VERY SCARY

 

It's Halloween and hence Fright Night, that night of the year when youngsters go out looking for treats, dressed as demons. Let's hope they don't go online and find super scary multi-millionaire socialist Madonna. Here she is:

What can we say, scary is as scary does? 

Nasty Scary

Cheese slides off cracker fearsome

Mind how you go, gentle readers, and be careful on this scariest night, the Eve of All Saints. Together we will survive this. By the way, look up #witchtiktok and ask yourself, "Is it all a larf until you wake up and find a demon gnawing on your thigh?"

Out Demons Out,

LSP

Three Way?

 

so utterly not mob

The plot sickeneth. According to NBC reporter Tom Winter, a third mystery man was present at Pelosi's upscale dachau when crazed hippy underwear attacker David DePape went full hammertime on Paul, nothing whatsoever to do with the mob, Pelosi.

Via Gateway Pundit:

NBC News reporter Tom Winter reported that San Francisco District Attorney Brooke Jenkins said in an interview that accused attacker David DePape, 42, ‘was able to get into the Pelosi bedroom where Paul Pelosi was.’ Jenkins said investigators have been able to talk with DePape.

Winter also confirmed that a third person was in the Pelosi home at the time of the attack on the 82-year-old husband of Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi (D-). Nancy Pelosi was reportedly in Washington, D.C. at the time of the attack early Friday morning. S.F. police said late Friday an “unknown person” answered the door when police arrived in response to a mysterious 911 call by Paul Pelosi. Police said Pelosi was able to excuse himself from DePape and go into a bathroom where is cellphone was charging to initiate the 911 call where Pelosi allegedly spoke in code and described the intruder as “David” who advised he is a “friend”.

 

Why was a berserk Canadian nudist hippy in billionaire bolshevik Paul Pelosi's bedroom, in his underwear? Who is the missing mystery person? Will DePape emerge from gaol alive? For that matter, will Paul Pelosi recover from brain surgery?

goodfella

Serious questions and we have to wonder at Paul's remarkable 82 year old, not mafia for a second, stamina. Mr. Frank Zappa sings a song about San Francisco here.

Cheers,

LSP

It's Hammertime!

 

Totally Not Mob

Multi millionaire socialist Paul Pelosi, who has nothing whatsoever to do with the mob, just got hammered. Yes, with a literal hammer by a guy wearing underwear at 2 am in San Francisco. Nothing weird about that, at all, getting hammered in his mansion by some underwear freak called David DePape.  Who is this DePape?

DePape & Gypsy

A Canadian nudist, apparently, who hung out at a hippie setup in Berkeley and made hideous jewelry out of hemp. So far so good, and then you discover DePape's wife figure, amateur pornstar Oxane "Gypsy" Taub, accuses her onetime lover of pedophilia and satanism. She's in gaol for violating a restraining order, you can read all about Gypsy here.

For an autist drill down visit /pol. In the meanwhile, how did a hippy wearing underwear get into Pelosi's house? OK, it's San Francisco but still, surely he had his clothes on while he was walking around the ritzy rich socialist Pelosi neighborhood in the dead of night. Did he get into the Pelosi mansion and then remove his clothes, mostly?

And how did he get into the house of the third most important political figure in the US in the first place? By breaking a window in the back of the place, allegedly, but if so, why was the glass on the swanky garden door broken out from the inside? Huh.

For that matter, why aren't there any surveillance videos of the crazed underwear attacker breaking and entering? And what about his "manifesto"? Was he holding it in his hemp stained hand as he strolled through the streets of Pelositown? Good question.

DePape Hangout

Then there's multi millionaire Paul Pelosi's 911 call. The massively rich investor socialist, who has nothing to do with the mob, made this call, evidently, from a bathroom in his mansion while DePape was in the house. Excuse me? You're in the midst of a crazed hippie underwear break-in and somehow manage to take a handy bathroom time out and call the cops? Far out.

Gypsy

I guess it just kinda happened or, on the other hand, did a late night drug fueled rainbow sex romp go badly wrong? Surely not, after all, this is San Francisco. DePape's in hospital as is Paul Pelosi, who's recovering from brain surgery. 

Weird scenes inside the goldmine and we have to ask, will DePape get out of there alive.

