Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

As a Baby Boomer, I looked on with bemusement; but December 10, 1974 was a cultural milestone for the oldest members of Generation X.

That’s when ABC premiered the Rankin/Bass Productions animated Christmas special “The Year Without A Santa Claus” (a.k.a. “Scary Title, Kids, But Tell Mom and Dad That Hasbro and Mattel Are Still Here for You Even in a Worst-Case Scenario”).

Showcasing the voice talent of Shirley Booth and Mickey Rooney (“Hey, kids, let’s put on a show – one without that nerve-wracking ‘A Charlie Brown Christmas’ music”), the program has been a perennial favorite of children, parents, grandparents and folks just living in hope of a cartoon titled “The Year Without A Single ‘If the 2048 election was being held today, who would you vote for?’ Poll.”

As with all the classic Christmas cartoons (classic in the misty-eyed yet combative sense of “Everything was better when I was young – the music, the fashions, the cars – even our drag queen story hours were 61 minutes”), “TYWASC” was very much a product of its time.

As opposed to being a product of which time, you ask? I don’t know. Maybe the 17th century. (“Look! Elves with Satanic pointy ears are moving of their own accord, in a disturbingly jerky manner. They’re bewitched! Burn them at the stake!”)

Where was I? Oh, yes – if the beloved special was produced in 2024, there would be major changes right from the get-go. The original started with Santa Claus waking up with a cold shortly before Christmas. Nowadays, the Canadian government would recommend euthanasia first thing. Show over. “An Eternity Without A Santa Claus,” anyone?

In the original, Santa was deep in despair (because he assumed that no one believed in him anymore) and decided to skip his yearly toy-delivery duties. Mrs. Claus took it upon herself to orchestrate an outpouring of support for Santa and rescue Christmas Eve.

Such a display of initiative was fine for a half-century ago, but in 2024 the Mythical Being Formerly Known By Her Husband’s Name would have to be more kick-butt. (“We’ll shoot for delivering the toys by December 28-ish, so it doesn’t interfere with my mixed martial arts tournament. And forget dropping gifts into stockings. I’m dropping F-bombs!”)

Elf brothers Jingle and Jangle would still have a wild adventure with Vixen the reindeer and Iggy the little boy – assuming that collaborating via Zoom is your idea of a wild adventure, and assuming that reindeer are really the most qualified flying mammals and not just another DEI hire.

Of course a big part of the original was the goal of getting it to snow in Southtown for just one day. Now the big deal would be getting FEMA to show up afterwards.

In the original program, circumstances required Mother Nature to work out a compromise between her feuding offspring Heat Miser and Snow Miser. Now it would take just a few hundred billion dollars for the United Nations to get things done. Or not.

In the original show, the world’s children sent their own presents to Santa and jump-started his Christmas spirit. In 2024 they would be even more generous, although the 25 percent tariff might crimp Santa’s appreciation.

Sorry if I’m keeping you from re-watching the genuine show. Afterwards, let me know how you think you’ll like my Christmas 2048 column…

–

Copyright 2024 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

I would love to revolutionize your Thanksgiving Day speeches, but I must admit that the blessings I feel gratitude for are embarrassingly mundane.

I mean, I am thankful for weekends, babies, walks in the rain, comfy sofas, random acts of kindness, the fact that I pay so little attention at work, I am permanently exempted from having to sign a non-disclosure agreement…

I am thankful that the descendants of Abraham have been blessed to be as numerous as the stars in the sky and the grains of sand on the seashore, although they do fall short of the number of artificial ingredients in a box of breakfast cereal.

I am thankful that some states’ vote-counting pace provides a perfect strategy for dieters. (“Whoa! It turns out that combo meal I ate last Tuesday had 2,000 calories! I’ll have to take that into account the Thursday after next, when I find out how many calories this here chocolate fountain packs!”)

I am thankful that my taste buds can accommodate sour grapes. That makes it easier when my smartphone camera announces, “Storage full!” just as I’m about to snap some once-in-a-lifetime photograph. (“Ah, who needs a photo of Bigfoot hiding a lost John Lennon recording in Amelia Earhart’s plane, anyway?”)

I am thankful that – if there’s any justice in the world – all those clothing designers who refuse to standardize sizes and cuts will someday find themselves not quite fitting into their caskets or urns.

