Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Although the bar has been set remarkably low during some epochs (“Dearest, you’ve survived to produce seven more viable male heirs than my second wife”), society has always expected couples to use terms of endearment to grease the wheels of their relationships.

I have it on good authority that the custom goes all the way back to Adam and Eve (or as he affectionately referred to her, “McRib”). Of course, the sweet nothings were probably muttered through gritted teeth when Adam asked questions such as “So, McRib, got any MORE reptile fruit peddlers you’d like to introduce me to?” or “McRib, are you SURE you want to know if those fig leaves make you look fat?”

Yes, healthy couples are hardcoded to employ pet names; but the names we have depended on for countless decades are problematic on so many levels.

“Baby,” for instance. Or truncated versions such as “babe” or “bay.” Those “Reader’s Digest” variations really give you something to aspire to, don’t they? (“Let’s make it to our 50th anniversary, and I’ll see if I think you’re worth the extra syllable.”)

I guess infant-oriented terminology is supposed to conjure up images of your partner being cute and cuddly and innocent. (Innocent as in, “Baby, you DID tape up the lenses on the surveillance cameras in the casino bathroom, didn’t you? Oh, man. What happens in Vegas winds up in Singapore.”)

Maybe I’m looking at this all wrong, but “baby” makes me think of spit-up, colic and unpredictable tantrums. More importantly, “baby” carries the inescapable connotation of something that needs to be CHANGED. (“Fate brought us together, baby. We’re soulmates. I wouldn’t change a thing about you EXCEPT…wait, this is page 3. Where did I put…?”)

“Surely there’s nothing wrong with ‘honey’?” you may interject. Um, honey is something you ROB from a hive and then it becomes your PROPERTY. Why not just greet your Better Half with “Honey, I brought you flowers, jewelry and a CHASTITY BELT”?

At least “honey” has a better reputation than some of the other taste-bud terms, such as “sugar,” 
“sweetheart” and “sweetie.” (“I could KICK myself for not having noticed you sooner, my little high fructose delight. But I may need some toes amputated first.”)

“Darling” (and “dah-ling”) sound too much like a hoity toity society matron. (“I WOULD ring for the maid to draw your bath, darling, but I’m waiting for the Marx Brothers to involve me in their antics.”)

Let’s at least put our top scientists to work engineering terms of endearment that HAVEN’T been worked to death by truck stop waitresses. Then when your Significant Other takes care of all the Christmas cards or repairs some loose boards, you won’t feel so obligated to TIP.

Maybe we can even wrangle an executive order that terms of endearment must be sincere, with no ulterior motive. No more “Honey, I love you, but…” or “Baby, if it’s not too much trouble…” or “Love of my life, you know that industrial strength shop vac you warned me not to buy and that precariously perched urn containing your grandmother’s ashes….?”

*Sigh* I’ve got to distance myself from this vexing subject. Time to relax with my favorite animated short, “One Froggy Evening.”

“Hello, my baby. Hello, my honey. Hello, my ragtime gal…”

Aaaggghhh! Pet names have found a forever home in my brain!

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Copyright 2021 Danny Tyree. Danny welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.” Danny’s weekly column is distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons Inc. newspaper syndicate.

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

There’s no middle ground with middle names. You either love them or hate them.

Or, if you’re a politician, you treat them however the latest opinion poll indicates. (“It’s way past time this nation took the bold bipartisan move of giving Harry S. Truman an actual posthumous middle name – not for our own benefit, but FOR THE CHILDREN.”)

Middle names come from various sources. My son and I both carry on my late father’s middle name of Lewis. My brother was named for the surgeon who delivered him. (For years, I thought his middle name was Stork.)

Some people select trendy/classic/elegant/powerful/unspellable monikers from a Name Your Baby book. (This category still slightly outpaces the hot Name Your Man-Bun genre.) Some parents whip open their dusty Bible just long enough to jab their finger at a random name. (“Welcome to the world, Michael Plague-of-Locusts Gildersleeve.”)

Many middle names are derived from the mother’s maiden name. I’m not if this is a blow against the patriarchy, a way to keep a proud old family name from fading into obscurity (“Don’t ever let the world forget there were Pufnstufs living among them or…or else…I’m drawing a blank here”) or just the father-in-law’s revenge. (“You despoiled my little girl, but now your child will perpetuate the name of the man who despoiled your wife’s mo–…hey, this is starting to sound like a vicious cycle! Can we just watch the game and chill? And call me Dad.”)

