Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

I’m not seeking sympathy, but I’m writing this on the eve of my annual physical exam.

Don’t infer that I’m bragging about a commendable lifelong habit. By “annual,” I mean “I’ve (almost) done it two years in a row.” And by “physical,” I mean, if I had my druthers, I’d suggest, “Hey, doc, when I turn my head and cough, how about standing over there in the corner and reading my aura?”

Before my renewed dedication in the last couple of years, I could always make an excuse for kicking the can down the road. Until one day my neuroskeletal system gently implored me, “Stop kicking that %$#@ can!! It hurts, bro!”

I came by my erstwhile procrastination honestly. Several generations of my family have showcased individuals leery of routine medical care. This foot-dragging stretches at least as far back as the days when a thespian-turned-pitchman might intone, “I’m not a doctor, but I play one on the telegraph.”

My mother delights in preemptively telling nurses that she suffers from the dreaded “white coat syndrome” – a phenomenon in which normally stable blood pressure or some other vital statistic spikes solely because the patient is nervous about being in the examination room.

I experience a touch of this myself from time to time. And by “a touch,” I mean, the sight of cotton balls and tongue depressors has been known to make me start developing a conjoined twin.

Self-image is another issue. Most Americans could stay on a bucking bronco longer than they can stand to linger on that judgmental doctor’s office scale. Sadistic nurses don’t help, when they estimate the weight of your clothing as no more than Tinker Bell would wear in a burlesque show.

All of this ties in, of course, with the hallowed Body Mass Index, this week’s position on cholesterol and lectures about portion control. My friend Cletus has a few choice words for the medical experts behind such shaming. (“See if you can control the portion of my foot that goes up your…”)

Some patients merely dread the stilted bedside manner and observations such as “None of us are getting any younger *chuckle*.” Be glad your doctor graduated near the TOP of his class. Think of his less accomplished classmates. (“Ohhhh…Mr. Danvers went into a fetal position because of the diet regimen I handed him and not because he was getting YOUNGER. Let me put that in his chart…”)

Many people proudly declare a “What I don’t know can’t hurt me” attitude about diagnoses. When these responsible adults aren’t putting duct tape over their “CHECK ENGINE SOON” light, they’re doubtless wrestling with varmints on the front porch without turning on the light.

I don’t know if my cheerleading will influence my peers, but perhaps it will inspire future generations. I know most young people think they’re 10 feet tall and bulletproof (despite uttering phrases such as “I need a ‘safe space’ with an 11-foot ceiling and a ‘gun-free zone’ placard”), but they should form a lifetime habit of regular medical checkups.

This will allow them to keep their immunizations up to date, detect problems early and read drug brochures at their leisure, to determine if they were just imagining it when the fast-talking TV announcer seemingly listed “writhing in the Stygian depths” between “projectile earwax” and “heat-seeking ballistic unibrow” among the side effects.

–

Copyright 2022 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

Fact: families take many forms.

Grandparents rear grandchildren. Never-married siblings share the ancestral homeplace until death. High school sweethearts get married in a fever but gradually drift apart. BFFs move in together for emotional/financial support after spouses die.

But such situations develop organically, one at a time. No one tries to make a “thang” of them.

Not so with the trendy lifestyle choice glamorized in a recent “USA Today” story.

Whether you call it “platonic marriages” or “platonic life partnerships,” this family configuration is merrily chipping away at societal norms. (“Hi-ho, hi-ho, dating apps have got to go!”)

Basically, participants – either after years of disappointment or just because their quirky personality doesn’t kowtow to society’s expectations – decide upfront that romantic love and sexual relations are not the be all and end all of relationships.

Instead, they seek an unshakeable lifelong bond with someone who can provide deep friendship, companionship, shared values, adventure, laughter and stability.

(True, some platonic couples agree to an “open” relationship, but that’s a topic for another day. Traditionalists daydream about “friends with benefits,” while apparently freethinkers risk trusting “friends with pink slips.”)