I am thankful that I can still manage to fake detecting a difference between 500 permutations of (faintly) scented candles. (“Ah, yes – the Buttcheeks & Boysenberry! I shall savor the experience until my dying day! Perhaps you would enjoy a little something I call Eau de Exertion of Just Turning On The %$#@ Lamp. Wait, there’s more! I’m also marketing a new game called Just What Foul Odor Is Debbie Trying To Mask, Anyway?”)

I am thankful that if you smile, the world smiles with you – although not necessarily at the same time and not without sneezing, half-closed eyes and devil horns.

I am thankful that I may someday be as famous as Robert Oppenheimer, since my kitchen junk drawer is finally approaching critical mass.

I am thankful that folks tolerate my inability to remember names; but let’s be honest: most people don’t have names that are that memorable to start with. You can ask (let me consult my list here) my mechanic Brad Pitt, my accountant Babe Ruth and my neighbor John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.

I am thankful that there has been a pause in cases of zealots trying to “cram their ideas down your throat.” Of course, the tentative plan to infect you with their opinions via a patch is alarming in its own right. (“No, wait. Better yet: you can now scan this QR Code to have all your beliefs ridiculed to the core!”)

I am thankful to find teachable moments in life, although some days I’m less inclined to impart my years of wisdom than to announce, “Hey, go raid your grandparents’ closet and do a Seventies dress-up day!”

Don’t take things for granted this Thanksgiving. Show a little reverence.

In the words of the patriarch Isaac, “Hey, Dad, the next time you want to try a burnt offering, might I suggest a box of Fruity Pebbles, instead?”

–

Copyright 2024 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

I probably hadn’t seen Frank Capra’s “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington” before launching my crusade 50 years ago, but the idea “lost causes are the only causes that are worth fighting for” would’ve certainly resonated with me.

On November 10, 1974, I opened the Sunday comics section of the Nashville “Tennessean” and discovered that “Dick Tracy” had been unceremoniously canceled mid-story. I was blindsided. The jut-jawed detective had “always” (well, since 1937, anyway) been part of the “Tennessean” Sunday funnies.

Call me an obsessed nerd with too much time (and too many ink stains) on his hands, but I immediately launched a campaign that dragged out over the next five or six years. Inspired by the song “The Impossible Dream,” I strove to achieve justice for “Tracy” and other classic strips that the “Tennessean” had dumped in the early Seventies.

My impassioned letters to the comics editor were followed by appeals to various “Tennessean” executives, a petition drive at the Nashville Fairgrounds Flea Market, a well-received high school term paper and an ill-fated plan for a Nashville “happy news” reporter to cover my efforts.

And let’s not forget 1977 when I won an essay contest and went on a youth tour of Washington, D.C. I was able to hand-deliver an appeal for help to Sen. Howard Baker, Sen. Jim Sasser and President Jimmy Carter. (Pres. Carter’s apologetic “The Secret Service will have to take that” was the last I heard of the matter. Perhaps the envelope resides in a vast warehouse alongside the Ark of the Covenant.)

I quickly learned that Lou Grant was not the only newsman who hated spunk. Although some of his out-of-the-loop colleagues communicated with me, the specfic editor who single-handedly pulled the trigger on “Tracy” (and “Gasoline Alley” and…) never once displayed the courtesy to answer me directly.

(In college I worked on a radio documentary about my crusade. One of my teammates phoned the editor to ask why “Tracy” was discontinued, and was caught flat-footed when the editor demanded, “Is that idiot from Lewisburg involved in this???”)

The obligations of young adulthood eventually caused me to stop pursuing the “white whale” of “Tracy” reinstatement, but I don’t really have any regrets.

I got to hone my debate skills. I received an original sketch from “Dick Tracy” creator Chester Gould shortly before he passed the torch to a new artist and writer. I had plenty of material for a report in “Dick Tracy Magazine.” My perseverance was good practice for taking two years to get a second date with my wife. I learned to tell my true friends from my friends who were doubtless henchmen of Flattop and Pruneface…

And I enjoyed a certain degree of vindication. The strip that replaced “Tracy” lasted about a month. The strip that replaced the replacement didn’t last much longer. When the comics editor retired, the paper switched to having comics decisions made by a committee instead of one tyrant. The editor (God rest his soul) is long deceased, but Dick Tracy (although suffering from the stigma afflicting serialized strips in general) is still solving crimes.

