Check Out This Piece Of Trash

Trash

Check it out, a piece of trash I found in the street as I was walking Blue Steak Eater. There it was, lying in the gutter, along with the cast-off weaves, rusting needles and associated curbside debris which is all that remains of the Democrats' wanton lust for power.

A Typical Texas Street Scene

In associated news, President Putin has sen a cordial letter to President Trump, sensibly implying an entente between our two powers. Note that the Russian strongman and former KGB Colonel signs off his missive by referring to President Trump as "His Excellency." 

Obama had a rather different treatment at the hands of the Russians, but that's another story again.

Your Friend,

LSP

Gun Henge

Behold the power of the Mysticke Stones.

Will their earth energy deflect the power of .45 ACP and 5.56? Will Gaia shield the black silhouette from the evil pistols and deadly assault rifle? No, it will not.

Smoldering rubble.

Moral of the story, don't hide behind a cinderblock wall. The stones won't save you.

Gun rights,

LSP

Thanks a Lot, "Rig."

It being the Feast of St. George, I rose with the sun, got everything squared away, said Morning Prayer, walked the dog and put some rods in the back of the rig; the plan being to go fishing. Good plan, eh? Simple, clear, realistic, doable. But you know what they say, as soon as you make contact the plan goes all to hell. That's what happened to me.

Everything was fine until I got to Whitney and picked up some bait. Then, as I pulled away from the bait shop filling station, the dash pinged me with a check radiator warning and the gauge went into the red like a voracious Bass on a juicy worm.

The Plan

Sure enough, the radiator was leaking coolant like a good 'un and the reservoir was empty. I filled it up and drove home, hoping that, as if by magic, the leak would stop when I got back to the compound. It hadn't, and I resisted the temptation to get a quick fix with Stop Leak and folk remedies like black pepper, eggs etc.

St. George Makes Contact. Note: Princess, Humpback Hill, Your 9 O' Clock.

It can go to the shop on Monday, and in the meanwhile I console myself with the thought that the fish will still be there when we get back in the fight.

All for Texas and St. George,

LSP

Rainbow, Where's The Gold?

In a stunning display of cosmic irony, a rainbow appeared in LSPland, facing Stores, affectionately known on the depot as "Walmart." And not just any old rainbow, no, this one was double.

There it was, hanging in the sky, so I joined the smartphone frenzy and took a picture of it, along with everyone else. There weren't any unicorns frolicking on its graceful curves and I couldn't find the crock of gold, either. 

So Where's The Unicorn?

That, the mythical pot of wealth that comes with the rainbow, is apparently an illusion. Follow the rainbow, they say, and you'll find riches and happiness beyond your wildest dreams. But it's not there, so much for State agitprop.

Stores

After a time the rainbow faded, giving way to torrential rain, house-shaking thunder and ferocious lightning, which I watched from the safety of the porch.

There's a moral in this, if you care to draw it.

LSP

Come Hell or High Water

What do you do when the lightning fills the sky and thunder crashes like the guns of Kursk, as a mighty deluge of rain pours down from the sky? You can sit at home like some kind of pajama boy in a onesie and cower in your parents' basement sipping lattes and hot chocolate. Sure, you can do that, that's one option. Or you can climb into your rig, crank up the jukebox, and drive through the storm to Mass.

I chose to avoid Hell and brave the high water, which isn't as amusing as it sounds when you're hydroplaning across a flooded country two lane. Slow down, you're of no liturgical use, in this world, if you wipe out and die in the wilds of Hill County.

Slow Down, Fool.

The storm raged throughout the Mass, like Hillary Clinton thwarted of a speaking fee, or Satan, falling to earth like lightning.

Wake of the flood,

LSP

Spot The Snake

Can you see the snake? Tricky, isn't it, because it's well camouflaged. But look closely, with the aid of a helpful red circle, and you'll see a few inches of the serpent slithering into a metal pipe.

You can just pick it out between the box spring and the pipe. Of course other snakes are far easier to spot.

One of them's running for President.

LSP

Tack Up

It's all very well to spend your life on the water in search of fish, but sometimes it makes sense to change things up a bit. With that in mind, I went for a ride.