In the meanwhile,

#HAMMERTIME

LSP

Just Some Tunes

 

A rambunctious soldier's just strolled in on a weekend pass, and that's all good. We're watching patriotic tunes, and that's good too. As is the DOGE$ rally, wen Lambo?

States Rights and Dixie Forever,

LSP

Let That Sink In

 

Like him, love him, hate him, the world's richest man wins a prize for top level alpha trolling. Yes, Elon Musk strolled into Twitter's swanky hi-tech millionaire socialist HQ in San Franscisco carrying a sink. "Let that sink in," tweeted Musk in a typical bout of internet jollity as he prepared to take over the leftist social media giant.

But Elon wasn't kidding, let the firings begin. Per Zerohedge:

Just minutes after the world's richest man has reportedly closed the $44 billion deal, The NYTimes reports that, according to sources that declined to be identified, the Twitter executives who were fired include:

            Parag Agrawal, Twitter’s chief executive.

            Ned Segal, the chief financial officer.

            Vijaya Gadde, the top legal and policy executive,

            (censorship czar) 

            Sean Edgett, the general counsel.

At least one of the executives who was fired was escorted out of Twitter’s office, they said.

 

Where will they go, these fired multi-millionaire tech socialists , Tik Tok, Meta, Linkedin, Pinterest? Who knows, maybe they'll just retire on their severance. According to Zero, Agrawal is set to receive  $38.7 million, Segal is set to receive $25.4 million and Vijaya Gadde will leave with $12.5 million. Nice payback, eh?

And what cost socialism. Some pigs, gentle readers, are more equal than others or to put it another way, "the bell tolls for the end of the first chapter of Twitter's life as a deep state narrative-enabling machine." Let's see how that works out.

In the meanwhile, well done Elon for running around Twister HQ with a sink, credit where credit's due. And please feed the DOGE$, everyone's favorite pup's been sleeping for far too long. Oh, and restore the banned LSP account, thx.

Cheers,

LSP

ZADOK!

Vivat,

LSP

NEOM - Saudi Space Age City

 

Have you heard of NEOM, Saudi's  futuristic desert development on the Red Sea, featuring The Line, Oxagon and Trojena? You haven't? Well, take it from a humble mission priest in rural Texas that NEOM's a massively ambitious exercise in creating a super futuristic living and working space for the 21st century and beyond.

The Line, two parallel skyscrapers 200 meters apart and 170 km long across the desert. Clad in mirrored glass and with a footprint of just 34 square kilometers, the Line will supposedly house 9 million people with an end to end transit of 20 minutes, thanks to super hi speed rail. Residents will walk everywhere because everything they need will be, apparently, within 5 minutes of their housing pod. Far out. Imagine that silver beast cutting across the sand.

Oxagon is a, "Next-gen automated & integrated port & supply chain. A fostering ecosystem for research &​ innovation. Catalyst for advanced transformational industries. Global gateway for world trade," and it's, "Powered by 100% clean energy," with an,  "Unmatched regulatory business environment. Exceptional livability," and a, "State-of-the-art investor care center."

Huh, far out. But what about Trojena? It's a holiday spot for all the 9 million people who want to take a break from their work on The Line. In NEOM's own words:

TROJENA will be an iconic, world-class destination, blending natural and developed landscapes – and offering unique human-centric experiences for residents and visitors alike. The destination will house six distinctive development districts centered around tailored experiences that blend real with virtual architectural and engineering innovations. All to create a destination like no other on earth.

 

Readers, all seven of you, what do we make of this? Is the NEOM vision scyfy cool or scyfy dystopic? Would you want to live in the fast rail, mirrored, AI controlled desert fastness of The Line as you subcontract to the bizarrely green Oxagen port while holidaying on the waters and slopes of paradisal Trojena?

Perhaps I'm cynical, but just imagine your friendly AI cuts off your social credit on the cusp of your Trojena vacation, all because you said something wrong on the internet. Oops, now you're a non-person, like a Calgary trucker. Bang goes your 20 minute end-to-end hi speed transit.

Then again, maybe it's a good thing people are dreaming big and futuristic, flying cars all 'round. But think, this is planned for Saudi Arabia. Will women be allowed to drive them? Sorry! Stupid, we can't define "woman" so non-issue. As you were.