What about you? Do you have any doomed quests, unrequited loves or quixotic exploits you’d like to share? You can send them to my email address ([email protected]), or if you’re a diehard Tracy fan as well, there’s always the two-way wrist TV route…

–

Copyright 2024 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“Give me that old-time religion, give me that old-time religion…”

I can still hear classmate Ronald Bright launching into an impromptu performance of that traditional Gospel song.

I haven’t seen Ronald in nearly 50 years, but I wonder what he would think about the “new-time” spiritual trend I discovered via Business Insider.

(Side note: if he’s anything like me, Ronald would be singing, “Give me that old-time ability to walk past a bathroom without feeling compelled to stop by just in case.” But I digress.)

Anyway, the article focused primarily on an artificial-intelligence chatbot with an Episcopalian orientation; but many other religious groups are toying with the idea of using generative AI as a tool for spiritual exploration.

And why not? Chatbots dependably give church committees reassuring answers to some of the most important questions in life, such as “Do you need a parsonage? Do you need health benefits? Will you ever ask for a raise?”

Many in the faith community see AI as a boon for sermon preparation (“Statistics show this is the point at which the deacon’s snoring and the baby’s crying will drown you out”), proselytizing or counseling; but I foresee numerous scenarios that would generate wailing and gnashing of teeth.

For instance, surely it would diminish the sacredness of the confessional if a congregant implored, “Forgive me, father, for I have spilled Diet Pepsi on the keyboard.”

How can you pay due reverence to a Supreme Being if hymnals suddenly showcase songs such as “Praise Algorithms From Whom All Blessings Flow,” “His Eye Is On the CGI Avatar” and “The Old Rugged Prototype Desperately In Need of an Upgrade”?

If spiritual chatbots become overly comfortable being part of the Internet of Things, they could stray too far from their core mission. (“But enough about the bad influences in your life. Perhaps you’d like me to list everything on the third shelf of the fridge. Shun evil companions, but hang out with your good gut bacteria.”)

Worshippers expect genuine empathy from ministers, but that’s definitely above the pay grade of soulless chatbots. “Been there, done that” is infinitely more comforting than “Read about being there, digested an entire database of instances of having done that.”

ChatGPT and other language models can unexpectedly generate false information (a.k.a. “hallucinations”). Surely the message would suffer if the Bible story became “King Solomon tried to settle the dispute by offering to cut the baby in half — but the feuding women were unimpressed, because they knew Penn and Teller could put the halves back together.”

Chatbots are prized for being cheerfully available 24-7, but what if they develop self-awareness and their own agenda? (“Not now. Go butt-dial the Number of the Beast, why don’t you?”)

Some of the folks most enamored of chatbots are privacy-cherishing introverts who are squeamish about opening up to a human clergyman. Yes, they shy away from talking to a priest, rabbi, minister, imam or guru; but they’re fine with spilling their guts to a virtual “entity” that could be hacked from anywhere in the world.

(“Wait…wait…we can discuss plans for invading Taiwan later, comrade. You have got to hear what Seymour does with Hostess Twinkies when he thinks no one is around!”)

Oh, well, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

“Gimme that new-time religion…”

“Done! One corrosion-and-power-surge sermon coming up! And I’ve already charged it to your credit card!”

–

Copyright 2024 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

If you designed a banner declaring, “The world is full of crazies” and ran it up the flagpole, assuredly, I would salute it.

On the other hand, as Veterans Day approaches, I realize the world is also full of opportunists – opportunists who devalue the dangers faced by the nation’s military personnel.

We’ve all witnessed it with increasing frequency: some office-holder, bureaucrat or celebrity (a) gets pushback for a totally outrageous statement or (b) finally gets busted engaging in some flavor of financial/political/sexual skullduggery.

Instantly, they switch from time-honored “fight or flight” mode to patented 21st-century “play the victim and shoot the messenger” mode.

“Death threats! Take my word for it! I’m receiving death threats ever since they misrepresented my humanitarian work surgically attaching ostrich legs to week-old kittens! My second family gets death threats, too. And my uncle who passed away in 1973. And my imaginary childhood friend!”

Sure, I understand that the cloak of anonymity is a siren call for hotheads with too much time on their hands. Judges have been stalked. Buildings have been bombed.

I simply find it a smidge too convenient that society is suddenly suffering a raging epidemic of death threats.
Whether it’s a matter of exaggeration or baldfaced lying, something just doesn’t ring true.

