Cagle World

Do you share my frustration at being required to update smartphone apps at the most inopportune of times?

With aggravating regularity, my quick lunchtime stops at fast-food chains have become anything but efficient. Silly me, I turn to the restaurant’s “trusty” app for the daily deals, only to be told that the app I updated two weeks ago is suddenly in need of ANOTHER crucial update and will not function AT ALL until I genuflect to the code-writing gods and redo the whole process.

(When a corporation’s “best and brightest” are constantly experiencing “Oh, wait, I forgot something” moments, don’t expect me to place oodles of confidence in the “Employees must wash hands after using restroom” signs.)

Okay, I’m hungry and cheap, so I sheepishly step out of line and try downloading, installing, lathering, rinsing and repeating what I thought had been a perfectly serviceable application.

The “update, order, eat and get back to work” process grinds to a standstill when the app outright LIES to me and insists I don’t have enough space on my phone and that I will have to DELETE one of my other apps. So instead of enjoying a leisurely meal at an eatery where my family and I made many carefree memories in halcyon pre-app days, I am plunged into a nerve-racking game of “The rowboat is sinking, and you can save only your wife OR your child! PICK ONE! Tick tock, tick tock!”

I seldom notice any practical technological improvements when I comply with the command to update. I can handle a human being asking me, “You want fries with that?”; but I come unglued when an anonymous programmer asks me, “You want bells and whistles with that?”

Usually, the stated reasons for an update are gibberish to me. I do notice “improved stability” popping up with some frequency. So, apparently my phone is “unstable.” That’s why I’ve taken to keeping it locked in the car trunk when I take a shower, so we don’t have any of this Alfred Hitchcock “Psycho” drama going on.

By the time I finally get my grub, if an acquaintance asks me whether my phone has an Android platform or iOS platform, all I’m interested in is a platform high enough for me to plunge to my merciful doom!

Of course, not all updates are so heavy-handed and mandatory. Some time-tested apps will keep limping along indefinitely. But the retailer, news site, social media hub or game developer will try to GUILT you into going with the latest version. (You’re liable to scuff your phone dragging your knuckles like that, don’t’cha know?)

Yes, you can stick with your quaint software, but you’ll be doing the “swipe of shame” while all the cool kids laugh behind your back.

The app stores become more persistent when there’s some recent “security issue” that they’ve hurriedly patched up. It really makes you want to go back to cash, paper maps and board games when you’re cajoled into playing “Consumers, let’s see if we can continue to stay one step ahead of the evildoers! Oh, crud! Larry has gone over to the Dark Side.”

Don’t get me wrong. I really appreciate some of my apps; but more and more, when someone says, “There’s an app for that,” I gaze at my phone and sigh, “There’s a ball peen hammer for that.”

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2019 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.

Most of my Christmases have become hopelessly blurred together, but Christmas 1969 holds a special place in my heart.

In fact, back in 1998 my very first yuletide column took a whimsically nostalgic look at that holiday.

But as the 50th anniversary of Christmas 1969 approaches, I feel compelled to write something with more gravitas.

There were two main things I implored Santa for that year. One was a selection of toys from a yellowing 1927 Montgomery Ward catalog that my mother the collector had picked up at an auction or antique shop somewhere. (I particularly remember a listing for a tin monkey that climbed a string. Surely if elves could manufacture Easy Bake Ovens and Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots, vintage toys would be a breeze.)

Second, I hoped against hope for the miraculous resurrection of my favorite security quilt (which my mother had consigned to the bonfire because its structural integrity and sanitary tolerability were long gone).

When my little brother and I awakened (only two or three hours after bedtime), lo and behold – Santa had brought lots of neat stuff, but none of the things I had specifically staked my happiness on.

I survived. And after that, I started taking a more subdued, more practical, less pie-in-the-sky approach to wish lists.

Yes, 1969 was a turning point, and I’d like to think my maturity has continued to increase bit by bit every year since then.

I now realize that true security and true happiness do not come from the regaining of lost artifacts or the heaping up of gifts (whether high-tech or retro). And, no, not even from the accumulation of photographs and anecdotes of loved ones long departed.

For the happier and wiser me of 2019, happiness and security have more to do with that Christ child whose manger gets crowded out by candy canes, reindeer and snowmen.

