Jabberwok 
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I'd forgotten how much I like that song!
I don't fancy a werewolf's chances in Chinatown.
Even if he made it past the restaurants, there's a lot of Chinese medicine shops that would have his bits bottled in no time.
Reply #261. Nov 10 08, 5:25 PM
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_Morpheus_
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Chinese food is alright I guess. I like meat and lots of it. I went to this Brazilian place that serves five different kinds of meat. The have a huge barbecue pit in the center of the restaurant and cook everything right in front of you. It's called the Fire of Brazil
but it sounds like you won't be interested.
I'm still going to Soho and that Chinese restaurant, maybe when I go to the Olympics ;)
Reply #262. Nov 10 08, 5:26 PM
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Jabberwok
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My daughter's idea of a balanced meal is three kinds of meat, hold the veg.
Sounds exactly like her sort of place.
Reply #263. Nov 10 08, 5:29 PM
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flopsymopsy
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In London, RJ, you can eat anything you like, the greatest cosmopolitan city in the world. Have you eaten Indian food? Turkish? Mongolian? Moroccan? Help, I'm feeling hungry and it's nearly bedtime!
Reply #264. Nov 10 08, 5:32 PM
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Jabberwok
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See, Mongolian food never makes me feel hungry :(
Reply #265. Nov 10 08, 5:36 PM
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_Morpheus_
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Definitely, also for the females they have Gaucho's deliver the food and the have grilled veggies too.
I have to go practice ladies...I have tae kwon do tourney in two weeks.
I'll catch y'all later and I again enjoyed your cleaver, cleavage, I mean clever engaging chat ;)
Reply #266. Nov 10 08, 5:36 PM
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Jabberwok
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Grilled veggies?
I feel very uncertain now, combined with a huge BBQ pit it doesn't sound like my kind of place at all.
Got to go, stuff to mark.
Reply #267. Nov 10 08, 5:40 PM
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fredfrank
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Don't worry Jabberwok, llama is not on the menu.
Reply #268. Nov 11 08, 12:01 PM
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cyberhen
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As today is Armistice Day ere is a poem
We stand on guard for thee
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Reply #270. Nov 11 08, 3:57 PM
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glendathecat
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It's a sobering thought that we (UK) lost 1m people in WW1 yet since 1998 there have been 5.4m casualties of the present conflict in Congo.
It reminds me of another poem:
History is constantly repeating herself;
Has to -
no-one listens!
Reply #271. Nov 11 08, 6:32 PM
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cyberhen
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It makes me think of my favourite song -
Imagine by John Lennon.
Reply #272. Nov 11 08, 7:12 PM
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Qmel
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Imagine is a timeless classic, being an anti-war protest song, but the way it's done, you wouldn't know it.
Reply #273. Nov 11 08, 7:43 PM
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MarchHare007
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In this vein - might I add this:
A Poem for Remembrance Day
"The inquisitive mind of a child"
Why are they selling poppies, Mummy?
Selling poppies in town today.
The poppies, child, are flowers of love.
For the men who marched away.
But why have they chosen a poppy, Mummy?
Why not a beautiful rose?
Because my child, men fought and died
In the fields where the poppies grow.
But why are the poppies so red, Mummy?
Why are the poppies so red?
Red is the colour of blood, my child.
The blood that our soldiers shed.
The heart of the poppy is black, Mummy.
Why does it have to be black?
Black, my child, is the symbol of grief.
For the men who never came back.
But why, Mummy are you crying so?
Your tears are giving you pain.
My tears are my fears for you my child.
For the world is forgetting again.
Writer Unknown
Reply #274. Nov 11 08, 7:44 PM
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flopsymopsy
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I was the child of my parents' late middle age; their children were grown up... and then they had me. One day my father asked what homework I was doing, I said I was studying the First World War. He asked what aspect in particular, so I said I was reading about the Gallipoli Landings. "Ah," he said, "I was there. Those poor boys, the sea turned red." Then he wept, and never spoke of it again.
On Armistice Day I think of those boys at Gallipoli where the sea turned red and I think of my father at Jutland, being winched as a relief signalman on to another ship only to see his own ship sunk with all hands lost in that cold dark sea. And I think of him later at Archangel and in Palestine, and then in the South China Seas. I think of my brother-in-law in the Burmese/Malay jungles, and my brother in Korea - and then of my nephew-by-marriage in the Falklands with his three brothers. And I think of my great-nephew come home from Afghanistan and of his youngest brother, currently awaiting posting to Afghanistan or Iraq to work in bomb disposal, the bravest of the brave.
I wear my poppy with pride and humility. Lest we forget.
Reply #275. Nov 11 08, 8:02 PM
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| Mouldy-Carpets
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Amen flopsy (and the most famous, and horrendous WW1 poem, kicking against Horace and all other jingoistic patriots goes thus - it is sweet and good to die for one's country... Pardon!):
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.
GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Wilfred Owen
Reply #276. Nov 11 08, 8:13 PM
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MarchHare007
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Made me wonder Why, when I studied History - Why when we record our greatest triumphs we glory in our cleverness, but ignore our ability to help those suffering, unless it pays - and then not learn from conflict that leads to death and destruction and years of endless pain and despair and shatters so many lives.
I Like to think that One day we night be Bigger than that!
Reply #277. Nov 11 08, 8:27 PM
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MarchHare007
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And my poppies flower freely each November.
Reply #278. Nov 11 08, 8:28 PM
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MarchHare007
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Chocolate Anyone? *rueful smile*
Reply #279. Nov 11 08, 8:28 PM
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| Mouldy-Carpets
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Aye - good idea, chocolate would be nice. :-)
Reply #280. Nov 11 08, 8:44 PM
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