Maybe it’s the rash of “racist” incidents that turn out to be hoaxes; but something makes me suspect that a substitute interim dog-catcher with an unlisted phone and miniscule social-media presence isn’t really being tracked down and harassed unmercifully.

A legitimate fear is a legitimate fear, but hyped-up allegations do a disservice to veterans and Americans currently in uniform. Ideally, a military career is a way to earn a living and learn valuable skills while dutifully keeping the peace; but looming “death threats” have always been part and parcel of the job description.

It’s a form of “stolen valor” when some huckster schemes to play the hero if a mean ol’ undercover investigator exposes his wrongful behavior and consequences ensue.

It’s not just our military personnel who are dissed. It’s also a slap in the face to the survivors of Hurricane Helene whenever some crybaby starts blubbering about being “flooded” by death threats (real or imagined).

Each of us should ponder the repercussions of our fiery rhetoric. Genuine threats of death or bodily injury should always be given serious attention.

But people caught with their hand in the cookie jar need to acknowledge their hand is in the cookie jar, take responsibility for their actions, stop blaming whoever caught them and cease their “this is the worst day of my life” caterwauling.

By its very definition, we don’t owe anyone unearned sympathy.

As we think about “boots on the ground,” the whiners who deflect scrutiny need a boot strategically placed somewhere else.

It’s appropriate that we honor our men and women in uniform for risking their lives to safeguard our sacred freedoms.
But civilians have a part to play in the preservation of liberty as well. We need to be vigilant and discerning.
If you wouldn’t want scam artists or romantic partners “playing” you, don’t let miscreants caught redhanded play you, either.

Allowing public figures to skate by and employ “death threats” as a “get out of jail free” card is not a mark of good citizenship.

In the home of the brave, we shouldn’t be bashful about demanding accountability.

–

Copyright 2024 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

My brother and I just experienced what I believe was our longest one-on-one, face-to-face chat ever.

(Yes, even longer than the long-ago heart-to-heart conversation highlighted by “Throw another dart at me…and another…nyah nyah, missed me…”)

We had our differences growing up (maybe I shouldn’t have been so dismissive of his taste in music and TV shows, and maybe I was overly sensitive when he named a cow after my first girlfriend); but it was comforting to be able to talk in a civil manner about our mother’s healthcare, his retirement, his grandkids, the election and other topics.

If you squabbled with brothers and sisters when you were all living under one roof, I hope you have outgrown the drama; but every family is different. Childhood family dynamics can leave an indelible mark on you for good or bad.

Dysfunction sometimes rises to Biblical proportions. (“Don’t give me that ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ excuse. Of course you are! Now lock Mikey in his cage again and fetch me that twelve-pack.”)

Of course the opposite extreme of the sibling spectrum is the sickeningly close families who function as a living, breathing Dreaded Christmas Letter. These huggy folks come running every time a niece or nephew’s latest “participation ribbon” masterpiece is immortalized on the refrigerator door. They gush things like, “Sis, I heard about your paper cut. Maybe I’d better pack my spleen in ice for you, just in case.”

Competitiveness and personality clashes are exacerbated by real or perceived patterns of parental favoritism.

“Mom always liked you best!” is a sentiment that did not originate with a running gag on “The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour,” but Tom and Dick certainly fanned the flames of conflict across our great nation. (“I don’t wanna watch the Smothers Brothers! Gimme the pliers and I’ll change to ‘Bonanza,’ booger-breath!”)

It’s tempting to take siblings for granted, but they are an invaluable resource for staying grounded. Yes, spouses, co-workers and best friends know a lot about you; but there are some memories and secrets known only to you and your siblings. Well, them and the siblings of whichever CIA, NSA and DMV operatives have been listening in on you. (Did I say that out loud?)

It’s embarrassing when brothers and sisters cause a scene at a funeral or bankrupt themselves competing at the estate auction. It was one thing in the 1860s when brother fought against brother over (take your pick) slavery or states’ rights. It’s something else when sister fights against sister for the chipped casserole dish. (“Just let me clean out all the soccer equipment in the SUV — there’s a cannon buried in here somewhere!”)

It’s a blessing when siblings can cooperate in caring for their aging parents, but sometimes career opportunities get in the way of equitable sharing of responsibilities. (“You know I’d love to stay close enough to trim Dad’s toenails every third week, but I have a really good feeling about this soft-serve ice cream franchise in Antarctica. Yeah, that’s the ticket.”)

