like there’s an excellent acoustic take on this track somewhere in the aether—or maybe that’s just wishful thinking after their June 4th acoustic show.

5. “Gila Monster”

This one feels the most like a Rat’s Nest track, waiting until the final 55 seconds to depart from its main theme. It’s also another number I saw live in Boston. I must say, there are few things in life more fun than screaming the word “gila” over and over.

6. “Dragon”

After initial skepticism, this has become my favorite track on the record. I never love when artists just repeat the song’s title and call it a chorus (feel’s like AC/DC at their laziest), and at 1:17, that’s where it seems like this track is going.

Yet at 2:42, we get an unexpected callback to “Tetrachromacy” from Polygondwanaland. Next, at 4:08, Stu growls these truly badass lyrics: “The eye dilates/The air gyrates/A gate in the sky/A portal to die,” leading into a chorus of evil backing vocals at 4:25. I assume they’re sung by Amby and/or Joey, though it honestly sounds more like a bunch of dwarves from Middle-earth (they’re speaking Latin, not Dwarven, but still). At 6:27, Cavs goes ham on the double bass drums.

I counted seven distinct acts in all, with the first and penultimate overlapping on a pseudo-80s-metal-style riff. This is an epic worthy of Mordor.

7. “Flamethrower”

The album’s closer is as heavy as the rest, though we get a surprising shift to spacier sounds at 4:19, first with Cavs on toms, then joined by some layered synths. At 7:40, we hear the return of “Motor Spirit,” fading out to the end. It’s a nifty callback, giving the album a circularity hearkening back to 2016’s Nonagon Infinity.

…Unless you have the vinyl edition, in which case you’ve got one more track.

8. “Dawn of Eternal Night”

This vinyl-exclusive, 14-minute epic is another collaboration with longtime Gizzard co-star Leah Senior, who you’ll remember from Murder of the Universe. So far as I can tell, there’s no digital version of this track, so alas, I haven’t heard it. Maybe someday I’ll dust off my record player—or perhaps they’ll play it live.

Closing Remarks

King Gizzard has greatly improved as metal musicians in the four years since Rat’s Nest. Where those songs were hook-based, four-minute compositions reliant on repetitive (albeit sick) guitar techniques, PetroDragonic Apocalypse is far more varied and daring. It reminds me of Black Sabbath’s Sabbath Bloody Sabbath, wherein the band leads each track with a heavy riff, then ventures off into new directions. It doesn’t always work—for example, “Converge” probably would’ve played better as a tighter song—but when it does, you get gems like “Motor Spirit” and “Dragon.”

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this little review of King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard’s PetroDragonic Apocalypse. Feel free to crank the volume.

Kyle A. Massa is a comic fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include three books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

Some Notes from Boston Calling 2023

May 31, 2023 / Kyle A. Massa

12:57pm

As I near the Harvard Athletic Complex for the third and final day of the Boston Calling Music Festival, I hear a Red Sox game playing on the radio. As a Yankees fan, I’m obligated to hate the Sox, yet instead, the broadcast gives the city a pleasant, cozy feel. I must be going soft.

1:24pm

Outside the Athletic Complex, I’m feeling a bit lost until I spot a guy about my age and an older woman (his mother?), both of them wearing King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard shirts. I follow them. These are my people.

1:36pm

As I combine with the tide of eager concertgoers, two things occur to me. First, that I must look like a complete tool, what with my clear drawstring bag packed with SPF 50 sunscreen, water bottle, and box of tissues. Second, that I forgot to pack my cough drops. (I’ve got some sort of cold.)

1:43pm

Juice opens the day on the Red Stage. They’re energetic and fun, with three lead singers and a guy on electric violin who’s absolutely nasty.

I try to navigate around a metal barrier protecting the center of the viewing area, but I’m informed that’s reserved for VIPs. Now I feel like a pleb.

1:43pm (continued)

Not even a full minute later, I leave this note for myself: “And by the way, where are the bathrooms?” I consult the festival app, but my phone is getting sluggish and I realize it must be overheating. So am I, since there’s a high of 87. Next priority: Finding something to drink.

1:53pm

I discover the bathrooms, which end up being a small village of portable toilets. On the way back to the Red Stage, I notice a woman in leather pants.

…Leather pants? I reiterate: It’s 87 degrees out. When does fashion supersede personal safety?

1:55pm

You know you’re in Boston when the line for the Dunkin Rewards Lounge is 100 people deep.

2:05pm

And now I purchase my first beverage of the day, a Truly Strawberry Banana hard seltzer. It costs $12.50, which really irks my inner cheapskate. What’s worse, it tastes not only bad, but slightly nauseating.

2:06pm

I find my way back to the stage to see Juice’s penultimate song. I decide their drummer looks like the son of David Bowie and Harry Styles.

2:19pm

There are some eccentric characters at this festival. Example: A shirtless guy with a green mohawk and tattoos of Pichu, Pikachu, and Raichu scattered across his back.

2:56pm

I next opt for a Twisted Tea, saving a whopping 50 cents compared to my previous purchase. This goes down much better.

3:30pm

The line for merch looks like a standing army. I give up on my idea of buying a new King Gizzard shirt.

3:41pm

I catch the Linda Lindas, again on the Red Stage (because it’s the only stage I can find). They urge people to “Stay hydrated!” Also, they ask, “Do y’all have a favorite kind of dinosaur?”

3:51pm

It’s hot as hell and everyone’s fighting for shade. I catch random snippets of conversation:

“Oh my god, I texted you, I said, ‘Where you at, bitch?'”
“I’m the Jacob that hates being called Jake.”
“Back in our day, it was weird to punch people in the face.”

4:02pm

Another Twisted Tea. I don’t feel so much as a buzz, probably because I’m instantly sweating out anything I put in.

4:14pm

I tally the shirts I spot. Gizzard count is at five, Taylor Swift count is at two. BTW, T-Swift isn’t playing at this event. I find it remarkable that her appearance in the film Cats hasn’t damaged her popularity whatsoever.

4:18pm

I search for the Blue Stage, because that’s where Gizz will be in about four hours. I catch a band called Brutus, a three-piece hard rock/heavy metal group that I like but don’t love. I sit on the grass with a bunch of other people, roasting like a turkey that’s paid for the privilege.

5:11pm

I return to my trusty Red Stage to find a band called Bleachers. With the singer’s tucked shirt and blue jeans, along with not one, but two saxophone players, I’m instantly reminded of the E-Street Band. Then the singer’s like, “I’m from New Jersey!”, and he invites his dad onstage to play a song, and I’m wondering if his dad is actually Bruce Springsteen.

(Addendum: He’s not.)

5:55pm

There’s a hidden stage. It’s called the Orange Stage, and I find it more or less on accident. Ali McGuirk sings there with three backing musicians, and they’re outstanding. I enjoy them all so much I forget to take notes.

6:34pm

A hairy man passes me, points at my chest, and asks, “You ready? You ready? You ready?” It’s only when he passes that I realize he’s talking about Gizzard. (The shirt count is up to nine, by the way.)

6:47pm

The merch line has not moved. At all. For all I know, those are the same people who were there this morning, now forever locked in a Sisyphean struggle for a new t-shirt.

7:08pm

While standing between the Red and Green Stages waiting for Queens of the Stone Age, I see him again.

“You ready? You ready? You ready?”

This time I’m ready. I accept his fist bump and say something to the effect of, “Yeah!” My voice is reedy and hoarse, not from screaming, but from that annoying cold.

7:10pm

Re: Maren Morris: She’s very talented, but I just can’t do country. I’m sorry. I can’t.

