Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

It may be the sort of birthday where someone shouts, “50 candles blazing on the cake? Are you crazy? Why don’t we just fill a pinata with cow methane while we’re at it???”

I’m speaking of the 50th anniversary of the Environmental Protection Agency. President Richard Nixon proposed the independent executive agency on July 9, 1970 (fun fact: “EPA” was the only term on that particular Nixon tape with fewer than FOUR letters) and it began operation on December 2, 1970.

(This was mere weeks before Elvis Presley’s famous meeting with Nixon in the Oval Office. Nixon would maintain an interest in both Elvis and the environment, as witnessed by a joint operation of the FBI and EPA in investigating the effect of a hunk’a hunk’a burning love on the ozone layer.)

The EPA didn’t arrive on the American scene a moment too soon. Bob Hope and Red Skelton were running out of smog jokes, and newcomer Flip Wilson’s Geraldine Jones character was in danger of her sassy catch-phrase becoming “What you see is what you get – no, I’m over here – *cough* *cough* just squint real hard…”

I know some people long for the Good Old Days (“Who needed Jell-O Pudding Pops when you could just draw them right out of the well? Mmmmm…”), but we were some NASTY sons of guns before federal intervention.

We thought an “ecosystem” was a plan for blowing your horn while driving through a tunnel. Tourists seeing the U.S.A. in their Chevrolet frequented tourist sites such as the World’s Largest Ball of Particulate Matter.

It was a “buyer’s market” for hitchhikers. (“If you ain’t haulin’ at least three barrels of benzene in the back of your pickup, I’d just as soon walk, mister.”) The fuzziness of nostalgia helps us forget that kids couldn’t even make a simple paper football in class without calling time-out to add lead paint and asbestos to the project.

Homeowners and factories took shortcuts and were not particularly keen on looking at the big picture. And if they did look at the big picture, afterwards, they let the photographic chemicals run off into navigable waterways.

I know sometimes the EPA is accused of going hog wild with regulations (arguably, little Jimmy’s mud pie business probably ISN’T that big a threat to endangered wetlands), but in general we shouldn’t take the agency for granted.

They educate us about fuel efficiency, set radiation standards and prepare Environmental Impact Statements for all major government projects. Roughly 1,000 “Superfund” hazardous waste sites have been reused or redeveloped in the 40 years since Congress put a priority on such cleanups.

Considering humanity’s desire to cut corners, bend rules and kick the can down the road (suddenly the Traveling Wilburys song “The Devil’s Been Busy in Your Backyard” is playing in my brain), there will always be a need for the folks at the EPA to serve as our ecological conscience and maintain this great land’s natural beauty.

Just don’t get me started on the funding of OTHER federal programs, such as the Pony Express Saddle Inspection Agency or the Department of Keeping Betsy Ross Supplied with Needles.

Those can go to the Landfill of History for all I care. Unless there’s another cracked landfill liner…

All these complications make me mad enough to whack a pinata!

Hey, there’s one now…

BOOM!

–

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

Are you a faithful Christian who is concerned about empty pews – and the steadily decreasing impact of Christianity on the social fabric?

There’s good news about the Good News.

After years of procrastination, I have stretched beyond my 600-word columns and written an honest-to-goodness BOOK.

My first effort is a departure from my usual lightweight tomfoolery (although you’ll find snark, pop culture references and stream-of-consciousness observations aplenty).

It’s a breezy motivational book titled “Yes, Your Butt Still Belongs in Church” (and subtitled “Answering the excuses that block mankind from having life and having it more abundantly”).

It is NOT an attack on devout Jews, Muslims or Hindus. It is NOT an attempt to pummel atheists into submission.

No, it is directed at three groups: (a) the aforementioned churchgoers who need words of encouragement, (b) Christians who have drifted away from church and dabbled with substitute forms of addressing life’s challenges and (c) people who are not antagonistic toward Christianity but just never made a priority of checking it out.

I’ll confess that I have an internet troll living rent-free in my brain. Without deigning to read my book, he has labeled me “judgmental” and declared that organized religion is just a bad “product”: if it met people’s needs, they would be flocking to it.
But he fails to distinguish between HAVING needs and RECOGNIZING needs.