Couples in platonic relationships take out joint bank accounts, adopt children, buy homes and engage in other activities traditionally reserved for those who have gone through all the mandatory hormonally charged mating rituals.

More power to you if you can find true happiness without flirtation and physical intimacy, but I wonder how the bare-bones, no-nonsense approach will carry over into other aspects of life, such as purchasing a car together. (“Forget the SiriusXM – finding the right station is too much work. And windshield wipers are just the last vestiges of patriarchal tyranny. And don’t get too attached to the cup holder, because they’re notoriously fickle.”)

Bless their hearts, platonic couples can be conspicuously defensive about their lifestyle, insisting, “We’re not simply settling. We’re not simply settling.” Respect them and try not to read between the lines. (“Valentine’s Day is vastly overrated. The Kama Sutra is vastly overrated. Baby bumps are vastly overrated. Sour grapes are…mmm, put more sour grapes on the shopping list, Awkwardly Inadequate Term of Affection.”)

I’m fine with platonic life partnerships unless they dominate the mainstream. That would be way too disruptive.

Schoolyard chants would need major reconfiguration: “Johnny and Suzie sittin’ in a tree/A-N-T-I-Q-U-I-N-G.”

The musical “Annie, Get Your Gun” would have to replace “Doin’ What Comes Naturally” with “Doin’ What Comes About Only Via Coercion by Hallmark Marketing Gurus.”

Cries of “Blasphemy!” would greet Rod Stewart’s line “you’re my lover, you’re my best friend.”

Domestic disputes would skyrocket. (“LOVE handles? Not in my dictionary. Those are rolls of fat… OUCH!”)

Will shoppers really grab an issue of “Cosmopolitan” that promises “75 sizzling secrets for spicing up your spackling and grouting”?

I’ll have to sell my Tylenol stock before “Not tonight, I’ve got a headache” becomes as obscure as “let’s cut a rug at the malt shop.”

Frankly, I worry for the future of the species. If we reach a tipping point of people rejecting hearts and flowers and procreation, where will platonic couples’ future adoptees come from?

“The Hendersons next door finally made it to the top of the list and landed a 75-year-old to adopt. Maybe with a bribe, we can adopt his imaginary friend! But I can’t see to drive to the adoption agency today; it’s raining!”

–

Copyright 2022 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

A YouTube video magically transported me back to what I was watching on Thursday, January 13, 1972.

The clip from NBC’s red-hot “Flip Wilson Show” features Flip as a standup comedian being heckled unmercifully by guest Redd Foxx.

At the end of the segment, Flip broke character to announce that Foxx would be starring in a new sitcom called “Sanford and Son,” beginning the very next night.

I vividly remember the plug! Unfortunately, I somehow missed that first episode, but I laughed myself silly over the second one. I love my sanitized 1960s sitcoms, but there was just something earthier and more relatable about the denizens of that Watts neighborhood. (Herman Munster never got stripped for parts on Mockingbird Lane!)

I joined millions of other Americans in a Friday night ritual of watching the dreams and schemes of cantankerous junk dealer Fred G. Sanford (“that’s S-A-N-F-O-R-D period”) and his longsuffering son Lamont.

For six seasons, the show provided stiff competition for Friday night high school athletic events. Between Fred calling Lamont “you big dummy” and sports fans calling the referee “you big dummy,” Seventies therapists put in oodles of overtime on Saturdays.

Countless “must see” programs from just three or four years ago have completely evaporated from my memory; but after five decades, I still find myself whistling the “Sanford” instrumental theme song by Quincy Jones and exclaiming, “Good goobily goop” or “Great googly moogly!” like Fred’s friend Grady. I still haven’t verified the rumor that the Build Back Better plan includes funding for GSL (Grady as a Second Language) classes.