She’s playing the Green Stage while I wait for Queens at the Red. There’s a definite schism between these two fan bases. Nobody on my side is clapping, or even reacting, to her.

7:20pm

Queens of the Stone Age hits the Red Stage, and it occurs to me that, as a musician, you’re frequently photographed with your mouth wide open.

8:01pm

I leave Queens early to get a good spot for Gizzard. That ends up being the front-right of the Blue Stage, about 10 rows back. My right shoe sticks to the concrete.

8:10pm

20 minutes until showtime and the band’s already here. They’re practicing a song I don’t recognize, though only a few of their instruments are plugged in; all I hear is Lucas on bass and Cavs on drums (we’re on a first name/nickname basis). Could they be debuting a new song?

8:20pm

Gizz goes live. People go crazy, including me. A swirling mosh pit emerges, and I back up to avoid it. At some point, I stop taking notes.

10:05pm

A mass swarm for the exits. Paramore is still playing on the Green Stage, yet this crowd doesn’t seem to care. I overhear someone behind me say, “Aderol and weed was the perfect mix for Gizz.”

Glad he had fun. I did, too, though without the assistance of substances (unless you count the Twisted Tea). They did indeed debut a new song, and I was one of the first people to see it.

Now I need to get some sleep (and possibly a shower). I steel myself for the walk back.

The World Without “Star Wars”

May 8, 2023 / Kyle A. Massa

Four days ago, in a galaxy super close…

…It was May the 4th. As the nerdiest holiday on the calendar, it’s a celebration of all things Star Wars. So today, we’ll be discussing this glorious franchise, and how different our world might be without it.

I’ve got a bad feeling about this. But, in a world without Star Wars…

…We’d Be Missing All the Memes

Youngling memes, Darth Plagueis the Wise memes, “Hello there” memes. So many memes! Granted, most come from the prequels, since they’ve got such hammy dialogue. But the point still stands. Like the execution of Order 66, Star Wars memes are works of art. As such, they must be celebrated.

…Scrolling Credits Would Never Be an Acceptable Form of Exposition

Not that I’ve ever seen goldenrod paragraphs floating through space in any other movies. But Star Wars set the precedent, meaning the next time you need to explain the rise of a totalitarian military regime in your galaxy, here’s your method.

…The Mid-Budget Adult Drama Would Still Exist

Along with Steven Spielberg’s Jaws, Star Wars pioneered the Hollywood summer blockbuster. It popularized big-budget, effects-laden film franchising, which evolved into cinematic universes several decades later, most notably the Marvel Cinematic Universe. And, because of Marvel, what movies rarely get financed anymore? Mid-budget adult dramas. Thanks, George Lucas.

…George Lucas Would Have a Rough IMDB

Speaking of George, if you extract Star Wars from his credits, he’s leaning on Willow, Labyrinth, and Indiana Jones. All good stuff, though he tarnished Indy with the whole ancient aliens thing. Here’s hoping Dial of Destiny is better; the title keeps reminding me of Tenacious D in The Pick of Destiny.

There’s another blemish on George’s resume, and its name is Howard the Duck. I’ve never seen this film, but I’ve heard podcasts about it, and let me tell you, it sounds horrendous. I mean, here’s the opening sentence of the Wikipedia synopsis:

“Howard the Duck is 27 years old and lives on Duckworld, a planet similar to Earth, but inhabited by anthropomorphic ducks and orbited by twin moons.”

No wonder it won four Razzies.

…Some of Our Greatest Nerd Debates Would Never Be

Did Solo shoot first? Was Jar-Jar Binks a secret Sith Lord? Should Midi-chlorian count be an official stat at the NFL combine? I’ve had many similar debates with my friends, and they often get heated.

For example, as soon as we left the theater for Episode IX: The Rise of Skywalker, we were arguing. Jeremy and Robby maintained the prequels were better than what we’d just witnessed, while I countered with the mere existence of Jar-Jar Binks. I still don’t know who won that argument—but at least we could have it.

…No More Jar-Jar Binks

While we’re on the subject of Jar-Jar, he gets more hate than Howard the Duck—which is really saying something. In fact, I’ve only ever met one person in my entire life who doesn’t despise him, and that’s my wife, Sara.

“What?” she said. “I think he’s funny.”

This statement proves Sara is the kindest person on the planet, and perhaps in the entire galaxy.

…I’d Lose My Hottest Take

Even with JJB, I honestly believe Star Wars: The Phantom Menace is a magnificent film.

This isn’t a bit. I really mean it. If I could dial up any Star Wars film on Disney+ (not that I can, because I’m too cheap to buy a subscription), this would be it. It’s got incredible production design and imagination, not to mention the greatest lightsaber duel in the franchise’s history. Where’s my DVD player?

…We’d Have Far Fewer Culturally Relevant Weird Sounds

It’s rare that a film’s sound effects become as recognizable as the dialogue. The hum of the Lightsaber, the respirator of Darth Vader, the beep-boop of R2-D2—all great. Even the silly, ululating call of that lizard thing Obi-Wan rides in Revenge of the Sith caught on with my friends. To this day, we’ll shout it at each other across rooms, usually in public, making people wonder what’s wrong with us.

…Phish Wouldn’t be Phish

My brother- and sister-in-law are big fans of the jam band Phish, so they tell me all about the group’s special lingo. For example, if you spot a shirtless, hairy, sweaty, and high man at a Phish show, you’ve just spotted a Wook. Though the origin of the term is difficult to identify, I’m thinking it must be from Star Wars’s Wookies, as in Chewbacca, as in space Bigfoot.

Wooks are a mainstay of the jam band scene, as I understand it, and are therefore essential to Phish’s economy. Without Wooks, could Phish even afford to be the band they are today? I think not.

…Walmart’s Shelves Would Be Barren

I’m being a little facetious. I know Walmart carries far more than just Star Wars collectibles. But have you seen how much Star Wars stuff they have? Whether it’s action figures, video games, t-shirts, replica lightsabers, or Lego crossovers, I’d venture a good 25.75% of their inventory is from a galaxy far, far away.

What would they do with all that extra shelving? Probably stock more Minions merch.

…I’d Need New Dad Jokes

When you become a dad, you make dad jokes. You can’t stop it or control it. It just happens.

So it went for me when my daughter Sasha was born. During the winter, for example, she often wore oversized hoods, which made her look like Emperor Palpatine. From that day on, I dubbed her “Baby Sith.” Fortunately, Baby Sith hasn’t yet exhibited any Sith-like tendencies, i.e. killing the person who named her, i.e. me.

Now that she’s a year-and-a-half old, she makes lots of weird sounds, many of which are gurgles, and sometimes she sounds a lot like Chewy. Hence, “Baby Chewbacca.” If she ever starts complaining about the coarseness of sand, I suppose I’ll have to call her “Baby Ani.”

Of course, the most obvious dad joke in Star Wars is the Vader classic “I am your father” line. I’m being careful with that one, though, because I don’t want Sasha reacting the way Luke did: “No, no, that’s not true. That’s impossible!” Even if you’re the enforcer of the Galactic Empire, that one’s gotta hurt.

…The World Would Be Far Less Interesting

May the force be with us. Always.

You can read more from the “World Without” blog series here. And if you want to see a specific topic, email kyle@kyleamassa.com.

The World Without Haircuts

April 16, 2023 / Kyle A. Massa

Haircuts and the World Without Them

This might seem like an odd subject for our “World Without” series, but we’ve reached a point where we need to jump the shark. You know, like when The X-Files replaced Mulder and Scully, or when Fonzie literally jumped a shark on water skis. Plus, as I wrote this one, I realized it was pretty interesting.

