Category: Thoughts on Life (Page 2 of 3)

A Dad’s Review of Disney on Ice

January 9, 2023 / Kyle A. Massa

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 / Kyle A. Massa

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.

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

October 26, 2020 / Kyle A. Massa

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?”

Writing About Touchy Subjects

August 25, 2020 / Kyle A. Massa

Touchy subjects are interesting by nature. That’s why they’re fun to write about.

Take pineapple on pizza. People have exactly two opinions about pineapple on pizza:

Pizzas should be topped with nothing else
It makes a mockery of a perfectly good pie

I’ve somehow ended up in the middle on that one, which sort of undermines my point. Hmm…

For a better example, take religion. I’m writing about that for my current project, a novel entitled Eggs for the Ageless. It’s a story about a girl who accidentally creates a religion. The existing Gods and Goddesses of her world (the titular Ageless), are not happy.

My book’s religions are fictional, but they’re inspired by real ones, most notably Ancient Greek myths. Therefore, I’ve got a Goddess of Love and a God of War. But I tried adding a little humor, too, with a Goddess of Coffee and a God of Waste Management. Ya know, the essentials.

Controversy is interesting, but it’s also, well, controversial. That’s why I’ve given myself three rules when writing about religion, and touchy subjects in general. They are…

Rule #1: Play Both Sides

I once heard some excellent advice on writing controversial topics: You must argue both (or all) sides. Otherwise you lose conflict and fall into didacticism.

In other words, if all the bad guys in my book were religious and all the good guys non-religious (or vice versa), it would feel too preachy. I’m taking extra care to explore the merits of both sides. And honestly, if there really is a religion with a God of Coffee, I’ll convert today.

Furthermore, subjects often become touchy because there’s no objectively correct answer. Take politics, for example. Humankind has devised countless ways to organize society, and though some prefer certain structures over others, there’s no perfect way to run things. So, if you write about that touchy subject, play every side that makes sense.

Don’t just argue the benefits of, say, monarchies, in the style of Hamilton’s King George. Touch on all the touchy sides. (Although, I have to admit, King George kinda pulls it off.)

Rule #2: Provide a Range of Intensity

Every touchy subject has its fanatics and its casuals. In religious terms, consider the self-flagellating albino dude from The Da Vinci Code versus people who believe in God but don’t really pray or attend church. Though they’re technically on the same side, their belief carries a different intensity. So examine them both.

If you don’t, you’ll fall into the same trap of Rule #1. Imagine, for example, if every religious character in Eggs for the Ageless murdered people in the name of the Coffee Goddess. Not only would that be unfair to coffee drinkers—it would also be unfair to peaceful religious folks, of which the world has many.

I’ve got some fanatics in my book, sure. There’s Sarene, our main character’s mom, who’s so devoted that she tattoos her bare scalp with images of the Ageless (you don’t see that every day). But I’ve also added some laid-back religious types, such as the multi-talented Trast, who’s an early reader favorite so far.

People have strong opinions on touchy subjects, yes. But some are stronger than others. So it is in life, so it should be in writing.

Rule #3: Find the Humor

People have a tendency to dismiss funny stories as less meaningful than serious ones. I disagree. Humor is funny precisely because it gets to the heart of its target. Take this Oscar Wilde quote as an example:

“I think God, in creating man, somewhat overestimated his ability.”

For the religiously inclined, that’s a statement about how humans don’t always live up to God’s expectations. For the non-religious, it’s highlighting the comedic irony of a supposedly omnipotent God. Either way, it’s pretty funny—and certainly meaningful.

There’s humor hidden within most touchy subjects. We’ve covered religion, politics, and pizza—but hey, people can make jokes out of just about anything. Kurt Vonnegut, for example, could find humor in seemingly unfunny subjects. Like this…

“I have this disease late at night sometimes, involving alcohol and the telephone.”

Or this…

“Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning do to do afterward.”

Or this…

“Dear future generations: Please accept our apologies. We were rolling drunk on petroleum.”