Some doting parents gift their child with a retro name that that they hope will make them a Leader of Men – assuming the men are in a barbershop quartet or serving as extras in a Three Stooges short.

Other people seem to have malleable middle names. One week they’re bragging “Dependability is my middle name.” The next it’s “Gourmet Chef is my middle name.” Enjoy your bragging, folks. The Social Security office will think it’s hilarious when you try to collect your first check.

Do these people think a middle name works like a magic talisman? Then why don’t they scamper down to the courthouse and switch over to “Invulnerable to Type-2 Diabetes” or “Never Receives Junk Phone Calls”?

Mothers like to use their children’s full names to underscore the seriousness of whatever they’re yelling at them. Everyone knows that phrases such as “Amber, don’t put the cat in the dryer” or “Johnny, get that nail gun away from the baby’s soft spot” are just light-hearted, casual suggestions. It’s only when mom brings out the “Lulubelle” or the “Cuthbert” that things get REAL.

Middle names, of course, gain their greatest infamy during roll call in school. Giggles, guffaws and juvenile pandemonium ensue when the teacher unveils embarrassing secret after embarrassing secret.

That gives me an idea. What we really need to do is require full-blown middle names at places that skirt by with middle initials. Get ready for the stand-up routine and the two-drink minimum at the DMV!

How do you feel about your middle name? Many people wear their first, middle and last name proudly. Of course, 95 percent of these people are captains of industry, poets or linked to grassy knolls.

John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt would probably rock iambic pentameter, but I wouldn’t want him within 100 miles of a dignitary’s motorcade.

Unless the Gallup Poll was down with that, of course.

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Copyright 2021 Danny Tyree. Danny welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.” Danny’s weekly column is distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons Inc. newspaper syndicate.

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

It has been a bittersweet experience seeing the mailbox flooded with college recruiting brochures addressed to my son Gideon.

Bittersweet because, speaking as a science fiction fan, each “road not taken” represents an alternate timeline involving different friends, different instructors, a different spouse, a different career path, a different city, a different strategy for administrators to hound grads for alumni donations. (“Remember that colorful gluten-free parking sticker we generously provided you with back in ’24? With interest, you probably owe us a new parking garage now, Mr. But-My-Kids-All-Need-Braces.”)

It’s also bittersweet because I’m a little jealous. I don’t remember receiving THAT many invitations (with such alluring graphics) back in the day. It was more like “Hey, you never know when President Carter will try to influence the world peanut market by restarting the Vietnam War. Maybe you should think really hard about us here at Generic University. And pass this 2-ply brochure on to your friends. You pay the postage.”

I’ve left it up to Gideon to scrutinize or not scrutinize the various brochures, but I finally decided to give it the old college try and browse through a random sampling in preparation for this column. I see oodles of obligatory verbiage about “diversity,” “inclusivity” and “civic commitment”; but the schools wisely resist leading with some of their flakier programs.

Once you’ve nibbled at the bait, THEN they sing the praises of the doctorate program in Recognizing the Racist Subtext of Sedimentary Rock. Oh, and the Department of Staying Perpetually Aggrieved. I could undoubtedly save students a fortune on dorm expenses and textbooks. (“Here – just keep this pebble in your shoe instead of going to college. You’re welcome.”)

I’m glad that the colleges stay on the high road and emphasize their own good points instead of resorting to mudslinging like in political campaigns. Okay, there was the one Ivy League school that hinted, “You didn’t hear it from us, but the other team’s mascot is a species found only in…WESTERN EUROPE.”

Did you ever wonder where they hide all the unattractive students and disgruntled students on the day they shoot pictures for the brochures? (“Quit your bellyaching! You can have your Frisbee and picnic basket back after the photographer leaves. Sorry we didn’t realize all the toxic chemicals were stored in this closet. Maybe that spider bite will give you super powers and make you immune.”)

Many schools entice you to “Build Your Future,” but some of the most successful graduates wind up being more interested in RE-building their PAST. (“That wasn’t ME groping that woman in the neo-Nazi outfit. And we were promised HANDS-ON EXPERIENCE, anyway.”)

Schools are eager to showcase their award-winning faculty. (“Our tenured professors are engaged in exhaustive research – on how to pawn their classes off on graduate assistants.”)

Affordability is definitely a selling point, as in “53 percent of our students graduate debt-free.” If you’re in the lucky 53 percent and attend too many keggers, I’m sure you can buy a new liver from someone in the 47 percent.

