Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

I confess to employing the occasional half-truth.

In order to keep conversations moving (and save face), I sometimes mumble, “Sort of” when someone queries, “You know where ol’ (fill-in-the-blank) lives, don’t you?”

Around these parts, it’s a major social faux pas if you don’t know some nodding acquaintance’s street address, the Vehicle Identification Number of their conveyance and their middle child’s school locker combination.

In this part of the country, “I know where you live” is a nonnegotiable prerequisite for good citizenship, unlike in the movies, where “I know where you live” is a veiled threat (such as “This isn’t over yet” or “I just happen to have a slow-motion video of my granddaughter’s cymbals solo.”)

The obsession with precise locations is even drummed into (most of) our heads in the educational system. It’s not unusual for a report card to indicate, “Plays well with others – and can draw an exact reproduction of the blueprint of their lodgings.”

It’s not just public schools. In Sunday school, young worshippers are taught, “In my Father’s house are many mansions – and if you can’t differentiate each of those mansions, there’s a warmer final destination waiting for you!”

Granted, I used to be more “in the know” about the habitation of local “characters” and “big wheels.” My late father was a realtor when I was in grade school. I helped dad and the Kiwanis Club go door-to-door selling peanuts. The family used to take leisurely Sunday afternoon drives through various neighborhoods.

My mother loved adding bonus residential information on those Sunday jaunts. (“This is where Mrs. Hufnagel lives. You know her mother is in the insane asylum, don’t you? And her homosexual first husband lives at the end of Maple Street. You knew she had had been married before, didn’t you? And she’s such a gossip!”)

Right now, I could drive straight to the domicile of only a handful of my co-workers, church brethren or classmates. I hope the excluded majority aren’t losing any sleep over my ignorance, because I wouldn’t know where to drop off the Vicks ZzzQuil if they needed me to run by the pharmacy for them.

I’m sure I would have a better grasp of residences if I was a big party-goer. But I am less of a social butterfly than a social dodo bird.

Mail carriers, pizza delivery drivers and utility workers have a legitimate reason for knowing where people live; but my brain will hold only so much information, and it had better be essential. Frankly, “righty tighty, lefty loosey” and “There is no ‘I’ in team” come in more handy than knowing where my third cousin’s podiatrist’s stepson hangs his hat.

I know I’m supposed to have a photographic recollection of the Smith family’s topiary, picket fence and back stairs; but unless George Clooney and Brad Pitt invite me to participate in another Ocean’s 11 caper, I’m not seeing the benefit.

Some folks have strange priorities. They can be blissfully ignorant that their own home is built atop a toxic waste dump or haunted Native American burial ground as long as they know that Everett Everyman’s stepsister lives two doors down from where the old livery stable burned down in “nineteen-ought-seventy-three.”

Do I know where you live? Probably not. But as long as your newspaper gets delivered, I’m good.

“Plays well with others – remotely.” That’s me!

–

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 didn’t realize a recent CNN story would attempt making me feel guilty about my annual father-son bonding ritual.

Each summer Gideon and I cut a series of radio commercials for my day-job employer (the local farmers cooperative), with the intention of having a little fun and, well, selling some stuff.

(Kids, don’t try this at home. No, seriously. The radio station insinuated the recordings we did at home circa 2011 exhibited the acoustic qualities of a dying calf in a hail storm, so we have since dutifully trekked down to the high-tech studio.)

Now CNN reports on a TikTok trend called “underconsumption core” (which, as a catchy phrase, ranks considerably below “dying calf in a hail storm,” in my humble opinion).

Much to the chagrin of leading retailers, consumers fed up with the shop-’til-you-drop mentality are rebelling. Instead of making trendy purchases to “keep up with the Joneses,” they assemble a trustworthy collection of sensible linens, clothing, cookware, electronic gadgets, grooming products and the like to last them for years.

(Or at least until the mob of factory workers and merchants they put out of business come searching for them with some trendy tar and feathers.)

I must admit being decades ahead of this phenomenon. The Tyree family has added a toilet snake or two here and there over the years, but the core of our tool kit is what my wife got from her grandfather prior to his 1993 death.

Early in our married life, my brother and his wife gifted us a second-hand upholstered chair that we dubbed Momma Kittie’s Chair because it was the only spot our half-feral feline matriarch felt safe. We still have Momma Kittie’s Chair, even though Momma Kittie exhausted her ninth life more than a quarter-century ago.