I am thankful that I have been able to share “Sanford and Son” reruns with my 17-year-old son Gideon. I am equally thankful that I still have him fooled about the clutter in my writing den. (“You’re right – it’s an intentional shrine to the Sanford living room. Yeah, that’s the ticket.”)

Yes, it’s admirable that Amazon Prime makes “Sanford and Son” reruns available to new generations, but it’s certainly not the sort of show that could start from scratch in today’s environment.

In the old days, widower Fred would fake a heart attack and shout, “You hear that, Elizabeth? I’m coming to join you, honey!” In these post-organized-religion times, he would likely backpedal with “Or maybe I’ll just become one with the universe. Or embrace the aura of this Louisville slugger or…anyway, don’t wait up.”

Who wants focus groups insisting, “If Julio’s goat can’t learn to bleat an F-bomb or two, barbecue it”?

Nowadays we couldn’t simply enjoy Fred’s judgmental sister-in-law Aunt Esther calling him a “fish-eyed old fool” and pummeling him with her purse. No, the hosts of “The View” would have to label it a “mostly peaceful” purse pummeling and speculate about collusion between fish-eyed old fools and fish-eyed heathens.

Would we really want to hear Fred complaining to friend Bubba about the biggest disappointment in his life? (“And I found out I was groping the real Lena Horne! After I paid good money to meet a Lena impersonator in drag. The real Lena Horne! There ain’t enough muscatel and ripple in three states to kill THAT image.”)

Mark the date (January 14) and give a little nod to the 50th anniversary of a classic.

As Lamont would say, “That’s the way it used to be, Pop.”

And it still is – here in my heart.

–

Copyright 2022 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

Many of you just watched the late Darren McGavin as Ralphie’s father in the umpteenth rerun of 1983’s “A Christmas Story,” but we’re approaching the 50th anniversary of another iconic McGavin role.

On January 11, 1972, ABC aired “The Night Stalker” – which entered the American psyche as the highest-rated made-for-TV movie up until that time.

Granted, the film was aided by being nestled between “The Mod Squad” and “Marcus Welby, M.D.” and competing against a “crowd-pleasing” NBC documentary about Northern Ireland factions (apparently NBC’s documentary about post-nasal drip wasn’t completed in time); but it was a milestone, nonetheless.

It was impossible for discriminating viewers to say no to the movie. The screenplay was by Richard Matheson (famed as author of “I Am Legend” and the screenwriter of 16 “Twilight Zone” episodes as well as Steven Spielberg’s directorial film debut “Duel”) and the producer was Dan Curtis, the creator of the gothic soap opera “Dark Shadows” (which etched the image of Rev. Trask being sealed alive inside a wall into the memories of a generation).

In those days before social media and “watch it whenever” streaming, “The Night Stalker” was the sort of shared experience that dominated officer water cooler conversations and school playground chatter on January 12.

McGavin portrayed Carl Kolchak, a down-on-his-luck investigative journalist digging into serial killings that plagued Las Vegas – serial killings that seemed more and more the work of a vampire. The wisecracking Kolchak got on the wrong side of the Powers That Be because news of a bloodsucker in town could dampen the tourist trade. (That’s the same reason the buffet for the annual Extended Warranty Association convention is always sequestered in a secret room.)

Although “The Night Stalker” broke ratings records, spawned follow-up TV-movie “The Night Strangler,” generated the 1974-75 series “Kolchak: The Night Stalker,” inspired Fox’s “The X-Files” and garnered a cult following, nitpickers like to nitpick.

Some whine about the shoestring budget, even though director John Llewellyn Moxey did a masterful job of building suspense within his financial constraints. Shoestring budgets were the reality, and network executives tried to economize even more. (“Are you sure you need the little plastic thingies on the end of the shoestrings? You’re killing me!”)

Yes, viewers spoiled by modern special effects might be underwhelmed by the simplicity of the film. But those people would even find fault with heaven. (“There’s no CGI? Forget that! Give me a ticket to the other place.”)