Anyway, Gideon will be starting out at the local community college before having to finalize plans for his further education. I look for him to have a bright future.

Unless Jimmy Carter goads Habitat for Humanity into firing a missile at Hanoi! Then you’d better grab your nationally ranked comfort animal and hope for the best.

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Copyright 2021 Danny Tyree. Danny welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.” Danny’s weekly column is distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons Inc. newspaper syndicate.

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Reminiscing with one of my mother’s photo albums, I encountered a snapshot of a long-deceased neighbor (a dear, sweet man) who is still summed up by the phrase “He never met a stranger.”

I’m sure all of you know someone like that (or ARE someone like that): the one-person welcoming committee who is drawn like a moth to the flame and wants every casual acquaintance to feel like they’re loved, appreciated and the survivor of an interrogation by Jack Bauer on “24.”

Alas, thanks to social distancing, political minefields (“No, I’m not through with the sports section and you look like one of those tree-huggers who doesn’t even want trees turned into paper in the first place, so you’ll get my Semi-Weekly Clarion when you pry it from my cold, lifeless fingers, you hypocrite!”) and ubiquitous handheld devices, such people are a DYING BREED.

Ironically, most of the people they gladhanded in their lifetime won’t even come to the funeral. (“Well, okay, if you think mourners will bring pigs-in-a-blanket to the funeral home, I might go honor the chatty guy from the interstate rest stop.”)

Many gregarious people work with the hope that they just might be the one bright spot in a person’s otherwise dreary day. (“That lady in the waiting room made me feel special. So, I think I’m WORTH a DOUBLE latte before I hurl myself from the 35th-floor balcony!”)

Sometimes “people persons” are simply striving for the satisfaction of learning something new. (“I’m glad I met you! I’ve learned three things today: Your aunt worked for Howard Hughes. Your daughter met Justin Bieber. And you’re going to beat the $#%^ out of the next *&^%$ who doesn’t have sense enough to mind his own %$#@ business!”)

If only the Titanic had as many ICEBREAKERS as an extrovert! A good conversationalist comes armed with “Think it will rain?,” “I couldn’t help but notice…” and “I never was much of a history student, but oh, the history I could tell you about my gastrointestinal system!”

As Sigmund Freud might have observed, “Sometimes a line at the DMV is just a line at the DMV. You don’t need Mickey Rooney shouting, ‘Hey, kids, let’s put on a show!’”

Although I work in a retail environment and have been teaching an adult Bible class for 35 years, when it comes to one-on-one encounters, I remain a stay-under-the-radar, speak-when-spoken-to introvert. I can be counted on for eye contact, a smile, “good morning” and “thank you”; but I am capable of being out in public WITHOUT performing a Vulcan mind meld! (Seriously, if you have the entire Klingon alphabet tattooed to your inner thigh, let that be YOUR little secret.)

Okay, for the sake of communications and civility, we need at least a FEW benign stalkers out there. But they must prove their worthiness.

“Uncle Burt, are you SURE you’ve never met a stranger? What about that guy in the van, wearing a trench coat and handing out candy?”

“Him? Oh, he’s not a stranger ANYMORE! I learned that his electronic tracking anklet was made at the factory that sits on the site where my momma worked as a soda jerk after school! It’s a small world after all! Speaking of which, I forgot to ask him how his GI tract handled the Pirates of the Caribbean ride on his 1989 vacation…”

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Copyright 2021 Danny Tyree. Danny welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.” Danny’s weekly column is distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons Inc. newspaper syndicate.

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

My son Gideon certainly had a high-octane understanding of the THEORY of driving last winter.

As far as the rubber meeting the road, not so much.

My wife and I were relieved that he was enrolled in Drivers Education in high school, under the supervision of the football coach; but right before it was Gideon’s turn to get behind the steering wheel, Covid-19 shut everything down for the rest of the school year.

Gideon received a grade for the abbreviated course, but now it’s back in the hands of his parents to get him ready for his driver’s license. My wife has been elected to be the primary teacher. And by “elected,” I mean she threatened me with a kangaroo court and a firing squad if I traumatize the lad with my stressed-out micro-management.

If I’m along for the lessons at all, my job is to sit quietly in the back seat and refrain from uttering any of the following allegedly disconcerting phrases: “Ramming speed!,” “Bandit, this is Snowman; you’ve got Smokey Bear on your tail” and “I’ve willed all four cats…oops, all three cats… to my brother, just in case.”