If Vonnegut can find humor in greenhouse gas emissions, there’s humor to be found in pretty much any controversy. Especially pineapple on pizza.

Looking forward to writing more about touchy subjects in Eggs for the Ageless. More details to come.

Sideburns

May 4, 2020 / Kyle A. Massa

Ray Manzarek (and his sideburns)

A video version of this post is available here.

About the most rebellious thing I did in my teenage years was grow out my sideburns like Ray Manzarek.

You might know Ray Manzarek as the keyboardist for The Doors. You might know The Doors as the psychedelic rock group that did “Break on Through (To the Other Side),” or “Light My Fire,” or “The End,” or any number of other rock radio staples.

I discovered the man and the group because of the music they made. But on a purely cosmetic level, I really admired Ray Manzarek’s sideburns.

Refer to the picture above. Ray’s sideburns were long and thick and perfectly symmetrical. To me, they were an almost artistic continuation of hair down to the upper jawline. It’s easy to grow out a beard or a mustache, but sideburns are different; they require a certain finesse, a certain style to pull off.

Being a dopey 16-year-old, I went ahead and assumed I had the requisite finesse and style. So I let my sideburns grow. And grow. And grow some more. Actually, maybe “mutate” is a better word for what they did.

My Manzarek-inspired sideburns developed a texture similar to bristles on a brush. I feared that if I trimmed them I’d ruin them, so they exploded not only downward, but outward, to the point that they protruded from either side of my head, sort of like wings.

I’d show you a picture, only I feel like that would be like a horror director revealing the monster in the very first scene. What you come up with in your mind is always more frightening, anyway. Suffice it to say that my sideburns really didn’t look very good.

That fact, however, wasn’t especially important to me. What was important was that no one else at school looked like me, and I didn’t look like anyone else. I’d basically joined a party that had ended four decades prior, but whatever.

I think pretty much every American high school kid goes through this phase at some point in adolescence, this phase where we copy a behavior or a trend that seems unique, even though we’re making it less so by copying it. Only for my phase, I copied an anachronistic (and kind of gross) hairstyle.

I remember re-watching an old video of myself playing basketball during the Manzarek Sideburn Era, one that my dad had filmed. He’s talking with my cousin in the background, and my cousin asks where I am on the court. My dad says something like, “The floppy hair and the sideburns.” There’s a pause, and then my cousin says something like, “That’s an interesting look.” And then nobody says anything.

The sideburns died sometime during my junior year. My mom politely handed me an electric razor and encouraged me to at least trim the sideburns if I wanted to keep them.

Instead, I shaved them. The magic of the sideburns had dissipated. Besides, I’d been getting enough grief from my friends.

It’s funny how important those sideburns were for the short time I had them. The allure of facial hair to a teenage kid is something like tattoos to college students; it’s a form of self expression that goes beyond others because it’s right there on your skin, out where everyone can see it.

I still have sideburns, though now I trim them and they’re even with my eyes. I’ve attempted other hairstyles imitating other musicians; when I discovered Iron Maiden, for example, I very seriously wanted to grow my hair past my shoulders, a la Bruce Dickinson. It always grew outward but never downward, so eventually I gave up.

These days, I get a clean cut every few months. Sometimes I apply a little pomade to the front, but I’m afraid I’m getting too old for that look. That’s alright. A lesson I learned in high school: my hair is probably not my best medium of self expression. That’s what my crappy classic rock band t-shirts are for.

Maybe someday my Manzarek sideburns will return, perhaps if I’m forced into the witness protection program for some reason. But for now, I’ll stick with the hair I have. It’s a lot less itchy.

Kyle A. Massa is the author of the novel Gerald Barkley Rocks and the forthcoming short story collection Monsters at Dusk. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction. He lives somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats.

Two Pitchers

April 6, 2020 / Kyle A. Massa

Author’s Note: A video version of this post is also available here.

