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He woke up. The alarm clock placed at the other end of the room had nothing to do with it. It was six a.m., too early for sunlit mornings during the winter months. Manx’s mother came up to his room and checked if he was awake for school. Like most days he was. On the rare occasion where Manx was not up his mother would tickle the bottoms of his feet until she saw him smile. Though for some time Manx practiced waking himself without the need of an alarm clock or device and got very good at this skill. But there were still days when he would stay under his sheets acting, knowing his mother’s tendencies.
Manx went to school following the progression he usually took during the winter months. He cut through a yard with an open fence that led to a small park with maple trees a few scattered pines, a playground, two baseball fields and an outside basketball court. If there was more than a foot of snow on the ground he usually stuck to sidewalks. Other factors played their parts- girls, friends, enemies of a youth’s proportion, seasons, and time all served as variables in the morning walk to school. Never did school serve more than a purpose of destination.
Today at P.S. 118 Manx was extremely bored and had grown tired of listening to his teachers. His English teacher, Mrs. Gridge, was reading aloud when Manx decided to get out a blank sheet of paper and pen. He started to draw an abstraction of a building, yet never following a point of perception. It came out of the ground one way, and just when you thought it was going to stop- it morphed into the end of another building falling from the sky, or somewhere. And the objects around the buildings were not drawn to scale; the whole picture itself followed no real basis. No right side up, no down side down- didn’t matter. Manx was completely focused. Complete attention to detail never too much time passed in between thought, lines, shades, shapes, picture. His teacher had finished reading and given out an assignment for the students to do in class. Soon after the order she noticed that Manx was not paying attention. She walked over to his desk from behind, stood at his back and hovered over Manx’s shoulders. Her shadow cast over half of his drawing, and at that point Manx looked into his creation far more intently with fierceness like it was the first time he had ever completely seen something. Mrs. Gridge swung her arm over his shoulder and snatched the paper from his desk, ripped it down the middle and threw it away while staring at him with eyes that told him what to do next. Manx sat motionless and unsure except for a little irony that pulled him apart because he could never take a lady who used hipster lingo seriously. Mrs. Gridge was well known for her untimely use of words she had untimely picked up from seventh grade conversations during recess duty. And on top of that she had no right to try and apply seventh graders conversations. It was just silly. Startled for reasons only intuition knows, Manx had been ripped from a dream as he felt a jolt run through his spine. Embarrassed because he knew the class waited for moments like this- they got by on moments like this, and ate lunch with moments like this, Manx lowered in his seat. But after these initial and raw shocks, there was a still and resonating tingle in Manx’s foot that had not been grounded.

The day passed and standard procedures went as followed: lunch, recess, classes, bell. In those linear hours talk formulated. Manx was the gossip of P.S. 118.
“Did you see the look on his face.”
“Hahaha., I bet he never does that again” crept through cracks of conversations.
Manx played along with the fun. At lunch the boys were sitting with Manx; many of which would have considered themselves to be friends with him raved about the English class incident. Manx laughed and saw humor in it but didn’t participate unless obligated. He didn’t care, that was all. A word here or there about it in response would do, but it was just to please. Other kids dramatized for certain reasons. And that is why matters like this always got the best out of other children breaking them down to tears or making them extremely melancholy for the rest of the day, or even week depending on who it was. The fragile Meredith McCoy could attest to that. It usually took the weekends to clear a child’s relative mentality. If the situation were substantial enough the parents would be notified. Perhaps a call to Manx’s mother would be in order from the teacher, or even better the principle. The slight threat of authority and fear of discipline can tear at a young youth’s heart. Not Manx’s. Not because he was a rebel or anything like that, but he understood that this thing happening was insignificant. He laughed at the ones who did take it so seriously. He had an inept ability to see the future, whereas many children’s mind can only comprehend the immediate. But don’t get it wrong, many elders were quite impressed with him and pleased to be around him, and he sought out their respect, at least at a young age. In this situation he felt no wrong, no error of judgement on his part.
It is safe to say that once Manx left school he was not apart of what had previously conspired that day. The other kids walked and talked vicariously with the dramas of school. Telling parents, friends, and younger siblings all that they had to offer. They shared what had conspired that day in school, who it was about, where it took place, why it happened-always including the embellishments, after all that is what people wanted to hear. Manx walked to his nearby home using detours to fill his delight.
This day in particularly Manx walked with a friend that lived nearby. Nick was a good fellow and meant no harm and Manx enjoyed his company enough. Sometimes he would invite Nick over to play afterwards. When Manx got home around 3:30 he greeted his mom who hugged him with her apron on as she prepared dinner, then asking how his day went.
“It was good.”
“What did you do at school today.”
“Nothing, kicked a homer during recess.”
“Goooooooood.” Manx’s mother said in her sweet and praising voice.
“When is Dad getting home?” Manx always asked for some reason or the other, even though he knew the regular time he was getting home.
“Five-thirty.” She stretched her voice out to Manx already skipping upstairs letting room for insignificant talk that need not be explained.