So, without further nonsense, in a world without haircuts…

…Pantene Would’ve Produced The Rings of Power

In a world without haircuts, we’d have a lot more hair. And in a world with more hair, shampoo products would become even bigger than Silicon Valley tech giants. With their surplus income, I can imagine Pantene entering the streaming game with their own service: Pantene+ (just $7.99 a month, plus tax).

What’s the first IP they would adapt? Lord of the Rings, of course, because everybody has long, silky hair in Middle-Earth.

…Except Aragorn. His is kinda greasy.

…Edward Scissorhands Never Would’ve Found His Calling

Or maybe he’d put his scissorhands to different use. Why not circumcision?

…Wigs Would Become Obsolete

This would give my wife, Sara, and I quote, “extreme mixed feelings.” Let me explain.

According to Sara, French aristocrats of the 18th century used plaster to keep their big hair looking big. Apparently, this attracted rats who’d burrow inside the plaster while the aristocrats slept, inspiring the French to develop hairpins not for fashion, but for skewering nesting rodents.

This claim seems dubious to me, especially when Sara says they’d go about their days with dead rats rotting in their hair. There must be more to the story, but the ending always dissolves into unintelligible giggling. I’ll circle back if I ever hear the rest.

…My Hair Would Be Extremely Fluffy

My hair doesn’t grow down—it grows out. I’m fortunate that it grows at all, especially considering my grandpa began balding in his 20s, but headbanging to “Mars for the Rich” just isn’t the same when your hair has the approximate shape of a cream puff.

…I’d Have No Newsletter Subscribers

While we’re on the subject of my hair, I once sent a newsletter about it to all my subscribers. This was during the early days of the pandemic, so I, like many, hadn’t gotten a haircut in far too long.

My subscribers were not amused. In fact, 26 of them unsubscribed, which is a personal record.

Without haircuts, I’d probably send tons of newsletters about my crazy hair, losing more and more subscribers until I had none left. But hey, at least I’d save on my Mailchimp subscription.

…Scaling Towers Would Be Way Easier

Rapunzel’s hair is her calling card, but without haircuts, there would be a lot more Rapunzels. Hence the ease in tower-scaling.

…Long Nails Would Be the New Countercultural Statement

It was against the law to have fun in the 50s, so if you were a dude, society demanded you wear your hair short. That’s why the 60s countercultural movement embraced the flow. (For more information, I recommend the 1973 Who song “Cut My Hair.”)

However, long hair would be far more common in a world without haircuts. That’s why I think long nails would’ve become the new countercultural statement instead. “My nails are like my spirit, man: Dirty and untamed!”

…The World at Large Would Endure an Abject Tragedy

Aside from bellowing, cursing, and general lunacy, a hallmark of Nicolas Cage’s career has been his ever-changing hairstyles.

Compare the receding mullet of Con Air to the jet-black quasi-Pat Monahan spikes of Ghost Rider. And we can’t forget the California surfer flow of Season of the Witch. At a rough estimate, Cage’s unpredictable haircuts provide 28.9% of the fun of his performances, leaving the other 71.1% to the aforementioned lunacy. He’d still be great—just not as great. And if that’s not tragic, I don’t know what is.

…I Might’ve Avoided Not One, But Two Traumatic College Memories

I’m a bit of a cheapskate, so when my college chum Jason offered me a free haircut during our freshman year, I said, “Sure, buddy!” I should’ve asked for his credentials because, as it turned out, he had none.

I requested a cut like Leonardo DiCaprio in The Departed. What I got was Friar Tuck from Robin Hood. Jason kept clipping my sideburns, and, deciding they weren’t even, continued to clip them up and up and up until I no longer had any. He also left me nearly bald in the back, for reasons that remain unclear.

The result was so heinous I hid it beneath a hat for weeks on end. You’d think I might’ve learned something from the experience, but when senior year arrived, I asked my friend Erik to cut my hair next. In my defense, he cut his own and it looked good, so I figured he could do the same for me.

Again, I was mistaken. Erik took chunks from my scalp at random, making me resemble a head of broccoli nibbled by a rabbit. I still don’t understand how this happened. Sabotage, perhaps?

Whatever the explanation, in a world without haircuts, I might’ve been spared several weeks of people asking, “What happened to you?” (Also, this makes me think Ithaca College should offer a degree in hairstyling. Seems to be a common gap in our education.)

…The World Would Be Far Less Interesting

Haircuts are pretty important, I’d say, especially after writing this article. Good thing they’re still a thing.

You can read more from the “World Without” blog series here. And if you want to see a specific topic, email kyle@kyleamassa.com.

The World Without the New York Yankees

March 20, 2023 / Kyle A. Massa

Scottkipp, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons. Modified by the author using Canva.

They’re the greatest franchise in American sports. They’re the juggernauts of the AL East. They’re the team that employed George Costanza. They are the New York Yankees.

I myself am a fan of the Bronx Bombers, so I think I’m qualified to imagine life in their absence. (And I’ll even try to be objective.) In a world without the New York Yankees…

…I Might’ve Had a Happier 2004

This is the year I got into baseball. My grandpa had always loved the Yankees, but I wasn’t hooked until I met several school chums who followed the same sport.

Bad timing on my part. Any baseball fan worth their salt (or infield dirt, as it were) remembers 2004 as the season the Boston Red Sox reversed the Curse of the Bambino and won the World Series. On their way, they surmounted a three-games-to-nothing series deficit against my beloved Yankees—the first such comeback in baseball history.

There are moments from October 2004 that still haunt me. Tony Clark’s ground-rule double. Johnny Damon’s Game 7 grand slam. My friends Jimmy, Jake, and Ben cackling like hyenas when the Sox finally won, making me wish I’d faked an illness to skip school.

If the Yankees didn’t exist, I might’ve been spared all this anguish. But, to quote the late great Yogi Berra, “You wouldn’t have won if we’d beaten you.”

…New Yorkers Would Have to Root for the New York Mets

Look, even Mets fans don’t want to root for the Mets. They’re either abjectly terrible or painfully close to (yet always short of) greatness. The recent injury to big-money closer Edwin Diaz is just another example.

To be fair, the Mets have appeared in the World Series more recently than the Yankees. But one of my best buds Jeremy is a Mets fan, and he’s currently reading a book about his team called So Many Ways to Lose. Its very existence proves my claim.

…The 50s Would’ve Been a More Interesting Baseball Decade

I’m a lifelong Yankees fan, but even I have to admit the 1950s must’ve been a boring time to watch baseball. During that decade, the Yankees appeared in eight World Series and won six of them. I’ve never even had that kind of success in video games, and I always play on rookie mode.

…The Baltimore Orioles, Toronto Blue Jays, and Tampa Bay Rays Would Be More Relevant

Aside from the Red Sox, no other AL East team accomplishes much (usually because the Yanks double their payroll). Without the Yankees, the Orioles might have more championships than three, the Blue Jays might have more than two, and the Rays might have more than zero. Plus, all three teams might have more fans in general.

For example, the only Orioles fan I’ve ever met is my friend Cole. When people discover this, they all ask him the same question: “But why?”

…The World Would Lose a Beloved Folk Hero

I am, of course, referring to George Herman “Babe” Ruth, the man many consider the greatest baseball player of all time. As I alluded to earlier, the Red Sox infamously sold Ruth’s contract to the Yankees in 1919, kickstarting nearly a century of misery in Boston and glory in New York.