Nature’s Classroom is a sleepaway camp somewhere in New York State. As a fun excursion, sixth-grade students from Goff Middle School took an annual trip there to learn about conservation, wildlife, active living, and how to make convincing fart sounds while people were trying to sleep.

Nature’s Classroom was my first extended absence from home. I’d never spent an entire week without my parents, my sister, my dog Daisy, or my Game Boy Advance. It was a rough time for me. I remember being stressed and nervous and uncomfortable.

They had many rules at Nature’s Classroom. Don’t waste food, always consider your biological footprint, don’t jab each other in the stomach as a show of adolescent dominance (yes, we really did this before going to bed; we called it “Poke Wars”). Most often, we were lectured about proper nutritional habits. For example, the dangers of soda.

Now I’d be fine without soda. It’s not like I poured Fanta over my cereal or gargled with Moxie. I’m not Buddy the Elf or anything. But once in a while, soda was a special treat my parents allowed me to indulge. For instance, at a bowling alley birthday party one year, I remember informing them that my friends and I were “drunk on Sprite.” So yeah. I was a fan of soda.

That fandom didn’t go over well at Nature’s Classroom. One counselor, a dreadlocked, khaki shorts-sporting dude—we’ll call him Alfonso—preached the dangers of the beverage.

“Soda makes you fat,” he said, using the same grave tone Obi-Wan chose when describing how Anakin killed those younglings. “Soda gives you cavities. Soda hooks you with bright colors and carbonated fizz. But soda’s got zero nutritional value.”

Okay, I thought. Can I have some soda now?

The answer, tragically, was no. They did not serve soda at Nature’s Classroom, nor did they offer anything with even trace amounts of sugar in it. Our only options were water, milk, and some murky brown substance they claimed was unsweetened iced tea.

Yet on the last day of this week-long ordeal, Alfonso and his cohorts relented.

“You guys have been awesome,” he announced. “Like, a super group. So as a thank you, we wanted to give y’all something special…”

I gripped the lunch table. My eyes went wide. Soda, I thought. Say soda!

“Lemonade! We’ve got lemonade for everyone!”

Maybe not the gift I’d wished for, but I didn’t want to be rude. And as far as I was aware, the sugar content of the two beverages were pretty much the same. It would do.

“There’s a catch, though,” Alfonso added, lifting a soil-stained finger. “Your table has to finish your water pitcher before you get your lemonade, okay? Water, then lemonade.”

That was another Nature’s Classroom thing. You had to share a pitcher of water amongst the seven other poor saps at the table. I’m not sure what the lesson was there, except learning to hate the kids who poured too slowly.

Alright Alfonso, I thought as I downed my first glass. I’ll play your game, you sick bastard.

I felt a little like Gollum must’ve felt around the Ring. The only thing standing between me and my precious: This stupid pitcher of boring water.

Frustratingly, nobody at the table took more than a cup. They were busy reminiscing about all the fun times they shared the past few days, about how happy they were to see their families again.

Didn’t you people hear what Alfonso just said!? I wanted to scream at them. Lemonade! We can have lemonade! Look, I know it’s not root beer, but come on. Help me out, here!

Nobody did. So I put the team on my back. I felt like Jordan in the fourth quarter of the ‘98 Finals, Game Six. I must’ve slammed at least that many glasses of water, if not more.

Then came my reward. Alfonso nodded approvingly, then returned with a pitcher of golden lemonade. And I thought, You know what? I worked hard for this. No. I earned this. I deserve as much lemonade as I want.

I didn’t even bother sharing with my ungrateful tablemates. From that pitcher, I’d estimate I drank a good 75, 80 percent.

“Okay,” said Mr. B., my sixth grade science teacher. “Get on the bus, people. We’re going home.”

I think I made it 30 minutes before the pain set it.

You know that scene in Alien when the creature bursts out of John Hurt’s chest? That’s what my groin area felt like. I expressed my growing discomfort to my friends, Jimmy and Jeremy. They’re still two of my best friends to this day—though after recalling this story, I have to wonder why.