There we were, horse and rider all alone under the big Texan sky, a sky that was growing ominously dark with low, stormy clouds. Then the wind started to pick up and I got in the saddle, daring the elements to bring it on.

They didn't, fortunately, but it was neat to gallop out like a stormchaser, and I was pleased with the horse. We're getting to know each other and she's fast, responsive and wants to please, as opposed to being a crazy, dangerous, mutineer. Good horse.

Ride over, I looked at the strangely green water meadows of Texas and their cows. A pastoral scene that reminded me of England, but that illusion vanishes with the Mesquite, dirt roads, larger sky and the newness of the settlement. 

It was all being pioneered not too long ago. There's a sense of freedom in that.

Stay on the horse,

LSP

This Is Not The Cotswolds

With the racket of a trees going down around the Compound, I figured it'd be a good idea to drive off in search of Texas. And I found a bit of it, in Irene, Hill County.

The Post Office, Irene

Irene, named after a prominent townsman's daughter in 1878, was originally known as Zollicoffer's Mill, in honor of Edwin Zollicoffer, who settled there in 1848. At it's peak in the first two decades of the last century, the town boasted some 400 souls, the railway, a post office, a school, a store and as many as 10 businesses.

2nd Street, Irene

Today the railway is gone, along with the store, the businesses and most of the people, but the post office remains. You get the feeling, as you explore Irene, that it's really a farm which happens to have several houses on it. 

No Trespassing in Irene

Sheep graze across the road from an abandoned store, and round bales lay in lines in the sun behind the post office, which faces what looks like a cattle operation of some sort.

1st Street, Irene

That's not to say that the town's dead, or especially ruinous, despite the abandoned trailer home next to the Windstream junction shed. No, it's just very small and right there in the middle of the farms. Perhaps it is a farm, to all intents and purposes.

There's a small cemetery outside of town. It was sad to see the children's graves and I reflected on the character of the people who lived through the death of their infants. I feel they were made of stern stuff; I doubt that they had much choice in that.

I like Irene, even though it doesn't have a pub or a store.

God bless Texas,

LSP

Night Patrol, in Texas

Are we entering a new dark night of political and cultural devolution in America? To find out, I went for a night recce patrol with  Blue Destroyer.

I didn't see any riots, weirdly, but I did see a flag.

Still, the streets were pretty deserted. Everyone was probably inside, cleaning weapons, loading magazines, and making sure their kit was silent.

The air was full of the smell of burning mesquite. Was it smoke from a burn pile, blowing in from the fields, or people throwing the most immediate fuel source on their fires to keep warm? Who knows, that intel is being passed up to higher command for in-depth analysis.

Less happily, there was some skunk in the air too. I didn't see the skunk.

And then we were back at the Compound, recce over.

Mind how you go,

LSP

Ride Like The Wind

I won't lie, we pretty much flew along over the fields and trails after Mass today. But when not going full tilt hell for leather and Devil take the hindmost, I worked on collection, posting trot and basic horsemanship.

Go on, Run at That Tree

Running at a tree and then galloping around it was pretty good fun; working on serpentines with minimal use of reins was maybe less so, but probably a more valuable exercise. And I won't discount the importance of galloping through the bucolic Mesquite trails of Olde Texas. Careful there, fella, don't get your eye gouged out!

See, That's What Happens

Thorns aside, it was good to simply explore the land on horseback, I find that relaxing, it clears the head. And think, not too long ago, almost within living memory, this county was only just settled, and even that might be stretching a point. But for all its lawlessness, and there was plenty, there weren't many Indian raids. In neighboring counties, sure, but not here. 

A Fairly Typical Tree

As I understand it, people think it was a kind of neutral zone, or "treaty area," which made it comparatively peaceful, as far as the tribes were concerned. Different story of course, if you were John Wesley Hardin.

Spot Hardin. Note, none of these people are in "The Band."

Harding shot and killed somewhere between 20 and 40 people, maybe more, before he was shot in an El Paso Saloon by lawman John Selman. Hardin had killed 8 men by the time he was 16 and I mentioned that to my friend who kindly lets me ride on his ranch. "The thing about him," he said, "is that he just wasn't sane."