Don’t squirm. If you have come by your alternate beliefs (or non-belief) honestly, I am not here to dismantle your religious convictions in 600 words or fewer.

But if you are a lapsed or lethargic Christian, I hope this festive season (and my encouragement) can rekindle a spark in you.

Whether you slowly drifted away from worship without realizing it, experienced an “epiphany” because of a dishonest TV documentary or just like flitting from one Spirituality Flavor of the Week to another, I hope you’ll rediscover the reason God sent His only begotten Son to earth in the first place.

Spend time with humble people for whom Christmas means more than outrageous electric bills or legendary office parties. Go rock ’em sock ’em on your doubts by studying Christian apologetics books such as “The Historical Reliability of the New Testament” (Craig L. Blomberg), “Are the Gospels Full of Contradictions?” (Jonathan Morrow) and “Jesus: Man or Myth?” (Carsten Peter Thiede).

Yes, I enjoy crafting a satirical smackdown or groan-producing pun; but my deepest satisfaction comes from sharing something inspirational.

Missing out on a tin monkey was not the end of the world. But there definitely will be an end of the world.

In God’s creation, there are things more eternal than your maxed-out credit card. There are things more delicious than premium eggnog. There are things immeasurably worse than stale fruitcake.

Get your priorities right and spreading good tidings of great joy will become second nature.

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Copyright 2019 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.

If you’re tired of running around in circles to find a Christmas gift for the dog lovers on your list, I know just the thing for you to fetch.

The charming softcover book “It’s A Dog’s Life: Tales from A Dog Named Max,” by Max, with help from Nina Hershberger, is now available from Amazon.

For the sake of full disclosure, besides working at a farmers cooperative and writing this syndicated column, I have had a freelance business relationship with Hershberger (founder of MegaBucks Marketing) for the past decade.

For most of that time, Hershberger’s adorable pet Schnauzer Max has written a widely circulated monthly blog showcasing his hopes, dreams, opinions (“Why is Big Pharma dragging its feet with that CHOCOLATE vaccine?”) and (sometimes wildly exaggerated) misadventures. One of my assignments has been to act as a sounding board/coach/muse/editor for the precocious pooch. I’ve tried my best to translate his lofty canine thoughts into something comprehensible by mere homo sapiens.

Max is quick with a one-liner, but I have labored mightily to clean up his grammar. He’s far less concerned with split INFINITIVES than with “Here, let me split that ROADKILL with you.”

I also enforce deadlines and shield Max from distractions. I’m proud to have had a small role in helping him keep his nose to the GRINDSTONE instead of to a Chihuahua’s hindquarters.

Hershberger recently asked me to help select 52 of the best essays that she and Max have collaborated on, so she could self-publish them in book form to satisfy requests from his legion of fans.

So, there is now a convenient way to read dozens of punchy 500-word essays about Max at the North Pole, Max at Dollywood, Max at the Olympics, Max’s love for Notre Dame’s Fighting Irish, Max’s status as the Indianapolis area’s most eligible bachelor, Max’s presidential aspirations (“Ask not what your country can do for you – ask what kind of MONSTER is impersonating a tree limb rubbing against the window. Woof! Woof! Woof!”) and more.

To be sure, Max sometimes bumps up against the Recommended Daily Allowance of jokes about pooper-scoopers, kibble, toilet water and chasing cars; but he’s so sincere with his desire to please. Even Mark Twain could get in a rut, although not necessarily one he wallowed out in the sofa.

Max hopes to make the New York Times “Best Smellers” list. Seeing fans line up for his first autograph session had him wagging his tail and PURRING – until the cultural appropriation activists picketed him. He got no credit for being an honor roll CSL (Cat as a Second Language) student

He is excited to have this shot at immortality, although his excitement was muted by the sudden realization that it would be IMMORTALITY IN DOG YEARS.

Acquaintances have asked me, “When are you going to write a book?” — so I must admit I’m envious of Max for beating me to the bookshelves. But at least Max’s book is something you can SINK YOUR TEETH INTO, whereas one by me would probably be something to BURY IN THE BACK YARD.