I was looking for some encouraging words from my pals, you know? Maybe a, “Hey, you’ll be alright!” or a, “Don’t worry, your bladder won’t be totally ruined.” Instead, they pointed out every rushing body of water we passed, whether real or imaginary.

“Did you see that garden hose over there?” Jimmy asked, tapping on the window. “I think it was trickling.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Jeremy countered from across the aisle. “I heard it was, like, gushing. Just spraying everywhere.”

This was not helping. With about two hours to go, I removed my seatbelt—despite what my parents would advise—to relieve the pressure on my abdomen. I also hunkered down in the seat and covered my face, and maybe cried a little.

At this point, one of the chaperones said, “You guys better lay off that kid. He looks like he’s gonna pee his pants.” An astute observation.

At about the halfway mark, I turned to Mr. B. and pleaded, “Mr. B. Can we please stop the bus? I really, really need to go to the bathroom.”

To which the merciless Mr. B. snapped, “Nope. We are not stopping.” Evidently, he hadn’t had as much fun at Nature’s Classroom as the kids.

So that left me with two options. Option A: Endure the pain and try my best to ignore Jim and Jer’s aquatic quips. Or, Option B: Release, and be forever known as that kid who peed his pants somewhere along I-90.

I wasn’t a stellar test taker, but even I knew the answer to that one. So I gritted my teeth, squeezed my crotch, and reminded myself, There’s no place like home. Or better yet, a bathroom.

Miraculously, I arrived at the Goff parking lot with mostly dry Levi’s (there might’ve been a few dribbles). There awaited everyone’s parents and siblings to greet us. They stood on the sidewalk, waving and smiling and pointing and waving some more. Finally, after so long apart, we could all go home together.

Not now, family.

Before the bus even stopped, I was ramming fellow classmates aside. I had no choice, really; I was near the back and I couldn’t afford to be polite. When I reached the front, I leapt off the steps and ran not toward, but away from my family. It hurt to do it, but it hurt more to hold in all that lemonade.

For the record, I did make it to the bathroom before the floodgates opened. I stood at the urinal for oh, 15 minutes, give or take. Still the most relieving bathroom break I’ve ever taken.

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. 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 about cats.

Lessons From Cats

March 16, 2020 / Kyle A. Massa

Let’s talk about cats.

Cats are great. I didn’t fully understand this fact until my wife and I got cats of our own (pictured above), but it’s true. They’re fun, sometimes strange little animals, but we can learn a lot from them.

Let’s discuss the greatness and majesty of our feline friends, and how we might better emulate them.

Cats Are Forgiving

Our cats love to play, though I’ll admit, animal playing is more like wrestling, or sometimes fisticuffs. They beat each other up, they take naps, and when they wake up, they’re friends again. Until the next fight.

Takeaway: If you’ve got a problem with someone, let them know, and then get over it. No cat-style wrestling necessary. The nap is optional, but comes highly recommended.

Cats Are Friendly (Sometimes)

I used to think cats didn’t like people, but that’s not really true. Sure, some cats are like that. But most of the time they’re selective; they have people that they establish a rapport with over time, and then you’re buddies for life. You also get bonus points toward cat friendship if you happen to be the one supplying them with food every morning.

Takeaway: We don’t need to be selective, necessarily, but we should surround ourselves with people that make us happy. And if those people give us food, that’s cool, too.

Cats Find Joy in the Little Things

Soley, our orange cat, has a favorite toy. It’s a stick with a fuzzy bee on the end of it. That’s it. She doesn’t have a laptop computer and she doesn’t really care for cars. Aside from that app designed for cats, she doesn’t give a fig about my phone.

I’m not trying to be all “discard your earthly possessions, man.” I’m just saying we humans can take note. Sometimes it feels like we need big flashy things to be happy, but we really don’t. There are simple things in life, and we should cherish them, too.

Takeaway: Find your stick with a fuzzy bee on the end of it, and enjoy.

