Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Everyone should do it at least once in their life.

Speak on the radio, I mean.

While promoting my new book (search for my name on Amazon if you’re curious), I had the honor of being interviewed live (via telephone) on Nashville’s Super Talk 99.7.

(Not that I haven’t broadcast live from a studio before. Forty-something years ago, my career as a DJ came to a screeching halt after a single comedy-of-errors weekend. In the weeks following that catastrophe, when the word “frequency” came up locally, it had less to do with signal modulation than “Just how often will the sheriff let us tar and feather someone?”)

I’m glad I built up the nerve to do the interview.

Like many people, I am self-conscious about my voice. Sure, when my utterances go straight from my mouth to my ears, I imagine myself subbing for Patrick Stewart onstage in “Macbeth” or exchanging urbane witticisms with the fabled Algonquin Round Table. But when I hear my voice on a tape recorder or other such device, I remind myself of Huckleberry Hound with his bow tie on too tight.

Some people have a face made for radio. I have a voice made for hieroglyphs.

I’ll admit that I overprepared for the interview. Sure, the cough drops IV unit was marginally defensible, and I may yet find a venue for the six-act hand puppet biography of Guglielmo Marconi; but I could still face litigation for disabling every toilet within the range of hearing and simultaneously gagging the Ty-D-Bol Man.

The genial host invited me to relax and treat it like a normal one-on-one conversation, but my brain has a built-in translator. A benign query such as “What inspired you to write this book?” becomes as stressful as “When you sign this 40-year mortgage, you do realize we’ll know where you live, right?” or “Just what are your intentions with my virgin daughter, you young punk?”

On the other hand, it’s hard to take yourself too seriously when you know that while half the listeners are hanging on your every word, the thoughts of the other half drift toward, “Oooo, I hope they rerun the jingle with the yodeling vinyl siding today!”

All in all, it was a great experience. I hope you seize your own radio opportunities.

Voice your opinion on a political show. Phone in and prognosticate on a sports show. Compete in a trivia contest. Announce a birthday or anniversary. Publicize your civic organization. Don’t be a wallflower when an on-air personality does a remote broadcast from one of your favorite businesses.

You’ll get a priceless ego boost when friends and acquaintances laud you as a celebrity. But remain vigilant as you enjoy your 15 minutes of fame. I keep expecting the IRS to connect the dots. (“Hmm. 15 minutes of fame. Time is money. Audit time! KA-CHING!”)

And it might be even more than 15 minutes of fame. We tend to think of radio broadcasts as having less permanence than a book, but those radio waves just keep traveling through the universe.

Perhaps someday they’ll reach intelligent life thousands of light-years away.

“Dude! It’s just like those earth signals I picked up forty-something years ago. Huckleberry Hound is still their leader! Have they never heard of term limits??? Somebody just go ahead and give me an alien autopsy right now!”

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Copyright 2023 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

I am definitely a product of the great American melting pot, but on both sides of the family, a Scots-Irish ancestry is prominent.

(Some distant cousin with too much time on his hands traced my mother’s maternal grandmother’s line back to 1557 in Ireland. But come to think of it, if the distant cousin also had too much Guinness beer in his hands while researching genealogy, the family history may only go back to last August in Antarctica instead. No wonder we’ve never had any reunions.)

I hope that Saint Patrick’s Day survives well into the future, but I see trends that may make for an unrecognizable celebration within a few decades.

Let’s be realistic. The whole “saint” idea will become increasingly problematic as the secularization of culture continues. Someday soon we may celebrate Celtic/Gaelic culture by spotlighting Patrick the Guy with the Really Outstanding Social Credit Score.

Oops. Did I say “guy”? I forgot that “Hollywood Reporter” says the reboot calls for the hero to be Patricia. And, remaining scrupulously faithful to the source material, she and her kick-butt sisters import snakes into Ireland!

The coveted four-leaf clover may not be such a rare commodity in the future. If we don’t get train derailments and toxic spills under control, we could wind up with abundant four-leaf clovers, two-headed leprechauns, unending river dances (“I’m not dancing – my legs are having violent spasms!”), etc.