I’ve presented my case for Max’s family-friendly volume. I won’t beg (unless there’s a Scooby Snack involved).

But I truly feel “It’s A Dog’s Life: Tales from A Dog Named Max,” available from Amazon, deserves a “forever home” with you, a loved one or your local library.

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Copyright 2019 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.

Maybe it’s because my first viewing of “Rudolph” occurred when I was four years old and my first viewing of “Frosty the Snowman” happened when I was a worldly wise nine-year-old, but I’ve always been extra cynical about Frosty.

The animated TV special (based on a 1950 song introduced by Gene Autry) will doubtless garner oodles of affectionate attention when it turns 50 on December 7, but it remains troubling on multiple levels.

For starters, how did this goofy nobody rate designation as Frosty THE Snowman? Who melted and made HIM boss? What entrenched elitist connections did Frosty have? Is it mere coincidence that Frosty never praised the Sunshine State but also never said a NEGATIVE thing about the DEEP State? Drain the swamp? Ha! Snowplow the snow drifts!

Ever wonder why Frosty has legs, while Sam the Snowman in “Rudolph” had to go scooting around on his bottom? (Or why later airings of “Frosty” haven’t replaced Jimmy Durante’s performance of the title song with ZZ Top shouting, “He’s got legs/And knows how to use them”?) Was the cartoon’s subtext that Frosty wrangled a deferment from the Vietnam War but Sam lost his lower extremities in service to his country? Was it really the greenhouse that melted Frosty, or did he in fact become overheated doing aerobics with Hanoi Jane Fonda?

Granted, Uncle Sam might have avoided drafting someone with Frosty’s intellectual shortcomings. C’mon, you don’t keep announcing, “Happy birthday!” – thus calling attention to your BIRTHDAY SUIT – when you’re not ANATOMICALLY CORRECT.

It would be another decade before TV popularized “Kids, don’t try this at home”; but you can’t really excuse the questionable life lessons of “Frosty,” such as “Christmas snow is magical and makes hoboes riding in railroad boxcars disappear long enough for a little girl to reach the North Pole.”

The scene with the WOODLAND ANIMALS building a campfire for young Karen has never been more disturbing. Could it be that PG&E electric company was just a convenient scapegoat for California’s wildfires?

Surely some of you are now inspired to voice your own repressed objections to “Frosty.” Maybe you want to substitute sugar-free gum for his corncob pipe or replace his “two eyes made out of coal” (non-renewable resource) with two eyes made out of paper straws.

MY biggest pet peeve with the show has always been that Santa Claus, the narrator and everyone else treated bumbling magician Professor Hinkle like a dastardly villain.

Let’s rehash. Professor Hinkle threw his hat in anger and IMMEDIATELY tried to retrieve it, but his own rabbit/assistant (Hocus Pocus) absconded with the headgear. It eventually got commandeered by the same bratty schoolchildren who had committed senior abuse against Hinkle (!) and somehow became the undisputed property of an entity dumped out of a nimbostratus cloud.

Mr. Alderdice, my junior high business teacher, taught us, “You cannot pass a better title than that which you possess.” So, I’d love to see someone argue Frosty’s property rights before the Supreme Court. (“Based on the precedent set in Miranda v. Arizona, you have the right to remain SILENT, while the, um, snowman… TALKS.”)

Celebrate Frosty if you must, but just remember he’s probably out there taunting Rudolph’s veteran narrator with “Hey, Sam, I’m taking a knee – wait, one of Yukon Cornelius’s sled dogs already took it!”
As Professor Hinkle might say, “Messy, messy, messy.”

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Copyright 2019 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.

With festive turkey-based feasts fast approaching, and having just re-watched a classic Thanksgiving-themed Steve Martin video, I thought it appropriate that I share a few of the things for which I am thankful. I apologize if the list is too predictable and schmaltzy, but please bear with me.

I am thankful for the deer that frolic in my yard, for indoor plumbing, for pimento cheese, for CBD oil, for a loyal readership, for online treasure troves of long-ago photographs.

I am thankful that in this country a person – no matter his station in life– has the opportunity to pursue his wildest dreams, at least until he awakens to find that his friends have dipped his hand in a bucket of warm water.

