Category: Thoughts on Life (Page 1 of 3)

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June 28, 2024 /

I end too many sentences with exclamation marks. I’m aware of this personal flaw, yet I can’t seem to stop myself from doing it.

I know it’s overdone. I know it’s inaccurate. I know Strunk and White would table-top me if they could. And yet, I do it anyway.

Why? Because I don’t want people to think I’m upset.

Perhaps I should specify. My exclamation marks appear almost exclusively in my digital communication. I’m better at excluding them from my prose, mostly because I’m afraid grammarians on Goodreads will slap me with one-star reviews. Yet texts and emails remain breeding grounds for my exclamations.

To prove this observation, I reviewed yesterday’s sent emails from my work address. Ten of my previous 10 messages contained exclamation marks. Worse yet, now that I’ve established this pattern at work, I can’t relent.

For the sake of demonstration, let’s imagine we’re coworkers. Greetings, coworker. Now let’s pretend you’ve requested help from me, and I reply thusly:

All set!

Oh that Kyle, you must be thinking, shaking your head and smiling to yourself. What a chipper fellow.

Try receiving this reply instead:

All set.

Oh no, you’d think to yourself. Is Kyle mad at me? Is everything okay? Did his cat die?

Don’t worry, both cats are very much alive. One of them just puked on the rug. But here you’ve spotted my dilemma: I’ve worked at Special Olympics New York for five years now, and over that time, I’d estimate 96.56% of my emails used an exclamation mark. When you write almost as many exclamations as periods, you’ve got a problem.

And it’s not just me. A few years back, our organization recruited a writing consultant to help improve our written communication. My wife Sara also works at Special Olympics NY, and she was among the select few invited to the seminar. Here’s what she says the consultant said:

“I’ve never encountered an organization that writes with as many exclamation marks as yours!”

His statement probably ended in a period, but I wanted to reinforce his point.

But here’s my rebuttal, writing consultant guy: Periods make texts and emails sound terse. I know they’re grammatically correct. I know they’re proper. Yet when communicating digitally, I can’t ignore the finality of that single dot. Consider this text message:

Okay.

This is how my parents text, and they’re right to do so. The vast majority of sentences should end in periods. But this sentence sounds aggressive, even though I know my parents aren’t aggressive (unless my dad’s talking to the cable company). If that example doesn’t convince you, try this one:

See you soon.

Without an exclamation mark, this sounds like a threat. In my more paranoid moments, I might even receive this text and think, Oh shit! Am I about to be assassinated!?

See? I even think in exclamation marks.

My problem is one of consistency. I’ve often daydreamed about converting to the period, about dropping all my overused exclamation marks from my texts, emails, and thoughts, becoming the diligent grammarian I know I should be. Yet I can’t. Because if I do, people will fear something’s wrong.

What’s with all the sudden periods? they’ll think as they read my emails. Is Kyle going to assassinate me?

The answer is, of course, no (unless you’re an Eagles fan, in which case, maybe). But who would know that by reading an email dominated by periods? I pretty much only use them when I’m annoyed with people and I assume they know I’m annoyed with them. No exclamation marks for you, I think as I pound the period key. Every sentence you get ends in a black hole.

I could add an addendum to my email signature explaining my change, e.g. I’ve realized I overuse exclamation marks in my emails, so you may notice their absence in future messages. This does not reflect my general mood or feelings toward you, unless it does, in which case, you know who you are. But that would make me seem like even more of a psycho than I already am.

Yet still, I’m not alone. Exclamation overuse isn’t just localized to my organization—it’s generational. As a Millennial, ours was the first generation to grow up with text messaging. Without the in-person benefits of tone, expression, and posture, our early text messaging relied on nonsense like colons combined with right-half parentheticals. Or, better yet, exclamation marks. Emojis came later, but even they haven’t killed the vertical-line-and-dot.

Perhaps this suggests that we Millennials are an empathetic generation. We want to assure our recipients that we’re not angry with them, so much so that we end most sentences with an additional press of the “Shift” key. Or, perhaps we’re all part of the problem. I couldn’t say.

But here’s what I could do: I could end this confessional with a vow to write fewer exclamation marks. I know I won’t. Instead, later today, as I sit down at my desk and browse my emails, I’ll reply with the same platitudes I always use. Sounds good! Copy that! Thanks so much! And I’ll think to myself, Well, at least you’re certain I’m not mad at you!

Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include five books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.

So Long, Time

March 10, 2024 /

A clock ticks on for Daylight Savings Time.