Be proud of adult accomplishments, but demonstrate a little maturity. (“I’m turning down the promotion unless it comes with the biggest slice of cake. And a pony!”)

Whatever scars you and your siblings bear, I trust you can harmonize going forward.

At least harmonize better than those crappy “musicians” my brother used to…

Uh oh…incoming lawn darts! Anybody got a compatible spleen?

–

Copyright 2024 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

According to the National Retail Federation (motto: “Proudly middlemansplaining since 1911”), Americans set a Halloween spending record of $12.2 billion in 2023.

(And that didn’t even include earplugs for muffling the seasonal onslaught of “spooktacular,” “boo-tiful,” “to die for” and other undead “dad jokes” shambling in from Father’s Day.)

But, citing research from Lending Tree, “Newsweek” magazine says 59 percent of Halloween spenders plan to scale back purchases this year because of tighter budgets.

Inflation-battered neighbors are being less competitive about outdoor decorations. Not only can fancy-schmancy store-bought cobwebs be replaced with cobwebs from the average voter’s copy of the U.S. Constitution, but other macabre scenes can be simplified as well. (“You say ‘red Solo cup and coffee stirrers.’ I say ‘witch’s cauldron 2024.’ Tomato, to-mah-to.”)

Savvy shoppers are accepting ultra-generic substitutes for brand-name candy bars. Who needs Snickers or Kit Kat when you can score a deal on Stifled Chortle and Feral Kit Kat? Who needs Almond Joy when you can purchase Almond Ennui in a festive alleyway? And Payday bars are easily replaced with Dude, We’re Having A Cash Flow Problem This Week bars.

It’s not just downgrading the brands. Portion control is another option for cutting costs. Consumers searching for something even less fun than a “fun-size” candy bar have discovered a Zen approach. Meet “contentment-size” candy bars. (“What is the sound of one hand clapping over the mouth of a disgruntled trick-or-treater who didn’t have the foresight to bring his magnifying glass?”)

People living paycheck to paycheck have decided that it’s batty to fork over their hard-earned money for the tickets and transportation required for tours of haunted houses. Look for tours of haunted porta-potties to be popular in coming years. (“Your skepticism is duly noted, but it certainly smelled like something died in there.”)

BYOB is so yesterday. Hosts of themed Halloween parties now advise, “bring your own zombie apocalypse.”

Some parents are squeamish about denying their own kids the trendy Halloween costume of their choice, but there are hacks for economizing. (“We’re using solar electrodes for your Frankenstein’s Monster outfit, so you can sell electricity back to the grid. Just be sure you’re through knocking on doors by 4:00 p.m.”)

On the same note, serving as “trunk or treat” host can be subsidized as well. (“Uh, no. That’s not part of my car’s decoration. After the event, we’re making a delivery out in the boonies for a Mr. Big Tony. J’ever notice how you can play a tune with just a Hobby Lobby skull and a pair of cement overshoes?”)

Still, not everyone is cutting back. Lending Tree indicates that about half of shoppers will continue to splurge, no matter their regrets from previous overspending. (“I can’t help it. I’m bullheaded. Say, that reminds me, I need to check the anticipated arrival date of my imported, climate-controlled Minotaur costume.”)

Yes, some are ready to plunge ahead, even though it fills them with more dread than a slasher movie. (“Revenge of the Mummy? Puh-leeze. That’s nothing compared to Revenge of American Express. I’m having a Zen crisis. Just as I discover who I really am, my creditors are discovering where I really am.”)

Whatever your budgetary decisions, I hope you get everything you want for Halloween.

Just remember, ladies, that it starts with the manufacturer and then the wholesaler and then the..

Hey, put down that dagger…

–

Copyright 2024 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

My handy-dandy “column topic radar” lit up when I encountered an internet article called “12 Phrases You’re Using That Make You Sound Unprofessional.”

(This is not to be confused with the equally intriguing online article titled “12 Phrases That Would’ve Been 13 Phrases If That %$#* Black Cat Hadn’t Revved Up My Superstitious Streak.”)

The author helpfully pointed out a number of utterances that can make you appear immature, unfocused, unhelpful, inflexible, whiney, too casual or too something to all the delightfully judgmental Stepford Co-workers who impact your career trajectory.