People don’t NEED to hoard and increase their wall-to-wall clutter, settle for a humdrum love life, eat an unhealthy diet or neglect saving for retirement. But sometimes they just don’t recognize the problem or lack MOTIVATION to fix the situation.

Not all self-help books are created equal; but in general, I’m GLAD we have authors who can help us manage our time better, develop superior people skills, overcome addictions and make wiser money decisions.

RATIONALIZING one’s avoidance of formal worship is just as self-destructive as fabricating excuses to throw temper tantrums, languish in a dead-end job or flee from committed relationships.

With humility and love, I’ve tried to create something that will bulldoze through the obstacles and help good people reject BAD REASONING.

I’m not going to lie and promise this book is a cure-all. Whether it’s relationship issues, health advisories or political platforms, we all know people who absolutely will not listen to sound logic.

But I think the book can be ONE RESOURCE in your toolkit. And even if you fail to win someone over, you’ll have a clear conscience after having tried your best.

In my lifetime, I have written job applications, book reports, a prize-winning (youth tour of Washington, D.C.) essay, 17 years’ worth of hobby articles, company newsletters, a comic book, radio commercials and 1,150 weekly columns. But this is the most substantive, most life-affirming, most IMPORTANT thing I have ever written. Seriously.

Have a Happy Thanksgiving. And may God bless.

Yes, Your Butt Still Belongs in Church written by Danny Tyree is now available on Amazon.com

–

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

As your host, I have gathered a cornucopia of genuine Thanksgiving trivia, thanks to “Good Housekeeping” magazine and other sources.

(Granted, “Good Housekeeping” reached its peak of relevance in the June Cleaver era. Today’s over-scheduled families would be just as well served with subscriptions to “Adequate Housekeeping” or “Turn Out the Lights and Pretend Nobody’s Home” or “Anybody Got the Energy to Activate the Roomba?” magazines.)

For starters, President Thomas Jefferson refused to celebrate Thanksgiving as a national holiday, citing concerns about separation of church and state. Coincidentally, Jefferson was the only chief executive to greet sneezing dignitaries with sympathetic comments of, not “Bless you,” but “We hold these truths to be self-evident: it must suck to be you.”

The day after Thanksgiving is the busiest day of the year for PLUMBERS. I keep reassuring myself, “It’s because people wanted a vanity just like the one they saw at their cousin’s house, it’s because people wanted a vanity just like the one they saw at their cousin’s house…”

At the end of the annual Detroit Thanksgiving Parade, Santa Claus always receives the key to the city. He then tosses the key and just steps through the broken storefront windows. (“To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Or it’s a 9-1-1 call!”)

Only male turkeys can gobble. So, no, turkey hens aren’t staring up at the rain; they’re sizing up that @%&$ GLASS CEILING.

It gets lost in the shuffle, but Native American History Day is the same day as Black Friday. Shoppers do give a nod to the commemoration, when they growl, “Why CAN’T I get that 219-inch widescreen TV for $24 worth of trinkets? Hey, a John Wayne commemorative magazine in the checkout lane…”

California consumes the most turkey at Thanksgiving. On the other hand, the Golden State’s use of wishbones ranks near the bottom, because of onerous regulations. (“If wishes were horses…then beggars might get trampled, so no wishbones without a license.”)

The actual title of the song we think of as “Over the River and Through the Woods” is “The New-England Boy’s Song About Thanksgiving Day.” (Some whippersnapper just chimed in, “Oh, there’s a song about over the river and through the woods?” *Sigh* I think I’ll write a song called “The Tennessee Boy’s Song About Youth Being Wasted on the Wrong People.”)

Although George H.W. Bush was the first president to initiate a CUSTOM of pardoning a turkey before Thanksgiving, John F. Kennedy had granted a one-off pardon in 1963. Rumor attributes this to JFK being convinced that the turkey was singing “Happy birthday, Mr. President.” (After this, the Secret Service began checking the eggnog more closely.)

The Butterball Turkey Talk Line answers almost 100,000 calls each season. Big deal. I get almost that many calls while I’m trying to sit down to my pumpkin pie. And most of them are either “We’d like to talk to you about the extended warranty on your Kleenex” or “I know the election is over, but I thought of a few more things I’d like to say about that commie who was running against me for dog catcher.”