Filmgoers addicted to today’s standards of gore might bemoan the restrained nature of the movie, but the Network Standards and Practices people had spent 20-plus years protecting viewers from disturbing elements. (“Quick! More parents with dead spouses! More people smoking cancer sticks! But no karate chops!”)

Some fume that vampire Janos Skorzeny wasn’t given a more nuanced, sympathetic treatment. They wouldn’t be satisfied unless Kolchak took along a social worker to coax the vampire into experiencing a “Wow! I could’a had a V8!” moment.

Like every year, 2022 will be a buyer’s market for columnists wishing to write about cultural anniversaries; but I couldn’t in good conscience pass up this occasion.

Not when “The Night Stalker” left such an indelible mark.

My trip to Las Vegas in the mid-90s is still a blur, but I was supposedly screaming, “Don’t show me the room with the HIGH stakes – show me the one with the WOODEN stakes!”

–

Copyright 2021 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

Perhaps one reason I never get invited to New Year’s Eve parties is that I tend to overanalyze things.

Take Baby New Year (a.k.a. “Bundle of White Male Joy”), for instance.

Society’s reliance on this iconic tyke in editorial cartoons, greeting cards and advertising campaigns causes me to lose more sleep than the ball drop in Times Square.

Most people blithely accept a half-naked, curfew-deprived newborn gallivanting about the countryside unchaperoned, but I see it as one more troubling repercussion of the “Defund Child Protective Services” movement. For the kid’s sake, it’s a good thing no one has revoked the self-defense “crawl your ground” laws yet.

From mid-December through mid-January, images of Baby New Year are ubiquitous; but we still possess only a maddeningly sketchy picture of his agenda. Every autumn as the jack-o’-lanterns make way for turkeys, folks inevitably ask, “Where did the year go?”

That’s an excellent question.

We almost never see Baby New Year again until late December when he has deteriorated into osteoporosis-plagued Old Year. What is he doing in other seasons, at other life stages? Is he using his sash to hide his zits? Does his noisemaker drown out his mother-in-law? Is he using his trusty hourglass to keep track of his Viagra?

There’s something creepy about the way the kid invariably becomes decrepit in a mere 12 months. I don’t care if he can say “Mama” or “Dada.” My question to him is “Can you say, ‘more research funds for extreme glandular conditions, please’?”

We’re supposed to feel comforted by the annual ritual of Old Year “passing the torch” to Baby New Year, but there’s always the risk of Old Year setting his stereotypical beard on fire in the process! Why can’t years aspire to being The Year World Peace Was Achieved instead of The Year I Became ZZ Top?

Time after time, Old Year lets the naïve, effervescent Baby New Year take the reins, without any warning of the “nothing new under the sun” mixture of earthquakes, pestilences, economic hiccups and celebrity scandals that will inevitably ensue. Occasionally, an Old Year will try to blink out a warning in Morse Code, but the cataracts cause miscommunication. (“Put the kibosh on term limits? Thanks, sir!”)

I am deeply frustrated by the inconsistency of the mythology. Sometimes Baby New Year starts as an infant, sometimes as a toddler. He bears a suspicious resemblance to Valentine’s Day mascot Cupid. Old Year sometimes is and sometimes isn’t conflated with Father Time. (Father Time is reportedly not keen on the title, musing, “I’m going to beat the snot out of the Old Year in which paternity tests were introduced.”)

As my son Gideon reminded me, the animated holiday special “Rudolph’s Shiny New Year” contains helpful backstory on one particular New Year (“Happy”) and the Archipelago of Last Years, where the Old Years go to retire. But I’m not sure I accept that cartoon as canonical. It has the distinct aroma of a Chinese disinformation campaign, especially the uncut version with the Island of Non-existent Lab Leaks.

On a brighter note, you could make a billion dollars if you could write a book on “What to Expect When You’re Expecting Baby New Year.”