If the Yankees hadn’t existed and Ruth had remained a Red Sock, he might’ve continued primarily pitching, in which case he would’ve needed new nicknames, like “The Pitchino” or “The Thane of Throw.” They just don’t have the same ring.

…And What About the Candy Bar?

Without the Yankees there’s no Ruth, and without Ruth there’s no Baby Ruth candy bar. What a tragic loss!

JK, this would change nothing. In my life, I’ve met more Orioles fans than Baby Ruth fans.

…Sports Fans Would Lose a Bitter Enemy

Red Sox Nation hates the Yankees, as do pretty much all other fans. But deep down, they all know sports are better with rivalries. After all, how compelling would Star Wars be without the Empire?

…Pinstripes Wouldn’t Be a Thing

Other teams wore them first, but nobody wore them better. One of the earliest uses of the word in English came in The Canterbury Tales, proving beyond a doubt that even Geoffrey Chaucer was a Yankees fan.

…Judge Judy Would Still be the World’s Most Famous Judge

She had this title on lock in the 90s, and though Judy’s still famous, she carries a little less cachet these days. I mean, are people entering her court wearing judge outfits?

Nope. But they sure are for Yankees captain Aaron Judge. All rise.

…Joe Torre Would’ve Been Remembered as a Scrub

If you know baseball, you know Joe Torre. He led the Yankees to six World Series appearances, winning four of them (including three consecutive from 1998 to 2000).

Yet people forget that when the Yankees hired him in 1996, many considered Torre a failure. In fact, the previous three teams he’d managed had all fired him. The New York Daily News even went so far as to run this headline: “Clueless Joe.”

A sick burn, though one that hasn’t aged well. Good thing for Joe and us Yankees fans alike.

…I Might’ve Turned Out a Little Different

Growing up, my role model was Yankees shortstop and captain Derek Jeter. Not only was Jeter a Hall of Fame baseball player and leader—he was a genuinely good guy. I always strove to be like him (though the only time I played shortstop, I made three errors in one inning).

Without such a positive role model, who might young Kyle have idolized? The list is narrow and filled with fictional characters: Fox Mulder, Homer Simpson, and Gollum. Good thing Jeter existed.

…The World Would Be Far Less Interesting

Whether you love them or hate them, the New York Yankees are one of America’s defining franchises. And in a few short weeks, they’ll return for Opening Day. Here’s hoping this season doesn’t end with yet another painful elimination by the Astros.

You can read more from the “World Without” blog series here. And if you want to see a specific topic, email kyle@kyleamassa.com.

Some Answers to Those Questions

March 7, 2023 / Kyle A. Massa

About a month ago, I surveyed my newsletter subscribers. I left a space at the bottom for questions…and I got some good ones!

Thing was, the survey was anonymous, so I couldn’t reply directly to the questions. Therefore, I’m going to answer them here. I hope you find them as interesting as I did.

1. Which is your favorite book you’ve written? Which is your favorite book you’ve read?

My favorite book I’ve written is Eggs for the Ageless, though that might be recency bias. Four years ago I would’ve said Monsters at Dusk, and a year before that I would’ve said Gerald Barkley Rocks (though at that point, GBR would’ve been my only book). I suspect the answer will be The Contents of This Book Are Flammable when it drops later this year. But we’ll go with Eggs for now.

My favorite book I’ve read is Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. His use of ancient belief to explain modern America (and it still feels modern) is masterful. Plus it’s just good fun.

2. What makes you like dystopian stories?

I actually find them oddly comforting. I’ve only written a couple (The Post-Apocalyptic Independent Author and a planned novel called Remembering the End), yet they always make me feel better about the present. People have problems, I think, but people with problems are better than no people at all.

3. What project are you most excited about at the moment?

Probably the aforementioned The Contents of This Book Are Flammable. I’m currently sprucing it up for my developmental editor, who’s going to ensure it’s readable.

Other than that, I’m jazzed about a short story I just finished. Its working title is “Leyton Family Group Chat,” and it’s told almost exclusively through text messages and phone screens. Oh, and also, I wrote a poem about taking my cats to the vet. I found it much funnier than they did.

4. When is your next book coming out?

Flammable arrives in late 2023, probably the fall. I don’t have an exact date just yet, but when I do, I’ll be sure to share it with you.

5. Could you share with me how to get my just-published fiction book (yes, by a “vanity press”) reviewed?

Congratulations on the new book! Everybody wants to write one, but few people put forth the effort to do it. Well done!

Depends on what sort of reviews you’re looking for. If you’d like reviews on Amazon, Goodreads, and the like, I’d recommend Voracious Readers Only. It’s a service that connects writers and readers; the former sends review copies and the latter leaves honest reviews.

If you’re looking for reviews in big publications, that’s a tougher challenge. They’re usually reviewing stuff from major publishers, so unless you’re represented by an agent, you’re unlikely to be featured. Some notable places, such as Kirkus, offer an option for indies (I can personally attest to this since I did it for Eggs). Though it lends name-brand recognition to your book, the review is expensive, and of course, paying for the review doesn’t guarantee you’ll get a good one. If you want to know what they look like, here’s their review of Eggs.

Hope that helps!

6. What was your inspiration when you began writing?

Peter Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy.

When I was a kid, I think these were the only movies I ever watched. When I woke up in the morning before school, I’d pop the extended editions into the DVD player and skip to the battle scenes. (I enjoyed the rest, too, but the battles were my favorite.) I was fascinated by the multiplicity of narrative, the detail of the worldbuilding, and the constant sense that I was not on Earth anymore. I strove to do the same.

Thing was, being a child in upstate New York, I didn’t have a cast, crew, production company, or visual effects team at my disposal. I figured writing was the next best thing.

7. Do you have any pets?

Oh yeah. Three of ’em. One’s a nice orange cat named Soley, one’s a sassy gray cat named Loon, and one’s a crazy Springer Spaniel named Osi. Fun fact: Osi celebrated her third birthday two days ago. Here’s a pic of the power trio:

Note the personalities.

8. Do you put the blurb in the metadata of your ePubs?

This is a pretty inside-baseball question, and one I have trouble answering. Metadata is digital book information visible to online searches. To my understanding, this task has become more or less fully automated by sites like Amazon. As long as you have a blurb, that blurb should appear in the book’s metadata.

To be honest, though, I get a little worried when writers ask questions like this, because metadata and optimized blurbs don’t sell books. Quality does. As a community, I think us indie authors spend too much time talking marketing and too little time talking craft. That’s not to say the former is unimportant—I’d be naive to suggest that. Yet still, the best form of marketing remains word-of-mouth, and you can only get that by writing a great book.

9. What is your writing/plotting schedule for ideas turned into novels?

To borrow a term from middle school math class, my approach to writing is guess and check. I guess about what would work, then I check to see if it does.

Usually it doesn’t, so I keep guessing until a get the right answer. Some might call this discovery writing, or pantsing (as in flying by the seat of one’s pants). Basically, I go in with a handful of ideas and see where they take me.

It’s a precarious process, because sometimes my guesses take me nowhere interesting. Or sometimes I realize I should shelve a project for later. Whatever the case may be, I’d rather not work from an outline—I’ve tried that before, and it always seems to squelch my enthusiasm.

That’s All for Now

Thanks for reading! If you have any other questions, I’m always available by email at kyle@kyleamassa.com. Until next time…

Birds, Bets, and Sarcastic Texts

February 20, 2023 / Kyle A. Massa

My text message began like this: Hello everyone. You’re invited to join us for the Super Bowl this year! It ended like this: Fair warning, if you root for the Eagles, you will be asked to leave. See you soon!