Speaking of leprechauns, those fabled pots o’ gold will doubtless get a makeover. (“Cast iron pots of gold? That’s so irresponsible! We’re going with biodegradable paper pots of gold! That will make sure – begorrah, no one told me it was going to rain! The gold is washing away and me Lucky Charms are getting soggy!”)

Persistent water shortages could make those dye-the-river-green events like Chicago’s a thing of the past. (“Hey, I dug out the color wheel from the city’s old aluminum Christmas tree. Let’s shine it on this endangered wetland over here. Is everybody having fun?”)

Diehard Anthony Fauci fans may cause trouble for seasonal clothing vendors. Millions of perfectly wearable festive shirts will need to be replaced with ones emblazoned with the message “Kiss My Mask, I’m Irish – and Septuple-Vaccinated and Doing A Pub Crawl on Stilts.”

“Corned locust and cabbage.” That may not sound like a palate pleaser to you, but dietary transitions accelerated by climate change will create new culinary traditions. Of course, it may take some subtle persuasion. (“You can still have corned beef, but it comes with a side of lectures from Al Gore and Greta Thunberg. Or you could eat corned locust and cabbage in solitude.” “Pass the locust! I’ll take a shillelagh to the first person who comes between me and a barbecued exoskeleton!”

Will the telling of tall tales remain as a pivotal part of Saint Patrick’s Day? Perhaps, but more likely, certain websites will denounce it as “Fake blarney! Fake blarney!”

I hope you’ll take part in a traditional Saint Patrick’s Day parade while you still can. I’m not sure how much longer government officials will tolerate them, especially in high-taxation states.

“Hey – they’re not stopping at the designated end of the parade route! All the marchers are making a break for the state border! I’ll bet the ingrates are migrating to the low-tax state of Antarctica! Not a state??? Darn those failing schools!”)

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Copyright 2023 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

I’m heartbroken that cartoonist Scott Adams recently self-destructed — but hold the presses! This big, beautiful world still has plenty of comic strips to tickle our funny bones.

Don’t believe me? I crunched the numbers and realized that on a good day, I read some 138 comic strips and panels!

(On a GREAT day, I place some 138 comic strips and panels in a folder marked “Tomorrow,” put on my wife’s favorite mood music, go pantsless like Ziggy and…well, this being a family newspaper, never mind. Mary Worth’s ticker couldn’t handle the details.)

My obsession has grown with time and technology, but my interest in the funnies goes way back. I have a photograph of myself at less than two years old, “reading” the Sunday comics. I couldn’t get enough of Donald Duck, Henry, Li’l Abner, Maggie and Jiggs and the rest.

Back then, I never dreamed I would someday have the comics-reading opportunities I enjoy now. (No, I probably dreamed about Henry, Abner, Maggie and Jiggs going duck hunting. Hey, my father could have canceled the subscription if my nightmares messed with his sleep that much.)

Of course, it requires some furious speed reading to achieve my daily goal of slapstick and wry observation; but I don’t think I sacrifice anything in comprehension. Andy Capp did get ordained as a minister, didn’t he? And Prince Valiant is rocking that shaved head, right?

Comic strips have given me a different take on social rejection. I now say, “I don’t have to stay where I’m not wanted…unless it’s at Mr. Wilson’s house.” I’m such a menace.

“The Family Circus” has rewired my brain to the extent that I’m terrified of traffic stops. If asked if I knew that I ran a stop sign, I would probably burst out with “Ida Know” and “Not Me.” I’m glad I don’t drink, because a field sobriety test would doubtless have me leaving little dotted lines all over the neighborhood.

Comic strips and religious observance sometimes clash. When the preacher encourages me to think about Something Bigger Than Myself, my first thought is, “What? My appetite for lasagna?”

A good comics page balances heartwarming “legacy” comic strips with “edgy” new entries. (Ever get the idea that newspaper syndicate salesmen are trapped in Bill Murray’s “Groundhog Day”? Every morning they find the same word on their Word of the Day calendar!)

Forgive me if I’ve locked myself into a pattern of quantity over quality. Some of the legacy strips are three generations removed from their creator and stopped being funny in the Harry S Truman administration. (“The punchline stops here.”)