Eighty percent of Americans prefer LEFTOVERS to the initial meal. Remember that next year when I work off my 4,500 calories with something other than writing a brand-new column!

–

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.

Veterans Day parades? Veterans Day school essays? Veterans Day ceremonies on the courthouse lawn? Star-spangled Veterans Day memes on social media? Platitude-enhanced newspaper editorials?

Sure, I’m familiar with all those expressions of patriotism and appreciation; but until I stumbled across a certain article the other day, I had been blissfully ignorant of the widespread availability of Veterans Day CARDS.

Whether you use a preprinted card, customize an online template or create a unique masterpiece totally from scratch, this is an outstanding way to let our nation’s defenders know they are not forgotten.

Speaking of store-bought cards, it’s unfortunate that the Hallmark Channel is always already wall-to-wall Christmas movies even before the jack-o’-lantern is consigned to the compost heap. It would be heartwarming to have a week-and-a-half of early-November movies in which Candace Cameron Bure and other Hallmark stars find romance on the obstacle course or save the town ammunition depot from being replaced with a mall. (“I don’t know about atheists in foxholes, but there’s a chaplain in this one! It’s military wedding time!”)

I’m slowly sorting through a stack of correspondence between my late father and his mother from when draftee Dad was in the U.S. Army. (I’m sure the newspaper clippings and neighborhood gossip from Granny Tyree helped take the sting out of the “Dear John” letter he received.) Such mail between flesh and blood is a good starting point, but don’t limit yourself to kinfolk.

Friends and neighbors who did a tour of duty should certainly be thanked for their sacrifice, whether it was last year or two generations ago. Total strangers being treated in a faraway VA hospital could also use the ray of sunshine provided by the gesture of a Veterans Day card.

And let’s not forget active servicepeople and their families. When my mother talks about some hectic endeavor, she tends to use the phrase “dragged from pillar to post.” And surely no one gets dragged around like military families. A sincere card would mean so much among the bills and junk mail.

Even a “value-priced” professional card can be the high point of someone’s day, but challenge yourself to personalize your cards. Not everyone is a polished wordsmith (as I demonstrate on a weekly basis), but perhaps venturing out of your comfort zone will give you a slightly better rapport with those who face or faced constant danger.

“Diligence,” “selfless,” “resilience” and “greater purpose” are some of the recurring words used in Veterans Day cards; but I’ll bet you could express your pride and appreciation even better with a more conversational tone and more intimate anecdotes. Be bawdy, be mushy, be vulnerable, be REAL.

IF you’re going to be taking the personal route, why not go whole hog with the “Christmas letter” approach? (You know the sort of insufferable letter I’m talking about: page after page of humble-brag recitations of dream vacations, promotions and genius children.) Crow about all the things that are going right in your life – and after each and every one of them, pause to acknowledge that your freedom and achievements wouldn’t be possible without the sacrifices of the military.

COVID-19 has hobbled many of the traditional ways of celebrating Veterans Day (including hugging a veteran), but 2020 might be a good time to become part of the new tradition of sending Veterans Day cards to our heroes.

–

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

Did you realize that commercial radio got its start on November 2, 1920 when legendary KDKA in Pittsburgh broadcast the results of the Harding-Cox presidential race?

Almost overnight, radio transitioned from domination by ham operators to an actual business with schedules, programming and sponsors.

Now the world has experienced an entire CENTURY peppered with FDR’s “Fireside Chats,” serialized “Captain Midnight” adventures, the original soap operas, traffic and weather reports, Top 40 countdowns, sportscasts (I still remember hearing Hank Aaron break Babe Ruth’s home run record), catchy advertising jingles, truckdriver-oriented DJs, small-town birthday listings and all the other auditory events that make life worth living.

I was just lucky to be BORN into such an amazing world. In his carefree bachelor days, my father surely considered climbing the radio transmitter tower and hurling himself to his doom after hearing one too many heavy-rotation plays of that early “earworm” song “RaggMopp” by the Ames Brothers (“R-A-G-G M-O-P-P RaggMopp!”) I hope Dad was polite when he told the DJ where he could put his “stacks o’ wax.”

