Monday, June 12, 2006
Screamed the Sound of Silence!
The phone rang. There were no words -- words were not necessary. Only the unmistakable sounds of cold rain and unseasonably sharp, cool winds, the plaintive wailing of a guitar in competent hands, and the rocking yet seductive voice of Marty Balin. It had come to pass: a workweek-weary Monz shrugged off the comforts of a well stocked basement in order to travel to lands unknown, all for the sake of the music he loves.
Such a quest requires an epic lunch: roast pork and turkey, muenster and mustard on whole grain bread, the ingredients purchased at some Polish deli in the city. Round it out with string cheese and an orange. ("Your wife got it, right?" "My wife bought it, I made it!")
The phone rang. There were no words -- words were not necessary. Only the unmistakable sounds of cold rain and unseasonably sharp, cool winds, the plaintive wailing of a guitar in competent hands, and the rocking yet seductive voice of Marty Balin. It had come to pass: a workweek-weary Monz shrugged off the comforts of a well stocked basement in order to travel to lands unknown, all for the sake of the music he loves.
Such a quest requires an epic lunch: roast pork and turkey, muenster and mustard on whole grain bread, the ingredients purchased at some Polish deli in the city. Round it out with string cheese and an orange. ("Your wife got it, right?" "My wife bought it, I made it!")
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