And some of the hipster strips take such a long-winded, meandering, navel-gazing route that you can well imagine the cartoonist begging, “Please, I need to intrude upon the Sudoku puzzle and maybe take just a smidge of the sports page…”

I hope I’m reaching kindred spirits here. We could all use an extra smile or two each day. And while serialized adventure strips are way past their heyday, we can still use heroes to inspire us.

Granted, we can never quite live up to the heroic standards of the stalwart comic strip doctors, judges and super-heroes. Take for instance, The Phantom. “The Ghost Who Walks” has only inspired me to be the Ghostly Pale Guy Who Sits On His Butt Reading 138 Comic Strips and Panels.

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Copyright 2023 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

I just heard about a local business losing a major customer over a trivial misunderstanding.

Most of us hate change and maintain loyalty to a brand or retailer through thick and thin. True, this veers into creepiness in extreme cases, such as refusing to outgrow your old pediatrician. (“But I don’t trust anyone else with my ED issues, doc. Do you happen to have a lollipop and the latest ‘Humpty Dumpty’ magazine to ease my mid-life crisis?”)

And I know it’s difficult to relinquish trusted lawyers, accountants or other professionals. Which reminds me of my friend Dinsdale, his recently deceased insurance agent and the whole séance thing. (“Is that you that Madame Zelda conjured up, Frank? I figured you could give me some advice since you’ve looked at term life insurance from both sides now…”)

But occasionally, either an unforgivable one-off customer service faux pas or the steady drip, drip, drip of aggravations pushes consumers to the breaking point and unleashes their righteous indignation.

I know my wife and I switched propane companies because of the way management fired a sick employee. And we have sworn off a local restaurant because the waiter refused to honor the price posted on the front door (and the manager was never available when we tried to get satisfaction).

Cost, quality and timeliness can all be areas of concern. Have you ever had a relationship with an independent contractor that never quite got off the ground? (“This is Joe from The Turbo-Charged Handyman. Am I speaking to Mr. Eduardo Hickenlooper? Oh, Mr. Eduardo Hickenlooper the third? I guess that was your grandfather and father who left so many messages. Anyhow, we’re ready to schedule installing your asbestos…”)

Sometimes an obnoxious or incompetent individual employee is the bone of contention. Sometimes a systemic new store policy is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Such policies might include having to scan your own groceries, losing the right to free drink refills, discovering that the business automatically tacks on gratuities for the store mannequins, etc.

Sometimes clerks, mechanics, etc. are clearly in the wrong. Sometimes the customer is demonstrably unreasonable. And sometimes there is a gray area. But if the gray area involves 10 acres of landscaping, refer back to the first point.

Don’t get trigger-happy with the old “The customer is always right” gambit. Think about it. You mean all those fun-loving Gestapo agents were invariably in the right when they ran their errands? (“Ve haff vays of making you validate parking.”)

I’m not sure which is worse: the irate customers who launch into a profanity-laced spectacle in a crowded business or the people who fade away without telling management why or warning their peers. (“Hey, look at the headline, honey. Someone ELSE disturbed that nest of boa constrictors in the restroom at O’Malley’s Gym. Guess maybe I should’ve sent that Yelp review after all. Live and learn.”)

Strive for an amicable resolution of problems. Count to 10 before saying something you may regret, but don’t forget to show some backbone. Understandably, this is difficult if the backbone is the issue. (“I know this was just supposed to be a root canal, but somehow I removed your spine as well. My bad.”)

Discuss your problems like adults. Unless some booger-head has already colored all the pictures in ‘Humpty Dumpty’! Then tantrums are downright upright.

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Copyright 2023 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

I was saddened to hear of the death of Dr. Glenn Himebaugh, co-founder of the journalism department at my alma mater, Middle Tennessee State University.

Although I hadn’t kept in touch with Dr. Himebaugh since graduation 40 years ago, I have to wonder what he thought of the current reality and public perception of the journalism field.

Sadly, trust in journalism has been underwater in surveys for at least two decades.

Whether you attribute it to bias, hubris or groupthink, newspeople (reporters, editors, publishers and broadcasters) – especially on the national level – suffer innumerable self-inflicted wounds.

Retractions receive perhaps one-tenth the prominence of the original error.

Stealth-editing of archived articles is the antithesis of accountability.