We have new kitchen towels, but they share space with old-timers so threadbare you could read the fine print on an over-the-counter medicine package through them. When my sneakers are no longer wearable in public, I wear them while operating my push mower. When they’re no longer up for lawnmower duty, the tongues make passable automotive mudflaps.

Having survived a lifetime of recessions, layoffs and bad investments, I am now pretty much immune to impulse buys. (Sales pitches of “Wouldn’t it be neat?” are met with “Only if your definition of ‘neat’ is ‘adding to the teetering pile of junk that will eventually pin me beneath it.’”)

I don’t aspire to be the pride, greed, wrath, lust, gluttony or sloth of my neighborhood, so why should I want to be the envy of the neighborhood?

As for the newbies jumping aboard the “underconsumption core” train, I wish them well, whether their motive is to get out of debt, declutter their domicile or reduce their carbon footprint.

I just hope they will remember that the furniture salesmen, jewelers, florists and other retailers who support this fine newspaper are people, too. (People who are polite enough not to mention that clinging to an eyeglasses prescription written by Ben Franklin is probably not a good idea.)

Like the characters in the cartoon panel “Pluggers,” I’ll keep on keeping on. Granted, if I save enough with my frugality, I may splurge on a vacation. Maybe out to the Great Plains, where — my tried-and-true encyclopedia informs me — inexhaustible herds of bison roam freely.

I’ll check the weather for hail first.
–

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

Only a handful of the network TV series debuting 50 years ago this autumn managed to survive two or more seasons.

But how many would have existed at all if they faced today’s TV/political environment?

Sure, Mary Richards’ best friend Rhoda Morgenstern achieved her own CBS spin-off. And she made Nielsen ratings history a few weeks later as she raced through the streets of New York in her wedding gown to tie the knot.

But a time-traveling TV executive from 2024 would have given us Rhoda NondescriptLastName racing through the streets of New York in her burka to … freeze her eggs (consequently spawning a grassroots “I’m cutting my rabbit ears!” movement).

Angie Dickinson shattered the glass ceiling as “Pepper” Anderson on “Police Woman,” but how could she have made ends meet while facing today’s activism? (“Undercover cop, undercover salary. We’re defunded!”)

“Chico and the Man” was a succinct title for the sitcom (starring Freddie Prinze and Jack Albertson) that lampooned both a generation gap and an ethnic gap. But even a lead-in from “Sanford and Son” wouldn’t have helped if it was saddled with a clunky title like “I’m Not A Biologist; I Don’t Know What A Chico Is Or What A Man Is.”

Clifton Davis and Theresa Merritt earned a sophomore season of the ABC sitcom “That’s My Mama.” Good thing it wasn’t “That’s My Birthing Person — Definitely Not A Trafficker Who Smuggled Me Across the Border.”

NBC graced us with two dramas that showcased TV/film veterans with stratospheric likeability factors: James Garner (“The Rockford Files”) and Michael Landon (“Little House on the Prairie”).

But nowadays, the casting quest would be for whichever has-been or never-was couldn’t land a streaming deal. Or, a star would be made expendable by a big cast. (“Let’s see if we can fit an ensemble of 12 in Rockford’s Pontiac Firebird Esprit.”)

Don’t get me started on the “franchise” phenomenon. Landon’s wholesome adventures in Walnut Grove would have suffered overexposure if someone had gotten the bright idea of cranking out “Little House on the Jersey Turnpike,” “Little House on the Endangered Wetland,” “Little House on the Titanic”…

(As it was, the anticipation for the December 12, 1974 premiere of “The Godfather Part II” nearly caused “Little House” to have a completely different focus. We came this close to seeing the unwieldy “Nice Little House You Have Here On The Prairie; Be A Shame If Anything Happened To It.”)

Reality shows were practically nonexistent during the heyday of “Little House,” but a tweak of TV history could have left the Ingalls family with the trauma of a nonscripted existence. Although, “Spreading Typhoid Fever With the Stars” and “Vote Harriet Oleson Off the Hemisphere” have a certain panache.

Prequel-itis is another modern gimmick that could have produced cringeworthy results. Can you imagine “Young Rockford,” charging “10 bucks a week plus all the root beer I can drink” while solving crimes with the help of his Detention Hall pal Angel Martin?