I am thankful that the conscientious use of abbreviations, nicknames, acronyms, hand gestures and emojis has provided mankind enough spare time to conquer the common cold and land a human on Mars. Oh, wait…

I am thankful that today is the first day of the rest of your life, unless somebody knocked you into the middle of next week, which would make it the eighth (?) day of the rest of your life, unless they hit too hard and you’re, you know, DEAD. In that case, I am thankful I have a new suitcoat for the funeral.

I am thankful that the government hasn’t yet placed a microchip underneath my skin to keep track of my every movement, because that landline phone my mother got Dr. Rutledge to insert back in ’76 made wearing long sleeve shirts a pain in the keister.

I am thankful that I am wise enough to know to keep my friends close, my enemies closer, my cousin over on the sofa in the corner and that guy I kind of remember graduating with my brother somewhere in the nosebleed section of the auditorium.

I am thankful that “you can’t always get what you want,” because SOMEONE has to keep Amazon humble.

I am thankful that my white privilege means shopkeepers don’t profile me and watch warily as I search for 7-million SPF sunscreen.

I am thankful that the advertisers who announce “get a great meal and HAVE CHANGE LEFT from a five” apparently live in a delightful world where only leprechauns and unicorns must pay SALES TAX.

I am thankful that my sudden realizations involve thoughts like “Oh, I left the steam iron plugged in” instead of “Duh, I just realized that what I overheard the president say was probably significant to this investigation. Do over!”

I am thankful that I have never served SERIOUS jail time for strangling mental giants whose idea of holding up their end of the conversation is “Oh, did you? Is that right? Really? Can you beat that?”

I am thankful that “when one door closes, another opens,” because otherwise we would have a roomful of losers packed in like sardines.

I am thankful that “history is written by the winners,” because history written by those who received a PARTICIPATION RIBBON would be lame as heck.

I am thankful that only God can make a tree, because humans would be selling you an extended warranty on a sugar maple.

Finally, I am thankful that all those times I was dropped on my head as a child have not had the slightest long-term cognitive effects on me…

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Copyright 2019 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.

My extended family has suffered more than its fair share of dental issues in 2019.

(Fair share? Yes, Elizabeth Warren’s number-crunchers have ascertained exactly how many fillings, extractions and root canals Bill Gates should have to endure. Tankerloads of sugary drinks are standing by to balance any inequities.)

I myself am getting by with nothing more serious than semiannual cleanings (knock on wooden teeth). But my wife has made umpteen emergency trips to the dentist, my 92-year-old mother went through a six-month process of getting dentures, my mother-in-law had several teeth pulled and now my 15-year-old son Gideon is adjusting to wearing braces for the next 18 months.

I now know why teeth are referred to as “pearly whites” – by the time you get them paid for, you’re passing through the Pearly Gates.

Sure, everyone wants a winning smile, but with the price of braces, you shouldn’t merely be winning. You should be running up the score and body-slamming the opposing team’s mascot!

I know: “How can you put a price tag on good oral hygiene, aesthetic perfection and self-esteem?” Well, somebody sure takes up the challenge!

To be fair, my deluxe dental insurance did cushion the blow for me. And, by cushion the blow, I mean in the sense that a Kleenex cushions the blow of an anvil falling from a cliff onto the Coyote’s head.

Fuller disclosure: the braces diagnosis was not a sucker-punch catastrophe. We’ve scrimped and saved for the past five years just in case my weird dental DNA messed up Gideon’s smile. (You’ve seen my bumper sticker, “I’m flossing my children’s inheritance,” I presume.)

Even ignoring my genetic contribution, the odds are against ANYONE living to a ripe old age without costly dental crises. Now gender-reveal parties have been shoved aside by soirees where the buzzkill Health Police announce, “This embryo is pre-hypertensive. This embryo is pre-diabetic. This embryo is pre-‘sending the orthodontist’s kids to college’.”

At least the braces have not made Gideon a social pariah. Back in my day, braces rendered the wearer the butt of jokes, generated cruel nicknames and elicited comparisons to the James Bond villain Jaws. Luckily, most teens are now so busy looking down at their phones, little things like a mouth full of metal escape their notice. Can you imagine class reunions in the future? (“Darn! I came all the way here without charging my phone – hey! Brad and Brandi – I never realized you were conjoined twins!”)