The recipients were 18 friends and family members. To some of them, that second bit might’ve come off as a playful joke. It wasn’t.

I despise the Philadelphia Eagles. Imagine the hatred Anakin felt toward Obi-Wan after being left for dead on Mustafar, then multiply it by the population of Pennsylvania. I despise them, one, because they’re a division rival of my New York Giants, and two, because Philly sports fans are, on the whole, obnoxious.

Need evidence? We got it at the 2023 Super Bowl. Prior to kickoff, the NFL recognized Dallas Cowboys quarterback Dak Prescott for earning the Walter Payton Man of the Year Award, a prestigious honor given for “commitment to philanthropy and community impact” (this according to an official NFL announcement).

Yet humanitarianism didn’t preclude Philly fans from booing Dak. Loudly.

To be honest, I booed, too, though only for a moment. (Eagles and Giants fans share a common enemy in the Cowboys.) When I realized the purpose of Dak’s appearance, I stopped.

The Philly fans did not. In fact, they seemed to take pride in their booing.

But Dak wasn’t the only person suffering harassment by Eagles fans. I have two college friends who root for “The Birds,” as they like to call them. These friends (who shall remain nameless) sent me several taunting texts during the NFC Divisional Round, where their stupid Birds demolished my Giants. On the morning of the Super Bowl, they sent even more texts, at least half of them featuring that accursed eagle emoji.

These are the kind of people we’re dealing with. My wife Sara’s cousins are the only nice Eagles fans I’ve ever met. The rest are loud, combative, and probably practice cannibalism.

To add more stress to my stress, I had money riding on the Super Bowl. Not much money, mind you, but just enough to get me riled. I’ve never tried sports betting before, but, lured by the promise of a $50 referral bonus for my brother-in-law, I opened a FanDuel account and added $10. This I wagered on the Chiefs to beat the Bengals in the previous round, earning me a hefty sum of $9.80. With that and the $50 free bet, I had cash to burn.

I won’t bore you by enumerating my bets. Suffice it to say, each was silly, vindictive, or some combination of both. For example, I placed $1 on any player to record an “Octopus,” which is, according to FanDuel, when you score a touchdown and a two-point conversion on the same drive. I also risked $3 on Eagles tight end Dallas Goedert accruing under 50.5 yards, because he seems like a deuche.

I thought I’d feel excitement after placing my bets. Instead, I felt only regret. Every dollar gained outsized value (even the free referral bucks). I considered all the things I might’ve purchased with that cash: breakfast at Dunkin’, Valentine’s Day chocolates, Magic cards. Why not all three?

Maybe it’ll get more fun once the game begins, I suggested to myself. (Spoiler: It didn’t.)

The Game Begins

I was jittery at kickoff. This was partly because of my nameless Philly frenemies, partly because of my shoddy bets, and partly because my friend Jimmy showed up wearing a Terrell Owens jersey. Jimmy isn’t a big football fan, but he is a fan of trolling me, so he bought the jersey on EBay a week prior.

“It’s in great condition,” he kept saying, rubbing the green texture between his fingers. “Pretty good for $20.” I begrudgingly admitted that it was.

For not being an Eagles fan, Jimmy did an excellent impression of one. When Philly scored on their first drive, for instance, he turned to me and said, “This game is gonna be a blowout. I’m telling you, not even close.”

At this point, I silenced my phone, fearing my nameless Philly frenemies would be up to the same antics. My suppressed rage was making me sweat, and my clothing wasn’t helping; I wore a Saquon Barkley jersey over a Giants hoodie over a Daniel Jones t-shirt.

At least the food was good. Regina and Jeremy made chili, Emily and Tuna made dumplings, Alondra and Jacob made guac, etc. I gorged prior to kickoff, yet lost my appetite soon afterward. Only when the Chiefs replied with a touchdown and held the Eagles to a three-and-out could I eat again. I enjoyed a dumpling or six, then added a bowl of chili as the Chiefs drove another 42 yards and lined up for a field goal.

It’s all going to be okay, I assured myself. The Eagles are about to be behind.

When a football hits the uprights, most describe the sound as a “doink.” Yet I think it’s more similar to the tolling of a bell, which is synonymous with either death or AC/DC’s “Hell’s Bells.” Here, it was the former.

The bell tolled for Chiefs kicker Harrison Butker on that attempt. When his kick struck the left upright, I turned to my friends and said, “That’s a bad sign.” Jimmy gleefully agreed.

My fears were confirmed when Philly followed with a touchdown, then held the Chiefs to a three-and-out. But at least now I might make some money.

“This is my guy Tommy Townsend!” I announced to our guests. “If he punts this ball over 48.5 yards, I make $2!”

The payout was technically $1.89, but whatever. I’m sure everyone thought I’d lost my mind. I stood in a half-crouch, wide-eyed, as my guy Tommy Townsend (a player I’d never heard of two weeks ago) caught the snap and booted the ball.

Punts always disappear on a broadcast, arcing over the eye of the camera, reappearing only when they land. So it was with my guy Tommy Townsend’s punt, which thumped into the hands of the return man at the Eagles 25-yard line.

“That didn’t look like 49 yards,” said our friend Ryan, and indeed it wasn’t. It was 48. I came half a yard short.

I continued to sweat through my layers as the game progressed. A fumble touchdown followed by a regular touchdown followed by a punt and a field goal, and suddenly, it was halftime, with the goddamn Eagles leading 24-14. Worse yet, with 1:44 to go in the half, Chiefs quarterback Patrick Mahomes re-injured a high-ankle sprain he’d suffered two weeks prior. The dude was grimacing in agony on the sideline.

“Told you it wouldn’t be close,” said Jimmy, grinning evilly.

We Head To Halftime

I’d like to take a moment to thank Rihanna. I wouldn’t count myself a fan, per se, but her performance was a welcome distraction from my stress, which was building.

Mahomes is dead, and so is the dream, I thought. If Rihanna plays “Fly Eagles Fly,” I might lose it.

Instead, she played family friendly hits like “Wild Thoughts” and “Bitch Better Have My Money.” She opened with the latter, which seemed appropriate considering all the bets I was losing. She closed with “Diamonds,” and, in an effort to cheer myself up, I said aloud, “Hey, isn’t this a Pink Floyd song?” (The joke being that both Rihanna’s song and Pink Floyd’s “Shine on You Crazy Diamond” have a key noun and verb in common. Get it?)

Nobody laughed, so I repeated the joke a little louder, thinking they just hadn’t heard it. This is a strategy I employ with Sara, because I assume all my jokes are funny. She usually answers with a flat, “I heard you the first time.”

So it went here, too. Everyone heard—they just weren’t amused. Their silence was louder than the tolling of a bell.

The Game Resumes

So there I was: Overheated, overeating, losing money with FanDuel and losing patience with Jimmy, with Pat Mahomes dead on the sideline and not even a stupid joke to lighten the mood. Not for the first time, I wondered if I cared a little too much about the outcome of this game.

Sure I do, I thought to myself in return. But seriously, fuck the Eagles.

Fortunately, KC began the half with a masterful touchdown drive. Mahomes looked very much alive, despite his re-aggravated injury. Perhaps Rihanna’s performance gave the Chief’s medical staff time to inject raw HGH into his ankle—I didn’t know, and I didn’t care, so long as he won.

The Chiefs had a clear fumble-recovery touchdown taken off the board, but we won’t dwell on that. Instead, we’ll skip ahead to their next touchdown, scored by Kadarius Toney.