This week’s post is a poem—or rather, a gripe. Maybe a poetic gripe. Whatever it is, it goes like this:

Crankiness. Bleariness. Sadness. Despair.

But Daylight Savings Time doesn’t care.

That is all. Get a nap if you can.

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

The 7 Types of Karaoke Singers

February 26, 2024 /

The 7 Types of Karaoke Singers

Karaoke is an art form I’m passionate about. Perhaps a bit too passionate.

After all, I’ve already written an essay (published) and a short story (unpublished) on this very subject. It’s the next best thing to actually singing karaoke, which I haven’t done in quite some time. Nonetheless, if I can’t do it, I’ll write about it.

With all that experience, there’s something I’ve noticed about karaoke singers: They come in archetypes. In no particular order, here they are.

No. 1: The Overqualifier

The Overqualifier is often a member of their community a cappella group, a karaoke regular, or both. Whoever they are, they’re way too good to be singing at karaoke, because their talent defeats the entire purpose.

I mean, in what other context are lousy singers not only accepted, but encouraged? Speaking as a C+ singer myself, we’re unwelcome in most places. I’m not even welcome in my own home, sometimes, like when I endlessly repeat lines from King Gizzard’s “The Dripping Tap” and my wife loses patience. Sorry, Sara.

What I’m trying to say is, there’s only one place lousy singers can sing publicly, and it’s karaoke. Talented singers get to sing everywhere else, including outdoor stages, concert halls, and TV shows with critical yet occasionally touchingly supportive British judges.

They’ll select an expert-level song, probably something from Wicked or something by Adele, and they’ll sing it note-for-note. If you’ve ever gotten dirty looks from the average joes in the bar after nailing the high note in Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody,” you might be the Overqualifier.

No. 2: The Drunk

The Drunk might be talented. They might not be. It’s hard to tell, because all that alcohol is making them sound like Chewbacca.

Still, the Drunk is not without a certain charm (so long as they’re not vomiting). After all, alcohol is an essential add-on to the karaoke experience, like amphetamines at an EDM show. That said, the drunk has a short shelf life. They can be entertaining for a while, but when they start slurring the words to “Wonderwall,” they should probably head out.

If you sing karaoke while drunk, you’re probably the Drunk.

No. 3: The Screen Starer

You know that moment when your cat stares into the corner of the room without blinking, and you look into the same corner, only you don’t see anything, but the cat keeps on staring, and after a while you wonder if a ghost is crouched in the corner staring back, and you whisper, “Loon? What is it? Is someone there?”, and your cat still stares at the corner for another minute or two, and then she finally stops and you realize you peed yourself a little? That’s essentially what happens with the Screen Starer. (The staring part, not the peeing part.)

The Screen Starer is someone who doesn’t sing karaoke often, so they’re a little nervous. They probably know the lyrics, but don’t trust themselves enough to overcome stage fright. As a result, they sing their entire song to the prompter, like a cat staring at a ghost in a corner.

If your contacts pop out because you went three minutes and 26 seconds without blinking because you were staring at the scrolling lyrics to Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab,” you might be the Screen Starer.

No. 4: The Boss

I don’t mean Bruce Springsteen, although a Boss might sing Bruce’s “Jungleland.” The Boss is that person who picks a lengthy rock epic, even when they shouldn’t.

If you would even consider singing any of the following songs at karaoke, you are the Boss: 

  • “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin
  • “Free Bird” by Lynyrd Skynyrd
  • “The End” by The Doors
  • The double-digit-minute version of “All Too Well” by Taylor Swift
  • Any song from a live Phish album

The Boss can be intimidating because they only care about their own satisfaction. They want to sing a song, usually a long one, and they don’t care if you like it or not—you’re gonna hear it, anyway.

No. 5: The Downer

Similar to the Boss, the Downer has a complete inability to read a room. Thus, they select songs like Johnny Cash’s “Hurt” while there’s a bachelorette party going on in the corner.

If anyone’s ever inquired about your wellbeing after your karaoke performance, you might be the Downer.

No. 6: The Gesticulator

The Gesticulator isn’t as talented as the Overqualifier, and they know it. That’s why they gesticulate. They’re relying on theatrics to distract from their voice, which may or may not sound like Moe Szyslak.

The Gesticulator has a difficult balance to manage. Anything too choreographed seems trite, while anything too spontaneous seems chaotic. The best tactics often involve humor, such as doing the River Dance during the bagpipe solo in AC/DC’s “It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock ‘n’ Roll).” Some Gesticulators employ props, such as chairs, martini glasses, or their own removed clothing.

