Monday, October 17, 2005
Monz Book Festival!
It's a rainy day in Chicago, but not for the Monz -- he's in Florida, getting ready for a big day of continuing legal education Tuesday by soaking up some rays, visiting the P's, and lunching at the Kabob Mediteranian Grill in Delray Beach. Chef's Pick Sampler, where you don't know what you're going to get but you know it will be yummy. Today it was hummus, baba ganoush, some eggplant/olive oil/other stuff salad and some ultrafresh, fluffy, grill-warmed pita bread, served with that yogurty stuff they pour on falafel sandwiches.
The editors, inspired by last week's Monz screenplay snippet and depressed over the giant thud that the Wisconsin Book Festival has become (going from the penultimate literati event in the world (let's be honest, nothing tops the New Yorker Festival, at least until now!) to a boring parade of local hacks sprinkled with a couple of somewhat recognizable guests), have decided to set things write [sic!] by announcing the first annual Monz Book Festival! Each day we will present a literature-related thingy that somehow relates to the Monz. Today we present a wonderful passage from John Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath on a subject near to Monz' heart. Take it away John!
>>And always, if he had a little money, a man could get drunk. The hard edges gone, and the warmth. Then there was no loneliness, for a man could people his brain with friends, and he could find his enemies and destroy them. Sitting in a ditch, the earth grew soft under him. Failure dulled and the future was no threat. And hunger did not sulk about, but the world was soft and easy, and a man could reach the place he started for. The stars came down wonderfully close and the sky was soft. Death was a friend, and sleep was death's brother. The old times came back -- a girl with pretty feet, who danced one time at home -- a horse -- a long time ago. A horse and a saddle. And the leather was carved. When was that? Ought to find a girl to talk to. That's nice. Might lay with her, too. But warm here. And the stars down so close, and sadness and pleasure so close together, really the same thing. Like to stay drunk all the time. Who says it's bad? Who dares to say it's bad? Preachers -- but they got their own kind of drunkenness. Thin, barren women, but they're too miserable to know. Reformers -- but they don't bite deep enough into living to know. No -- the stars are close and dear and I have joined the brotherhood of the worlds. And everything's holy -- everything, even me.<<
It's a rainy day in Chicago, but not for the Monz -- he's in Florida, getting ready for a big day of continuing legal education Tuesday by soaking up some rays, visiting the P's, and lunching at the Kabob Mediteranian Grill in Delray Beach. Chef's Pick Sampler, where you don't know what you're going to get but you know it will be yummy. Today it was hummus, baba ganoush, some eggplant/olive oil/other stuff salad and some ultrafresh, fluffy, grill-warmed pita bread, served with that yogurty stuff they pour on falafel sandwiches.
The editors, inspired by last week's Monz screenplay snippet and depressed over the giant thud that the Wisconsin Book Festival has become (going from the penultimate literati event in the world (let's be honest, nothing tops the New Yorker Festival, at least until now!) to a boring parade of local hacks sprinkled with a couple of somewhat recognizable guests), have decided to set things write [sic!] by announcing the first annual Monz Book Festival! Each day we will present a literature-related thingy that somehow relates to the Monz. Today we present a wonderful passage from John Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath on a subject near to Monz' heart. Take it away John!
>>And always, if he had a little money, a man could get drunk. The hard edges gone, and the warmth. Then there was no loneliness, for a man could people his brain with friends, and he could find his enemies and destroy them. Sitting in a ditch, the earth grew soft under him. Failure dulled and the future was no threat. And hunger did not sulk about, but the world was soft and easy, and a man could reach the place he started for. The stars came down wonderfully close and the sky was soft. Death was a friend, and sleep was death's brother. The old times came back -- a girl with pretty feet, who danced one time at home -- a horse -- a long time ago. A horse and a saddle. And the leather was carved. When was that? Ought to find a girl to talk to. That's nice. Might lay with her, too. But warm here. And the stars down so close, and sadness and pleasure so close together, really the same thing. Like to stay drunk all the time. Who says it's bad? Who dares to say it's bad? Preachers -- but they got their own kind of drunkenness. Thin, barren women, but they're too miserable to know. Reformers -- but they don't bite deep enough into living to know. No -- the stars are close and dear and I have joined the brotherhood of the worlds. And everything's holy -- everything, even me.<<
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Oh, we knew that. Except who's John? (we walked into this movie late!)
Amaretto Sour Recipe
1 1/2 oz amaretto almond liqueur
1 - 2 splashes sweet and sour mix
Pour the amaretto liqueur into a cocktail shaker half-filled with ice cubes. Add a splash or two of sweet and sour mix, and shake well. Strain or pour into an old-fashioned glass, garnish with a maraschino cherry and a slice of orange, and serve.Serve in:
Old-Fashioned Glass
Amaretto Sour Recipe
1 1/2 oz amaretto almond liqueur
1 - 2 splashes sweet and sour mix
Pour the amaretto liqueur into a cocktail shaker half-filled with ice cubes. Add a splash or two of sweet and sour mix, and shake well. Strain or pour into an old-fashioned glass, garnish with a maraschino cherry and a slice of orange, and serve.Serve in:
Old-Fashioned Glass
