This town has gone full eclipse, right at the time we're going to London for a Club shoot out. Stay tuned. Airport tomorrow.
LSP
This town has gone full eclipse, right at the time we're going to London for a Club shoot out. Stay tuned. Airport tomorrow.
LSP
Well, sometimes. An old friend's busy doing some sound magicke at London's famous RAK studios and sent me this:
Caption, "Look who lives on the wall here." Hey, let's hear it for Lemmy. Dam straight.
Your Pal,
LSP
It was like some kind of Golden Void on the way down 22 to Mass this evening and no complaints from me on that score, all hail the countryside. Then, ite missa est, it was time to head back to the Compound, except it wasn't.
No, a young couple asked me to bless their marriage. It was an heterosexual marriage, so I did. Well done kids, long may you reign in this dark and barbarous age. Then, no sooner Texas said than done, the Compound opened its storied doors and there it was, home.
Result, but immediately a call, "What's up, son?" a pause, "Hey dad, I'm in town." Well done you, and a few minutes later in came a soldier storming through with a Whataburger and a Green to Gold packet. Good work, kid.
Seriously, it'd be a grand thing if the erstwhile Cadet became an actual Cadet. Let's see how this goes.
Salve,
LSP
Many wymxn are against guns because so violent. Get rid of gunz, they argue, and no one will shoot anyone because no gunz. Hey, it's not a bad argument, and wymxn use it all the time.
Ban guns and there'll be less of them around, the wymxn say, and welcome to the new green rainbow gunless utopia! Unless, of course you're a criminal, in which case you've got a couple of Ukrainian AKs, an NLAW and far moar besides.
That in mind, flash back to Ludlow October '22, where my friend, what a good woman, was not only against firearms but lamented the lack of police in her tiny little hamlet. No cops for miles around, no budget for that, and thank Gaia, no guns either.
"But tell me," quizzed the Colonel of the Dallas Light Cavalry (Irreg.), "What happens when some roughs out of Birmingham turn up at your door stop with a baseball bat, will you call the cops who won't be there? Yet another argument for the Second Amendment." Quite.
She frowned, stoically, and didn't press the point, being a gentlewoman, and neither did I, but let's be honest, slaves can't defend themselves and free-men can. True, eh?
Ludlow observation aside, and what a lovely town it is, things could get right rough in the next few years, if you can bear to do the math and face reality however grim. That in mind, smart people are taking note and planning accordingly. Don't say ammo and precious metal, and DOGE$, obvs.
LSP
Smash hit super celebrity pop icon Cher, 77, has threatened to finally leave America if Donald Trump is reelected. That's right, no more Cher if El Senor gets back in the Oval Office and Melania's once more in charge of White House aesthetics.
According to Breitbart, the aging singer "almost got an ulcer" when Trump defeated Hillary in 2016 and if he returns Cher will "leave":
“I almost got an ulcer the last time [Trump was elected],” Cher told the Guardian in an interview published Wednesday, adding, “If he gets in, who knows? This time I will leave [the country].”
Megastar Cher famously supported Joe Biden in his hugely successful run for President in 2020 and even reworked a song for his campaign, the mass hit, "Happiness Is Just A Thing Called Joe." However, even though Old Joe won the Presidency, Cher still wasn't happy.
When the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, massively popular Cher rode the doomsday clock, declaring that SCOTUS would be “responsible for the deaths of hundreds of thousands of American women.” Yes, a veritable female slaughterhouse because biological women wouldn't be killed in the womb.
Unsurprisingly, the talented singer songwriter of classics like the Shoop Shoop Song and Heart of Stone was outraged by Texas' recent pro-life legislation, shouting on social media, “WOMEN WILL DIE” and “DEMOCRACY WILL WITHER & DIE, & DICTATORS WILL THRIVE.”
Is Cher a Moloch worshiping, Illuminati Devil Witch with a whopping socialist net worth of $380 million or a simple pop genius with a social conscience? Either which way, she's out if 45 becomes 47.
Here at the Compound and by way of serious analysis, we wonder if this isn't reason enough to vote for El Senor. Not that voting actually seems to matter much, but still.
LSP
Well, not so much Hood as Cavasos because changing names and removing statues will do so much to raise the fortunes of virtue signalling hypocrite Democrats poverty stricken POCs everywhere. Except that it won't. Regardless, General Cavasos seems to have been the real deal and I enjoyed a brief tour of the post this afternoon.
The place always strikes me as well put together, unlike Killeen, and it was fun to drive around 1 Cav's enormous motor pools. Look at that, tanks! And the new JLTV (Joint Light Tactical Vehicle) which is replacing ancient HMMVs.
It comes in 2 and 4 seat variants and features a V8 power plant, advanced networking capability, scalable armor and can be fitted with an array of weaponry: light and heavy machine guns, grenade launchers, anti-tank missiles and more. You can read about this demonstrably badass vehicle here.
Tour over, we stopped at the PX for food, which meant something called a "Philly Cheesesteak," which is a kind of sandwich thing, for the boy and a small order of fries for me. Was it cheap? No, it was not cheap. It was expensive. Very expensive. Maybe I will apply for bankruptcy.