If you’ve ever earned a cheer from a karaoke crowd by doing something other than singing, you’re probably the Gesticulator.

No. 7: The Scott Stapp

Look, anyone who has the gumption to sing Creed at karaoke deserves their own category, which I’ve named after Creed’s singer. Creed is the preeminent example of an unofficial subgenre I call “Douchebag Rock.” It’s basically any artist where their lyrics make you sound like an asshole just by singing them, yet everyone agrees they’re catchy enough to earn a pass. Nickelback and Matchbox Twenty are in there as well.

Truth is, I myself am a Scott Stapp. I hope you haven’t lost respect for me (if you hadn’t already). But have you ever tried singing the chorus to “One Last Breath” without tearing up? It can’t be done, I tell you.

There You Have It

Confession time: In addition to the Scott Stapp, I’m a Gesticulator and a bit of a Screen Starer. Which type of karaoke singer are you?

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

Thoughts on Crocs

January 7, 2024 /

As part of my ongoing attempt to make a complete ass of myself, let me tell you about my new Crocs.

I got them for Christmas. (Shout out to my mother-in-law, Karen.) They’re the Moon Jelly variety, which is a weird way of saying they’re periwinkle. This color is a bit more feminine than it appeared on the website, but that doesn’t stop me from wearing them. Everywhere.

I wear them on dog walks. I wear them shopping. I considered wearing them to a restaurant recently, though I opted not to embarrass my wife, Sara, by association.

This is the conflict every Croc-wearer must consider when venturing into public. Humiliation or contentment. Ridicule or comfort. To Croc, or not to Croc. We all know which Hamlet would choose.

It’s a constant struggle. No one in their right mind would wear shoes that look like hardened blocks of Swiss cheese with the handle of a child’s pail attached to the back unless they were extraordinarily comfortable.

Speaking of children, they can actually pull off Crocs. On kids, Crocs look cute, whereas on adults, they look like a mistake. My daughter Sasha has four pairs—yes, you read that right—and she loves all of them. She even puts them on her baby dolls, proving that she understands the rules.

Despite my newfound admiration for my new footwear, I draw the line at gibbets. Not to be confused with the giblets from inside a turkey, gibbets are those little tchotchkes you stuff into the holes of your Crocs so you can look even more silly.

Gibbets or no, I used to be very judgmental about Crocs. Man, I’d think to myself, Those shoes sure look dumb. Then, one day, I needed foot protection down in my unfinished basement. I practice music down there, plus it’s where our cats poop (these two events rarely happen simultaneously). Sneakers felt like too much work, my work shoes required dress socks, and our dog had stolen my slippers. All that was left were Sara’s Crocs. So I wore them into the basement.

Something strange happened over the next few weeks. I’d be out in public, getting gas or buying groceries, and I’d look down to find Sara’s Crocs attached to my feet.

Man, I’d think to myself, These shoes still look dumb. But then other thoughts crept in: Hey, that’s a nice breeze coming through the holes. I didn’t even need to bend down to tie any laces. And I thought that handle on my ankle might chafe, only I can barely feel it.

After a while, I was wearing Sara’s Crocs more than Sara. It was only a matter of time until I got a pair of my own. Not that I bought them—I’m too cheap to buy nice things. Even Crocs.

I’m wearing them as I write this, and I must admit, they’re a marvel. What other shoe comes with both a sport and a leisure mode? What other product slips on easy as a sandal, yet hides my hairy hobbit feet so well?

None other. Like the One Ring, there is only one supreme power, and its name is Crocs.

Not only are these shoes cushy—they’re sustainable. I hear they’re made from boiled cabbage or something, which sounds unbelievable until you feel them. The material is not quite plastic and not quite styrofoam. I suspect alien skin has a similar texture.

Though Crocs feel strange and look even stranger, their semi-edible quality is just another point in their favor. Imagine you’re stranded on an island like Tom Hanks in Castaway, but instead of befriending a volleyball, you only have your shoes as company.

Think you could roast your Jordans over a fire and get any nutritional value? Please. If you had Crocs, why, they’d make for not one, but two scrumptious island meals. Now that’s comfort.

That’s what Crocs provide. Comfort. Not just comfort for my weird hairy hobbit feet, not just the comfort of a meal in a pinch, but comfort for my ego, which is protected like organs beneath a bulletproof vest. Can any words harm me while I’m wearing something as goofy as Crocs? I’m insulting myself enough already. There’s nothing anyone can say to hurt me worse.

