Let's start at the beginning, Genesis (now I'm no strict creationist, but at least the Bible accounts for the days of the week). What was created on Thursday, something big like the heavens or man? Hardly. “God created the great sea monsters, all kinds of swimming creatures with which the water teems, and all kinds of winged birds.” Fine, the Audubon Society, Loch Ness freaks, and cable-TV fishermen love Thursdays, but really, I don't mean to get picky, but God kind of had an off day that day, don't you think?
I like chicken salad and a nice blackened catfish like the rest of humanity, but sea monsters? I hereby chalk up my lifelong fear of water recreation to that gooey phrase, “all kinds of swimming creatures with which the water teems.” So God slept walked through Thursday, dreaming of the weekend, too. What chance do we mere mortals have with the day? Thursday, after all, is named after the god of thunder, Thor. I'm sorry, but not being a heavy metal kid or a closet meteorologist, I'm not impressed.
Bathroom-needle-point tradition has it that “Thursday's child has far to go.” Being a Thursday's child myself, I always kind of liked that: I dreamt of exotic dwellings and top-of-the-heap views for my life. But now I see what that treacly proverb really means. No wonder I always get in the wrong check-out line at Wal-Mart.
And don't speak to me of Wednesday's child being “full of woe.” At least that kid gets a ton of sympathy. With us Thursday offspring, it's just, “Oh no, don't rest now, keep going. You've got a long way to go yet.”
I don't have to mention all the PR Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday get, do I? But even the other mid-week days—Tuesday and Wednesday—get plenty of ink. Tuesday is election day, even Super Tuesday sometimes. The radio plays back-to-back hits by the same artist on “Two for Tuesdays.” On Tuesday afternoon the Moody Blues are just beginning to see. Maundy Tuesday and Tuesday Weld, say no more.
Some people claim Wednesday is Hump Day, the lucky folk. I hazily remember an episode of The Addams Family when somebody playfully asks Wednesday Addams if her middle name is Thursday. “No,” she replies scornfully, “Friday.” I tell you, Thursday gets no respect.
I defy you to name a song (any or, if you're a music geek, a good one [no peeking below]) with Thursday in it. Besides, of course, “Friday On My Mind,” with its melancholic exasperation that “Thursday goes so slow.” Yeah, I know, we've got a long way to go.
So what's Thursday good for, according to our culture? Thanksgiving. Not bad. It's one of my favorite days, a day to give thanks and gobble down one of God's great winged birds. But why Thursday? Call me a paranoid conspiracy buff, but it smells to me like the Pilgrims said, “What the heck, it's Thursday, nothing happens anyway, so let's have a party.”
I bet Buddhists have a tough time being “here now” on Thursdays. The day seems to be nothing more than a prelude to the weekend, a necessary tollbooth to negotiate until the wild freedom and heavenly respite of Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Dues are paid on Thursday.
The only time I've ever encountered any kind of celebration for Thursday, for its own sake, was in the lovely mountain air of Asheville, North Carolina. The minor league baseball team there, the Tourists, used to host Thirsty Thursday nights during the season. I moved there in November, and the locals were talking about it all winter long.
Come spring, I realized what the fuss was about. For a stadium whose average attendance was about a thousand folks on other nights, McCormick Field would sell out its four thousand seats on Thursdays, though hardly everyone in attendance would actually watch the game. No, they'd be in line at the beer stand, patiently waiting to get their hands on a cold 24-ounce draft beer for a buck.
The catch was, you could buy only one at a time. I quickly learned the ritual of the young Ashevillians: get in line, buy a beer, get back in line and drink the beer in the time it takes for you to be in the front of the line again—repeat until beer sales close. Nothing says America like southern college kids getting tanked while standing in a line, oblivious to any baseball game going on, yelling “Hey, Bud!” at everyone.
My purpose here is to raise a metaphorical 24-ouncer to Thursday. Devoid of hoopla, hype, and poetic praise, it just is. It is life itself, always here and always reaching for something else, and always with a long way to go.
You know that moment of coming down the steps and seeing the Christmas tree all lit up with unopened packages piled deep? That's Thursday. Before you know it, there's paper all around, somebody doesn't like the sweater, and the toys all need to be assembled—that's the weekend, complete mayhem that somehow never fully satisfies. But oh, Thursday, when everything is within reach, when everything seems so full of potential and glee. That's the moment to savor, to imbibe, to cherish. Thursday is the idea of life itself; the rest of the week is merely living. Enjoy it.
Chip Taylor-Thursday Night In Las Vegas Airport
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