My own connection to radio goes all the way back to my toddler days. I overheard a local radio report of a stranger who was hospitalized after a wreck; I became fixated on him and for the next few years, HE was my imaginary friend. No tiger, no pirate, no dragon. MY imaginary friend was some nondescript fender-bender survivor!

I was stuck in a rut. A few years later, my first FANTASY GIRLFRIEND labored 21 hours a day in the candle factory and would’ve worked more if not for the tuberculosis. (I wonder if her imaginary one-legged kid brother still sells newspapers with a cry of “Wuxtry! Wuxtry! Read all about it!”)

I cherish memories of receiving a transistor radio (about one-third the size of a walkie talkie) for my twelfth birthday. It meant portability, control and freedom. But as Janis Joplin sang, freedom’s just another word for nothing left to buy the replacement BATTERIES with, so I soon went back to listening to the farm futures market on the family radio, like ALL the cool kids.

Dr. Harold Baker (who taught my Radio Production class in college) HATED the corny on-air greeting “Hello, everybody out there in Radio Land!” When an announcer is hitting on all cylinders, radio is magically INTIMATE; each listener gets to suspend disbelief for a few minutes and imagine that the faraway announcer is speaking directly to HIM. (“Why, yes, now that you mention it, I do need gas-reduction tablets, Ramblin’ Rudy. I hope they take effect before this weekend. You ARE coming over to watch Junior’s christening, aren’t you?”)

Commercial radio is capitalism at its best: constant innovation that connects merchants with customers, volunteers with charities and music fans with bountiful tunes. As an old newspaperman, I’m glad radio and newspapers have managed to maintain a friendly rivalry over the years. (I think the impending deathmatch faded when RCA gave up on developing technology to WRAP FISH in a symphony broadcast.)

Maybe the political world will borrow a few tricks from radio contests.

“Be the seventh state to phone in with your electoral votes and the Phrase That Pays: ‘I’m tired of the whole nightmare!’ And what’s the FREQUENCY to remember?”

“Every four years. Every four stinkin’ years. Where are my climbing boots? I’m going up the tower!”

–

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 was trying to clear the cobwebs from my mind, and all I could find was random thoughts about Halloween (a.k.a. Hallowe’en, a.k.a. Allhalloween, a.k.a. All Hallow’s Eve, a.k.a. All Saints’ Eve, a.k.a. the Holiday That Is Bankrupting the Federal Witness Protection Program).

My son and I recently lamented that there are only a handful of well-known Halloween-appropriate songs, and they’re played to death. (What I’d give if Queen had taken the time to record “We will…we will…EMBALM you!” Or if the Bee Gees had recorded “How Deep Is Your Grave?”) Beyond “Thriller” and “Monster Mash,” a lot of what we’re subjected to at Halloween is just SOUND EFFECTS (clanking chains, etc.). That would never fly at Christmas – unless you think there’s a market for “Sounds of Rudolph leaving a ‘package’” or “The Elf on the Shelf scoots onto a splinter.”

Speaking of music, one of my sources claims Halloween is responsible for 25 percent of the revived sales of vinyl records. (“Sure, toss a vinyl record in the bag, pops. It’ll taste better than that candy corn you gave out last year.”)

Did you ever suspect that the Grim Reaper would be a little less grim if those robes were SWEAT-WICKING, and if he modernized his scythe to something more mechanical? Reaper, ever hear of an American inventor named Cyrus McCormick? Of course, you did; you mowed him down in 1884. Never mind.

Are you guilty of asking trick-or-treaters inane, clueless questions while dispensing candy? You know, questions such as “And who are YOU supposed to be?” Don’t be surprised if one of the little cherubs comes back with a response of “I’m SUPPOSED to be the third and last child in my family, but Mom and Dad had too much to drink at last year’s Halloween party, so…Got any more nosey questions?”

Granted, some homeowners are a little too kid-savvy to put up with any guff. (“We gave our grandkids a $400 toy submarine for Christmas last year and they played with the BOX. So, here’s a Snickers wrapper. Knock yourself out.”)

Do you think ghosts ever regret not leaving more explicit instructions about the quality of their burial shrouds? (“I wouldn’t be caught dead in anything less than a 250-thread-count sheet. Except I HAVE been caught dead in this bargain-store knockoff!”)