Of course, your fortune might still meet a curve ball. (“Alec Baldwin just accidentally nuked the computer servers holding your money! Oh, the cryptocurrency…!”)

–

Copyright 2021 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 distinctly remember what I ate for supper on Christmas Eve 50 years ago.

Not the entrée perhaps, but certainly the vegetable.

My mother served stewed potatoes (“potato slopters,” as she dubbed them).

I remember the potatoes because I was passionately reading my newly purchased 25-cent comic book (“Justice League of America” Vol. 1 #96, featuring the JLA versus Starbreaker the Cosmic Vampire) at the dining room table and splashed the food all over it.

That damaged comic book still has a place of honor in my old bedroom. And it serves as a metaphor for the extreme ways some people regard themselves in relation to the one who is the Reason for the Season.

Back in 1971 I could’ve had a perfectionist meltdown and discarded the comic book as a soiled, worthless piece of garbage.

I recognized that I had defaced the periodical, but I nonetheless saw the enduring non-monetary worth of it. It remained perfectly readable. It retains sentimental value. And its continued existence means it can be passed on to future generations.

What does that have to do with self-image? Well, many people feel particularly useless, helpless and unloved at this time of year.

Whether it’s because of family reputation, poverty, chronic illness, an ugly divorce, substance abuse or some other calamity, some folks view themselves as irredeemable – permanently stained and hopeless. They see their only alternatives as either more self-pity or a “George Bailey” suicide attempt.

Christians have an obligation to remind these people that God has always utilized flawed individuals to accomplish great tasks and that Jesus felt compassion for the poor, afflicted and outcast. He dined with tax collectors and sinners. Instead of memorizing sad songs, those with low self-esteem should restore their dignity by memorizing John 3:16.

On the other hand, for the past five decades I could have lied to myself about my comic book. I could try to bluff and bully a collector into accepting it as in “mint” condition, but my delusions would not change reality.

That’s my way of leading into this indisputable truth: some people have an inflated view of their value to God and man. “Humility” and “reverence” are not in their lexicon. They consider themselves to be self-sufficient, entitled and answerable to no man or deity.

If they stumble upon Jesus amidst the snowmen and candy canes, they pigeonhole Him as (a) a myth, (b) a good teacher but nothing else or (c) “okay, maybe the Son of God, but I’ve got a lot of wild oats to sow before I’ll have time to settle down and follow Him.”

I don’t find the phrase “Cruisin’ for a bruisin’” in the Bible, but the sentiment fits such people.

Certainly, I pray for world peace this Christmas. I pray for health and happiness for friends and family. But I also pray that those on the extremes of self-image will learn some moderation.

Neither arrogance nor despair are in the best interests of mankind.

Life is a balancing act. I take it by faith that humans are made in the image of God. But imperfections, interdependence and responsibility must all be considered.

Surprisingly few of life’s problems can be solved with a “POW!,” “BAM!” or “ZAP!”

Ah, but by developing a realistic assessment of your potential and your obligations, you can move mountains.

Go tell it on the mountain.

–

Copyright 2021 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

Folks are tied up in knots over tying the knot.

Just when we thought marriage was a dying institution, the Wall Street Journal cites statistics showing there is a huge pent-up demand for weddings.

Because of COVID-19 restrictions, the backlog of ceremonies stretches well into 2024.

Competition for venues, accessories and services has generated unprecedented stress.

Yes, the wedding industry faces the same supply-chain woes as other businesses. Concerns about merchandise stranded offshore abound. Forget “The Hunt for Red October.” Now the obsession is “the Hunt for Shipping Containers of Butt-Ugly Bridesmaid Dresses.”

It’s not just photographers, caterers and hairstylists who are raising rates. Even flower girls and ring bearers are driving a hard bargain. (“Aunt Cyndi, I know blood is thicker than water, but gold bullion is thicker than either. KA-CHING! I’m doing the Morrison wedding.”)