Sensationalized headlines prey upon readers who don’t have the time to trudge their way to the more nuanced information buried in the 13th paragraph.

Some reporters can’t get through a press conference without the all-purpose “Some people are saying…” ploy.

“Bombshell” after “bombshell” after “bombshell” fizzles out, revealing more about the wishful thinking of the reporter than the people or institutions they’re covering.

One public figure gets asked, “Who do you like in the World Series?” Another gets asked, “When did you stop beating your wife?”

“Ready, shoot, aim” seems to be the default reaction in the dreaded “24/7 news cycle.”

Words are tweaked for the most manipulative connotation. Favored people “state” things. The wrong people “claim” things.

Race and political affiliation get mentioned only when it serves some agenda (*ahem* Higher Purpose).

The media jealously guard the secret blend of herbs and spices that determines how one gets to be an “expert,” what constitutes a “person close to the situation,” how the valued whistleblowers are separated from the disgruntled cranks, what distinguishes an “independent fact-checker,” what defines an “extremist,” when a sensitive topic gets cushioned with “context” and when it’s left to twist in the wind, etcetera. “Trust me” requires some minimal basis for trust.

Don’t get me started on those three exasperating words: “nothing has surfaced.” Nothing has surfaced??? Bulletin: it’s not the job of journalists to wait for things to surface!

(I picture an underworld informant going missing for three weeks, his apartment left in shambles and the police refusing to investigate it as foul play until the corpse dislodges from the cement overshoes and bobs to the surface.)

Get off your butts, do some digging, show us your expense report for shoe leather. If you ask the fox guarding the henhouse, “Did you do anything incompetent or corrupt?” and they swear they didn’t, don’t grin and assert that you’ve done your due diligence.

Remember the film “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance”? Too many journalists have adopted the iconic line “When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.” No, facts are facts. Legends may become more embellished or more useful for steering the public, but they do not grow more rooted in objective reality with the passage of time. Stuff happens because stuff happens, not because it’s needed for some grand, noble narrative.

I’m confident that Dr. Himebaugh and his colleagues trained many journalists who have upheld high standards of accuracy, fairness, honesty and public service.

If there are such dedicated newspeople in your community, don’t hesitate to thank them.

But let’s all seize every opportunity to shame the bullies who give the journalism profession a black eye.

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Copyright 2023 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Who needs forensics and gunfire?

My wife and I have been catching up on episodes of “The Mysteries of Laura,” the 2014-2016 NBC series starring Debra Messing. Forget murders and chases. The real reason the show resonates with me is because as Laura Diamond juggles the duties of a single mother and police detective, she’s understandably a slob with her car.

Yes, my poor Altima gets woefully neglected inside and out. It’s a magnet for the abundant tree sap in my yard and the interior is home to an archive of fast-food wrappers, receipts, seasonal changes of clothing, mail I dread taking to the kitchen table, books discarded by the public library, broken CDs, etc. No room for an air freshener “tree,” so I duct-tape a couple of Tic Tac mints to the rearview mirror.

It’s like the mobile version of that legendary school locker that houses everything. I mean, there are definitely science experiments being conducted on the floorboard. And I suspect that if I ever have a collision, instead of the airbag deploying, I’ll be greeted with a voice that advises, “Walk it off, walk it off.”

My conveyance has devolved into the opposite of the trope about new cars. You know, “As soon as you drive it off the dealer lot, it loses half its value.” No, whenever I drive off a parking lot, the real estate value of the lot doubles.

Although my car is a 2010 model, it’s a throwback to the 50s. Back then, lots of cars had FINS, and I wouldn’t bet against there being an aquarium somewhere in all the clutter.

Some guys baby their car because of a midlife crisis. I face more of a midwife crisis. (“I think another mouse is experiencing a breech birth in the trunk!”)

I know. You’re supposed to take pride in your vehicle and display it as a status symbol. Well, here’s my status: I’ve got a life! When sandblasting, vacuuming, waxing and decluttering become The Most Important Thing to Do Today, I’ll buckle down. But after all this time, the National Audubon Society fears I would disrupt the migratory pattern of all North American birds. (“Divebomb!”)

