monzyummylunch

Too Sad :-( to Blog!

Sorry, we saw this photo (don't click if you're easily saddened, and the attempt to explain it away in the text didn't work for us...) and found we couldn't bring the joy that Monz' lunch deserves (which was Fong's for Farmer's Market & Vegetable soup, fitting lunch in between two very busy (and very different) court runs. Not as good as last week -- Fong's seems very hit or miss).

XXX!
We could go into all the inanities that the producers of Dos Equis beer use to proove their claim that some loser is "the most interesting man in the world," but we won't. We'll just call your attention to his closing line: "stay thirsty, my friends." Obviously the Dos Esquis man is the Antichrist, who wants you to always be thirsty and never be quenched! How will you ever do anything interesting, let alone be interesting, if you're always thirsty?! Bosh! Monz says "drink up and be interesting!" Monz also said today "scuzz doesn't equal soul, dude." Think about it. We think that deserves an extra "X"!

And think about this: dining on a yummy lunch of caesar salad from the newly reopened Genesee Restaurant. Same menu, slightly new looks inside. It's pretty big, but... you remain hungry!

Spoiler Alert!

Those who have not read or otherwise learned of the conclusion of the Harry Potter series SHOULD NOT READ TODAY'S FUN MONZ POLL!!! Like a Linsday Lohan impersonator, Monz heads back for a return appearance at Leno's for a ten inch sub.

Ok, don't look at the poll below if you're avoiding any spoilers!
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What Hogwart House Would the Sorting Hat Slot the Monz?
	Slytherin. Don't Laugh, Some Fought Lord V., and Monz Likes His Spicccccce!
	Hufflepuff. When Monz Pumps and Jumps He Huffs and Puffs!
	Ravenclaw: Monz Gets Hungry and Monz Has Been Known to Fry Some Fowl!
	Gryffindor: Come On, Where Else Would He Go?!
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Clark McDerment!

Today the Monz returned to Bacci's for bruschetta and spag pomodoro. It met his expectations for quality, yet was not any less enjoyable for doing so.

Ballad-Era Styx Yummy Lunch!

Lunch, I'm leaving, I must be on my way
The time is drawing near
My car is going, my client didn't sell
The judge wants him jailed for years
But I'll be hungry without you
And I'll need a snack to see me through
Please believe me, my stomach's in your hands
And I'll be missing you.

Because you know it's you lunch
Whenever I get weary and need some food
In a ravenous mood
You know it's you lunch
Giving me the courage and the strength I need
Please believe that it's true
Lunch I love you.

Lunch I'm leaving, I'll say it once again
Somehow try to nod
He's got some cellmates he's trying to forget
And this judge thinks he's G_d
DuPage county is like Cicero
And the client's retainer is getting low
Please believe me, my blog is in your hands
And I'll be missing you (even when you're Fong's for vegetable soup and farmer'smarket, which is a plate of lots and lots of veggies, more than in last week's triple vegetables)
Lunch, I love you
Lunch, I love you
Oooh Oooh Oooh Oooh Lunch.

Roh-Roh!

The editors are concerned about the Music Editor (ME). See, we were sort of joshing around the MYL offices, kidding the ME as to why he hadn't created one of his patented lunch/Monz tribute songs in a while. Well, apparently the ME, still reeling over the events of July 10th, conflated our good natured ribbing and the trauma of Monz' cross-county-communiting and came up with...well, let's just say it's the product of a...unusual mind. While we debate whether to post, we'll "merely" inform you that Monz revisited the Kashi black bean mango thing, and an apple. Just as good as before (and it was good).

Maize. Your People Call It "Corn"!

Yes, my child, the legends are true. It was a year after the Great Implosion that the surviving members of the human race, empty and hopeless, sojourned to the Monz. And the Monz, being a lifelong resident of Illinois, told them to grow and gather corn. And they did. And the Monz imparted knowledge and soon they had transportation and energy to charge batteries. Yet the people were missing something in their souls. So Monz told them again to grow and gather corn. And they did. And the Monz created sublime mixture that warmed the body and the soul. And the people were happy. A precious few even had nostalgic feelings. Then one day, a young child aproached the Monz and asked "is this as good as it gets?" And the Monz said "son, look at the sky, feel the breeze, hear the joyous sounds of the animals, and try this perfect simulation of a frozen Amy teriyaki bowl and an apple." You ask me to say more? I would my child, but I wouldn't want to spoil a good story.