Inevitably, some insufferable know-it-all will label me a fool for having gotten Gideon traditional braces from a reputable orthodontist with a physical location. They’ll say I should have jumped on the bandwagon for all the trendy “braces by mail,” “do-it-yourself braces” and other shortcuts. I’m just not greedy; I don’t deserve dental appliances that pay for themselves in five minutes, adjust while you blink or magically plant a tree in the Amazon rain forest every time you nibble a legume (or swallow their hype).

I sympathize with Gideon as he adapts to the hassles of frequent brushings, Waterpik utilization and avoidance of so many foods (hard, chewy, sticky) that he would love to consume.

I even refrain from seeking parental revenge for all those long-ago vacations.

Although it WOULD be fun to heckle, “Can you chew caramels yet? Can you chew caramels yet? Can you chew …?”

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Copyright 2019 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.

Has the traditional workday become an interminable torture for both you and your boss?

Even if you break it up with sessions of meandering to get a fourth cup of coffee, meditating, scheduling pizza delivery, carrying Gibbon’s “Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire” to the restroom, thoroughly analyzing the “Hot enough for ya?” conundrum and watching video marathons of frolicking ferrets, do you still find yourself collapsing on the sofa after you finally reach home?

According to the Wall Street Journal, a German company called Digital Enabler is pioneering a game-changing way to approach earning a living: a five-hour workday.

Research has shown that even good employees are truly productive only slightly more than half the day. (This includes RESEARCHERS, who by mid-afternoon are invariably asking things like, “If the election were being held today … would you be caught dead wearing an outfit like that skank in Accounts Payable?”)

So Digital Enabler and other firms – without cutting pay or benefits — have decided that it’s prudent to capitalize on those sharp, focused hours and then shoo the employees away from the office for the rest of the day.

Some employees relish the flexibility, but other wage slaves should take a “be careful what you wish for” stance. The five hours require a distraction-free, nose-to-the grindstone dedication. The day is shorter, but you are expected to PRODUCE.

To achieve that goal, lunch is pushed until after work hours, cellphones and social media are banned (“Ve haff vays of making you not talk”), and idle chitchat is seriously discouraged. (This is forcing employees to choreograph intricate mime routines that transmit the message “Buy my kid’s marching band candy, or you’d dead to me – dead. Until I need help with the Hawkins account.”)

Yes, tech-addicted millennials may have a hard time adjusting to the deprivations. Not so much old Bert the Hermit, who has been in the mailroom since the days of the Pony Express. (“Wahoo! The extra hours off will give me time to go to the library and discover new ways to explore the boss’s gastrointestinal tract. Move over, Lewis and Clark!”)

Normally sociable people, afraid of lapsing and raising their supervisor’s ire, will retaliate against co-workers’ greetings with a poor man’s impression of Robert DeNiro in “Taxi Driver.” (“You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to ME???”)

I worry about workers having to binge their forbidden fruits. Each morning, they’ll unload all their overnight sexual conquests, political diatribes and family disputes as they stampede to the timeclock. Then after work, they’ll fight over strangers they encounter on the sidewalk. (“Look, buddy, I know it’s your bagel, but I’m posting a selfie with this bad boy!”)

I know it will make some laborers jealous, but the innovation is really geared more toward office workers than retail clerks, assembly line workers, first responders or contractors. (“Without the distraction of radio or stereotypical blue-collar banter, we got the first floor all wired ahead of schedule. Tomorrow I’ll tell you how to get out of your hallway without being electrocuted. G’night.”)

If the new schedule does catch on here, employers will revel in the assurance that their employees aren’t just sitting there daydreaming about fishing trips or hot dates.

No, they’ll be daydreaming, “Forget bass! I wonder if I can talk him into a four-hour workday?”

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Copyright 2019 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.

The words weren’t aimed directly at me, but I was recently flummoxed by an unexpected undercurrent of animosity.

In an online post, a military veteran refused to confine his anger to people who spit on veterans or ignore veterans. He vented about citizens who actually pause to ACKNOWLEDGE the contribution of former servicepeople.