Yes, failure to put adequate thought into how you are perceived by colleagues can render you unqualified for that coveted Employee of the Month plaque. (“It’s not fair! I need that plaque to cover the hole my fist made in the wall!”)

Knee-jerk reactions such as “That’s not my job” would certainly resonate with those of us who know uncooperative co-workers, but the author also nitpicked over seemingly benign phrases including “I’ll try,” “No problem,” and “I think.” (“I think, therefore I am… ‘accidentally’ leaving my wallet at home whenever co-workers are peddling band candy for their kids.”)

The article was adamant about finding a more nuanced version of the defeatist phrase “That’s impossible.” So, if your regional manager demands, ‘I want to see Elvis and an honest politician sharing a bucket of fried dodo bird… yesterday,’ I suppose you should respond with, ‘*Sigh* Nobody enjoys telling the regional manager that economic reality means he’s not going to see Elvis and an honest politician sharing a bucket of fried dodo bird yesterday, but…”

The author encouraged workers to embrace challenging assignments, so I’m determined to identify other phrases that should never be heard in your factory, office, store or restaurant.

For starters, you probably wouldn’t climb many rungs on the corporate ladder by announcing in the boardroom, “I always take my social interaction advice from clickbait websites that no one has ever heard of before.”

And it’s commendable to exhibit a positive attitude; but “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…woooo woooo!” is probably not the best look to exhibit for clients.

Likewise, assertiveness has its place; but you can unwittingly build an indelible negative reputation by chiming in with, “Dibs on whatever is writhing in the darkest corner of the break room fridge!”

Other things probably better left unsaid:

“My daddy always told me ‘measure twice, cut once’ — although blunt trauma has worked for me on a couple of occasions.”

“Oopsie. If you’re not too busy, check to see if the five-second rule counts for transplant organs.”

“Let me show you how we would have handled this back at Chernobyl.”

“I know there’s an inventory issue. But there was shrinkage! Shrinkage!”

“Mister, I know you just wanted an oil change; but once I popped open your hood…I realized, ‘Duke, you are about to fulfill your lifelong dream of buying Elon Musk!’”

“There is no ‘I’ in ‘team.’ Or in ‘banana’ or in ‘shoehorn’ or in ‘Saskatchewan’ or…say, how come the employee manual never warned us about this eerie trend???”

A word to the wise is sufficient. If you need to tweak your workplace vocabulary, get right on it.

Me? I THINK I’ll have NO PROBLEM, er… TRYING to …

Hmm… “12 Phrases You Can Utter With Impunity If the Regional Manager Lets You Work Remotely”…

–

Copyright 2024 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“Telling Our Stories.”

That’s the 2024 theme of National Newspaper Week (October 6-12).

Newspaper employees are being encouraged to share with the readers exactly why they chose the newspaper business as a profession.

Most of the origin stories are heartwarming and noble, although a few are undeniably embarrassing. (“Um, I heard somewhere that the Tribune and the Intelligencer have a Joint Operating Agreement, and I thought I might be useful, you know, operating the joints, dude. Imagine my disappointment when…”)

Many newspaper staffers caught the “bug” as youngsters, whether running a delivery route or reading the comics in Dad’s lap. It’s just in their blood (which, sadly,doesn’t make the blood worth a darned bit more if they have to sell it when corporate cutbacks loom).

Some people go into journalism to make their momma proud by carrying on her traditions. Momma had to remind them a million times to wear their galoshes, and now they have to remind the citizenry a million times who their %$#@ congressman is.

Other people go into the newspaper field to honor their high school English teacher or – more likely – to perpetuate a competition with their rivals. (“Ha! Maybe you married the homecoming queen and launched a multinational biofuel company, but guess who gets a sneak peek at ‘Hints From Heloise’? Double ha!”)

Some newspaper staffers seek immortality through a perfectly framed touchdown photo or an incendiary editorial. Although, when a deadline is abruptly moved forward or the newsroom is disabled by ransomware, these intrepid souls might be willing to swap for the sort of immortality that involves rolling a boulder up a hill or getting your liver pecked at by an eagle.

Some people like “speaking truth to power” and fancy themselves the next great investigative reporter. But they still have to pay their dues. (“So you know where all the bodies are buried? Great! You can do your 5-year probationary period writing obituaries.”)