So, in the everlasting conflict between functionality and fashion, I’ll opt for the former. After all, if style is a battle, then Crocs are the proverbial white flag—or, in my case, the Moon Jelly flag. I’ll wave it high. I’ll wave it proud.

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

911, What’s Your Emergency?

November 19, 2023 /

An animated GIF of a 911 call making a smartphone buzz.

Here in the United States, if you’ve got an emergency, you’re probably calling one of two numbers: 911, or your mother. In this blog post, we’ll discuss the former.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

This is how 911 operators always answer the phone, and I think it’s a good policy. Otherwise, you might have situations like this…

…[Dial tone.]…

“Hello?”

“HELP! The call was coming from inside the house and now some masked psychopath is trying to murder me!”

“I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong number. This is Arby’s. May I take your order?”

You may be wondering how my hypothetical victim dialed Arby’s instead of an emergency hotline, and the simple answer is, I have no idea. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, modern 911 operators know what they’re doing.

You can see it in their choice of question. “What’s your emergency?” Presumptuous, maybe, but also warranted, considering one only calls in dire situations. Surely nobody would ever do something like this…

…[Dial tone.]…

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Just watching the Giants game. You?”

“This number is for emergencies only.”

“I know, that’s why I called. Have you seen Tommy DeVito play quarterback?”

The “what’s your emergency line” isn’t one of those movie inventions, by the way. It’s real. I’ve had occasion to call the police twice in my life, and I assure you, these are the first words spoken when you call.

Now if you’re a cold-hearted individual, that might give you an idea. You might wonder if this job could be outsourced to AI. After all, if all one does is utter a pre-written line and record information, couldn’t that task be automated?

I certainly hope not. Imagine, for example, you found yourself in a life-or-death situation, and when you called 911 looking for help, Siri answered. Here’s the transcript of your conversation…

…[Dial tone.]…

“Siri here, what’s your emergency?”

“Help me, Siri, the masked psychopath has returned! I’m being murdered again!”

“On it…”

“Huh?”

“Here’s what I found on the web for ‘masked psychopath.'”

Then she’d serve you results for discount Halloween costumes, which would be great if only you weren’t getting disemboweled.

With Siri, this is par for the course. I frequently ask her questions (e.g. “At what level does Charizard learn Flamethrower?”), and rather than giving me a straight answer, she farms out the work to a web search. It could be worse—she could be using Bing instead of Google. But there’s never any compassion, which is why I don’t want Siri or any other AI fielding my call. I want a trained operator, dammit.

I know I took a jab at movies a few paragraphs ago, but if we’ve learned anything from them, it’s that 911 operators are dedicated individuals, albeit a little psycho-obsessive sometimes. For a perfect example, see Jake Gyllenhaal in The Guilty. If you’re in a pinch, you’d prefer someone who will literally—spoiler—go to jail for you. Not freaking Siri.

So here’s to all the 911 operators out there. You’re all heroes, or at least better at your job than AI would be. I salute you, I commend you, and when you ask me what my emergency is, I’ll gladly tell you. And thanks for asking.

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

For the Love of the Gut

October 9, 2023 /

A cartoon GIF of a stomach—or some may say the "gut"—digesting a hamburger.

Gut.

It’s a word that’s existed for centuries, though nowadays it’s become more popular than ever (or maybe I’m just noticing it more). My question is this: Why?

It’s not like “gut” is a descriptive term. It’s unpleasant to hear—and to say, for that matter. Try saying it. “Gut.” It’s so guttural.

Furthermore, this word always gives me the same visual: Someone’s soft, flabby stomach getting slapped and/or punched. “Slugged in the gut.” That’s what comes to mind.

Despite its shortcomings, I hear this term everywhere, especially in the fields of sports, nutrition, and dating. “Gut check.” “Great for your gut health.” “Do you have a fire in your gut?”

That last question was recently posed by Arizona Cardinals head coach Jonathan Gannon. He was addressing a roomful of NFL players, and his speech was meant to be a motivational rallying cry and/or a practical joke. Either way, millions of internet pundits found it hilarious, including me, partly because of Gannon’s gratuitous invocation of the “gut.”

It only gets worse in health contexts. “Gut health” has become a catchall term for the stomach, or maybe the gastrointestinal system, or maybe, I dunno, the gallbladder. I’m uncertain because so-called “health experts” on Instagram insist on using the word in all their content, though they never define it. It’s like a contractor pointing at your roof and saying, “Your house has a leaky hat.” There’s no faster way to kill your credibility.