Families have used both begging and bribery to secure the desired private beach, converted horse stable or cathedral for the nuptials. Let’s analyze this, grooms. If your future father-in-law is willing to spend $25,000 to get someone to switch their wedding date and appease Daddy’s Little Girl, you’d better not honeymoon in Japan, or Bridezilla will be stomping everyone from Mothra on down.

Really, I’m not here to mock doting parents. Sometimes engaged couples just have a simple misunderstanding. (“Oh, it’s student loans the government is talking about forgiving! I thought they were going to forgive flocks-of-bejeweled-peacocks-spelling-out-the-couple’s-names loans. I always get those two mixed up.”)

I dearly wish America could get over the myth that The Big Day must be the highlight of a couple’s life. It’s a mere beginning. I’m glad entrepreneurs don’t buy into the Most Important Day of My Life philosophy. (“Forget innovation, expansion and franchises! I’ve still got my oversize scissors and that length of red ribbon. That’s all that matters.”)

I realize couples want to share a perfect day with as many of their loved ones as possible. But is it worth freaking out over mailing an embossed “Save the Day” invitation to every sorority sister, every incontinent childhood neighbor, Unibrow Guy from the IT department and those Viking cousins whom Ancestry.com tracked down?

And shouldn’t “loved ones” and “special people” be getting lullabies or hugs? Nowadays they’re more likely to be the recipient of “What part of RSVP don’t you understand???” or “We’re registered at Fort Knox, the Louvre and ZIP Codes R Us” or “Sorry, but your conjoined twin counts as your ‘plus one.’”

Most engaged couples seem determined to persevere and achieve perfection even if it means a long engagement; but others are slowly facing cold reality and downsizing. (Hey, my wife and I had a simple, low-budget ceremony and reception. Who needs ice sculptures when you have nearly enough crushed ice for the store-brand punch?)

These sadder but wiser people do draw a few lines in the sand. (“Okay, we’ll confine the father-daughter dance to a cubicle, but a magenta printer cartridge is nonnegotiable!”)

A few people are even uttering the dreaded capitulation “I guess we could always…elope.” My parents eloped and did fine; but the couples who say, “I guess we could always… elope” mouth it with the same intonation as declaring, “I hear they grew the boutonnieres with hobo feces.”

Save the date? Save my sanity! I’ll hide in a shipping container. Let me know when all this is over.

–

Copyright 2021 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

My access to news narrowed dramatically when I was 10 years old.

My mother’s boss passed away, so I no longer got to peruse his morning paper.

And, despite my protestations about prying the funnies from my cold, ink-stained fingers, family budget cuts meant my father could no longer splurge on the evening paper.

I still had the local gossip grapevine, radio newscasts and TV anchor David Brinkley. But cutting back to just the Sunday edition of print journalism left a vexing information void during the Nixon/Apollo/counterculture era.

And, oh, the taunting from the family dog! (“Look what I did on the carpet! Good luck rolling up that console TV!”)
By the fact that you’re encountering this column, I know I’m preaching to the choir. But I feel compelled to double down on reminding you that a newspaper subscription makes a thoughtful Christmas gift.

Perhaps there are shut-ins on your friends list who have begrudgingly dropped their newspaper because of the proverbial “fixed income.” You could reopen their window on the world. (They could then yell out the window the more nuanced “You kids get off my lawn – or I’ll have to call the landscaper who advertised in the classifieds!”)

On the other end of the age scale, there’s no need to talk down to teens and preteens. A newspaper will help them prepare for their civics class, learn more about the town’s entertainment venues and discover how people other than social media influencers live. Give them the gift of knowledge. (Granted, you don’t have to share the knowledge that you almost blew a bundle on naming a fragment of space junk after them.)

A newspaper can be a college student’s comforting tether to their old stomping grounds. It can be a way for a newlywed couple to put down roots and become a contributing part of the community.

