Manlius, On Tap

The Sunoco A Plus Mini-Market in Manlius, New York, at the corner of Route 92 and Seneca Turnpike, or Route 173, presents an odd sight, at least to my eyes. It has a counter with five or six taps for so-called craft beers and some plastic cups nearby. I remarked to the young fellows working there a day or two ago how it struck me as odd. I joked about Manlius's need to have artisanal craft beers made by organic elves. They chuckled. (Maybe the elves are imported from Marin County, NorCal.) Although I do not drink craft beers or working-class brews and confine my brewed beverages to coffee or tea, I am not a temperance snob. If Manliusans or Manliusites need this overt display of non-Stickley arts-and-craftsmanship, go for it. Is it possible that such fluids are requisite lubricants for loosening the square jaws of propriety?

Other queries arise:

• Do drivers do a grab and go with a beer in hand?
• Is that allowed?
• Should it be?
• Or is this merely for pedestrians?
• Are there sidewalks?
• Do sidewalks have handrails in case said pedestrians are tipsy?
• What do the Manlius swans think of this?
• Do locals hang out at the A Plus and stand around and indulge in bar-like chatter?
• What is the conversation about?
• Would it be against a local ordinance if the booze for sale were decidedly uncrafty, such as Budweiser or PBR or Keystone? (I'm rusty on what is in or out.)
• How would the military forebears of Manlius, New York, view this?
• Will this lead to an economic boom such as the ones that the Village of Manlius enjoyed in years past, making it a center of commerce?

Boozerangs and Other Hangovers

Boozerang, n. The boomeranglike negative effects of alcohol consumption.

Of course, that's what a hangover is, isn't it? A fatal-feeling slice back into the orbital lobe of one's consciousness:
what did I do, what did I say? whom did I offend? Except that the boozerang's path sometimes sweeps far and wide, swirling into the paths of other memories, other psyches, other souls. There's no known quick cure for this. Time, wishful thinking, and the hope that one's boozerang-flooded memory errs -- those are some of the healing ingredients. And add a dash of resolve that this will never happen again.

Maybe it's a cheap shot to launch such a headache-inducing post on the day after St. Patrick's Day, so let's cast a much wider net:

No doubt, there are other hangovers besides my newly coined boozerang. We all tend to contend with these on The Day After The Day Before:

• the hangover of sober memory (did I really do that? how could I have said that?)

• the regret of squandered opportunity (if I only had spent my time and energy doing...)

• the fatalism of loss (I didn't then, so I can't ever)

• the corrosion of resentment (the parenthetical, if not hypothetical, prison of past poison)

• the return to one's senses (I thought it was so great, now I'm not so sure...)

And the cure for all these?


Exalt in the day;

surrender to the moment, awash in gratitude,

celebrating the is-ness of it all,

sung with the cardinal and the finch,

the silent cat and the snoozing dog,

the meandering cloud and lazy sun,

the melting ice and budding branch.


(The term "boozerang" and its definition, © copyright 2007 by The Laughorist.)