Wouldn’t you love to see a witch simply fly like George Reeves as Superman? (“The poisoned apple didn’t kill her! Quick – let’s THROW one at her!”) I’ve seen cartoons of witches riding a vacuum cleaner instead of a broom, but why do they have to ride ANY sort of cleaning apparatus? I usually expect a witch to be taking names and kicking derrieres when she gets to her destination – not sweeping up dust bunnies and scurrying to set down a drink coaster for guests. (“Lost track of the futures market on gingerbread? There’s an incantation for that!”)

Everyone is on edge about accusations of cultural appropriation when selecting Halloween costumes. DOUBLE DOWN, I say. Dress as the whole United Nations General Assembly. (“I’d love to take that toilet paper out of your trees and clean the eggs off your vinyl siding, but I’ve got diplomatic immunity!”)

Political correctness? You can’t even make fun of Dr. Frankenstein now. (“You’re a MAD SCIENCE denier!”)

Coming soon: why didn’t Foreigner record “I Want to Know What Fruitcake Is”?

–

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

This is a year of double milestones: my mother’s house turns 75 and (as of October 30) she will have been living there for 50 years.

She grew up as part of an itinerant sharecropping family during the Great Depression, so I’m glad she has enjoyed all these decades of stability. (I lived in the house from age 10 to age 31.)

One of Mom’s friends dubbed the property “El Rancho Rocky” because of the ample supply of limestone, but the Tyree family pulled together to make something of the place. (Mom was 91 when she finally gave up mowing the five-acre yard for herself.)

Much has changed about the Tyree property and the neighborhood, but many landmarks remain relatively unchanged.

For instance, the Osage orange (French bois d’arc) trees that litter the ground with hedgeapples. And the massive hackberry tree in the front yard. My father suffered his fatal heart attack while sitting beneath it, but Mom prefers to reminisce about the time I sassed her as a teen. She wearied of chasing me around and around the tree trying to discipline me, so she “cut the Gordian knot” by reaching through the tree fork and grabbing me!

The “old O’Neal house” was built sturdily enough of brick and hardwood; but it has had numerous close calls, such as the April 1974 tornado that swept through the front yard, throwing the rail fence into the road and wrapping the tin roofs of outbuildings around utility poles.

Then there was the lightning bolt that struck right outside the garage door mere seconds after my brother put up his motorcycle.

Indoors, someone was standing in the right spot at the right time to catch the dining room chandelier that had been shaken loose by the horseplay of Dad’s Webelos Scout den upstairs.

Let’s not forget the grass fire I ignited while playing with matches. (On second thought, let’s DO forget that visit by the fire department.)

Only three automobile wrecks have occurred in front of the house, but countless dogs and cats have been “clobbered” (to use Dad’s terminology) by speeding motorists. Dear old Turf the ginger tomcat was laid to rest near the northwest corner of the house more than 30 years ago.

Mom has a TV, cellphone and microwave oven; but she takes perverse pride in not letting her domicile be invaded by a dishwasher, clothes dryer, internet, cable TV or satellite dish.

I have so many memories of that place: standing in the yard squinting at the disappointing smudge that was the 1986 appearance of Halley’s Comet; listening to “Gospel Time” on the radio in the former breakfast nook; watching a neighbor lady chase her husband through their yard with a butcher knife. (“Woman killer!” he was shrieking. “Killer woman” would probably have been more accurate, but artistic license and marriage license make a good two-fer.)

Oh, to have a time-lapse video of all the changes the neighborhood has gone through in five decades! Alas, the comings and goings have become a blur.

I hope my mother spends many more good years in that house. And I hope each of you will stop and smell the roses (the metaphorical roses – not hers!) and leave a record of the friends, pets and events that distinguish the little slice of the world that YOU call home.

–

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

My electronic key fob is putting more mileage on ME than on the car.

For the past several months, I have tried to build up the nerve to do a thorough search of the contents of my trunk. I am hoping against hope that an overly sensitive trunk-release button on the fob HASN’T left several of my childhood keepsakes strewn along the roadside.

Granted, a neighborhood raccoon has already done a PARTIAL job of searching through the trunk (kindly forcing me to scoop up scattered belongings from the driveway before I could hurry off to work) when the trunk stayed open all night because of a stray signal from inside the house. (Yes, my life is a suspense movie. “The stray signal is coming from inside the house!”)