Oh, and he could have a parrot that answered the phone. (“This is Jimmy Rockford. At the tone, leave your name and message. I’ll get back to you. Unless you’re a yucky girl with cooties.”)

I hope you enjoyed this alternative look at a very special stretch of Memory Lane.

What do you mean, Rhoda should have frozen this column until the time was right???

–

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

For decades, my mother (who was a veterinarian’s assistant during my childhood) gloated about her visit to my third-grade classroom.

The dignified Mrs. Shelton accidentally transposed some numbers and Mom quickly corrected her for stating the normal human body temperature is 96-point-8.

(With the proliferation of true-crime podcasts, it seems today the normal human body temperature is “room.” But I digress.)

And I fondly remember wandering through corn mazes with my son’s elementary school class. But not every parent craves being the center of attention for her children’s classmates and instructors.

Take for instance the Knoxville, Tennessee mother of four who has become a TikTok celebrity by proudly labeling herself a “Venmo mom,” i.e. a loving parent who is more than willing to donate money for school causes but resists getting saddled with decorating, chaperoning, coaching, emceeing, vacuuming up the remains of young scholars who spontaneously combust when separated from their cellphone “for an eternity” and so forth.

(Don’t dwell too much on the irony of a mother here in The Volunteer State not, well, volunteering. I’m sure there are mothers in the Show-Me State who are quick to say, “I’m busy with my fireman calendar. Save that permission slip for your father to look at.”)

Many parents on social media have lauded the Knoxville mother as a kindred spirit. Introversion, lack of organizational skills and obligations of multiple jobs are some of the reasons parents are hesitant to whoop, “Pick me! Pick me!” for field trips, fall festivals, parades, and other fun events that today’s youngsters will someday cherish in their memoirs – if they ever freakin’ learn to read and write.

But other parents are swift to take a mature “Suck it up and do it MY way, buttercup” stance. (“Someday you’ll thank me for this advice. And if you don’t, well, I’m rubber and you’re glue…”)

Oh, they’ll pretend to support diversity of aptitude and personality, but it doesn’t always ring true. (“We all contribute. You be you, just as long as YOU hang the streamers, manage the cookie sale cash box, sew uniforms for the rock-paper-scissors tournament, tote that barge, lift that bale, sip a little wine and land in jail…”)

These scolds offer up themselves as a cautionary tale. (“I never joined the PTO or served as room mom. And then Johnny died in Iraq. Whenever I run into one of his old school friends, I cry bitter tears that I never seized the opportunity to catch head-lice from them!”)

I hope there will always be a healthy mixture of hands-on school boosters and generous sidelines supporters.

Some school administrators have taken it for granted that there will always be ample parents who can be guilted into performing tasks either tedious, stressful or humiliating. Sure, students may be helpfully categorized as “does/doesn’t play well with others”; but parents are denied that courtesy. (“Okay, throw Lisa LGBTQ+ and Harry Homophobe together. We’ve got concessions to sell, people! Wow. Did not know a hot funnel cake would fit there.”)

Now administrators are concerned that followers of “Venmo Mom” might even get the bright idea of unionizing. Of course, there are obvious obstacles.

(“Union? Count me in! Remember: I’m not comfortable putting up campaign signs or collecting signatures or writing by-laws. But knock yourself out buying supplies with my Visa. Maxed out? Who’s up for a true-crime fund-raising spree?”)

–

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 bachelor Uncle Vernon refused to make out a last will and testament. Twenty-one years ago, he passed away unexpectedly.

That left his beloved (but decrepit) English Shepherd dog Fred in a pickle.

Luckily, my mother volunteered to adopt Fred and care for him in his final years.

Things haven’t always worked out that smoothly for pets. According to the Wall Street Journal, it has taken automated prompts by businesses such as Trust & Will (the online estate-planning service) to remind clueless pet owners that they may predecease their “fur babies.”

(Yes, historically, people have neglected questions about the fate of “the cutest widdle buddy in the whole world, yes, him is” in favor of “Which relative has the proper home security system to safeguard my well-used, halfway-complete collection of imitation Beanie Babies?”)