We must be patient with Gideon “I brake for…reasons known only to myself” Tyree as he builds confidence. Rome wasn’t built in a day. And apparently the end of the driveway wasn’t reached in a day, either!

I remember my own travails enough to empathize with Gideon’s anxieties about doing something embarrassing or destructive; but my memories have been placed into perspective to the point that they’re no longer a raw wound. Except I hate running into people I know when we’re out for a lesson. (“Gimme five!” “I would, but all 10 are permanently embedded in the upholstery.”)

Gideon has mastered the part of the spectrum that indicates “stop,” “go” and “caution” at a traffic light. But I dread his having to negotiate with other motorists at a four-way stop. My years of driving have convinced me that there is an infrared signal turning everyone’s brains to the consistency of used Pennzoil at a 4-way stop. (“Okay, my PhD can help me with this. The motorist on my right is…is…no, don’t tell me…hey, a turn signal! This must be one of those newfangled cars that comes equipped with one!”)

Gideon is growing up too fast, but I still don’t want an open-ended career as his chaperone when he starts dating. I want him to take responsibility for his own transportation. I just hope he can make it to the point of taking out girls without taking out MAILBOXES.

I don’t ever want Gideon to be cocky about his driving, but I do look forward to his getting more comfortable. Right now, there is the danger of overcompensating when there’s a slick spot or an obstacle.

Granted, some guys NEVER outgrow overcompensating. (“Hey, baby. New in town? Hop in my new sports car. We’ll have a good time… right after I go for my hair-plug appointment, stop at Costco for the bulk little blue pills, drop off this alimony check, make car payment number six of 150 and…Dang! She went from zero to 60 in under five seconds!”)

I know we’ll someday laugh about Gideon’s joining the ranks of licensed drivers; but right now, it’s problematic.

“Got your ears on, Bandit? There’s a big insurance premium increase breathin’ down your neck…”

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Copyright 2021 Danny Tyree. Danny welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.” Danny’s weekly column is distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons Inc. newspaper syndicate.

I spent Monday nights in the fall of 1975 breathlessly watching my favorite TV show. And I do mean breathlessly.

That’s because I had to rush home from my afterschool job at a nearby convenience market and hope that I didn’t miss much more than the “goils were goils and men were men” in the theme song of blue-collar comedy “All in the Family.”

I hated being a latecomer – again. I didn’t see the first few episodes when the program premiered 50 years ago (January 12, 1971), but I was certainly aware of the residents of 704 Hauser Street (in the Astoria neighborhood of Queens, New York) by the time Popular Library published the paperback “The Wit and Wisdom of Archie Bunker” 14 months later.

Ah, yes, in this onscreen battle between the Greatest Generation and the Baby Boomers, Archie was hailed as the quintessential “lovable bigot.” (As various social media memes have implied, lots of thin-skinned people today would be demanding that college presidents wipe out “systemic lovable bigotry.” Archie could end an argument with a good old-fashioned raspberry. Now we end an argument by tearing down the statue of some dude who freed the slaves while not wearing a mask.)

Archie (like a blind hog finding the occasional acorn) could sometimes unleash a common-sense pronouncement that put son-in-law Mike “Meathead” Stivic in his place and resonated with the common man. For all his narrow-mindedness and malapropisms, Archie was a sympathetic figure who struggled to adapt to a changing world.

Although reruns of “Friends” and “The Office” get all the attention in today’s streaming-service bidding wars, the edgy “All in the Family” was quite a groundbreaker in its time.

It was the first show to rank #1 for five consecutive seasons, the first major American show videotaped before a live studio audience, the first sitcom in which all the lead actors (Carroll O’Connor, Jean Stapleton, Sally Struthers and Rob Reiner) won a Primetime Emmy Award and the first show in history to feature the sound of a flushing toilet. (If network censors had been less uptight in the Fifties, maybe Fred Mertz wouldn’t have gone around with that constipated look all the time. I’m just saying.)

I doubt my son’s high school classmates are familiar with “AITF,” but the show’s legacy lives on in the Tyree household. My wife still denounces a meandering, pointless recitation as a “dingbat story.” But I’ve wisely refrained from telling her “Stifle!” or “You’re a real pip, you know that?” Otherwise, I might find myself leaving on that midnight train to Georgia.