Yes, I could stop at one of those Saturday morning fundraiser carwashes, but I would feel guilty about the copious amount of elbow grease it would require. A carwash should be a fun entrepreneurial enterprise for teens, not a lesson in indentured servitude. I’m not out to proselytize, either – I would hate to force the Methodist Youth Group to send out for an exorcist.

Granted, my situation makes me more cautious about traffic violations. You don’t want to hear “May I please see your license and registration?” when your glove compartment is prone to projectile vomiting.

I struggle not to be jealous of those of you who have the time, money and energy to keep your vehicle immaculate. We all have our troubles. (“Oh, pooh, Biff! I ran over a unicorn and it’s going to take AAA a whole five minutes to get here and clean it up.”)

Sometimes I do get riled up about the “perfect” people and daydream about really telling them off, but then a little voice whispers in my ear, “Buddy, can you let us out of the back seat near that big tent? If we’re late, the ringmaster will hire 12 NEW clowns.”

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Copyright 2023 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Not everyone does Valentine’s Day well.

A significant number of people are too unromantic, lazy, cheap or unimaginative to make the best of the occasion.

Don’t despair if you fall into one of those categories. Some of the most prominent people in history have been romantic duds. For instance…

Philosopher René Descartes, who declared, “I think, therefore I am going to break up with her before I have to buy a Valentine’s Day gift.”

King Arthur, who fumed, “Isn’t it enough that I splurged for a round table? I draw the line at using sissified coasters on it!”

Library reformer Melvil Dewey, who invariably told women he met in bars, “No, don’t give me your number. I’ll assign you one.”

Economist Adam Smith, who confessed, “Nations have wealth, but I’m tapped out. Let’s go Dutch treat for Valentine dinner.”

Charles Dickens, who had lots of time to reconsider his critique, “It was the best of kisses, it was the worst of kisses…”

Renaissance polymath Nicolaus Copernicus, who blundered into pointing out, “The world really doesn’t revolve around you, dear. I can prove it…”

P.T. Barnum, who proclaimed, “There’s a younger trophy wife born every minute.”

Painter Salvador Dali, who made the excuse, “Sorry I’m late for our date, but have you seen this piece of crap watch that some guy on the corner sold me?”

George Washington, who beamed, “I cannot tell a lie. That dress does make you look fat. Whoa – put down that hatchet!”

Leonardo da Vinci, who delivered the regrettable greeting, “Enigmatic smile – or just gas? Let me guess! Let me guess!”

Pres. Herbert Hoover, who bullied, “There! A chicken in every pot! Now start cooking, woman!”

Winston Churchill, who proclaimed, “I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat. So, if you’re looking for a bouquet, you’re up the Thames without a paddle.”

Marc Antony, who explained, “Friends. Romans. Countrymen. I could have sworn I told you that all of them are tagging along on our date.”

The captain of the Titanic, who snapped, “Putting the toilet seat down? Yes, I prioritize that right after rearranging the deck chairs.”

Russian tsar Peter the Great, who reminded his date, “I’m Peter the Great and you’re Arm Candy the Adequate.”

Physicist Erwin Schrodinger, who told his significant other, “The chocolates in this box – I have both saved them just for you AND eaten them all. Gimme a quantum kiss.”

Philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, who exclaimed, “If whatever doesn’t kill me only makes me stronger, I ought to be freakin’ Superman after paying for that stretch limo!”

J.R.R. Tolkien, who made the excuse, “My knee hurts too much, and who cares about a ring, anyway?”

Martin Luther, who encouraged his date to be uninhibited and “Dance like nobody’s posting negative reviews of it on the church door.”

Benjamin Franklin, who groused, “Who really needs a candlelit dinner? Here, hold this kite string.”

Karl Marx, who mansplained, “From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs. Wait, do you really need another pair of pumps?”

Try your best to have a fun Valentine’s Day. Think positive thoughts, rather than dwelling on poor Galileo Galilei, who gushed, “I dropped everything to be with you tonight. Unfortunately, I dropped it off the top of the Leaning Tower of Pisa without yelling, ‘Look out below!’”

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Copyright 2023 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Middle-class philanthropy may be dying.