Cats Are Funny

Luna, our grey and black cat, likes to climb on my shoulders and purr in my ear. Soley enjoys walking up to us, meowing once, and then walking away. I’m not sure if they mean to be funny, but they are.

For humans, the lesson is clear: Let’s not forget the importance of laughter! There’s no better link between people (and animals) than a good loud laugh.

Takeaway: Laughter is universal, no matter what language you speak.

Cats Have Their Own International Holiday

Yes, there is such a thing as International Cat Day. Clearly, this day was established not by humans, but by cats themselves. There’s no International Human Day, which makes me think felines are a step ahead.

Takeaway: If you want to be more like a cat, establish your own international holiday. It can’t be that hard, right?

Hot Sauce and the Importance of Humor

March 3, 2020 / Kyle A. Massa

Hot Sauce

When I was in college, I made a movie for an introductory film course. It was not very good.

It was called 61 Days, and it was about a guy with a terminal illness. He’s been given the cliche timeline: just two months, sixty-one days, and then whappo. He croaks. So he decides to go on a cross-country adventure with his brother.

I must say, I packed an impressive amount of emo voiceover and sappy closeups into those five minutes. The best is the final shot: a slow-motion closeup on the main character’s Hallmark grin, one that seems to say, “It’s all gonna be alright.”

The final cut of 61 Days was screened in a theater in downtown Ithaca, New York, along with about forty others. Most were quite impressive. Most of us showed a lot of promise as filmmakers. But here’s what really struck me about those films: in terms of subject matter, the vast majority of them were like mine. They were depressing, melodramatic, insistently gloomy. Everyone’s movie depicted a bad breakup, substance abuse, mental illness, or, like my film, someone dying. If I had to sum up the afternoon in a single sentence, it would be this: “Look at me, I’m sad.”

Of the forty or so films screened that day, only one sticks in my mind as more than a generality. It was about a guy who travels back in time to feudal Japan in order to steal an ancient hot sauce recipe. The movie featured samurai sword fights, goofy one-liners, and intentionally-poor lip dubs.

Everyone laughed. Everyone thought it was hilarious. But secretly, I’m pretty sure everyone was thinking the same thing: Amusing, but certainly not an A+ film. The unspoken understanding, of course, was that humor is not art. It’s just funny.

But is it? When I watched that samurai movie, I felt a little lighter. I felt happy, at ease, even inspired. But when I watched my film and all those others, I quite frankly don’t even remember how I felt.

The samurai film made me realize something: we all take ourselves too seriously. I took myself too seriously when I made a film that was identical to forty others. I said to myself, “I’m a serious filmmaker, so I’m going to make a serious film.” And sure, I did that. But I also made a film that was pretty forgettable.

Out of everyone in that class, the guy who made the hot sauce film was the only one of us willing to set aside his own ego. And, for that reason, he made a film that was far more memorable than the others.

Does that mean that comedy is superior to drama? No, not necessarily. In truth, in the artistic world, the reverse is far more often true. Adam McKay directed Anchorman, but no one seemed to recognize him as a true artist until he directed The Big Short (and now this year’s Dick Cheney biopic, Vice). To paraphrase Ron Burgundy, that’s kind of a big deal.

Yet we can’t discount the value of humor. If everyone could stop taking themselves so seriously, if everyone learned to just laugh at disagreements rather than fight over them, I think we’d all have a much better time. We all deserve to laugh. And, at times, we all deserve to be laughed at. Good humor is just as valuable as good drama.

I never met the guy who made the samurai hot sauce film, but I wish I had. I imagine he’s a pretty cool dude. If I had asked him why he made his film, I imagine his response wouldn’t have started with, “My inspiration was born of my desire to explore the true nature of what it means to be a condiment…”

Instead, I think he would’ve said something like, “I made it because I wanted to make people laugh.” And that’s all the reason I would need.

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction. His debut novel, Gerald Barkley Rocks, is available now on Amazon Kindle.

Podcasts I’ll Never Make

February 25, 2020 / Kyle A. Massa

Podcast

I’ve had several ideas for podcasts I’ll never make.