Echoing the recent gun-control backlash against “thoughts and prayers,” the veteran expressed disdain for people who are satisfied with flying an American flag, shaking hands with a veteran or dashing off a rousing November 11 opinion piece.

The veteran’s message could be paraphrased as, “If you really gave a rat’s rear end about veterans, you’d be mowing my lawn or cleaning out my garage instead of making meaningless gestures.”

I don’t know what percentage of veterans secretly share that writer’s sentiments, but perhaps it’s time to deal with the elephant that many of us didn’t realize was in the room.

Yes, more of us need to learn to make veteran appreciation a 365-day-a-year habit. And, yes, there are shallow, selfish civilians with way too much leisure time on their hands. I agree that these people should not be encouraged to pat themselves on the back for the herculean task of clicking “Like” on a patriotic social media post.

On the other hand, it is unrealistic and unfair to expect all of society to “jump when I say jump and ask how high on the way up” when disgruntled veterans start prescribing exactly how honor should be paid.

Many veterans return from war with hideous physical and psychological wounds, but most civilians have their own ailments and obstacles to overcome. Multiple part-time jobs. Special-needs children. Chronic fatigue syndrome. Aging parents. All these situations can rob a well-meaning person of the time, energy and flexibility to do chores for veterans.

Also, honoring veterans is an admirable endeavor, but not the only good work that society needs performed. And veterans might be helped indirectly by some of those other projects that people choose to devote their time and talents to. It might be a veteran’s niece who gets helped by a Breast Cancer Awareness Month fundraiser. It might be their grandchild who benefits from the positive role model of a volunteer youth athletics coach. It might be their lifelong best friend who gets a decent home because of Habitat for Humanity volunteers.

Finally, sometimes ignorance IS an excuse. Some veterans may hide their disabilities too well. People may assume that veterans have family members to help them. People may assume that veterans would be offended by offers of assistance.

The number of disastrous dates, successful scams and bad hiring decisions in this country demonstrate that we are not a nation of mind readers. Veterans truly in need of assistance should be willing to make their needs known to neighbors, churches or civic groups.

Does there exist a single soldier, Marine, sailor or airman who didn’t at some point wish a superior officer would cut them some slack and grant them the benefit of the doubt?

On behalf of other civilians, I humbly ask for a little patience and understanding from our nation’s veterans.

Civilians, use that breathing space to be more mindful of the needs of those who kept us free.

Our country’s wars should be a struggle against the enemies of liberty, not a struggle among ourselves.

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Copyright 2019 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’m not proud of it, but I haven’t visited the now-disheveled cemetery on the hillside behind my late father’s childhood home in more than 40 years.

Willie Nelson was right when he mused, “Ain’t it funny how time slips away?”

When it comes to missed opportunities, I guess I’m a victim of my innate politeness. (“Hello, Mr. Nap. Stay a while. I promise to make you feel welcome.”)

As a lad, I was a budding history buff, but that country cemetery creeped me out. I didn’t realize the stone cairns atop the ground were an old Scots-Irish tradition. I always feared I was one clumsy stumble away from seeing EXPOSED SKELETONS. Times (and hormones) change. A few years later, I convinced myself that I was one clumsy stumble away from seeing exposed – well, never mind. This is a family newspaper.

But it’s hard to experience the annual pageantry of haunted houses, grinning jack-o’-lanterns and squealing trick-or-treaters without thinking of the eerie adventure my father experienced at that burial place as a boy.

Speaking from alleged experience, an older boy (Cousin? Neighbor? The details are lost to time, unfortunately) informed Dad that there was a specific tombstone that would yield a fascinating perspective on the Great Beyond – if some intrepid soul had the guts to perform the appropriate ritual.

All one had to do was dare to ascend the hill at midnight, touch the grave marker and ask, “What are you doing?” Cross his heart and hope to die, the older boy assured Dad that he would hear an answer of “Nothing.”

This was the golden era of man-on-the-street interviews, so I guess man-in-a-hole-six-feet-under interviews were just a logical extension.

Dad finally got a chance to test the claims.  With the help of a coal oil lantern and the full moon, he cautiously ascended the hill, located the proper tombstone, nervously reached out a fingertip and meekly inquired, “What are you doing?”

Silence.