I know. I know. Many people in their 20s and 30s dismiss traditional newspapers as a quaint relic, but a positive attitude can make the gift a welcome surprise. Vinyl records are becoming “hip” again, so why not get ahead of the curve with the appreciation for the coolness of newspapers? (No charger needed! No searching for free wi-fi!)

Even if not every hometown story is life-changing for young couples, they can bond by making fun of standard headlines such as “Zoning board recognizes local merchant.” (“Yeah, sure, I thought I recognized Mike! That awful haircut threw me off. Remind me to send the Codes Department after Ralph’s Barber Shop.”)

Those who are young and disdainful of the power structure should embrace local journalism as a way to Stick It to The Man. Seriously, if you hear a reporter claiming, “I got into journalism to get rich,” his next words will be “and to locate my wife, Empress Josephine! Sacre bleu! Did you find that straitjacket in our advertising insert?”

Blogs and Facebook groups have their place, but a finite newspaper provides a priceless measure of closure.

The same cannot be said for the time-draining pop-up ads, clickbait and rabbit holes that are characteristic of online surfing. (“Speaking of which, do you know the 16th-century Dutch word for ‘rabbit hole’? Well, actually – whoa! Is it already Wednesday?”)

10-year-old me says, “Think about it. Consider gift subscriptions.”

And also, “Santa, a tape recorder would be loads of fun for President Nixon!”

–

Copyright 2021 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

This may get me on Santa’s naughty list, but I honestly can’t remember whether I watched “The Homecoming: A Christmas Story” when CBS first aired it on December 19, 1971.

Since my mother is an antique collector and regales everyone with tales of growing up during “hard times,” and since many of my ancestors came from Virginia, it’s certainly PLAUSIBLE that I got in on the ground floor of Earl Hamner Jr.’s heartwarming classic about the Great Depression.

(Granted, being old enough to have been ELIGIBLE for watching that premiere, I also struggle to remember having written the previous paragraph. Hey, why did I enter the room with the laptop in it?)

At the very least, I watched the reruns of the holiday special after it spawned the long-running series “The Waltons.” (If you thought I was going to type that it spawned the long-running series “Joanie Loves Chachi,” the Baldwin Sisters have probably slipped a little too much of “papa’s recipe” into your eggnog.)

And I’m looking forward to the November 28 airing of 50th anniversary remake “The Waltons’ Homecoming” on the CW network. (Some newspapers will publish this column before that date. Some will publish it after that date. The remainder will be receiving coal in their stockings.)

My wife and I love CW, but its reputation for comic-book adaptations, social justice pandering and quirky casting gave me momentary trepidations about a Waltons makeover.

Imagine the remake containing dialogue such as “Nooo! You tugged the wrong cow’s udder and ripped a hole in the time-space continuum!” or “We’re anxiously waiting for the family PATRIARCH to get home in a snowstorm? Isn’t this a good opportunity to be DONE with the patriarchy and its systemic evils, especially if Daddy doesn’t bring that new dolly?”

No, I’m going to put those fears out of my mind. I’m genuinely heartened that films such as this and “Dolly Parton’s Christmas of Many Colors” can add a little variety to the types of yuletide movies offered nowadays.

Let’s face it: except for the occasional special-effects Santa fantasy, most Christmas movies settle into two comfort zones. They glamorize dysfunctional families and sex-starved singles, or they use an algorithm to sell greeting cards via mix-and-match happy endings.

As for the former, I would hate to see John Walton, Sr. experience a full-blown Clark Griswold meltdown when his Christmas bonus comes up short – even if it would trigger the lucrative sequel “Avalanche on Walton’s Mountain.”

Regarding the other style of movie, it would pain me to see Jim-Bob and Elizabeth getting such an unrealistic view of world events. Franklin Roosevelt and Adolf Hitler would get off to a rocky start, but by the final act they would be roasting marshmallows during a fireside chat. (“Mussolini – keep those chestnuts running on time!”)