Complex, micro-managed pet trust funds have long been an option for the rich and famous; but more and more people are turning to less expensive “pet directives” in their will. They name a guardian, cross their fingers and hope this caretaker will faithfully administer the money that is set aside.

Some pet owners naively assume that their friends are chomping at the bit to inherit an “orphaned” pet. And, of course, when you “assume,” you “make an ass of you and me.” (“Ass? I just remembered: I need to leave that donkey to some poor suck..er, some devoted friend.”)

Seriously, most visitors are merely being polite when they gush that they wish THEY had a deaf, arthritic, flatulent parrot that composes extra verses of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”

Even the finest heirs are more willing to provide a new home for stocks, bonds or jewelry. As Marilyn Monroe sang in “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes,” “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend/And they don’t scoot their butts on the good carpet, either.”

A high-maintenance menagerie is the opposite of a lottery jackpot. The jackpot attracts long-lost relatives, crawling from the woodwork. Umpteen rodents, primates and reptiles, on the other hand, would compel your conjoined TWIN to flee for parts unknown.

How do you determine which friend/relative would be most likely to continue spoiling your pet instead of dropping it off in the woods or at a kill shelter? Maybe you could pick a guardian at random and then fake your own death.

Granted, when you suddenly reappear and shout, “Aha!!,” the guardian might drop dead of a heart attack, leaving you to discover that YOU were named guardian of his martial-arts-trained tarantula assortment.

And, of course, your critters themselves should get a say in where they wind up. (“Packing me off to cousin Milo’s basement? ‘Forever home,’ my rear end! Get my lawyer on the phone.”)

Speaking of animals, let’s address the elephant in the room.

With many folks living paycheck to paycheck (and facing the possiblity of ruinous hospital or nursing home bills), it’s not always easy to set aside adequate money to pay for years of food, toys and veterinary care.

That’s especially if you have a “thing” for long-lived species. (“You’ll love Jimmy Giant Tortoise, nephew! Someday you can bequeath him to your great-grandchildren!”)

Yes, pets give so much and ask so little; but sometimes what they ask is, “God, instead of letting Mr. Faking It With the Tennis Ball suffer a slow decline, mercifully conk him with a meteor, immediately after he collects his Powerball winnings.”

–

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’m sure the summer break will fly by faster than the drone my son Gideon has been maneuvering.

Gideon recently received his bachelor’s degree in mechatronics engineering and – after a short breather – will plunge into the graduate program in engineering management.

My wife and I are proud of his achievement, especially since our involvement grew to be more about food, lodging and grant applications and less about homework assistance. Yes, his oppressive courses in calculus, linear algebra and statistics were soon “above our pay grade.”

Sure, I was probably the fourth-best math student in my high school class; but since college, my skills have atrophied to the point that I require a cheat sheet just to sing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.”

Since grade school – even before he discovered reruns of “My Three Sons” (featuring Fred MacMurray as widowed aeronautics engineer Steven Douglas) – Gideon has unswervingly declared engineering to be his future. And I must admit that the goal has made a dandy conversational icebreaker. People either make corny jokes about cabooses or blurt out, “What in the world is mechatronics?”

Well, an article from Spiceworks.com describes mechatronics as “an interdisciplinary career path where technical professionals combine their mechanical engineering and electronics knowledge to design and develop new products, systems and hardware.”

Mechatronics engineers participate in all stages of product development, from conception to testing to manufacture to “Well, if nobody wants the hunk of junk at the garage sale, we’ll program a robot to leave it and a bushel of zucchini on a neighbor’s doorstep after midnight.”

Mechatronics engineering requires a tremendous amount of teamwork, and Gideon has seen the good, the bad and the forgot-to-wear-a-pocket-protector of that reality. Isn’t it great to have a job where you get to design the bus that your teammates throw you under?

But let’s not heap all the attention on mechatronics. We should salute all the branches of engineering. Bridges, roads and dams keep civil engineering top of mind; but let’s not forget chemical, petroleum, aerospace, biomedical, computer, industrial and other subdivisions of engineering.

I know TV’s favorite physicist Sheldon Cooper looks down upon “mere” engineers; but engineers are problem-solvers who accentuate innovation, efficiency and sustainability. And the secret ingredient is love. Or, in the case of “Lefty” Llewellyn, three fingers that really would have appreciated proper safety protocols.