Aside from sports and health, the place I hear “gut” most often is on the Bachelor franchise, which is the most damming evidence one can present. Contestants on the show constantly refer to their gut as if it’s a personal confidant, e.g. “At the end of the day, I had to go with my gut.”

This conjures an image of the gut as a wise counselor, some shriveled, pink, slimy mass of tissue in your abdomen that holds a notepad and wears glasses. When you present a moral quandary to your gut such as, “Should I trust Chad even though he has toxic masculinity issues?”, your gut replies with a sagely, “No, but the producers will appreciate it if you keep him around a few more weeks.”

In this context, the gut is like one’s own personal Yoda, only it can’t use the Force and its home address lies somewhere between your pancreas and spleen.

Or not. And this is my issue with the term to begin with. Its meanings are so varied it has no meaning.

According to the New Oxford American Dictionary, for instance, the noun “gut” has five different definitions, from “entrails that have been removed or exposed in violence or by a butcher” to “a narrow passage or strait.” It’s also applicable as a verb, or as a component of common phrases such as “hat[ing] someone’s guts.”

Is it possible to hate the guts of the word “gut”? Because I’m getting there.

I believe the primary application of the word should be comedic, and more specifically, ironic. For example, if you were to say, “I went with my gut and gave myself a gut check because there’s a fire in my gut, and I should probably go to the hospital to get it checked out,” then I salute you. Otherwise, I think it’s overused.

So next time you’re tempted to use the G-word, heed my warning. It might just change your life.

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 five books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

Birds, Bets, and Sarcastic Texts

February 20, 2023 /

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.

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.

A Dad’s Review of Disney on Ice

January 9, 2023 /
Disney on Ice

HarshLight, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

It wasn’t as cold as I thought it would be.

That’s the first note from my experience at Disney on Ice. My wife Sara and I took our daughter Sasha to the show last month, and Sara’s sister Michaela joined us.

We drove to the MVP Arena, formerly the Times Union Center, formerly the Pepsi Center, formerly the Knick, formerly probably something else, like the General Electric General Sports Dome or something. It’s an indoor arena right off I-90, which is just how we Albanians like it.

Speaking of Albanians, there were lots of us there. By Albanians, I mean citizens of Albany, New York, not citizens of Albania. (I mean, some folks might’ve been from Albania—I didn’t ask.) I’ve been to a Roger Waters show at this venue, plus several arena football games (go Empire), along with a handful of college basketball and minor league hockey games.

The crowd for Disney on Ice was more excited than them all.

I’m not sure why this surprised me, but it did. I expected the audience for an off-Broadway play, not a playoff game.

Into the parking garage we drove, trailing behind several minivans, SUVS, and other family-friendly vehicles. We chugged up a couple levels, avoided the odd sprinting child as we drove, and soon found ourselves a parking space. After gathering Sasha’s supplies (because sometimes being a parent feels more like being a roadie for the Grateful Dead), we headed inside.

The copious offerings of fried dough and souvenirs lent the place a carnival atmosphere. Unfortunately, the latter were a disappointment to both Sara and Michaela, since it all seemed to be seizure-inducing lights attached to plastic rods (more on this later).

The only thing that caught Sara’s eye was popcorn. As we searched for our seats, she asked me, Michaela, and Sasha if we wanted any (reminder: Sasha’s still learning English). All three of us declined, to which Sara replied, “Maybe we should get popcorn.” When we declined a second time, Sara called it an “outrage” and threatened to get some, anyway. Fortunately, she decided against it when she saw the line. We proceeded to our seats.

Sasha began the show in my lap. She was pretty much motionless for the next 45 minutes, which is commendable for a then-13-month-old kid. I’m guessing she was stupefied by all the strobing lights, which glimmered both on and off the ice; in addition to the overhead lighting, most kids wielded those blinking plastic sticks, with which they prodded one another.

Before the prodding could progress to smacking, the show began. In glided Mickey, Minnie, Donald, and Goofy, enjoying the type of ravenous applause reserved for mid-60s Beatles concerts. Through voiceovers pumped from the stadium speakers, we learned the framing story: The fab four wanted to make a movie, only they couldn’t settle on a subject.

A few notes so far:

  • The sexual tension between Mickey and Minnie was undeniable.
  • I’m pretty sure Tim Blake Nelson does the voice of Goofy. I know there’s no evidence of this, but it really, really sounds like him.
  • Donald Duck’s dialogue is inscrutable. Imagine a person whose tongue has been stung by a bee, then had a fishbowl shoved over their head.

After some friendly banter, the crew settled on not one story, but many, beginning with Finding Dory.