Your Buddy,

LSP

God's Judgement

 

Here we are, running out our few score years until eternity and judgement. How will that fall? Are you good, bad or somewhere in between? Somewhere in between, probably, and that middle ground, neither hot nor cold, equates to being spat out because heaven doesn't admit imperfection.

What can we do, then, but fall down and beg for mercy like the tax collector. God hears this prayer, from a humble and contrite heart, and lifts us up, exalts us to union with Himself. And herein lies divine judgement.

You're either for God or against Him, for life, beauty, truth and all that's good taken to absolute perfection, or you're not. To put it another way, you're either for that which is or that which isn't. Your call, and lest there be confusion, if you go against reality itself, God, it won't go well for you. Judgement. So, on which side of the baseball bat of reality do we fall?

There's only one answer, cry out for mercy, and here we find great hope. The Prodigal is embraced by the Father, the tax collector justified, the thief on the cross lifted to heaven, the sinner redeemed. Reality itself, God, is yes, implacable but Reality reveals himself to be personal, loving and merciful. Judgement, reminds Farrer, runs out into mercy.

Point being? There's hope for us all. See LL for a solid homily on judgement.

Transpontine,

LSP

Scotland The Brave

 

I'll second that,

LSP

Mashed Potato Monet

 

Two Germans from climate activist group Letzte Generation (Last Generation) threw mashed potatoes at a Monet painting, Les Meules, on Sunday at a museum in Potsdam. The weather vandals then glued their hands to the gallery wall while yelling at onlookers.

“People are starving, people are freezing, people are dying. We are in a climate catastrophe,” shouted potato protester Mirjam Herrmann, “Science says we won’t be able to feed our families by 2050. This painting will be worth nothing if we have to fight over food.”

Quite, an art critic pal from Detroit shot me a text by way of commentary:

What worries me is that these things spark trends (miscreants love trends -- I don't think I have to elaborate) which escalate as they gather momentum. It would be very easy to smash the Michaelangelo Pieta with a concealed sledgehammer. Unlike the Monet potato this is something that could never be repaired. Next thing you know galleries are on lockdown and the world's current slide towards dystopia deepens.

 

Well said. In the meanwhile, Germany and the rest of Europe are heading into a difficult winter as the cost of energy, food and everything else continues to skyrocket. That in mind, Science says feed your family or heat your home and maybe neither as Europe deindustrializes. 

Go on, glue yourselves to the wall, potato heads

All very green, which brings us back to Monet masher Mirjam. Fighting over food by 2050? I fear that sounds more than a little optimistic, Fraulein Herrmann. 

On topic, the War on Weather continues here in Texas with a full, solid, day of rain. We call it Skywater.

Gotta get back to the garden,

LSP

Has The World Gone Mad?

 

Perhaps it has. Canada, of all places, has dropped Covid vax, mask and test requirements to enter the country. Yes, Canada, the same country which unpersoned truckers for protesting the devil jab mandate earlier this year.

I guess the science changed as of October 1, but don't take my word for it, here's the Canadian government itself:

Wow, you don't even have to fill in the Stasi ArriveCAN app tracker to get into the land of the ice and snow. No, just come on in, vax, no vax, batflu, no batflu, the emergency is over almost as though it never existed in the first place. Crazy times.

Of course we're way more sane here in the US, where vax requirements are in full force for non US citizens trying to enter the country. Unless they're illegal aliens, who don't have to have the vax because they don't spread the super deadly virus. Go on, ask the science and see where it gets you.

In related news, Justine Trudeau's banned handgun sales in Leafland, which'll stop all the gun crime criminals who notoriously obey all the laws, except when they don't. 

#2A,

LSP

Saturday Sermon

 

Willie Nelson Fixed This

People in London complain because COVID asset strippers killed off landmarks, like Simpson's on the Strand, the Savoy Tailors Guild and great bank branches like Lloyd's Law Courts and the Aldwych/Strand Barclays, which is now an annoyingly overpriced restaurant. And pubs, the Tipperary on Fleet Street (oldest Irish pub in town?) is now no more. 

How very tragic, and I mean that. Hopefully USD will continue to grow in strength so we can buy and save these places, for posterity and the good of all. You can imagine, there we are on the Strand and the monkey produces a battered $20 bill. Helpful simian, "Thank you, monkey, we shall buy this place."

But seriously, Londoners who think they have it bad should visit this rural Texan haven's town square and take stock.

Gary...