Engineers are indispensable to modern society. Without our engineers, the world would be a much harsher, more primitive place. (“Supper will be ready an hour after a lightning bolt sets a log on fire.”)

Mind you, I’m glad there were humanities students in Gideon’s graduation line. As a writer and history buff, I know that the world is much richer for having artists, actors, sociologists, philosophers and others with a Bachelor of Arts degree. Not everyone has to be a STEM major.

Still, there’s only a finite need for folks who debate, “How many angels can dance on the head of a nuclear reactor that’s melting down?” or for grads who announce, “Here’s my interpretive dance about cattle dying because no one thought to construct a reservoir.”

Anyway, the next time you encounter an engineer, be sure to give them a big hug. That will distract them as you slip zucchini into their back pocket.

Start with six, which is one less than… than … well, never mind, math nerd!

–

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

Maybe I have two left feet when it comes to zigging and zagging.

But it sure seems the entire world is determined to get in my way.

(“Nations must reverse declining birth rates! What if we drop below 8 billion people available to antagonize Tyree?”)

I am most keenly aware of the phenomenon at home. The Mills Brothers had it wrong with the song “You Always Hurt the One You Love.” Should’ve been “You Always Crowd the One You Love.”

Even with a small family, it seems to require an act of Congress to write on the calendar, procure a kitchen towel or use the bathroom mirror. (“Here’s your towel, but there’s a filibuster blocking your access to the soap dispenser.”)

My wife, son and pets possess an uncanny sixth sense for knowing exactly when to be in my path. (I want us to be on the same page, not the same floor tile.) Think of it as Spider-Man’s “Spidey sense” for detecting danger. (“Spring into action! He’s in danger of reaching a Band-Aid before he can bleed out!”)

“Let me sit there!” “I need that electrical outlet!” These cheerful greetings make me fear that someday my family will have the U.S. Cavalry herd me onto a reservation and teach me English.

To be sure, prolonged delays (at the airport or doctor’s waiting room) can afford folks the opportunity to write a long-neglected “thank you” card or balance the checkbook; but what I encounter is a never-ending stream of 30-second and 60-second delays. It’s like productivity suffers death by a thousand cuts. I’ll bet that over the course of a lifetime, I’ve idled for a total of – well, someone is shaving between me and the calculator, so never mind.

Tailgating motorists also covet the space I’m trying to occupy. Maybe one of them will finally rear-end me and send me careening to my doom. If so, I’ll come back and haunt them as The Ghost of One Freakin’ Micro-Second Farther Down the Road Than You.

Some people lie when the truth would suit better, and others aspire to intrude upon your personal space even when common sense would dictate otherwise. (“I don’t have a car. I don’t have any kids applying for a license. But, oooo, I crave your spot in line at the DMV!”)

I don’t know where the stream of vehicles is headed, but first-class postage can go up twice while I’m crossing the street to my mother’s mailbox. (No, wait. Postage could go up twice even if the Starship Enterprise BEAMED me across the street. Bad example.)

I try not to be a hypocrite. When I’m shopping, I loathe to mumble “Pardon me” as I squeeze between umpteen other shoppers and their potential purchases. So for ages, I have made a habit of using “the road less traveled” in selecting my route. But even if I dart down an aisle labeled as “Sundries, Realistic Paintings of Your Parents Having Sex and Festive Turnip Spice Candles,” some bozo is inevitably camped out and consulting his financial adviser, his psychic and the pope about which Yoko Ono 8-tracks to purchase.

Someday I’ll put these frustrations and indignities behind me. I already have my plot purchased at Lone Oak Cemetery. Hey, where did those squatters come from?

Excuse me. “You always hurt the ones you catch hogging your final resting place…”

–

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

“Sock it to meee?”

That awkward query by presidential candidate Richard Milhous Nixon (on the September 16, 1968 episode of “Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In”) was probably haunting my mind on August 8, 1974.

On the afternoon of that fateful day, I tagged along as my flea-marketeer mother purchased antiques from farm couple Gerald and Kate Killingsworth. On the Killingsworths’ TV, the usual game shows and soap operas were interrupted by newscasters speculating about the next move by one Richard M. Nixon, the law-and-order president who had been impeached days earlier for the cover-up of the Watergate Hotel break-in.