Citing a study released by the Indiana University Lilly Family School of Philanthropy, “National Review” magazine says the share of American households donating to charity nosedived from 66 percent in 2000 to 50 percent in 2018.

And only one-third of the decline was directly attributable to economic hardships, with the remainder coming from decreases in interpersonal trust, decline in empathy and an unfortunate “give until it hurts” loophole that lets people identify as the Princess and the Pea. (“Ouch! I got whiplash signing that donation. This lawsuit will pay for a heck of a lot of pea-free mattresses.”)

Sure, millionaire donors and prestigious foundations are doing a bang-up job of funding museums, metropolitan hospitals and trendy causes (“I’m pledging one million dollars to the Make A Wish Foundation For Endangered Mussels, just as soon as the mussels, um, develop enough of a brain to actually make a, you know, WISH”).  But local charities such as animal shelters, soup kitchens and libraries are continually tightening their belts and dealing with neighbors who mutter, “I gave at the Zoom meeting. Yeah, that’s the ticket.”

(Ever notice that the people who insist “charity begins at home” are the same jokers who grab the last piece of chicken, hog the blanket and leave a trail of dirty laundry? But I digress.)

No matter how many veterans need rides or parks need beautifying, we find ways to create even more dilemmas. (“Ow! I detached my retina and walked into traffic while trying not to make eye contact with fundraisers. A little help, please?”)

Some analysts connect the dots between the erosion of community involvement and the decline in religious affiliation. In 2004, 46 percent of households gave money to churches or other religious organizations. As of 2018, that had dropped to just 29 percent of households. (“What Would Jesus Do? YOU say he would volunteer at the homeless shelter. I say he would change water to Roth IRAs. Agree to disagree.”)

I know there are highly motivated, civic-minded young people out there; but by and large, there is a discernible difference in the work ethic and charity ethic of different generations. (“But, like if the old dude dies because he can’t pay his heating bill, he can buy another life, can’t he? What? For real?”)

Let’s all keep our eyes open for opportunities and dig a little deeper for good causes to which we can contribute our money, time, talents or hideous sweaters that we can convince great-aunt Hilda need dry cleaning every time she inquires about them.

Widespread giving has been described as the “lifeblood of civil society” and we must brainstorm ways to get the blood pumping again.

I know it won’t be easy. The law of inertia has worked mightily to chip away at traditional dedication to charity. People got out of the habit of giving because of a temporary economic setback or because government agencies seemed to have things under control, and it’s hard to get back in gear.

Unfortunately, identifying that problem leads to other problems. Since it’s the law of inertia getting the blame, some rabblerouser will inevitably lead a group of volunteers to desecrate the grave of Sir Isaac Newton.

(“I’m not too keen on the law of universal gravitation, either. And his fig bars stink.”)

*Sigh* Anybody want to volunteer as a tutor?

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Copyright 2023 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

According to a recent Wall Street Journal article, the demand for older models in the fashion and cosmetics industries is exploding.

Sorry. Perhaps “exploding” is a trigger word. It might give some of the most seasoned models flashbacks of “the rocket’s red glare, bombs bursting in air.”

That’s right. When I say “older,” I am not simply referencing hints of gray. Cosmetics juggernaut L’Oréal currently employs Helen Mirren (age 77) and Jane Fonda (age 85), and those celebrities are just the “young chicks” compared to other spokespeople out there hawking makeup and clothing.

(I’m still trying to secure an interview with one model who alleges, “When I started, the whole fashion line consisted of fig leaves. My best friend failed to moisturize and turned into a pillar of salt. You couldn’t strut your stuff on the runway until the waters parted.”)

For too long, mature women have let college-age influencers, teens or even creepily sexualized preteens set an impossible standard of beauty for them. (“Wait – before you bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan, be sure to warm up by doing the splits and decorating the homecoming float.”)

Bless the ladies for whom “class” means something other than copying the school brain’s algebra test.

Good genes, diet, exercise, skincare and attitude have given society a plethora of older women who are stunningly beautiful. (So I am told. I hate when my wife reads over my shoulder!) Yet they have traditionally been burdened with fashions so frumpy that a “come hither” look is answered with, “Why? Do you need help milking the yaks?”