I keep second-guessing myself, worried that I’ve shut up a curious cat in the trunk or that the mere act of my plopping down behind the steering wheel has prepped me for a madcap adventure of leaving a trail of litter. (“Happy trails to you…until …you get… a ticket!”)

Sometimes I’ll miraculously go for a few days without a hint of trouble from the trunk (or the car BURGLAR ALARM – nothing relaxes you like finally crashing on the sofa to watch TV and having the honking car compete not only with the commercials but also with a robocall reminding you about the EXTENDED WARRANTY ON YOUR KEY FOB), but then it makes up for lost time. I have “butt-dialed,” “nipple-dialed,” “thigh-dialed” and apparently a few internal vestigial organs have volunteered to get in on the action.

Mind you, I’m not soliciting advice about workarounds and fixes. I am taking under advisement all the stuff I’ve read about reprogramming and expensive fob holders and all that. Right now, I just want to VENT.

HAIR-TRIGGER trunk, alarm, lock and unlock buttons on a key fob are ingenious solutions to problems that never really existed. Who needs a trunk to pop open that easily unless they’re on a tight schedule to deliver an underworld informant to a cement-overshoes ceremony? If you really want to scare away muggers in a darkened parking lot, why not have an illuminated bumper sticker that says, “My Honor Roll student is selling band candy and will track you down via facial recognition software”?

Until I settle on a better solution, when I remember, I separate my keys from my pants as soon as I get home. “Keep your friends close, your enemies closer and your car keys where someone will spill pancake syrup on them.”

The key fobs are supposed to be a CONVENIENCE, but separating them from your pockets mostly means a lot of return trips to the house. They’re convenient only in terms of keeping Dr. Seuss fresh on your mind. (“Did I leave it on the table, or by that print of Betty Grable? Did I hang it on the fridge? Won’t you &^%$#@ help me, just a smidge?”)

I’d like to dim my headlights and catch the key-fob engineers in a dark alley. They didn’t put much thought into what all could go wrong. What ELSE have they not taken into consideration about vehicles?

(“Nah, nobody would ever turn onto a street named after a TREE. So, there’s only a miniscule chance that the ejector seat would ever be activated…”)

–

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

Ironically enough, I did not sleep PEACEFULLY last night, because I was concerned about taking the wrong tone with this column about the iconic singer/songwriter/musician and anti-war activist who wrote “Give Peace A Chance.”

Friday, October 9 marks the 80th anniversary of the birth of John Lennon (who was murdered by a deranged fan on December 8, 1980 at age 40).

In honor of Lennon’s outspokenness, I hesitated about writing a fawning Beatles-fan puff piece; but neither did I want to lay too much criticism on a fellow fallible human being who isn’t here to defend himself.

Then I got the idea of thinking of Lennon as a Facebook friend.

Facebook allows you to experience the touchy-feely side of people you may know only casually. Likewise, the home movies in the video for Lennon’s “Beautiful Boy” (from the “Double Fantasy” album) genuinely tug at the heartstrings.

Various Facebook memes let you see your friends in a different light (“What would your pirate name be?” and the like). I got choked up seeing actor Robert Carlyle’s cameo as a 78-year-old unassuming, non-celebrity Lennon in the 2019 fantasy movie “Yesterday.”

Facebook shows you how your friends strive to grow and reinvent themselves. The Beatles COULD have hung on as a nostalgia act for decades, playing their “Ed Sullivan Show”-era hits at local dances and Rotary Club fundraisers; but (both before and after the breakup), Lennon thrived on innovation, experimentation and avant-garde aspirations, creating a deeper bond with the listeners and society.

With Facebook, you get treated to previously unseen “glory days” snapshots of your friends. On a recent weekend, my wife, our son and I FINALLY got to watch and enjoy the zany 1965 Beatles movie “Help!”

If you’re like me, you sometimes click “Like” without really scrutinizing all those vacation albums and kindergarten graduation albums that your friends inundate you with; but every now and then, you have the luxury of time. Lennon left a discography containing much more than commercial hits such as “Power to the People” and “Instant Karma” and I hope I live long enough to explore it.