TFC!
While away, the EIC had his first oportunity to experience a Global Positining System (GPS) via his rental car (a surprisingly ok Chevy Malibu Maxx). This thing was amazing. It didn't just know where the car was, it knew what direction the car was pointed! It gave expert directions, avoided traffic jams, and gave plenty of notice and lead time to get in the right lane. There is, of course, but one thing to say:

Monz must get one!

Just as today, Monz went on a road trip of his own to a remote 'Gan legend: Leno's, which lived up to it's billing by delivering a HUGE veggie sub with carrots, radishes, pepper, cucumbers, lettuce, tomatoes, olives and cheese.

Crazy!
The Monz stands shoulder-to-shoulder in solidarity with the Turkish rockers Deli (translated "Crazy" in English), as the band faces criminal prosecution by for mocking the nation's college enterance exams! Thus Monz dined on a Turkish yummy lunch of some lentil soup, doner kabab sandwich and baklava, washed down with some strong, hot Turkish coffee. Or he would have if he hadn't headed to The Place for a footlong veggie delight on wheat. But hey, the Place is kind of a deli!

Lesson Learned!

One more day of my guest-blogging! Today I avoided the controversial microwave and went to Fong's with another attorney. I explored their menu deeper by ordering vegetable soup and the mysterious "Triple Vegetable!" Triple vegetable was a lie, but a good one! It included broccoli, green pepper, mushroom, zucchini and carrots. And the sauce was yummy. So much better than last week's mu shu. For future reference they told me they would make ma pa tofu for me with no pork and it's not on the menu!! My love / hate continues.

Student of Always!

Today I learned lots of things by cruising the internets. for example:

"Question: Is cooking in microwave hazardous to our health?

Answer: As far as my knowledge microwave cooking is not hazardous to health and no conclusive scientific evidences are there to disprove this."

This is really good for me to know because today's lunch was microwaved Amy's paneer tofu, an apple, and a vegan muffin. The muffin? Not so hot.

I also learned that all you paneers are belong to us, but I guess that's something to take up another day!

I'm In Your Bass!

Monz here, emergency guest-blogging while the editors zip off to the east coast for some research on lunches that involve these things called "Lobsters" and "Chowdah." Today I had eggplant, vegetables, and ma po tofu from the new chinese place that we had dinner at last night, Wok's Cooking. It's pretty good stuff. I'll be back!

Meanwhile, Waukegan recovers from the Scoopin' Genessee weekend and the media was out in full force this morning for the giant trial of the parents who served alcohol. Off to work again, and more lunch tomorrow.

The Power of Lunch!
It's a special Saturday post to celebrate MYL's Fourth Anniversery! We thought we'd use this ocassion to reflect. From the get-go of this blog we knew Monz was capable of superhero heroics. But peace is the preferred way of our warrior, and thus we share this report on what happened to a certain violent revolutionary group after they had a astral-transcendant chat (and lunch) with the Monz!. Suffice to say, things change.

Power in Numbers!

The Health Editor (HE) has an interesting factoid for Monz and all: in perusing the Collage Video catalog, only one exercise video has been recommended as a favorite of four fitness magazines: Shape, Fitness, Self and Health. And this is it!

Monz put the power of consensus to good use at lunch, as Monz and...Monz decided to have Kashi black bean mango, an apple, and a clementine, all while soaking in the sun and catching the 2007 iteration of Waukegan's scoop-the-loop while gearing up for the band's triumphant return to W's top music bar.

I'll Take "Monz" for $1000!

The answer is "Guitar World, People, Smithsonian, Esquire, The Pen and the Quill."
BUZZ
You, winnerperson!
"Magazines the Monz subscribes to."
Yes!

The answer is "Amy's Indian Mattar Tofu, apple and a clementine orange."
BUZZ
You, Al from Walgreen's
"Ernie the Attorney's Lunch?"
No, that's wrong!
BUZZ
You, winnerperson!
"Monz' lunch"
Correct!

The Power of the Spoken Word!