I’m glad we’ve gotten away from the paradigm of models being ever-younger and ever-skinnier. People with memories of the disco nightclub days of Studio 54 still talk about the ugly scene when a model became jealous of her own still-attached umbilical cord.

One substantial advantage of hiring older models is that they are more sensible and less likely to let the glamor and spotlight go to their heads. Granted, there are other things that may cloud their judgment. (“Have you ever seen anything as beautiful as my grandson’s drawing of a whatever-it-is? If I can’t display this on the next lingerie magazine cover, you’ll hear from my lawyer, you whippersnapper!”)

Of course, new advertising campaigns must be tailored to current realities. The models who implored “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful” in 1980s Pantene commercials would now beseech, “Don’t hate me because I’m going to drain the Social Security trust fund dry before you ever get there. Bwahaha…”

I must admit not all my friends are onboard with the industry shift. The article touted “models over 50 whose faces tell a story.” One friend conceded, “Okay, their face can tell a story – just as long as it’s not the one about walking five miles to school in the snow, uphill both ways. Or the one about sharing a wild taxi ride with Guy Lombardo.”

The heck with him. We need courageous models (male and female) who can inspire their contemporaries or those who aspire to be that age in a few years.

Perhaps you or someone you know has a bright future in modeling.

Just be prepared for the hyper-competitive arena of seeking to be quoted.

“Like I told Francis Scott Key, what happens in Fort McHenry stays in Fort McHenry!”

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Copyright 2023 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades by Danny Tyree

It’s an amenity that most consumers take for granted. It’s an amenity that most retailers and professionals grudgingly accept as a cost of doing business.

But I simply must salute those businesspeople who provide the miracle of indoor plumbing to their patrons.

When traveling or shopping, a restroom can be a lifesaver. We use the euphemism “when nature calls,” but nature doesn’t usually phone ahead. It shows up unannounced, kicking the front door in and toting two weeks’ worth of luggage.

I am not here to chastise those business owners who in their infinite wisdom decide not to go to the hassle of providing a restroom. Just know that the shoppers who make selections while squirming, fidgeting and jogging in place tend to overwhelm the Returns desk a few days later. (“Stains? What stains?”)

I will not go as far as a theologian friend, who speculates that these businesspeople have a special corner reserved in hell. (“Don’t sweat the flames. Drink all the water you want. You just can’t get rid of it.”)

Next up on the scale is the establishments with strings attached. I remember a vacation when the “Any port in a storm” mantra guided us as we parked at a rural crossroads market. Our mission was urgent enough that we were not deterred by the sternly worded “Restroom reserved for paying customers!” sign or the glowering clerk. (“You folks just passing through? Would you recognize a meth lab? Does your next of kin know you’re here?”)

Predictably, this establishment did not provide paper seat liners. They would probably have clashed with the deep-fried toilet paper, anyway.

Besides, anything short of an exorcist, a flame thrower and Anthony Fauci’s home phone number would have been inadequate.

On the next rung is the place where you have to wait in line and ask for the key. I can’t decide if this is more like Oliver Twist meekly asking for more gruel or your younger self asking Dad if you can take the training wheels off the bicycle.

As you do the walk of shame with the key, you are tempted to bluff to maintain your privacy. (“I donated my urethra and my gastrointestinal tract to African orphans, and I just need to use the mirror to check my worry lines.”)

Even when no key ritual is required, you can rest assured that the person who beats you to a single-occupancy restroom is going to be the person with (a) a free hour of playtime on Candy Crush, a person with a distorted sense of time (“2023? Already? Get outta here!”) or a person with a bashful bladder. When dealing with the latter, you might yell through the door, “I can be your bladder’s wingman!” or “Let me buy your bladder a copy of ‘How To Win Friends and Influence People.’”

The holy grail, of course, is a spacious, modern, palatial, multi-stall, graffiti-free restroom.

That has its own problems. Operating in “we’re not worthy” mode, you feel obligated to buy something, despite the inflated prices. And the guilt trip just accelerates.

“Take the cart. I need to call my mother. And send that waitress a bigger tip. And if your pocketknife is still sharp, maybe I could do something for Locks of Love! Wait…Mom said Nature kicked in her door. I hope the potty at the hardware store is unoccupied.”

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Copyright 2023 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”