And, of course, SOMETIMES your friends – no matter how witty, talented and lovable they are – espouse political beliefs so wrongheaded that they convince you they were repeatedly dropped on their heads as youngsters.

Yes, I’m thinking about “Imagine” (which some people would like to see replace the National Anthem). Although Lennon softened his interpretation of the message over the years, he was initially proud of having applied enough sugar-coating to lure unsuspecting millions into embracing an anti-religious, anti-nationalistic, anti-capitalistic philosophy.

As with Facebook, I’m tempted to cope by rolling my eyes, agreeing to disagree and scrolling down to something less exasperating.

But seriously – don’t just sway and chant. THINK about the implications of the lyrics. They’re not just naïve or impractical or misguided; they’re all those things ON STEROIDS.

Imagine there’s no heaven? As if primordial ooze produced a genius such as Lennon? As if DREAMERS should relish the “fact” that all great musicians just CEASE TO EXIST?

No possessions? Um, stereos are possessions, dude.

Living for today?

Yes, I’ll live for today. I’ll ALSO cherish my MEMORIES and plan for a FUTURE in which I employ a wide range of emojis to keep new generations aware of John Winston Lennon – warts and all.

–

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

My son Gideon has now finished both his ACT and SAT college entrance exams (scoring at an impressive percentile somewhere between “It’s …it’s…go ask my wife” and “Never you MIND what his father’s score was”), but I wonder if the tests will still be relevant when HIS hypothetical kids reach college age.

Hundreds of colleges dropped mandatory test scores this year because of COVID-19 disruptions, but standardized tests were already falling out of favor with admissions officers long before the virus arrived. According to the Wall Street Journal, more than 60 percent of four-year schools in the U.S. have made test scores optional – giving more weight to GPA, extracurricular activities, teacher recommendations (“I really envy the professors who will have Jasmine in class – but not envy in the stalker-ish way…probably”) and socioeconomic adversity.

This derails a nearly century-long tradition of standardized tests being the gold standard for gaining entrance to your dream school. The SAT launched in 1926, when Prohibition-era hooch was potent enough to make those raccoon-skin coats look cool. Even the late-to-the-party ACT started the year before I was born! I’m surprised that in 2020 the first multiple-choice question isn’t “What is the best way to ace this test, kids? (a) get off my lawn; (b) turn down that music; (c) pull your pants up; or (d) all of the above?”

Multiple factors have chipped away at the dependence on standardized tests. Reformers point out that the modern emphasis on coaching for tests distorts two years of a student’s life. Yes, we took the tests seriously when I was a student, but there was considerably less pressure – partly because we weren’t inundated with today’s RESOURCES. (“We have some lovely study guides for you, but first, the shop class will have to extricate Mrs. Swanson from the mimeograph machine. Dynomite!”)

Nowadays, it’s Stress City. Instead of just bugging the cafeteria lady, college-bound students make a concerted effort to determine the rank of mystery meat on the periodic table. No matter how short the skirts, the main emphasis of pep rallies is calculating the angles of the human pyramid. Public displays of affection are now less about tonsil hockey and more about clutching the thesaurus. (“My precious! My precious!”)

Skeptics have long derided standardized tests for favoring nerds who are only good at regurgitating information. Speaking as a nerd who is only good at regurgitating information, “Here’s some information: I’m rubber and you’re glue…”
Level-playing-field proponents point out that affluent school districts have an unfair advantage at placing students in prestigious universities. And wealthy parents display a tendency to game the system by hiring tutors, paying someone else to take the test, bribing proctors or getting Newton’s hard-to-remember laws of physics changed. (“Hey, if you’ve got more MONEY than God, you might as well try playing God.”)

The College Board, which administers the SAT, insists standardized tests are still the best predictor of success in college. (The SECOND-BEST predictor of buckling down and succeeding in class is whether you can study the Reconstruction period and the Klan without shouting, “Toga! Toga! Toga!”)

I hope mollycoddling mania doesn’t cause problems if any of my hypothetical grandchildren become optometrists.
“Better or worse? Better or worse? Can’t you give me more time, doc? And can’t you diagnose astigmatism by perusing a narrative about my life experiences???”

–

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.