That's as maybe. Perhaps you remember when fast food was a quick, inexpensive variant to real food? Those days are well gone, my friends. But the kid liked it, so. And you know what? He's proud of the US Army and his post. I like that a lot.
Then it was back to 57 Signal, a fond farewell, and a drive back to the bucolic farming community that is LSPland. And all was good, with I35 strangely easy and to the West a massive Texan sun sank to the horizon, filling the air with golden light.
God Bless,
LSP
I am the Wolfman? No. That would be LL, under skies heavy with snows my eyes are convex lenses of ebony embedded in amber.
Well, damme, someone's got to do it, what? Then there's the long-haired Vril. Seriously, Maria, Sigrun, Taut et al believed their beautiful long hair served as an antenna for aliens from Aldebaran, Tau Ceti. That's right, star children.
Child of God? Are you sure, as opposed to Child of Satan? Guinea on the monkey and twice as fast. Joni, we all warned you.
OK, translate the above as you will. But what about Vril power and the coming race?
PS. Remember, punters, Jack Parsons, JPL, was a protege of Aleisteir Crowley. Like no kidding.
Hall of the Mountain Grill, or something like that. Here at the Compound we're whistling Dixie. Just taking it easy, until the next time.
"The time has come for you to choose, better get it right."
Your old Pal,
LSP
Yes, it's our old favorite, Lords of Light. Rock on, right? But you know the old story, on come the Hawks and your youngest sister turns and says, "Something wrong with the jukebox?"
A Space Reich, Nazis on the Moon, Leni Reistenthal and Hanna Reitsch. "What about that, darling, do you not love?" I asked an old and liberal friend of the family who religiously follows the science of NPR. "You do realize, old girl, that they were women, courageous women, perhaps you know that with your background in film."
She paused, "Yes," but perhaps, I suggested, "you scorn these women because they're somehow... right wing?" Uh huh, exactly. And my friend would gladly throw real women off the bus and onto the tracks of trans inclusivity.
Readers, they have eyes, notoriously, but do not see. Leni became an underwater photographer and Hanna went on, I think, to command the Ghanaian airforce. Respect.
LSP
Hey now, gotta love a bit of space rock, and so timely, don't you think? All hail Ladbroke Grove.
LSP
Thunder roars and rumbles across the sky and lightning sears and cracks the heavens as rain lashes down with elemental fury. Yes, this is Texas, and the days of our small rural farming community may be numbered as assorted trash, needles, broken shoes, dime bags and weaves wash away in the flood.
A cleansing, perhaps. But on a practical note, as you look up from weapons cleaning, polishing Sam Brownes and ironing uniforms, it's said that enough rain falls in Texas to keep your compound irrigated throughout the year, if you collect the rain.
We have yet to build a cistern(s) and that's clearly overdue. You see, when the grid goes down how will you get lifegiving water to your home via electric pumps which don't work?
You get the point. In the meanwhile, we're watching this storm in all its incandescent fury.
Eschaton,
LSP
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.
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
It wasn't raining, weirdly, as I stood on the the platform to catch the 9.29 am train from Aberystwyth to Birmingham International and thence to London Euston. And that was fine as was the journey itself, long and slow through the Welsh countryside and then fast into town. It'd been years since I rode the rails, so the trip was an adventure in itself, not too pricey either but be sure to book tickets in advance.
Then there you are, at Euston station. Stride out of that Avanti West carriage like a pro and walk with urgency through the hideously (1970s?) redeveloped station. Pause to look west towards Regent's Park and recollect the many times you've walked along this very same road, many years ago.
Nostalgic reverie over, cross the road and nav a few blocks east to Marchmont street, thanking Progress that your suitcase has wheels. Go through the Brunswick Centre, marveling at its apparent prosperity since the last time you were there, in the '90s?, all the while mourning the disappearance of its all day breakfast cafe. These, by the way, are pretty much gone in London, replaced by annoying coffee shops selling ludicrous pastries and lukewarm "Americano."
Whatever, its a short walk east to Guilford St, past Corams Fields and Lamb's Conduit St., and there you are, in Mecklenburgh Square at the Goodenough hotel, mission accomplished. Check in and behold your just as advertised rooms, beautiful and a far cry from the scourge of corporate hotelistry.
So well done, Goodenough, for providing a relaxing place to stay in a Georgian house in Bloomsbury, what a perfect setup. Next step? Amble over to Lamb's Conduit St. and the People's Supermarket, it's still there, remarkably, for provisions and then go back for tea and a quick scan of Private Eye before going out to meet an old friend at the Lamb, right 'round the corner.
Several pints later, fall back to base for claret, space rock and conversation. Great fun, and word to the wise, try not to spill red wine on the tastefully light carpets of your Regency living room as you listen to Golden Void. If you do, shaving foam is your friend; I learned that in the Army, curiously, makes you wonder what's in it.
That aside, it was great to be back in my favorite part of London, a short walk to most everything central and, for me, filled with memories. But more on that later, in the meanwhile check out LL's incisive thoughts on Biblical exegesis and Genesis in particular.
Your Buddy,
LSP