Thinking he hadn’t made adequate skin contact, Dad summoned the sort of fortitude that would serve him well during Army bayonet practice years later, touched the monument more solidly and demanded, “What are you doing???”

Something was still wrong.

Thinking the third time would be the charm, Dad stretched out his arm, positioned his legs to spring back from spectral danger, cleared his throat – and paused.

Something finally clicked in his adolescent brain. He had followed the instructions to the letter and the occupant of the grave had indeed given him a reply of … nothing.

Yes, this is another sad story of intellectual property missteps by the Tyree family. If Dad had just thought to trademark “Well, DUH,” I would probably be typing this column on the Riviera now.

I’m not sure how Dad saved face the next time he encountered the prankster who started the ball rolling. I like to imagine him nonchalantly remarking, “My lawyer will permit me only to say that there was no quid pro quo. There was definitely no quid pro quo.”

I’m glad Dad could laugh at himself and share such embarrassing incidents with the family. I hope the different generations of your own family are preserving spooky stories about ghosts real or imagined.

If you’ve been napping in this regard, ask “Someday when I’m gone, what would my loved ones give to hear those stories?”

One word: Anything.

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Copyright 2019 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.

Remember when big news meant scientific breakthroughs, assassinations and economic meltdowns?

Now the international headlines are reserved for the scandal (or heroism, take your pick) of Meghan Markle (the Duchess of Sussex) wearing the SAME GOWN she wore on a tour two years ago!

(“Glycemic index, celebrity fashion statements. Which shall I watch today?”)

This fashion development dovetails nicely with a Wall Street Journal report about consumers (especially wasteful Americans) buying ever-increasing amounts of clothing, wearing each item an ever-diminishing number of times and consigning the castoffs to the overburdened landfill.

(Yes, the landfill – or incinerator. For various reasons, less than one percent of the fiber used to produce clothes is recycled into new garments.)

Perhaps it’s because of frugality ingrained by parents who grew up during the Great Depression, but I feel ashamed that the duchess’s commonsense actions must raise so many eyebrows.

Granted, some of the clothes I can’t part with have sentimental value as souvenirs (like the T-shirt that Jerry Robinson, co-creator of The Joker, autographed for my wife at the Chicago Comic Con in the early 1990s). But mostly, I work hard for my money and want to get my money’s worth out of my apparel purchases.

Everything in my wardrobe can eventually be repurposed, as lawnmowing clothes, painting clothes, Halloween party clothes, pet bedding, etc. Would you believe this pirate eyepatch was once a London Fog overcoat? Arrr, matey!

There is no shame in sticking with something that works, as I have done with the perfectly usable mug shot that adorns this column in most newspapers. This was taken back when a photographer was a photographer, and instead of yelling, “Cheese!,” the subject had to recite, “I’ll be glad when some enterprising hunter-gatherer learns to domesticate cattle!”

I’m not a snob who insists on astronomical thread counts, whether in sheets or garments. I can give the Tootsie Pop owl a run for his money. (“One…two…it takes TWO threads to get to the center of Tyree’s jacket approval.”)

I wish more schools taught budgeting. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard some spendthrift explain, “But what if my friends see me in last month’s fashions when I go to the payday loan office?” …

Vanity of vanities. It’s demoralizing how wrapped up some people can get in chasing the will-o’-the-wisp known as Trendiness. Folks, I don’t care how good someone looks in those Daisy Dukes, if they start up that hipster “Yellow matter custard is the new pus-pocket puce” nonsense, make like my favorite slacks and SPLIT.

I’m sorry that some people are bored out of their skulls if they aren’t constantly buying brand-new ensembles. If you want a real adrenaline rush, try walking through a dangerous neighborhood wearing old jeans with worn-out pockets that leave a trail of keys, credit cards, etc. Hijinks ensue.

At least current anxieties about What Really Matters in Life have opened up a new interest in World War II. (“Oh, no! I’ve worn the same outfit twice on Instagram! Fetch me my ceremonial hara-kiri sword. Unless it clashes. Then I’ll have to wait for a drone to bring a different outfit.”)

No need to thank me for sharing my insights. That’s just the sort of guy I am. I would gladly give you the shirt off my back, except it’s sort of bonded there now. Help!!!

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Copyright 2019 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.