Er, at least, I think they did. The sequence of segments has blurred in my mind, becoming a jumble of twirls, axels, and flying camels (Sara assures me that’s a real skating move).

But here’s one thing I do remember: The Dory costumes were creepy. Creative, yes, but super creepy. The skaters’ heads exploded from the fishes’ backs—or maybe the fishes’ heads exploded from the skaters’ chests. Either way, I couldn’t help but wonder whether the kids were amazed or horrified.

Turns out it was the former. If you think European soccer fans are passionate, you should see children at a Disney show. Most were on their feet the entire time, and if they weren’t, it was only because they couldn’t yet stand. They clapped. They shrieked. They twirled their blinking plastic sticks in heedless, blurring arcs, making me wonder how nobody got concussed by an errant swing. Sara herself sat beside a little girl whose stick was apparently quite blinding. I didn’t notice; I was too busy trying to recall the names of the boyfriends of the Disney princesses.

This was the next bit of the show. Dory, Marlon, and Nemo departed, ceding center ice to Belle and the Beast. That one I remembered. But then came Ariel and her dude, Snow White and a dude, Aurora plus dude, and pretty soon I gave up. I challenge the average Disney fan to name these scrubs. They’re almost as interchangeable as contestants on The Bachelor.

Afterward, Sara, Michaela, and I speculated on the strategy behind the rapid-fire princesses. After much deliberation, we decided it was a diversion tactic, something along the lines of, Let’s rush in princess after princess so there’s no time to reflect on the racism/sexism of the old movies.

It didn’t really work, but it did make for some cool skating, especially when all 77 or so couples united for a group number. After a wave of raucous applause, this brought us to halftime—I mean, intermission.

As kids and parents alike raced for the bathrooms, Sasha’s trance broke. She began to squirm and was only placated by a pre-packed bottle of milk. Crisis averted.

While we waited for the show to resume, I spotted a lot of Molsons. All slim cans with open tops, all clutched by people I assumed were parents. It seemed an odd place to enjoy a brew, yet I realized most were likely enjoying their brews because of the place.

Sasha was chugging her beverage, too, though hers was Vitamin D whole milk, not light beer. No sooner had she finished than the show resumed.

Mickey, Minnie, Donald, and Goofy returned to discuss their work-in-progress, which Donald described as—and I’m quoting him here—”Plazz-bwoo.” The others pretended to understand him, then introduced The Lion King.

I cringed during this sequence, and not because the costumes reminded me of the film Cats. Rather, it was due to their song choice: “Can You Feel the Love Tonight?”

See, I love this song, and so does Sara. In fact, I performed and recorded it one year for her for Valentine’s Day. This might sound impressive…until you hear my performance. Imagine someone slowly squeezing the life out of a squirrel by sitting on it. That’s basically my voice, especially on Nala’s parts, which I had no business singing. If they’d played my version of the song instead of the original, I suspect even more Molsons would’ve been chugged.

I forgot my shame when Frozen began. Unsurprisingly, this claimed a major portion of the show. It was great: the songs, the routines, even the costumes (Olaf’s was my favorite). During “Let It Go,” I even got a little choked up. You’re so brave, Elsa, I thought to myself, squeezing Sasha like she squeezes her Carebears. You finally let it go.

After that came Taylor Swift.

…Just kidding, it was the cast of Toy Story. But if you closed your eyes and listened, you’d think someone was about to launch into the 10-minute version of “All Too Well.” Even a guy named “Forky” got a rave reception, though I’d never heard of him. (Probably because I refuse to acknowledge Toy Story 4, because Toy Story 3 came out the year I graduated high school, and since Andy was doing the same in the movie, I view 3 as the definitive conclusion to the franchise.)

Side note: Is Forky okay? His schtick is constantly trying to leap into piles of trash, which seems like abnormal behavior to me (unless you’re a raccoon). Maybe Woody and Buzz should stage an intervention.

However, since an intervention would likely be too difficult to choreograph, the cast instead proceeded to Mulan. This almost brought Michaela to tears. Maybe it was the staging, or maybe it resulted from PTSD.

See, sometime in their adolescence, Sara demanded Michaela stay up well past midnight memorizing every word of every song from the movie. If even one lyric was incorrect, they had to restart the whole thing (Sara asked me to include this fact in this essay, and she sounded proud about it).

Though I wasn’t recalling an instance of sleep deprivation torture, I found Mulan moving as well. At one point, she shoots a live firework at the Hun army, triggering an avalanche simulated by a gigantic white sheet sweeping over the skaters. Very cool.