Wait – I forgot the action-oriented Christmas movies. Wouldn’t you hate to see Bruce Willis’s cop John McClane show up with guns blazing near the outhouses? Instead of “Die Hard,” it would be “Wipe Fast.”

What about it? Is watching “The Waltons’ Homecoming” part of your holiday plan? Would you like it to launch a wholesome weekly series and have “Good night, John-Boy” reverberate throughout the land again?

While I await your email ([email protected]), I’ll be shopping for coal at Ike Godsey’s store.

“I’ll be breaking and entering for Christmas, if only in my dreams…”

–

Copyright 2021 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

Last year the media went into a frenzy over the 400th anniversary of the Mayflower’s arrival in North America, but the festivities were just beginning.

This Thanksgiving marks four centuries since the 1621 harvest festival held by the half of the Plymouth Colony that survived that cruel first winter.

(“Forget corn mazes and hayrides! I’m bobbing for antibiotics!”)

What a milestone! Even though our gaiety may be muted by acknowledgment of the injustices done to indigenous peoples since that fateful shared meal, this still calls for a large-scale commemoration.

Perhaps you could ponder the 400 greatest Thanksgiving-related quotations, such as “Pumpkin spice isn’t everything; it’s the only thing” or “God must have loved the common man, because he made so many ways to re-gift fruitcake” or “Genius is one percent inspiration and 99 percent telling your mother-in-law that your daughter’s sleazy new beau loves anecdotes about bunions and varicose veins.”

Maybe you could reminisce over the 400 greatest Thanksgiving-related song lyrics, such as “Stairway to the upstairs bedroom where the dog has shed on everyone’s coats,” “You can’t always baste what you want,” “Smells like leftovers spirit,” “I still haven’t found the interstate exit I’m looking for,” and “People get ready, there’s a nap a-comin’.”

Maybe you could explore the 400 biggest historical inaccuracies in Thanksgiving pageants. The Pilgrims’ menu and the attire of the Native American guests leap to mind immediately, but I’m sure you can find other examples. (You doubtless always harbored suspicions about Great-uncle Bob’s insistence on using blackface to portray the Wampanoag Nation. And his compliments to the cooks, such as “The cranberry sauce was delectable, and the white meat is superior.”)

How about taking a stab at writing down your 400 favorite Thanksgiving memories? Maybe your fondest recollection is of eating with your cousins at the children’s table and boasting about the time when you would be all grown up and could do whatever you wanted — pending the approval of your future spouse, your employer, an assortment of restraining orders and the doctor who is strangely fixated on head-turning and coughing.

Most importantly, try verbalizing 400 things for which you’re thankful. (I’m preparing to launch a year-round thankfulness spot on my Facebook page, “Tyree’s Tyrades.” Please check it out.)

Yes, despite our problems, we have a lot to be thankful for, including electrical appliances, modern plumbing and vast online resources. I mean, sites such as ancestry.com let you trace your illustrious lineage all the way back to New England’s upper crust, all from the comfort of your parents’ basement.

Let’s not forget that the “dressing versus stuffing” holiday war hasn’t involved tactical nukes – yet.

Ah, but many of us take Mother Nature and the marvels of science for granted. Someone could make a fortune opening Ingrates R Us franchises. (“Yeah, well, what have you done for me LATELY, Jonas Salk?”)

Seriously, even those of us who still credit a Supreme Being with our comforts have gotten spoiled by The Way Things Work In the 21st Century.

“Your blessings are very important to us. All our thoughts are currently focused on other things. You’ll get your prayers of thanks when the first spare moment is available. If you’d prefer, you may self-scan our warm wishes.”

Yikes! Anybody compiling a list of the 400 species of locusts waiting to be unleashed on us?

–

Copyright 2021 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.”