(The broadcast journalists rehashed countless then-familiar names and terms: Haldeman, Ehrlichman, Liddy, White House Plumbers, Nixon’s Enemies List, Deep Throat, 18-and-a-half-minute gap and so forth.)

That evening, our family attended a church party at the home of Duard Earl and Gladys Jean Foster. I was in the yard when someone came to the door and notified celebrants that the president was about to make a televised address to the nation.

As we solemnly watched, Nixon announced that he was resigning from office, effective at noon the next day.

Everyone had a different reaction. Some commented that Nixon’s transgressions were small potatoes compared to those of other politicians. Some thought the U.S.A. needed prayers more than ever. Some hoped that all the hubbub would distract competitors from scarfing the last of the pimento cheese “sammiches.” (It worked. Oops.)

What has been the legacy of that dark period of our history?

The phrase “expletive deleted” in redacted transcripts of the infamous Nixon tapes scandalized genteel citizens; but 50 years later, our PG-13 world is almost to the point of essays about “The %$#@ best part of my first day of preschool.”

Speaking of the tapes, people at the time marveled at how foolhardy it was to maintain such incriminating evidence. But the children and grandchildren of those people now think nothing of (inadvertently) spicing up their job interviews with wanton social media posts. (“I see you’re already quite familiar with our business. That is you streaking through our midtown location in high-definition, isn’t it?”)

Headline writers developed a knee-jerk response of adding a “gate” suffix to every prominent scandal. This hit a low with “Timmy has a bigger slice of pie than me”-gate.

Certainly, the celebrity status of “Washington Post” reporters Woodward and Bernstein sparked a generation of idealistic wannabes. But reporters in 2024 are a tad less motivated. (“Shoot! I wanted to cite unnamed sources in my explosive exclusive about the sun rising in the east, but all my sources already have names: Me, Myself and I. No third Pulitzer Prize, darn it!”)

Nixon rehabilitated his image marginally with his 1977 TV interviews (conducted by David Frost) and his 1978 memoirs. He demonstrated that former residents of the White House could stay in the public eye, whether volunteering with Habitat for Humanity, establishing foundations or serving as elder statesmen of their party.

Along those lines, expect big diplomatic developments in January 2025.

“I’m traveling to Papua New Guinea to forgive the descendants of the cannibals who ate my Uncle Bosie. No joke. But they’d better not try any of that Nixonian ‘I am not a cook’ malarkey with me! And if they crack wise about Uncle Bosie ‘sammiches,’ those lying, dog-faced pony soldiers better hope I don’t still have the nuclear football in my garage…”

–

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

The rhythm-and-blues-tinged 1962 Ray Charles album “Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music.” John Travolta’s mechanical-bull-riding adventures in the 1980 film “Urban Cowboy.” The star-making 1990 “No Fences” album by Garth Brooks. The 2005 Country Music Association Awards show held in Madison Square Garden rather than Nashville.

These were all milestones that increased the visibility of country music beyond hardcore fans.

Unfortunately, casual country listeners can be as fickle as a honky-tonk temptress. Country has been “in” and “out” more often than a rhinestone-bedazzled housecat.

But right now, according to the Wall Street Journal, record sales, streaming, concert attendance and merchandising are in the biggest “boom” phase of the last 30 years.

Hip-hop remains America’s dominant genre, but country is once again allowed to sit at the “cool kids” table. (Admittedly, the cool kids remain jittery that longtime country fans might dress a deer carcass on the aforementioned table, but a win is a win.)

As a person with eclectic musical tastes (“Favorite CD is waaay across the room? Never mind. This’ll do”), I am cautiously optimistic about the breaking down of nonsensical cultural barriers.

For too long, urban elitists have derided country fans as in-bred, under-educated moonshiners. Likewise, many country fans have dismissed fans of jazz/blues/pop/classical as “city slickers” and softies who wouldn’t know how to pour urine out of a boot. (Job applicants, please wait for the interviewer to ask before demonstrating such hidden talents.)

The Journal largely credits social media and streaming for country’s rise. With nontraditional artists gaining notoriety via Spotify and TikTok, record labels and radio programmers no longer maintain the same megalomaniacal stranglehold on playlists as they once enjoyed. (“You malcontents claim that we play the same four artists over and over and over, but that’s a doggone lie! Number Four is just Number Three on the days his drawers are too tight, Mr. Know-It-All!”)