I am overjoyed that ABC and producer Norman Lear have presented live reenactments of old episodes of “All in the Family” (and “The Jeffersons” and “Good Times”) without doing full-blown reboots. Still, I have to wonder what Archie Bunker would be doing in the era of taboo team names, “Defund the Police” and unisex restrooms.

Would we hear “That has got to be the laziest white drone I’ve ever seen”?

How about “Craft beer? Craft beer? Edith, Duke Wayne would never touch a beer that hadn’t passed through 10 million sets of kidneys”?

I know! He would say, “Are you sure Sammy Davis, Jr. is dead and can’t do a guest-shot? What if we brought him back in one of those waddayacallem zombie Appomattoxes?”

*Sigh* Those were the days.

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Copyright 2020 Danny Tyree. Danny welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.” Danny’s weekly column is distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons Inc. newspaper syndicate.

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

In case you (expletives deleted) missed the marketing campaign, on January 5 the noble public servants at Netflix will launch a six-episode series, “History of Swear Words,” hosted by actor Nicholas Cage.

The “proudly profane” program will be supplemented with historians, cognitive scientists, lexicographers and etymology experts. (The latter should feel right at home, after years of hearing, “When are you going to quit &^%$ and get a &^%$ REAL job?”)

I find myself with mixed emotions as I navigate a world of prudes, “shock” junkies, auto-pilot “cuss like a sailor” conformists and opportunistic fence-straddlers.

The decline of both history education and religious instruction has contributed to the cacophony of swear words. I suspect there are people who genuinely believe the Magi presented Joseph and Mary’s child with gifts of gold, frankincense and a MIDDLE INITIAL.

T-shirts, hedonistic songwriters, PG-13 movies and cable/streaming TV have accelerated the crudity agenda. When I was a lad, over-the-air programming was relatively tame; but now consumers insist, “If I have to PAY for the programming, I expect some ADULT CONTENT – i.e., pretty much the same stuff I used to hear in the junior high locker room for free.”

The more “groundbreaking, critically acclaimed” modern masterpieces I encounter, the more I’m convinced that if you set an infinite number of monkeys at an infinite number of typewriters, they would eventually… give up on ever typing enough “F-bombs” to fill the first 15 minutes of a cable TV show. (“He’s a shapeshifting, demon-possessed Venusian who becomes mayor of Podunk – but we’re KEEPIN’ IT REAL with the S-word.”)

Remember those Japanese soldiers who remained on combat alert in the jungles for years after World War II ended? Well, today we have straitlaced guardians who are valiantly holding the line against phrases that became commonplace in 1945. They like to embarrass ruffians by asking, “You kiss your momma with that mouth?” (Best response: “Yeah, and I hug my momma with the same hands I use in the men’s room. What’s your point?”)

It’s ironic that they sing, “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine,” because they would SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST if they ever opened their King James Version Bible and saw the words used for bladder relief and sexual promiscuity.

“Minced oaths” was a term I ran across during my research. It means euphemistic expressions that alter or clip profane words to make them less objectionable. Who do indecisive people think they’re FOOLING with outbursts such as “sugar,” “fudge,” “goldarned” and “son of a biscuit eater”? What other scams do they hope to pull off? (“Yes, I coveted your wife and your donkey, but I had one eye covered, so it doesn’t count.”)

Thank goodness we have “polite society” to give us parameters for language. (Polite society: that’s where you hold out your pinkie to eat cucumber sandwiches as you collude to manufacture sneakers using slave labor.)

I give up. Our standards for forbidden words are maddeningly arbitrary. Most of the taboo words are of Germanic or Scandinavian origin. Latin-based languages such as French get away with murder. (Think of “derriere” and “manure” lording it over their ragged cousins from the trailer park.)

It’s like a Frenchman can get away with telling you, “I just ran over your dog and here’s a kick in the groin – but I brought snails and cheese. We good?”

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Copyright 2020 Danny Tyree. Danny welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.” Danny’s weekly column is distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons Inc. newspaper syndicate.

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“Hello. I’m Grandpa.”

For Christmas 50 years ago, my parents splurged and bought me a compact reel-to-reel tape recorder. My father had whetted my appetite with remarks that one could build a primitive voice recorder along the lines of Thomas Edison’s prototype, but this was the real store-bought deal.

I took the prized possession along when my paternal grandparents hosted Christmas dinner for the very last time.