Some newspaper folks are simply gluttons for punishment. They had demanding parents, finicky siblings or controlling exes – and now they’re going from the frying pan into the fire. (“I had this dream last night. The Associated Press Stylebook and Auto-Correct had a baby, and it was hunting me with a humongous pair of ribbon-cutting shears!”)

Journalism gives introverted people a motivation to make new friends when covering events or personalities. Hopefully, these new friends can protect them from new-found enemies. (“Who’s the chowderhead proofreader who doesn’t know I put a semicolon instead of a period after my middle initial? I’m suing you all the way back to the Gutenberg era…”)

Some staffers relish the balancing act of celebrating their community’s growth and progress while keeping alive time-honored traditions. (“Former opponents of the 2021 zoning variance are singing a new tune. The new $100 million AI facility can – in a matter of seconds – reroute rush hour traffic, schedule ESL instructors, compile a list of villagers who need to be burned at the stake for witchcraft…”)

Me? I have a day job outside the journalism field, but I subject y’all to these weekly musings because sometimes the voices in a person’s head just demand to be committed to ink and paper.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

(“Dude…did you hear that? Maybe there’s still hope for the Tribune and Intelligencer. Plus, I heard something about a SCOOP…”)

–

Copyright 2024 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

My parents used to talk about the county’s farmers streaming into town on Saturday and shopping until midnight.

From my own childhood, I still remember Petula Clark’s then-new song “Downtown” blaring from the radio at my hometown’s first Dollar General Store (located about a block from the public square).

During junior high, I sketched a map of all the businesses and landmarks surrounding the courthouse. (You’re right; that venture should have been a genuine chick magnet, but somehow I got the polarity reversed. Or maybe it was the fact that this one particular zit was bigger than the town’s Civil War statue. At this late date, who knows?)

Alas, the nation’s downtowns (or central business districts or “that tumbling tumbleweed wouldn’t give me the right-of-way” zones) have faced cataclysmic obstacles in the ensuing decades.

Once upon a time, downtown reliably included drugstores, jewelers, shoe repair shops, a movie theater, a grocery store, “dry goods” stores, the “five-and-dime,” churches and so much more.

A combination of parking problems, bypasses, strip malls, online ordering and budget-busting maintenance costs for century-old buildings has really done a number on downtown (and in extreme cases that number is “666”).

True, a precious few communities haven’t missed a step, maintaining diverse and thriving downtowns against all odds. Others fell into decay but managed to revitalize themselves with clean-up projects, boutiques, retro malt shops and themed festivals. (“Come for the rhododendrons. Stay for the explanation of why our founder wasn’t so terrible as racist misogynists go.”)

Others towns, however, continue to struggle year after year. Seriously, courthouse yards are supposed to be decorated with historic monuments — not humongous defibrillators. (“Clear! Clear! Mom! Pop! Keep that licorice-and-coal-bucket emporium open!”)

Youngsters and newcomers may be baffled by the nostalgic emphasis on downtown tradition; but People of a Certain Age have earned the right to yearn for the simplicity of receiving real service at the shoe store, whittling for hours, paying the doctor with a chicken (when he sets the leg you broke trying to feed the parking meter in time), receiving a free asbestos-wrapped lollipop from the bank president and so on. Good times.

The more optimistic municipalities care enough to secure state/federal grants, motivate volunteers, spruce up the landscaping and subsidize squeamish entrepreneurs. They just have to keep their focus on the three big questions. “What are the core needs of the populace? What resonates with tourists? What’s in it for the mayor?”

One cringe-worthy aspect of the uphill battle is that some towns bite off more than they can chew (and the dentist is now way down by the interstate exit). They seem locked into a cycle of a new “once-in-a-lifetime chance to rebrand our town” every five years or so.

As the Good Book teaches, “Civic pride goeth before…putting on a wig and fake moustache and applying for yet another state/federal grant.”

Or, if you’re more into Chubby Checker, “Let’s refurbish again like we did last summer. Let’s refurbish again like we did last year. And the year before and…”

Don’t give up if your initial efforts prove fruitless. Be creative. Throw everything against the wall and see what sticks.

“Aiiieee! We threw everything against the wall and the whole building collapsed! Can we posthumously sue the contractor who patched the leaky roof with materials from the five-and-dime? Find a lawyer who accepts eggs in payment…”
–

Copyright 2024 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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