Quackers "ice cream parlor" and burger joint? Shut. Axe Throwing startup in our old Citizen's bank, shut. Antique shops, they tried to reinvent this town as an antique shop, shut x 4. Burger King? Shut. 2 of 4 car dealers? Shut. Gold Nugget Pawn? Shut. And the list goes on, small town mercantile carnage. But don't worry, your kid can get a sex change as zhir goes to a highway strip mall for puberty blockers. What a crock.

There's an issue here and a big one. Why can't we, the wealthiest, most powerful nation on the face of the planet make beautiful, livable cities and towns? And for a fact we mostly don't, we've produced one urban sh*thole after another, see Detroit, Chicago, Gary, Dallas, Fort Worth, Atlanta, Baltimore, Milwaukee, Upstate New York and on, take your pick.

Why? Market forces, greed? Sure, all of that and more besides, but it doesn't have to be this way. We have more than enough power and creativity to build places to live in to uplift heart and mind. To do so, we must change or convert our collective soul.

Acknowledging that such a thing exists would be a good start. And then, just maybe, seeing we were wrong to enthrone secular, temporal power in the heart of our towns, in the courthouse on the square. This would've been a cathedral or collegiate church in a better age. I won't bang on.

Let's fix our cities and towns.

Your Pal,

LSP

And So To Home

 

All good things, bar heaven, come to an end and so did this exeat to London and the UK. A final trip to the all day breakfast on Grays Inn Rd, thanks PA, a foray to St. Albans, Holborn, and a few pints at the Lamb and the Rugby followed by a plate of carbonara at Ciao Bella on Lamb's Conduit Street. So tasty.

Then back to LHR, Terminal Three, a total nightmare, and onto a sardine can masquerading as an international flight. I tell you, getting the bus from Victoria to Chepstow in the 1980s was more dignified and comfortable, which isn't saying much.

some rando curry house onna Strand

10 hours later you're back home in the Texas Free State, and that felt good. There's an expansiveness and freedom to Texas which England just doesn't have. That said, it was heart-wrenching to leave the Old Country. Partly because it's my homeland, especially London, and also because of its great beauty and interest. Everywhere you look there's something to stay the eye.

Texas? Yes, the same, but here everything's new, right down to the newly pioneered land of the place, to say nothing of noxious strip malls and the appalling DFW metrosprawl we call a city. Still, good to be home in the free atmos of the Lone Star State. There's air to breathe.

Look, my olde flatte!

So what's the scoop, the story on the UK? Well, their government's imploding, coffee shops are ludicrously abounding, the Pound is hideously weakening, cigarettes are stupidly pricey as is petrol. Red Bull is cheap, wine is cheap too, but you can't afford to get a house unless you're stupid rich, and... everyone believes in the vaccines, big time.

"Oh, better run off and get my booster," says one quondam anarchist and off xe goes to burn incense on the Altar of Big Pharma Pfizer. Climate Change too; everyone's convinced the Ice Caps are gonna melt and flood Martha's Vineyard in a few years. Quelle serious disaster, go tell the Obamas.

Look, a meat market the asset strippers are about to shut down

So, globalist agitprop looms large over the Sceptred Isle though they'd call it common sense. Mask up, vax up and toe the NWO line of your elite overlords. That aside, all's normal except for all these ridiculous coffee shops, beer at 4.50 a pint++ and hordes of electric bicycles and scooters in London. Oh, and it's getting hard to pay with cash.

Cash, gentle readers, is being phased out in England. What could possibly go wrong.

Your Expat Pal,

LSP

London Churches

 

Clubbing's great, no doubt about it, but let's not forget London's churches. That in mind, I walked out of Mecklenburgh Square, took a left on Guilford St., right on Gray's Inn Rd where there's still an all day breakfast shop, miraculously, then crossed over Clerkenwell Rd. and took a right on Leather Lane. Objective? St. Ethelreda's, Ely Place, former London chapel of the medieval bishops of Ely.

You can get to this gem of a church via Bleeding Heart Yard, but first you have to navigate Leather Lane, which seems to have become an open air food zone, all kinds of stalls offering sizzling meat on sticks and more besides. It smelled delicious and the smoke of charcoal grilled scoff hung over the street and its hordes of hungry punters. No kidding, the standing room only crowd was a solid six deep around those mobile food emporia.