The Literary Editor (LE) was reading an interview with an author he appreciates more as personality than writer, when he was struck by her claim that her name was a "two word poem." But a bit of googling revealed this isn't uncommon. And indeed, Monz' lunch today of vegetable soup and moo shu veggies provides inspiration for a two-word poem: Fong's Sucks. But we know if Monz were here, he'd be delivering a stunning reading of a three word poem, as that extra word can make all the difference:

End. of. Poetry.

Feelings!

No lunch for Monz (gasp!) as Monz is forced to spend all daycreating online karaoke or something as bad.

Believe You Me!

We're worried that Monz, and you dear reader, won't believe us when we tell you that we had previously scheduled the Literary Editor (LE) for today. He was listening to an NPR special on summer reading where one of the guests said that Marcel Proust had written so amazingly about sleeping in the opening Swan's Way, that reading this passage could put you to sleep. He wanted to present this specimen of writing for your consideration, or use as a sleeping aid. But upon reading of Monz' lunch, we feared he would take it as a commentary on the lunch itself. Which it's not!

Lunch: Amy's Thai Stir-Fry, an apple and a clementine orange.

Proust:

For a long time I used to go to bed early. Sometimes, when I had put out my candle, my eyes would close so quickly that I had not even time to say “I’m going to sleep.” And half an hour later the thought that it was time to go to sleep would awaken me; I would try to put away the book which, I imagined, was still in my hands, and to blow out the light; I had been thinking all the time, while I was asleep, of what I had just been reading, but my thoughts had run into a channel of their own, until I myself seemed actually to have become the subject of my book: a church, a quartet, the rivalry between Francis I and Charles V. This impression would persist for some moments after I was awake; it did not disturb my mind, but it lay like scales upon my eyes and prevented them from registering the fact that the candle was no longer burning. Then it would begin to seem unintelligible, as the thoughts of a former existence must be to a reincarnate spirit; the subject of my book would separate itself from me, leaving me free to choose whether I would form part of it or no; and at the same time my sight would return and I would be astonished to find myself in a state of darkness, pleasant and restful enough for the eyes, and even more, perhaps, for my mind, to which it appeared incomprehensible, without a cause, a matter dark indeed.

I would ask myself what o’clock it could be; I could hear the whistling of trains, which, now nearer and now farther off, punctuating the distance like the note of a bird in a forest, shewed me in perspective the deserted countryside through which a traveller would be hurrying towards the nearest station: the path that he followed being fixed for ever in his memory by the general excitement due to being in a strange place, to doing unusual things, to the last words of conversation, to farewells exchanged beneath an unfamiliar lamp which echoed still in his ears amid the silence of the night; and to the delightful prospect of being once again at home.

I would lay my cheeks gently against the comfortable cheeks of my pillow, as plump and blooming as the cheeks of babyhood. Or I would strike a match to look at my watch. Nearly midnight. The hour when an invalid, who has been obliged to start on a journey and to sleep in a strange hotel, awakens in a moment of illness and sees with glad relief a streak of daylight shewing under his bedroom door. Oh, joy of joys! it is morning. The servants will be about in a minute: he can ring, and some one will come to look after him. The thought of being made comfortable gives him strength to endure his pain. He is certain he heard footsteps: they come nearer, and then die away. The ray of light beneath his door is extinguished. It is midnight; some one has turned out the gas; the last servant has gone to bed, and he must lie all night in agony with no one to bring him any help.

I would fall asleep, and often I would be awake again for short snatches only, just long enough to hear the regular creaking of the wainscot, or to open my eyes to settle the shifting kaleidoscope of the darkness, to savour, in an instantaneous flash of perception, the sleep which lay heavy upon the furniture, the room, the whole surroundings of which I formed but an insignificant part and whose unconsciousness I should very soon return to share. Or, perhaps, while I was asleep I had returned without the least effort to an earlier stage in my life, now for ever outgrown; and had come under the thrall of one of my childish terrors, such as that old terror of my great-uncle’s pulling my curls, which was effectually dispelled on the day—the dawn of a new era to me—on which they were finally cropped from my head. I had forgotten that event during my sleep; I remembered it again immediately I had succeeded in making myself wake up to escape my great-uncle’s fingers; still, as a measure of precaution, I would bury the whole of my head in the pillow before returning to the world of dreams.