Toney is a former New York Giant, albeit one with a checkered history. He lost half his rookie season to injury, then missed several more games in 2022 before being traded to the Chiefs. A few hours after the trade, here’s what he tweeted (and deleted):

“That Joke Would’ve Been Funny If I Was Actually Hurt Still Lol…Irrelevant people don’t get updates.”

In other words, it appears he was faking the injury to force a trade.

Still, once a Giant, always a Giant, as I always say. I placed a modest wager on Mr. Toney scoring a touchdown, so not only did he give Kansas City the lead—he added $15.60 to my bank account.

Several guests departed shortly thereafter; first Sam, then KK, then Regina and Jeremy, then Alondra and Jacob. It’s proper host etiquette to hug your friends goodbye and, to my shame, I didn’t. I shouted my goodbyes from the couch, because when friendship and loathing the Eagles go head-to-head, I think you know which one wins.

After another Kansas City touchdown, Philly answered with a touchdown of their own, plus a two-point, yielding a score of 35-35 with 5:15 to go. This is where Jimmy really came alive.

“I could win $22,000,” he whispered.

He and a co-worker had split a Super Bowl square for five and two, meaning any score concluding any quarter with the last digits of five for the Chiefs and two for the Eagles would earn a massive payout.

“People have to die to get a square in this pool,” Jimmy explained, making me wonder how many people he’d killed to get his. “If this works, I’m gonna jump through a window.”

Okay, I thought, but that would mean the Eagles would win, and we can’t have that. Also, who’s paying for the window?

While Jimmy begged the TV for an Eagles touchdown, I rocked back and forth on the couch. Every play became an eternity, like waiting on the result of a medical test. Twelve snaps and 66 yards later, the Chiefs took a three point lead, leaving eight seconds for the Eagles.

Though Jimmy’s 22k dreams were now crushed, Philly had one last shot at the end zone. Jalen Hurts dropped back to pass. He waited, waited, scanning the field for something, anything. He pulled back, let loose. The ball arced, peaked, and descended…right into the turf.

Die Eagles die.

The Aftermath

How did I feel when the Chiefs won the Super Bowl? Or, more accurately, how did I feel when the Eagles lost it?

Relieved. Not excited, not happy. Just relieved that I wouldn’t be hearing about this night for the rest of my life. Selfish, I know, but true nonetheless. The diagnosis was treatable rather than terminal. The disease had been cured.

Plus, I profited. I missed my aforementioned Dallas Goedert and Tommy Townsend bets, along with a reckless flyer on both Kelce brothers to score touchdowns. But I hit on Kadarius Toney, plus the Chiefs to win straight-up. I even hit the Octopus, achieved by none other than Eagles QB Jalen Hurts. As it turned out, I’d unwittingly bet on the Birds.

Speaking of the Birds, I had a text queued up for my nameless Philly frenemies. I typed it into my phone and almost sent it, but Sara convinced me to sleep on it.

I never did send that text. However, I think it’s a damn fine example of karmic sarcasm, so I’ll include it below.

Hey, just wanted to say, what a satisfying end to the Eagles season. Loved seeing them coast to the playoffs with an easy schedule, then bully a feel-good Giants team and a fourth-string QB on the way to the Super Bowl. Hurts put up a great fight though, especially when he chucked that final pass into the dirt. You must be so proud!

Anyway, couldn’t have happened to a more cordial and sportsmanlike fanbase. Go Birds!

Damn. Now I wish I’d sent it.

Whatever. Justice was served, our Super Bowl party was a success, and I have $91.40 to spend on a developmental editor for my next book. As far as I know, that editor is not an Eagles fan.

Remembering Gizzvember

February 5, 2023 / Kyle A. Massa

Anittoli18, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

I’ve never joined a cult, but I suspect it’s something like being a fan of King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard.

They’re a real band. I’m not making up the name. It was the result of “a certain state of inebriation and a few laughs.” They’re nominally a rock band, though depending on the song or album, they also cover the following territory:

Psychedelic jams
Thrash metal
Microtones and polyrhythms (whatever those are)
Electronic dance beats
Boogie blues
Rap
Concept albums
Acoustic folk
Synth pop
Surf rock
Spoken-word narrative with musical accompaniment

They haven’t done a country album yet, though if they release one someday, I won’t be surprised.

If you’re a Gizzard fan, you don’t just dabble—you’re a devoted follower, an evangelist. You add the prefix “Gizz” to as many words as possible, i.e. “Last Gizzvember, I drank the Gizzade and joined the Gizzhive.”

There are six (formerly seven) leaders of this great Australian cult. Please allow me to Gizztroduce them.

Eric Moore (Drums)

Like The Grateful Dead and Allman Brothers before them, Gizz employed two drummers. I usually find this approach redundant, though it was cool to see Eric and his counterpart sit face-to-face at shows and mirror each other’s fills. Eric quit the band in 2020 to focus on managing his record label. (A drummer friend of mine claims he departed because he “couldn’t keep up” with Gizzard’s other drummer, but we’ll avoid speculation.)

Michael Cavanagh (Also Drums)

Gizz’s current percussionist is incredibly versatile. It’s one thing to play varying genres using string and woodwind instruments, many of which can be customized to the music. It’s quite another to find the right grooves using the same drum kit for every song. Michael convincingly shifts from high-speed heavy metal (“Venusian 2“) to jazzy grooves (“Ice V“) to rap beats (“Sadie Sorceress“) to bluesy shuffles (“Fishing for Fishies“). I consider him the keystone of the band.

Lucas Harwood (Bass)

To borrow a concept from American football, bass players are the offensive linemen of music: They don’t get the glory, but they enable it for everyone else. So it is with Lucas. He’s the group member I know least about, though he’s no less talented than the other five guys (see his bass solo on “Mars for the Rich“). Fun fact: He used to be Lucas Skinner, but changed his surname to his wife’s when they married. (I read this fun fact on Reddit, so if it is in fact untrue, I apologize.)

Cook Craig (Guitar and Vocals)

To borrow another sports term, Cook is the ultimate glue guy. He’s perhaps not the flashiest fellow in the band, but he seems to be a beloved teammate. He most often plays rhythm guitar live, which is what I do, so I feel a personal affinity there. Cook also sings in a pseudo guest-star capacity, sort of like Ringo did in the Beatles. Try “The Garden Goblin” from Omnium Gatherum for an example.

Joey Walker (Guitar, Keyboards, and Vocals)

There are three guitarists in Gizzard, and from what I can tell, Joey’s the best of them. His solo on live versions of “Work This Time” is especially magnificent, as are his contributions to every jam on Ice Death. He also plays some excellent keys on a handful of songs, my favorite being “Magenta Mountain.”

Ambrose Kenny-Smith (Vocals, Harmonica, Keyboards, Percussion, Saxophone)

Ambrose’s harmonica is one of the coolest bits of Gizz. It’s featured most prominently on Fishing for Fishies, though it appears plenty on most other releases. He’s also the group’s best singer, in my opinion, with a unique and high-ranging delivery that makes songs like “Let Me Mend the Past” and “Straws in the Wind” live favorites.

I also give him the award for the most interesting adolescence. When introducing the song “Cut Throat Boogie” at Red Rocks in 2022, he said, “This one’s about when I was 16 and I went to a party, and my friend accidentally stabbed me in the neck with a broken bottle. But we’re all good now.”

Stu Mackenzie (Vocals, Guitar, Flute, Clarinet, Keyboards)

Stu is to Gizzard as Townshend is to The Who: He’s the band leader and primary songwriter. While his voice is less distinct than Ambrose’s, it’s more versatile, morphing from breezy croon (“Float Along – Fill Your Lungs“) to thrash metal growl (“Superbug“) with ease. Plus, his lyrics have inspired an overarching story dubbed the “Gizzverse,” which you can learn about on the King Gizzard Subreddit (we’re a cult, so of course we’re on Reddit).