But I wasn't in it for the food, I was heading for St. Eth's. So, jink behind the food wagons and their crowds and cut left off Leather Lane to go down Greville St., admiring its diamond and jewelry shops. Not dissimilar to parts of NYC, when you think on it, though on a lesser scale. Diamonds and emeralds aside, turn right into Bleeding Heart Yard, you're nearly there.

It's as you remember it, a cobbled yard with a wine bar/bistro setup at one end. Look at that and wonder why you've never been inside, then look at the menu and the cost of lunch. Curiosity satisfied, walk to the side of the yard opposite the pricey restaurant and there's a cobbled alley, leading to Ely Place and the church. Years ago, I helped a stone mason relay the cobbles in this alley, here it is:

Hard work, I tell you, those 18th century(?) maybe older cobbles are a beast. Big, heavy and irregular, think twice before you take that job on and then, stone masonry reverie over, walk up to the church through a passageway adjacent to the crypt where a business lunch is in full flight, up a flight of stone stairs and  into the church itself.

Calmed by the silence and reverence of the place, venerate the Sacrament and kneel for a time in humble adoration as you give thanks for the many times you've worshiped God in this church and found union with the sacrifice of Christ in the sacrifice of the Mass. No small thing and, back in the '90s, maybe now, in Latin with a 4 part choir which lifted the soul to heaven.

It's hard not to linger but time marches on and with it people to meet who you haven't seen in years. So you leave, uplifted in mind, body and spirit. What a good church, and so good to see it again after a space of some twenty plus years! Go there if you get the chance, well worth searching out and the journey there's fun too, Clerkenwell Rd, Leather Lane, Hatton Gardens and Bleeding Heart Yard itself.

Oh, after making your devotions in the church you can head over to the Mitre pub for a pint. It's ancient but last time I looked corporate makeover ruined. I didn't go in, maybe next time.

God bless you all,

LSP

Ce Soir Danser

 

Nous sommes ici par la volonté du peuple et nous n’en sortirons que par la force des baïonnettes

Triannon,

LSP

Clubbing

 

So what do you do in central London? Many things, but I like to go clubbing, this time 'round the good old National Liberal Club, No. 1 Whitehall. So, pull on a blazer, straighten your tie, wrestle with annoying but cool miniature shotgun shell cufflinks, give those loafers a brush and head off, it's not far.

Pass through Russell Square and admire the British Museum without going in, then take a left on Museum Street and go south, myriad memories. Then, as if by instinct, perhaps it is, muscle memory, you find yourself on the Strand.

Cut down Villiers Street and rushing masses of people getting off work. They're heading for home via Charing Cross, going to a pub or some kind of restaurant or all three, but you're going to the club. That in mind, take a right on the Embankment and stroll far from the madding crowd to Gladstone's 1882 setup overlooking the Thames and Embankment Gardens.

Walk through that storied portico and there you are. "Good evening," says someone at the door and you offer a sunny hello as you head to the bar. And there it is and there they are, the Nat Libs, having fun in a stunningly beautiful Victorian interior, some say the best in London, right there in the heart of the city.

The bar's congenial, the Terrace is great and the dining room's lovely. The Smoking Room's perfect too, except for the annoying fact that you're not allowed to smoke in it, but you can smoke on the Terrace, so all's not lost.

After a few drinks at the bar, head across the room for dinner. It's not bad and the club's proud of their chef, though I thought it a bit fixy. More trad club staples, please, and less Frenchifying. Still, a minor complaint and the company was good. A retired Colonel, a shooting salesman, several entertaining people from Ireland, think Parnell, and a retired civil servant with an interest in late antiquity. Far out, we talked Theodoric, Belisarius, #2A, Ireland and Army. Nice.

Eclectic and you can imagine the conversation at the table, also imagine that I was on my very best behavior. Well, it's hard not to be when you're sitting under life sized portraits of Gladstone. Dinner over, retire to the bar, chat with friends and then head home to Mecklenbugh Square, a good time had by all.

What a lot of fun and yet again haunted by ghosts and memories. Of my Father, who was a member, Gladstone himself and the Empire on which the sun never set. Today, this club's mostly for socializing and finding a place to relax in the midst of the rush of the city, but it was once a political powerhouse. And that's just it, was once.

Go there if you can, it has great reciprocal rights.

By Gladstone's Axe,

LSP