I THINK the device is still nestled in my mother’s attic; but even without it, I distinctly remember Grandaddy Carl neglecting his King Leo stick candy long enough to lean forward and humor me by uttering, “Hello. I’m Grandpa” for the benefit of posterity.

Certainly, favorite carols playing over the radio or the shopping mall PA system create priceless Christmas memories; but, like my grandfather’s announcement, there are so many other sounds that warm the cockles of our hearts and create cherished remembrances.

For instance, the laughter that accompanies good-natured ribbing when a new boyfriend or girlfriend meets the extended family for the first time.

Or the woofs, meows and neighs of new pets delivered to their forever home by Santa.

Don’t forget the joyous sound of well-wishers when a family member announces a pregnancy, or when a baby experiences its first Christmas.

We can relive our own childhoods when we overhear youngsters unleashing their imaginations or discovering “Jingle Bells, Batman Smells” for the first time.

Even a distressing sound such as spinning tires stuck in snow can be outweighed by the sound of a neighbor (or a total stranger) asking, “What can I do to help?” instead of “What’s in it for me?”

A well-worded, heartfelt prayer over a Christmas meal can fortify us just as much as the protein, vitamins and minerals.

Yes, Christmases seem to come faster and faster; but there is ample time for obstacles, disappointments and disasters between them. That’s why we should embrace all the pleasant audio memories we can get.

On the other hand, some Christmas sounds are toxic.

A respectful exchange of political viewpoints keeps office parties and family get-togethers lively, but overheated ultimatums have no place on the holiday celebrating the Prince of Peace.

Christmas is not the time for families to serve up heaping helpings of long-simmering complaints about favoritism, inheritances or ostentatious displays of wealth. As the Horatio R. Palmer hymn advises, “Angry words, oh, let them never/ From the tongue unbridled slip. / May the heart’s best impulse ever /Check them ere they soil the lip.”

Some people spend all year guaranteeing that the yuletide season will be miserable for themselves and others. Christmas should be a time for togetherness and sharing, not a time for finger-pointing or self-flagellation.

Life gives us enough hard knocks without our wallowing in self-inflicted wounds (whether from dimwitted investments, shortsighted health decisions or hormone-driven shaky relationships). Good planning minimizes the need for abject apologies or violent defensiveness.

I have my “Hello. I’m Grandpa” memories to keep me warm – as well as the sound made by the “air blaster” toy I received all those decades ago and the ability to conjure up the jokes of long-gone aunts and uncles.

I’m sure you have your own favorite Christmas-connected sounds. I hope that this year you can accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative and make new connections that will last throughout the years.

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Copyright 2020 Danny Tyree. Danny welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.” Danny’s weekly column is distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons Inc. newspaper syndicate.

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

I must confess that I haven’t attended a symphony orchestra performance since a long-ago elementary school field trip.

(Perhaps memory fails me, but I could swear we rowdy youngsters heard Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Flight of the Cooties” – or maybe it was excerpts from Mozart’s opera “Beans, Beans, They’re Like A Magic Flute.”)

My generation mostly knows Ludwig van Beethoven because (a) Schroeder in the “Peanuts” comic strip kept a bust of the German composer on his piano (fun fact: Pigpen carried around a full-size statue of Joseph Haydn, but no one could ever see it through the dust) and (b) Walter Murphy and the Big Apple Band reached #1 on the Billboard Hot 100 Chart with the 1976 disco instrumental “A Fifth of Beethoven.”

That recording, of course, was adapted from the famous first movement of Beethoven’s “Symphony No. 5 in C Minor, Opus 67” – more commonly known as “Yet Another One That Needs More Cowbell”.

At least my son Gideon voluntarily listens to classical music while doing homework and surfing the internet. (Too bad Beethoven didn’t follow up “Ode to Joy” with “Ode to Teenage Angst.” But I digress.) Gideon’s exposure to highfalutin music helps me hold my head a little higher as we near the 250th anniversary of the birth of Beethoven (approximately December 16).

Beethoven was a prodigy and a genius in the days when being a genius actually meant something. (Nowadays, if you can Photoshop a selfie of yourself consuming the world’s largest Tide Pod between the time you lose your balance and the time you hit the pavement 30 stories below, you’re a certified genius and a tragic loss to the gene pool.)

Biography.com describes Beethoven as “the predominant musical figure in the transitional period between the Classical and Romantic eras.” (Granted, the competition wasn’t as fierce as you’ve been led to believe. “Be the predominant musical figure in the transitional period between the Classical and Romantic eras? I dunno. Does it come with vision and dental? Forget that!”)