After long being associated with farms and small towns in a limited swath of the nation’s real estate, country is pushing beyond its traditional regional strongholds. At the rate the international strategy is progressing, Vladimir Putin may soon crank up “Achy-breaky Interrogation Room.” And Antarctica could someday host a rousing performance of “If Drinkin’ Don’t Kill Me, the Collapsing Ice Shelf Will.”

Country is also growing because of factors (such as a more diverse talent pool, fresh topics and a playful mixing of musical genres) that resonate with a younger demographic.

Relevance matters. College students and recent grads who would have been bored to tears by maudlin tunes about Momma are intrigued by songs about Momma Who Used To Be Daddy.

Underage students without a fake ID. can still stomp their feet for “I’ve Got Zits in Low Places.”

Unattached young professionals who can’t identify with songs about cheatin’ with your spouse’s best friend may latch onto one about cheatin’ with a slice of gluten-enhanced bread.

Twenty-somethings with no interest in the lingo of diesel truck drivers are fascinated with the lingo of people waiting in line at the EV charger (even if I can’t repeat the lingo here).

I remain wary of ups and downs, but I haven’t been so excited since I got an issue of “Hee Haw Magazine” for my tenth birthday.

The sky is the limit for country music. Truly. Someday a little green man may emerge from his flying saucer and demand, “Take me to your boot-scooter.”

–

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

Somewhere over the years, karma gave me the finger.

It all started with an incident in Mrs. Jones’s high school English class. Classmate Tracy Holder was unconsciously performing multiple animated hand gestures as he delivered an emphatic observation. Unnoticed, I smugly imitated his gesticulations.

(That was not my finest hour. The late Tracy was a cool guy, and I would definitely not give my immature younger self an “o-tay” signal for such tomfoolery.)

By the time I was producing an exaggerated version of a basketball referee’s “traveling” signal, Tracy caught on and shot me a death glare.

It didn’t dawn on me for a long time, but some combination of college Speech & Theater courses, years of teaching Bible class, life’s inevitable ironic twists and turns and the Curse of Tracy turned ME into one of those “hand talker” people.

Certain nationalities and ethnic groups (such as Italian-Americans) are stereotyped as relying on body language to enhance the spoken word, but I assure you that the trait can befall people of any ancestry. Yes, my “air bagpipes” are just as efficient as “air violin” for mocking a tale of woe – although I do shudder at the thought of a cooked sheep’s stomach being thrown at me in retribution.

I shouldn’t complain about the unanticipated evolution of my speaking skills. Research shows that people who communicate through active gesturing (including classics such as “the forehead smack,” “the pinch of salt” and “rip off the Band-Aid”) tend to be evaluated as warm, agreeable and energetic.

(Research also shows that if you give researchers enough funding, they will likewise declare that people surrounded by a chalk outline also tend to be evaluated as warm, agreeable and energetic. But I digress.)

Speakers who enhance their message with appropriate hand gestures are regarded as leaders. Even if you expand into wretched excess of gestures, you’re still regarded as a leader. (“Dude, we trust you to go first to jump off the bridge, cross the minefield and ask the boss for a 50-percent raise. We’ve got your back. And, no, I’m not making that busting-my-guts-with-laughter gesture behind your back.”)

“Hand talking” was much less expensive back in the Good Old Days. Young people should honor hand gestures as the forerunner of emojis; but they’re so hooked on technology, it’s traumatizing for them to illustrate the traditional “one that got away” fish story. (“It was this long…I mean, it was this long…I’m gonna have to buy a cellphone for each hand in order to describe that freakin’ trout!”)

A study analyzing TED Talks found that the most popular, viral speakers used nearly twice as many gestures as the least popular speakers utilized. I must admit that I now find my patience severely tried by lecturers, experts and casual acquaintances whose body language is so reserved, prim and unadventurous. C’mon, at least pantomime removing the stick that is so firmly wedged in…well, never mind.

Public speakers realize that success has its drawbacks, if dramatic emphasis gives way to clueless flailing. (“More deals closed than anyone else in the state. More awards won than anyone else in the region. More eyes poked than the entire Moe Howard Fan Club…”)

I’m just getting started, but I can tell by the music my editor is cranking up. He thinks I’ve exhausted the subject.

“You and that hand jive have got to go.”

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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.”