Beyond singing, Stu’s musicianship is virtuosic. His flute would no doubt impress even the likes of Ian Anderson (try “Hot Water“), and his clarinet (try “Sense“) is equally skillful, if less frequent. My brother-in-law Dan describes him as a “musical genius,” and I think he’s right. For example, Stu once uttered the following sentence in an interview with Guitar World regarding Gizzard’s 2017 release Flying Microtonal Banana: “It’s kind of a Dorian mode with a half flat sixth and a half flat second, because that was the way my baglama was fretted.”

I don’t know what any of that means—but I like how the music sounds.

I should also mention Jason Galea, who’s done the album artwork for all the group’s releases. Like the band, Jason works in multiple mediums, from illustrated psychedelic excess (Oddments, Murder of the Universe, Sketches of Brunswick East) to photography (Paper Mâché Dream Balloon, Changes, Float Along – Fill Your Lungs).

So yeah. That’s Gizzard.

Have I mentioned how absurd their output is? Let’s put it this way: As of the writing of this essay, King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard has released 23 studio albums in 11 years (including five in 2017 and five more last year), making their average 2.09 albums per year. For comparison, The Rolling Stones have released 30 studio albums in 59 years for an average of one album every other year. If Gizz continues their pace over the same time span as the Stones, they’ll have a discography of 118 studio albums by the year 2071.

Now that you’re familiar with the cult, let me tell you how I joined. We’ll begin with a t-shirt…

One of my best friends from college owned a navy t-shirt depicting a man with cotton-candy-shaped hair, sunglasses, and Bermuda shorts. The man holds the wheel of a ship in one hand and a beer in the other. The trademarked phrase below reads “Old guys rule.”

While growing up, this was my unspoken attitude toward music. Old people rule. The music of my generation does not.

My favorite musicians were the following, in no particular order: The Who, Jethro Tull, Black Sabbath, The Beatles, The Doors. These were the artists blaring through wired headphones on my iPod Classic. I marked my enjoyment of music by years, starting in 1965 with The Who’s debut album, The Who Sings My Generation, and concluding in 1981 with The Stones’ last great record, Tattoo You. Anything outside that range was a hard sell.

My earliest reckonings of this old-music bias date back to the 2005 action film Sahara, of all things. Based on Clive Cussler’s bestselling adventure novels, the movie stars Matthew McConaughey as Dirk Pitt, some sort of naval-adjacent investigator dude who works out frequently and needs a haircut.

This is one of those movies you hesitate to rewatch, fearing the veneer of nostalgia will wipe clean upon revisitation. Instead of recounting it, I’ll point to a specific scene, in which McConaughey and his goofy sidekick, played by Steve Zahn, speed through the titular desert by strapping wheels to a sailboat and riding a gust of wind across the sand.

My dad is a sailor. I haven’t asked him if this would actually work, though I suspect his answer would be some variation of “Hell no, and let me explain the physics of why not.” At any rate, my most vivid memory of the scene isn’t the visual—it’s the song that was playing.

I asked my mom if she knew said song, and she happily answered it was “Magic Carpet Ride,” one of her favorites. And so, for Christmas that year, a “Best of Steppenwolf” CD appeared in my stocking. The cover depicted the band in full 60s regalia: long hair, beards, mustaches, unbuttoned shirts, even an afro. I listened to this album constantly over the next few years, careful never to bump my CD player lest it skip (young readers, you have no idea what this was like).

Steppenwolf was never my #1, but they opened the door for The Doors. This was another of my mom’s favorites. She introduced me to their greatest hits, then I delved deeper with my dad’s record collection. I delighted in the smokey poetry of Morrison’s vocals, the shimmer of Manzarek’s keys, the buzz of Krieger’s guitar, and the precision of Densmore’s drumming. They quickly became my favorite band.

I had to solidify my devotion the best way I knew how: With a t-shirt. My Doors shirt was an olive-green print with their hollow-letter logo overtop a sunset, a fleet of helicopters swarming across the horizon. I remember buying it at Target, in the section where they sell such frivolous crap. I believe the image came from Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now, which featured The Doors’ “The End” in the soundtrack.

Now that I’d explored their discography and equipped myself in the proper attire, it was time to see the Doors live. Well, half of them.

At the Egg in Albany in 2010, original members Ray Manzarek and Robby Krieger were joined by Ty Dennis on drums and legendary session man Phil Chen on bass. Milijenko Matijevic played the role of Jim Morrison, and did so quite well.

My mom bought the tickets for my birthday, and my pal Jimmy and I attended. We were the youngest people in the crowd by several decades, and that was how I liked it. Now this is music, I thought to myself, nodding as a drunk, balding man in the front row gyrated to “L.A. Woman.” If I was born 40 years ago, that could’ve been me.

With live music now part of my repertoire, I turned to YouTube for more. That’s when I discovered The Who.

My love for this band was born half of music, half of spectacle. I’ve still never seen a group like them. Take their 1978 live rendition of “Won’t Get Fooled Again” at Shepperton Studios, for instance. Roger Daltrey swings his mic like a grappling hook while Pete Townshend slides across the stage on his knees and, of course, smashes his guitar. Keith Moon gives a lively performance, especially considering it would be his last; he died four months later of an overdose. John Entwistle is the only exception to the mayhem, though the barrage of notes rumbling from his bass remains unparalleled. Once I ordered a Who t-shirt on Amazon, it was settled: They were my new favorite band.

My aforementioned iPod Classic replaced the CD player in high school. With it, I’d watch downloaded YouTube clips of Who concerts during my bus rides. I’m sure the other students looked at me and thought, What a weirdo. While they were texting or sleeping or chatting with friends, I was watching Townshend swing his arm like a windmill.

Yet this was the appeal of my parents’ tunes. You don’t get it, but I do—that’s how my thinking went. Modern music is crap. Old guys rule.

There were exceptions. In my senior year of high school, I surprised myself by becoming quite partial to Lady Gaga. Sophomore year of college, Australian rock band Wolfmother caught my attention. A decade later, I discovered unofficial Led Zeppelin cover band Greta Van Fleet.

None of them lasted. (Except for Gaga—her Super Bowl Halftime Show was lit.) It seemed, for me, that modern music would never rival its ancestors.

Then along came a Gizzard.

November 2022 was supposed to be about writing, not music. For the third time in my life, I had committed to National Novel Writing Month. Of course, being the serial multitasker that I am, I needed work for my ears as well as my fingers. So, I decided to try King Gizzard.

At this point, I wasn’t yet a convert. I’d tried the album Fishing for Fishies about a year prior, and though I enjoyed its harmonica-based blues, my next listen, Infest the Rat’s Nest, didn’t go so well. Rat’s Nest is about as intense as it sounds. Chugging guitars, throbbing bass, lyrics about cheery subjects like planetary decay and self-immolation. It’s the type of stuff that would’ve concerned my mom had she heard it coming from my room in high school.

Though these records couldn’t be more different, they were both released in the same year. Boogie blues to thrash metal. That’s a transition most bands never make, let alone doing so in a matter of months.

This versatility appeals to longtime fans, but it can be jarring for newcomers. What is this band? I remember thinking, Are they Paul Butterfield or are they Metallica? Of course, the answer was this: both, and more.

A year passed, and while playing badminton one fall afternoon with Dan, my brother-in-law, I received a new recommendation.

“You should listen to Ice Death,” he said. “Great album.”