Sometimes, too, just as Eve was created from a rib of Adam, so a woman would come into existence while I was sleeping, conceived from some strain in the position of my limbs. Formed by the appetite that I was on the point of gratifying, she it was, I imagined, who offered me that gratification. My body, conscious that its own warmth was permeating hers, would strive to become one with her, and I would awake. The rest of humanity seemed very remote in comparison with this woman whose company I had left but a moment ago: my cheek was still warm with her kiss, my body bent beneath the weight of hers. If, as would sometimes happen, she had the appearance of some woman whom I had known in waking hours, I would abandon myself altogether to the sole quest of her, like people who set out on a journey to see with their own eyes some city that they have always longed to visit, and imagine that they can taste in reality what has charmed their fancy. And then, gradually, the memory of her would dissolve and vanish, until I had forgotten the maiden of my dream.

When a man is asleep, he has in a circle round him the chain of the hours, the sequence of the years, the order of the heavenly host. Instinctively, when he awakes, he looks to these, and in an instant reads off his own position on the earth’s surface and the amount of time that has elapsed during his slumbers; but this ordered procession is apt to grow confused, and to break its ranks. Suppose that, towards morning, after a night of insomnia, sleep descends upon him while he is reading, in quite a different position from that in which he normally goes to sleep, he has only to lift his arm to arrest the sun and turn it back in its course, and, at the moment of waking, he will have no idea of the time, but will conclude that he has just gone to bed. Or suppose that he gets drowsy in some even more abnormal position; sitting in an armchair, say, after dinner: then the world will fall topsy-turvy from its orbit, the magic chair will carry him at full speed through time and space, and when he opens his eyes again he will imagine that he went to sleep months earlier and in some far distant country. But for me it was enough if, in my own bed, my sleep was so heavy as completely to relax my consciousness; for then I lost all sense of the place in which I had gone to sleep, and when I awoke at midnight, not knowing where I was, I could not be sure at first who I was; I had only the most rudimentary sense of existence, such as may lurk and flicker in the depths of an animal’s consciousness; I was more destitute of human qualities than the cave-dweller; but then the memory, not yet of the place in which I was, but of various other places where I had lived, and might now very possibly be, would come like a rope let down from heaven to draw me up out of the abyss of not-being, from which I could never have escaped by myself: in a flash I would traverse and surmount centuries of civilisation, and out of a half-visualised succession of oil-lamps, followed by shirts with turned-down collars, would put together by degrees the component parts of my ego.

Party Pooper!

We don't mean to complain, we're simply concerned. Last year downtown Waukegan seemed so much more fun for lunch. Well, at least Monz is now in a rockin bluesy bar band. And eating healthy fare like Amy's Asian Noodle Stir-fry, an apple, and a banana.

The Ultimate Dis!

The Chicago Tribune, about 15 years too late, runs a piece on walking out of a flick. Well, the Movie Editor (ME) is here to tell you, Monz has been doing this to deserving bad flicks and doing it in style! That's right, strutting out in a dignified, bold manner that yet remains respectful to those idio...members of the audience who are still watching. We remember Monz leaving the ME in the movie theater lurch with 10 minutes to go in...we can't remember! He thinks it starred Ellen Barkin.

Indian paneer, an apple, banana and nothing to drink, as Monz let's the spice wash over his taste buds unadulterated. And he didn't walk out!

Not a Bang but a Pow!
The third is not the fourth! Hang Sue Tofu is not Kung Pow Beef. Vegatable soup is the stuff of the heartland! It was all good, and all Fong's!

Gold!

What does an editor do when he's tied up in class and has no time to blog? Turn things over to Clark? Well, yeah, but he's on vacation. The mind drifts back to mutual friends of Monz and the EIC who, filled with boundless enthusiasm, would shout the chorus of Spandau Ballet's penultimate hit song "Gold," but personalized. "You are GOLD Mark Monz!" This leads the mind to All That Glitters, one of those mysterious Norman Lear creations that came on late at night, even after "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman." On this show, the women played the macho breadwinners and the men played the meek sex objects. It only lasted a season and there's few traces of the show left: it's not even on YouTube.

Monz' light summer lunch glitters and glides: footlong veggie delight from The Place.