There was some stuff from Aladdin, too, like 20 blue genies forming a kickline across the ice, plus Aladdin wrestling a ragdoll version of his monkey. Afterward came the finale, where the entire cast circled the ice to wave goodbye.

Sasha saw none of this. Sometime around the genies’ arrival, she sprawled across Sara and me and promptly began to snore. (Her ability to sleep anywhere makes me a little jealous.)

When the show ended, I lifted her and cradled her in my arms. She slept on, even as we navigated our way through the fans, many of whom were screeching, crying, and flopping on the ground. Kids are experts at flopping on the ground, like fish unhooked from the line. They’re best at it when they want something, or really don’t want something, and they feel no remorse for their poor parents who make accidental eye contact with other nearby adults, who then think to themselves, I may pity you, but I can’t help you.

I’m sure such behavior is in our future, but just then, Sasha kept on sleeping. I carried her all the way to the car, where I set her down in her seat and buckled her in. She stirred for a moment, then sighed and slept on.

If Sasha had written this review instead of me, she might’ve started it like this: “This show put me to sleep.”

I’ll admit, that doesn’t sound great. And since she’s so little, I doubt she’ll remember much, if any, of Disney on Ice. But for whatever time she was awake, she was enchanted. And that, I’d say, was worth the price of admission.

Which is good, because tickets were surprisingly affordable, and there are apparently several other variations of the show. Parts II, III, IV, and V coming soon…

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.

Why I Find the Charmin Bears Revolting

August 4, 2021 /

The Charmin Bears are an abomination.

…

I might be coming in a little hot there. But really, the Charmin Bears are gross.

You know them. They’re that pack of multicolored ursine cartoons that hold regular family meetings about the quality, texture, and thickness of their toilet paper. They also tend to dance crazily, rub their faces on the paper, and, worst of all, wiggle their (thankfully clean) butts at the camera.

Talk about TMI. Do we really need to watch an egg ricochet off a stack of toilet paper?  Do we really need to watch a disembodied arm smear some blue substance off its wrist? (Both happen in almost every Charmin ad.)

No. No we don’t. For these reasons and so many more, I’ve had it with the Charmin Bears. Enough to write this here blog post.

I get it. Toilet paper is pretty much essential. Most people use it multiple times a day, and for good reason. The thing is, we don’t need to talk about it—especially not with such gleeful detail.

When’s the last time you had a conversation about how soft your toilet paper is, or how many ply it is? And god forbid you ever demonstrate the virtue of your toilet paper brand by dumping some thick blue liquid onto it. I understand the allure of creating cartoon characters to your products, but please. Invent some cartoons that are less obsessed with the bathroom and what goes on in it.

Take, for example, this commercial:

For those too nervous to watch the above video, it depicts two Charmin Bears sprinting down the beach in slow motion, presumably because they urgently need to poop. This is just poor planning on their part, because nobody wants to use a porta-potty, let alone one at the beach. (Also, why do we need the close-up on the bouncing butts? Also, whose idea was it to bastardize the theme from 2001?)

Some readers might be surprised by my contempt for these vile bears. I’ve been known to laugh at a bathroom joke or several in my day, and I’ll continue to do so.

But the problem here is context. Many people watch television while eating, which means you might be trying to enjoy your dinner when suddenly a Charmin Bear appears, waving its ass in your face and complaining that a competing brand left pieces behind. Thanks a lot, Charmin. I just lost my appetite for shrimp and rice.

Furthermore, the Charmin Bears need a serious review of priorities. I don’t know any other family that spends so much time discussing such frivolous topics. I’ve certainly never met a family that rubs toilet paper on their faces or debates how many pounds it can hold without ripping. Why not discuss some normal topics, like school, or sports, or the weather, or, I don’t know, anything else?

I can’t vouch for bears, but most humans use toilet paper and never discuss its merits. Sure, once in a while you’ll get some brand that’s especially crappy. But otherwise, toilet paper should be like the roof of a house: necessary, but rarely spoken of.

Now I should acknowledge that these advertisements are clearly working. Hell, I’m writing an entire blog post about them, which would delight any advertiser reading it, regardless of whether or not I actually like the ads. Perhaps that’s their strategy.

But for the time being, my distaste will rage on. Please, Charmin Bears, scale back the toilet paper talk. For the sake of us all!

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their cats, and their dog. He has written two books and numerous short stories, both published and yet-to-be published. He enjoys unusual narrative structures, multiple POVs, and stories that make readers laugh.