An Ode to Thirsty Thursdays

Over the weekend, I attended a "bad sweater party". The reminded me of a rant I wrote in college about parties like these. It's a rather negative take but I hope you enjoy....


Sometimes in life, I run into people and situations that get under my skin. I am almost always bothered by the little things more than anything. I am in college and when you are in college you often find yourself drinking. That is okay. I sometimes go to parties and drink. I may drink heavily or I may not. The entire situation is fun and I typically enjoy myself. My only question is, what is with all the terms and clever saying? Let me start at the beginning:

I get lost in the lingo and slang of an everyday night. If I am belligerent, this makes the whole night harder. Let’s bring out an example to help me explain. If I’ve drank enough to dance, am I toasted or tipsy? If I’ve drank enough to piss in the kitchen, am I crunked or smashed? And how do I know if I’m f***ed up or wasted? To be f***ed up do I have to throw up or just piss myself? I just can’t find the line. And the more I drink the blurrier it gets. Which brings me to my next and more important point:

I know that college kids think they’re clever, but you can’t pull the wool over my eyes. Remember when we used to drink on Saturdays? It was Saturday night and we’d get crunked or wasted or whatever. Well, you guys started getting antsy for the weekend and you slowly bumped it to Friday. Freaky Friday or Funky Friday or F***ed up Friday. Whatever. And maybe this was a long time in the making. Maybe Friday is a good day to party. But I don’t know who you’re fooling. Giving the day a rhyming name doesn’t change the fact that you’re an alcoholic.

So, maybe it’s a stretch. You’re only drinking on Friday and Saturday. That’s not alcoholism. It’s just being social. Well then how do you explain Thirsty Thursdays? Oh you clever devil. You know I get thirsty on Thursdays and you’re using that against me. I don’t know about you, but when I get thirsty I don’t think of Irish car bombs and jack Daniels. I think of poweraide, milk or water. Maybe that’s just my conservative side.

But you know my fellow lush’s; I’ll give you Thursday because I don’t have any classes on Friday. Maybe this is a trend around the world. Who knows? But Wicked Wednesday? Now you’re just trying too hard. Inebriated Tuesdays? That doesn’t even make sense. And Maniac Mondays? My grandpa has Maniac Mondays. But that’s only because he is a drunk.

So we might as well make Smashed Sundays. Or why not Wasted Weeks? Just name everything in one big swoop. I get it, you’re creative. Whoopee! Let’s move on. Let’s say it’s Wicked Wednesday and you’re heading out to a party. What are you going to wear? Well, if it’s a good party, you’ll wear whatever the f*** you want. If it’s a party that annoys me then it will require attention to the invitation.

What type of party is it? Golf pros and tennis hos? What does that even mean? I went to a party like that and a girl hosted it. She just set woman back 50 years. Guys dress in sweaters and girls wear next to nothing. What the f*** is a tennis ho? Are tennis players secretly pimps? That would be an awesome underground ring. Andre Agassi whoring out women. Weird. Ganstas and hos? Good, I’m well prepared. I just need to dust off my grill. I should never have to buy anything to go to a party. NEVER. Not a hat, or coat or pitching wedge. Nothing.

So, I will wrap this up in saying that I will put my drinking on hold. I will boycott the delicious taste of alcohol until you, my fellow college students, just drink. Stop with the names and terms and parties and just drink. Go places with friends and drink and have a good time. Maybe get drunk. But stop with the tennis hos and thirsty days and getting crunked (which, by the way, I couldn’t even begin the describe what that word means). Stop with all the nonsense and drink like you lost a leg in Vietnam. Use alcohol to forget your problems. Use it as a crutch. Just don’t give it clever name and clever reasons to consume it.

And while you’re learning your lesson I will be sitting alone in my room, not drinking. . . . .Unless of coarse I get thirsty.