For example, a show called Questions. As the title suggests, it would just be people asking each other questions. But you wouldn’t be able to make statements or exclamations or really anything without a question mark at the end. Some sample questions for Questions:

What is this show about?
Why did we make this show?
Is anyone listening?

Or what about a Magic: The Gathering podcast? These are plentiful. Most involve nerds discussing ways in which to improve at the collectible card game Magic: The Gathering. So, to differentiate mine from others, it would instead be a show about getting worse at Magic. I’d call it The Magic: The Crappening Podcast. For players who’ve done enough winning and now want to try losing for a change.

Another idea: The Cat Podcast. Cat news, cat fashion, hot new cat toys, that kind of stuff. My cats would be my co-hosts. I would cover the topics and they would periodically purr, meow, or maybe hiss if they happen to be fighting.

But what’s the point of doing a podcast if you’re not making money from it? The trick is duping advertisers into sponsoring your show. This would be a challenge since, as I’m sure you’ve already gathered, all my show ideas are terrible. Therefore, a few ploys come to mind.

First off, I might fib about the show’s subject. “Is this really a show about cats?” they’d ask. And I’d answer, “Well, ‘cat’ is actually an acronym for ‘Cabbage and Tomatoes.'” At which point I’d collect a sizeable novelty sponsorship check from Farmers of America. (They had a five-minute Super Bowl ad a while back, so they must have deep pockets.)

Then again, when the farmers listen to the show and hear nothing about cabbage or tomatoes, the jig would be up. I guess I’d be better off attracting sponsors honestly. I could see Meow Mix or the abominable 2019 film Cats sponsoring The Cat Podcast, for instance.

There’s also the matter of theme music. Full disclosure: I play music in a band, so I suppose I could ask my bandmates to do a song with me. However, another full disclosure: I am not a particularly skilled musician. The rest of the members of the band are, but I pretty much just play three-finger chords and occasionally sing like a karaoke drunkard.

That leaves us with two options: stock music or a hired rando. Stock music is boring and my parents always warned me about the danger of strangers, so we’re back to the drawing board.

Finally, for all you know, my voice could sound like Fozzie Bear’s. Not exactly podcast friendly.

So I think it’s safe to say I won’t be starting a podcast anytime soon. And since I won’t be using these podcast ideas, feel free to use them yourself.

Except the cat one. That one might actually work.

Staying Shameless When Self Promoting

November 5, 2018 / Kyle A. Massa

For writers, self promotion is like visiting the doctor: necessary, but often uncomfortable.

Whether online or in person, self promotion can feel a little icky sometimes. So, when it comes down to tooting our own horns, here are some tips on how to toot without feeling guilty.

For starters, remember that everyone, even non-writers, must promote themselves now and then. Take the job interview, for instance. We show up with a piece of paper listing our GPA, accomplishments, and past employment. Then we talk about ourselves for an hour. Promoting our writing is no different, and no less essential.

Even if we don’t like promoting ourselves, I’m sure we all like the work we promote. Why else would we spend so much time on it? We write because we love what we write, plain and simple. We should never feel bad about sharing that love with others.

A great way to overcome the initial discomfort of self promotion is to pretend you’re a publicist for another writer. Pretend that your favorite author wrote your book and that you’re telling a friend why you love it. What makes it special? What makes it unlike other books? I’m sure you’ve done this before with someone else’s book, so try it with your own.

A truism of writing applies to self promotion as well: show, don’t tell. In the above picture, my cat Luna orders you to buy her book. This form of self promotion is a tad aggressive. I’ve seen a lot of writers do it, both online and in person. I’ve done it myself a few times. Trust me—it doesn’t fly. Luna might instead share her published work on her website (see how shameless I was there?). If visitors like what they see, they’ll be far more likely to do as she says and buy her book.

Yes, self promotion feels weird. But we need to do it. So instead of feeling weird about it, let’s embrace it. Let’s have fun with it. It’s called shameless self promotion for a reason.