The website goes on to laud Beethoven as “an innovator, widening the scope of sonata, symphony, concerto and quartet, and combining vocals and instruments in a new way.” Nothing about trashing hotel rooms or driving a carriage into the swimming pool, but nobody’s perfect.

Most of Beethoven’s greatest masterpieces were composed AFTER he began losing his hearing. Too bad we don’t have more perseverance in the face of adversity like that now. (“Finish my novel after a reviewer used my non-preferred pronoun??? All I’m writing is my signature on my disability check.”)

Alas, Beethoven was unlucky in love. According to one biographer, the pianist’s last words before dying at the age of 56 were “You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain – if I’d just put THAT in a ballet, I’d have been a chick magnet!”

I’m glad we have ready access to our favorite musical genres (whether it be honky tonk, Adele ballads, Broadway show tunes, hip-hop, heavy metal, modern jazz or something else), but let’s all try to slip a little classical (especially Beethoven) into the mix.

We need our veggies to go with our dessert. We need the complexity, the sophistication, the gravitas, the soul-stirring majesty of classical compositions.

We need to transcend this mortal plane and …ooo, they have Tide Pods on the astral plane! Which lens shall I use?

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Copyright 2020 Danny Tyree. Danny welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.” Danny’s weekly column is distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons Inc. newspaper syndicate.

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

We all know Santa Claus as a “right jolly old elf,” but the man carries a well-stocked bag of regrets.

He recently sat down with me to list some of the ways he wished his life had gone differently.

“I don’t regret the Island of Misfit Toys real estate venture per se, but I sort of hate that we used an old atomic testing site. I’m cool with a water pistol shooting jelly – but not RADIOACTIVE jelly.”

“I wish I had found a better business manager to protect my trademark. My FRIENDS have good business managers. You never hear of anybody playing Secret Tooth Fairy or Dirty Easter Bunny.”

“I’m sorry I gave up my summer job as Whitebeard the Pirate. Granted, it was always hard making the seasonal switch from ’15 men on a dead man’s chest’ to ’15 brats playing with the boxes instead of the toys.’”

“Rudolph is great, but I would have been satisfied with one of those leg lamps from ‘A Christmas Story’ to guide my sleigh. Hubba hubba.”

“I’m sorry that laying a finger aside of my nose no longer gets me up the chimney. It just messes with my sinuses. And most of my preexisting conditions preexist the insurance company!”

“I’m sorry about the untimely coal-mine cave-in, but those hooligans in the Bronx really earned some lumps in their stockings that year.”

“Wish I’d had my OCD medication prescription BEFORE everyone started expecting me to make a list and check it twice.”

“I’m sorry I skipped all those seminars and didn’t keep my accreditation up. My Uber bill is killing me.”

“Wish I hadn’t unleashed an exorcist on my visitors before realizing they were just the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future. Future had it coming, though.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get Mrs. Claus to sign that prenup. It’s bad enough all my assets are FROZEN; but she gets half of them if things go south.”

“Sure, the NFL is finally looking into concussions involving football players, but nobody cares about concussions from beloved childhood figures colliding with Bert the chimney sweep.”

“I’m sorry I locked myself into that commitment of delivering toys to every child in the world in a single night. Really should have set up a recorded message like ‘Your call is very important to us. All our little old drivers so lively and quick are currently busy with other customers. Please stay on the line until April, you little…’ “

“The whole ‘right down Santa Claus Lane’ thing was pretty egotistical. At least it’s not the Valley of the Jolly Green Giant. Come to think of it, my business manager let him rip off the ho-ho-ho line.”

“Sorry I got dragged into the ‘reason for the season’ debate. Bad scheduling. No Nativity scenes in August. Used to smoke a lot of CAMELS then, but I became a wiser man…”

“I wish I could make a low-key jaunt from the North Pole to some municipality without Springsteen blabbing, ‘Saaaaanta Claus is comin’ to town!”

“My biggest regret? I’m really bummed out over that one lap-sitting kid I traumatized by saying, ‘Certainly I remember when your parents were kids…long before they adopted…um, er…I mean, long before they conceived you the standard way, which entails…I mean, YOUR parents? Come to think of it, Jack Frost substituted on that route for me…”

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Copyright 2020 Danny Tyree. Danny welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.” Danny’s weekly column is distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons Inc. newspaper syndicate.