Dan is a fellow cultist, and so uses the appropriate nickname for Gizzard’s 2022 masterpiece Ice, Death, Planets, Lungs, Mushrooms and Lava. (I assure you, the font on the cover is quite small.) Here the band eschews blues and metal alike for an hour’s worth of improvised jamming, all based on different Greek modes of music.

I couldn’t tell you what that means, but true to Dan’s word, Ice Death is great. After listening to it for three days straight, I proceeded to a website called “Get into Gizz” (also at Dan’s suggestion), which helps one navigate the band’s expansive discography by offering personalized recommendations. I hopped from Gizzard’s high-energy I’m in Your Mind Fuzz to their acoustic wonder, Paper Mâché Dream Balloon. From there, I floated to their psychedelic jazz album—yes, they have a psychedelic jazz album—called Quarters!

I could go on, but you get the idea. If you need a website to navigate a band’s discography, you must be in a cult.

This music propelled me through November, which came to be known as Gizzvember. I woke every morning at 4am, drowsy but ready to write, switching on the pre-loaded coffee machine, letting the dog out of her crate, sinking into the couch, sinking AirPods into my ears, then cranking the Gizz. We have Alexa in our house, so I commanded her to do the following: “Alexa, from this day henceforth, you shall play nothing but King Gizzard.”

She ignored my directive. She’s out of the cult.

Has King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard become my favorite band? Maybe. I still need a t-shirt.

But they are a secret language shared by Dan and me, one we’re both fluent in. They combine the aspects of music I so love in other bands: The energy of The Who, the flute of Jethro Tull, the thunderous riffs of Black Sabbath, the acoustic melodies of The Beatles, the double-digit psychedelic odysseys of The Doors. They offer a little of everything without feeling derivative.

Perhaps my greatest connection to the group is their artistic approach. In my writing, I wander from subject to subject. My first book was a supernatural mystery, my second was a short story collection, my third was a comic epic fantasy, and my fourth will be a collection of nonfiction essays.

GetIntoGizz.com describes the band as “genre-confused.” I think that describes me, too.

So, if you’ve made it this far, you’re ready to join the cult. Right this way, friend. Around these parts, every month is Gizzvember. Let me just find you a pair of headphones…

The World Without Email

January 22, 2023 / Kyle A. Massa

The World Without Email

You’ve got mail. Wait, actually, you don’t.

That’s the situation we’re examining in today’s edition of “The World Without.” No Yahoo, no Gmail, no Outlook, nuthin’. In a world without email…

…We’d Communicate Via Raven

There are more efficient methods of long-distance communication, including but not limited to text message, phone call, or even my nemesis, Snapchat. However, sending ravens would be the coolest. That’s how they do it in Westeros, setting of my all-time favorite fantasy series A Song of Ice and Fire. And if we did it this way, I could have my secret dream job: maester.

Don’t let Grand Maester Pycelle fool you—being a maester is a sweet gig. All you do all day is read books and offer counsel. You also tend to the aforementioned ravens (which is probably an unpleasant task, for all I know). However, assuming it’s not that bad, a world without email would be perfect for maesters and ravens alike.

(P.S. If you’re a lord or lady, I’ll send my resume.)

…We’d Be Spared from Cold Sales Emails

Raise your hand if you’ve ever received a message like this:

Hi Kyle,

Just following up on my previous six unanswered emails! As a reminder, we could boost your Instagram following by 100x using our AI-powered CRM solution for B2B and B2C companies, as well as midsized-hybrid-sole-proprietorships! Here’s a link to our overview video featuring cheery vector graphic cartoon people and a British voiceover!

If you don’t respond to this email, no worries! This is an automated drip campaign with seven more messages incoming!

Cheers,

Nate

They always sign these emails with “cheers,” and their name is always “Nate.” In a world without email, we’d never receive this stuff— and I would be much happier.

…There’d Be An End to Phishing Emails

I find it interesting that we spell this term the same way as the jam band Phish. Does this suggest a connection? Are they themselves behind the phishing scams?

I’m unsure, and I’m also unsure of Phish’s legal prowess, so I’ll stop asking questions before I get sued.

…We’d Be Far More Productive

If you’re a working stiff like me, the first thing you do when you enter the office is answer emails. This is a fate worse than Sisyphus’s. If you somehow reach the bottom of your inbox, it never, ever stays empty. If it does, that means you’ve been fired. I’d speak with HR immediately.

…I Wouldn’t Be a Writer

I mean, I’d still write stuff—you’d just never know about it. That’s because the main way readers keep abreast of my writing is via my email newsletter.

Though it’s the best marketing tool I have, I haven’t always used it optimally. For example, I once sent a newsletter with this subject line: “A quick update on the state of my hair.” I then shared a picture of said hair, which hadn’t been cut in months. It was so puffy I ended up looking like Toad from Mario. And judging by the 26 unsubscribes I got, people were not amused.

Without email, I never would’ve made this mistake. But this all happened about a month into Covid, so can you blame me for being a little kooky?

…I’d Be Living in My Dad’s Basement

I’m a writer, but my day job is marketing. And, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, email is a pillar of the industry. Without it, it’s very possible I wouldn’t have a job, hence why I’d be living in my dad’s basement.

Though this would stink, it wouldn’t be all downside. I mean, free housing is nice. Also, I spent most of high school playing Rock Band 2 in the basement, so I could always run it back. My virtual band was called Northern Red Stallion, and let me tell you, we played one rollicking rendition of Jethro Tull’s “Aqualung.” If I returned to the basement, NRS could embark on a reunion world tour and call it “The Stallion Rides Again.” Tickets on sale soon.

…Passwords Would Be Lost Forever

Because where would the recovery messages go? Perhaps we’d receive them via some exotic method, such as Morse Code. Not a bad skill to learn, in my opinion, especially if you’re, like, locked in a truck and don’t want the kidnapper to notice your calls for help.

Speaking of being locked in a trunk, one time my friends and I thought it would be fun if two of us rode from Albany to Troy in the trunk of a car. I assure you, this was not a kidnapping—Jimmy and Dan volunteered.

For those unfamiliar with upstate New York geography, Albany to Troy is about a 20-minute drive, with plenty of potholes in between. Jim and Dan didn’t use Morse code to communicate from the trunk; they just texted, and occasionally moaned. When we arrived and they emerged, a couple on the back patio of a nearby bar gave them a standing ovation. It was awesome.

How did I get on this tangent? Oh yeah. Passwords. Don’t forget ’em.

…You’ve Got Mail Wouldn’t Exist

To be honest, I’m not sure I’ve actually seen this movie. I think I watched it on network TV once, but it might’ve been Sleepless in Seattle.

Anyhoo, you don’t get the title—let alone the film itself—without email. (Side note: My wife says I overuse the word “anyhoo,” so I’m considering a new entry entitled “The World Without ‘Anyhoo,'” where I try to go an entire post without using the titular word. We’ll see how it goes.) Anyhoo, for the Zoomers out there, You’ve Got Mail was once AOL’s catchphrase for incoming emails. These were the days when any old computerized voice was a novelty (unlike today, when I routinely confuse Siri with Alexa).

In a world without email, perhaps this film would’ve been named You’ve Got Raven. In this alternate version, Meg Ryan would receive a raven from the south notifying her that her betrothed, Tom Hanks, had been beheaded by the Lannisters. RIP.

…The World Would Be Far Less Interesting

We’ve still got email, so please excuse me while I go answer mine. I think a gift card just arrived.

You can read more from the “World Without” blog series here. And if you want to see a specific topic, email kyle@kyleamassa.com.