Are you a fanatic or what?

I recently attended a memorial service for a longtime acquaintance who was renowned as one of those “if you cut him, he’d bleed University of Tennessee orange” enthusiasts.
I came away self-conscious, because – while I like countless things in this big, beautiful world – I was “curbing my enthusiasm” even before Larry David launched his HBO series.
Sure, my school-age self was more demonstrative. I remember eating with my father at his Kiwanis Club luncheon (at the Southland Cafe in Lewisburg, Tennessee). I made noises like a purring engine while gobbling down the grub. (“Elbows off the table? What about mud flaps?”)
But life’s slings and arrows – and encountering the “in all things, moderation” philosophy – made me keep my emotions buttoned up.
Perhaps my self-doubt since the memorial service is payback for years ago when I mocked a Subway commercial actor who ogled the ingredients in a downright lewd and lascivious manner. (“Go ahead, dude. Get the drink and the chips – and, oh yeah, a room.”)
But Subway guy was just the beginning. I’ve encountered tons of hobbyists, fashion plates and status seekers whose unbridled enthusiasm reminded me of the “irrational exuberance” description that Alan Greenspan attached to the Nineties “dot-com” stock market bubble.
They also remind me of the characters in Al Capp’s “Li’l Abner” comic strip. There was always a senator, industrialist or Dogpatch denizen emitting an audible “*Smack! Drool!*” over a kickback scheme, sexy secretary or prize-winning ham.
(Speaking of ham, I’ve trained myself to exhibit less “hog wild and pig crazy” glee and more “That’ll do, pig – that’ll do” stoicism.)

Seriously, I enjoy food as much as the next fellow (well, more than the next fellow if it’s that fellow who forgets to eat because he’s endlessly writing “fan fiction” within the “See Spot run” universe); but I’m leery of veggie idolaters who stake out the farmers market until they can throw on their poncho and devour their first bushel of tomatoes of the season.
And I appreciate movies and music, but some fanatics are neck-deep in celebrity worship. (“Man, I just discovered this up-and-coming band. I’m going to camp out so I can purchase tickets for their eventual farewell tour.”)
I admire athletes and don’t begrudge them their adulation, but I don’t kid myself about reciprocity. There’s not a Mutual Admiration Society in the locker room chanting, “Slam dunk that lower mortgage rate, Hiram Horsecollar of East Bug Tussle!”
“Different strokes for different folks.” I try keeping that adage in mind; but sometimes it’s hard to live harmoniously with people who rationalize, “I’m agnostic, so I can’t be holier than thou. I have to settle for more obsessive-compulsive than thou.”
Believe me, I try to think good thoughts about all the people who shop ‘til they drop (“Shoe shopping – that would have solved Pompeii’s little dilemma”), treat their lawn to a manicure/pedicure/Brazilian wax or go gallivanting on frivolous quests for world records. (“Just one more country and I’ll have watched paint dry while hopping on one foot in every former Soviet republic. And it took only 15 ‘dead aunts’ to convince my boss I needed the time off.”)
I’ll try loosening up. If I cut myself, I may not bleed orange, but at least I can announce, “Yay! I’m attracting sharks! Love me some sharks! Hey, stop with the purring engine sound…”

Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.