Sandman

And Then I Tried to Convince You to Read Neil Gaiman’s “Sandman”

October 26, 2020 /

Remember that time we ran into each other at that coffee shop, and you ordered that drink you like and I ordered that drink I like, and we sat at that table near the window, and then I started blabbing about Sandman? Remember that?

“Here we go,” you sighed.

“I know,” I said.  “Another book recommendation. But I really think you’ll like this one. It’s a series of comic books by Neil Gaiman.”

“You always talk about that guy.”

“I know. It’s because he’s the GOAT. Did I tell you about the time I met him at a signing?”

“At least four times.”

“Sorry. But you’d talk about him all the time too if you read Sandman. Now I know what you’re going to say, and I said the same thing. You don’t read comic books. But these are more like graphic novels.”

“That’s what people call comics when they want people who don’t read comics to read them.”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “But this time I mean it. Each story appears individually in comics, but the story arcs are collected into trade paperback volumes. You can click this link to learn more.”

“Are you breaking the fourth wall?” you asked.

“Kinda. Anyhoo, Sandman. First thing: It’s an amazing feat of storytelling. The greater story arc is divided into 10 smaller story arcs, which are in turn divided into something like five or six smaller ones. They range from horror to fantasy to historical fiction to humor, and they’re really well-written. Plus the art is sweet.”

You shrugged and sipped your drink. “Yeah, but it’s a comic book series featuring another Whatever-Man. I’m so sick of superhero stuff.”

“That’s the thing. Sandman isn’t a superhero. They barely even call him Sandman—he’s usually referred to as Dream, or Morpheus, or the Prince of Stories. He’s the guy who creates and regulates the Dreaming, a.k.a. the world we visit when we sleep. And he’s actually more of an antihero.”

“So no tights? No masks? No crime fighting?”

“Well it is a DC property, so there are some Batman-ish crossovers early on.” I fluttered my hand as if to wipe that all away. “But those dissipate later in the series. I promise, it’s not a superhero story. It’s contemporary magical realism combined with ancient mythology, told in both long-form and contained short story modes.”

At that point, I noticed how often you were glancing at the exit. Fortunately, you were very kind and decided to stay a while longer. You asked, “What would I like about it?”

“Well,” I said, easing back in my chair and inwardly smiling, because I was about to experience the joy of soliloquizing on a favorite subject. “The second volume is kinda perfect for Halloween. It’s about a serial killer convention and it’s super creepy. There’s also an issue where—minor spoiler—Satan quits being Satan and offers the key of Hell to Dream, then all these gods from ancient religions show up to bid on Hell itself. And in one of the most famous issues, William Shakespeare and his acting troupe perform A Midsummer Night’s Dream for the real Titania and Oberon. Puck shows up too. It’s great.”

“Whoa,” you said. “Sounds like quite the story. By the way, why didn’t you write all this as a generic blog post with a title like, ‘Why You Should Read Neil Gaiman‘s Sandman?'”

I shrugged. “I thought about it, but I figured this form would be more fun. And also way more pretentious.”

“True,” you agreed. “But anyway, the thing I find annoying about comic books is the entry point. The continuity shifts all the time and the villains never die and there’s no end to any story. If I wanted to read Spiderman, for instance, I’d have to sift through decades of character history, plus endless reboots and crossovers. There’s no way to read it all!”

At this point, I was feeling like a talking head on a postgame sports show. “That’s what’s so great about Sandman. You start with Volume one, Preludes and Nocturnes, and then finish with Volume 10, The Wake. Have I mentioned they have great titles? Granted, there are some spinoffs I heard were bad, plus another spinoff featuring Dream’s sister. Neil wrote it, it’s good. And there’s a prequel that’s also an epilogue, which is another sweet feat of storytelling. But basically, as long as you read one through 10, you get the complete story.”

“What if I’m not ready to commit?” you asked. “Because this sounds like a major commitment.”

“I prefer to view it as a lovely adventure. But I get it. You could start with the Audible audio adaptation, which features James McAvoy, Martin Sheen, Andy Serkis, and Kat Dennings. It’s fantastic. There’s also a Netflix series in the works, so we have that to look forward to. But if you read the comics now, you could be one of those snooty people like me who always reminds fans of the show that the books were better.”

“I’d rather not,” you said. “But you’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“So do you think you’ll read it?” I asked.

You finished the rest of that drink you like so much. “I’ll consider it. Now who’s picking up the check?”

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their cats, and their dog. He has written two books and numerous short stories, both published and yet-to-be published. He enjoys unusual narrative structures, multiple POVs, and stories that make readers laugh.

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