Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Honestly, I’m glad when schools delve into poetry or offer students some semblance of art and music appreciation classes.

But I worry about society’s overreliance on critics, reviewers, and public scolds.

Apparently, we would all be wandering around aimlessly if no one performed the public service of doling out expert advice on books, movies, theater, wine, home decor and the like. (“Duh…I tried putting something sophisticated on my hipster vinyl record player. Unfortunately, it was a Chardonnay wine. Compelling puff of smoke, though. Five stars to the volunteer fire department.”)

Granted, if you find a critic you trust, their recommendations can save you valuable time that would otherwise be wasted on dead ends and wild goose chases. Of course, you will most likely turn around and squander the time describing your pain level to the chiropractor. (“I don’t know about a scale of 1 to 10, but it’s a rollicking, sweeping, post-modern type of pain…”)

I’m a simple man (as evidenced by the fact that I still haven’t given a rave review of this whole “multicellular” experiment).

I grew up eating/appreciating what was set before me. (One reason I currently don’t appreciate having bathroom scales set before me. But I digress.) The oft-quoted “It’s got a good beat, it’s easy to dance to” analysis from Dick Clark’s “American Bandstand” still sounds like a downright adequate way of rating songs.

A few years back, whenever my son needed vintage garb for a special event at school, he didn’t say, “Let’s rummage through the back of the closet.” It was more like “Strip down and I’ll wear whatyou’re wearing for Eighties Day.” (Hey, Piano Man – I never quit wearing a younger man’s clothes.)

Unpretentiousness runs in the family. When seven out of five TV critics declare that a Netflix movie make them want to gouge out their eyes and dismantle the entire internet, I know it’s a guaranteed flick for getting my wife in the mood for romance.

Maybe the restaurant reviews I dread are for overly ritzy eateries. I can’t concentrate on how the chef is preparing the cuisine when my mind drifts to how the credit card company is preparing to chase me to the ends of the earth.

Motivational speakers lecture us that we should “live in the moment.” But critics make it hard to live in the moment when you tour the art gallery. Instead of admiring the brushstrokes and moving on, you have to live in 1540 and develop an elaborate backstory for why a peasant farmer would slop his hogs. (“And why does the visiting nobleman have that enigmatic clothespin on his nose???”)

Don’t get me wrong. If you’re a professional concert reviewer or even an amateur walking encyclopedia, more power to you. Just don’t assume that the ability to close your eyes and discern exactly what color Band-Aid was on the pinkie finger of Blind Spleen Jefferson as he played guitar on your favorite tune is going to get you on the short list for admittance to the survivalist shelter.

(“I woke up this morning/duh duh duh duh DUH/Begged for entrance to the bunker/duh duh duh duh DUH….”)

Perhaps we should start rating the critics.

“Does this critic save you from dead ends?”

“I’ll let you know after the school subjects him to dodgeball appreciation class. Oooo…that’s gonna leave a gritty, nihilistic mark! And I don’t mean allegorically!”

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Copyright 2026 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.”