It's more than conceivable, in fact it is likely, that Hardin rode through or very near the land I was riding on today. 

Mind how you go,

LSP

Go For Another Walk in The Woods

My philisophical pal, GWB, tipped up on Sunday night with a view towards some steaks and an armed stroll in the woods the following day. The steaks were good and so were the the woods, but just in case the latter needed pacifying, we took a small arsenal along.

GWB brought a Remington 870 because a 12 is always useful; I think it's his duck gun. I brought a Ruger American .22 and a .45. Who knows, maybe I'd have to use the pistol to get to the rifle, but even if I had to, I doubt I'd be much use with the rifle. 

Check Out The Pipe

I know this, because I fired off a couple of magazines off-hand against some steel plates, at around 50 yards, before we got to the woods and was appalled by my marksmanship, or rather lack of it. A couple of remedial afternoons at the range is definitely in order. 

Missing the target practice over, we headed into the thorny thicket of the woods, hoping for squirrels. They didn't show, but a stream did. It was tranquil, standing there looking down at the water and seeing fish glide and dart their way along the banks.

Go To The Woods

Water feature enjoyed, it was time to set up by some oaks and try to call in the bushy tailed tree dwellers. No joy, but the sound of the water moving in the near distance, and the woods coming alive in the silence, was soothing to the soul. 

Water, in Texas

At least it was for me, I'm not sure what GWB was up to. He was in a different spot, hidden in the brush, doubtless parsing John Milbank or texting some PH out of Eckland.

Time well spent communing with nature, we made our way out of the woods and back to what passes for civilization, pulled pork sandwiches at Dickey's BBQ Pit. And right tasty they were too.

Next time out, I'll try and shoot something.

God bless,

LSP

Blue Christmas

Here at the Compound things are pretty rough and ready, as you'd expect, but back at HQ? Different story, only the very finest wines and food will do. 

That's why Blue Navidad got lobster for Christmas. He tore right into that tasty snack! Delicious lobster.

Lucky dog, to be so privileged, unlike the lobster, which lost out in the greater scheme of things. Sorry, crustacean, they can't all be winners. But what can we say, let's hear it for seafood.

As I write this piece of nuanced, three-dimensional prose, safely back at the Compound, the happy sound of Navidad fills the air. Those of you who equate angelic choirs with pulsing Latino bass will know what I mean.

And I'm not complaining.

Merry Christmas,

LSP

Country Life in Texas

"So what's it like, LSP?" you ask, meaning, "Country life in Texas." Well I'll tell you. You go out on the front porch to clean some guns and five, yes, five, chickens fly out of the front hedge, around the compound and back from whence they came.

A shotgun would've come in handy.

That's what it's like. And Wendy Davis is not wanted here.

LSP

The Best Shot You Never Took In Your Life

Someone's Truck

Running alongside the field where JB's pastured is a dirt road, some grain bins and a large cornfield. A month or so ago the corn fields were harvested and became a veritable dove magnet. There I'd be, unsaddling the horse after a ride, and there the doves would be, in swarms.

Obviously I wanted to get out the gun and have a go, but hesitated to wander off with the yobbish pump action and blast away until I had permission to hunt the land. People frown on unidentified shooters roaming about their land, understandably. So I was pleasantly surprised to find out that the fields in question belonged to a parishioner who was happy to let me shoot.

After making sure (a few days in advance) that the owners of the horselands were alright with the project, I stalked off, Mossberg in hand.

The strategy was simple. Wait for the doves to arrive in their hundreds and shoot them. To that end I walked across a pasture, ducked under a fence, crossed the road, released the safety and... a great clatter of birds erupted from a tree to my front. The avian acrobats dodged the first two shots, but the third went home and a plump, corn-fed creature fell to the ground - just as I hear a great screaming from the direction of the horses. I won't repeat the language but it was strong and directed at the shooter.

I pondered the situation, reapplied the safety, and strode off down-field, thinking with a heavy heart that my riding privileges were about to be revoked. Still the shoot was still on and I figured I might as well see if I could chase up some birds further away. No luck; they liked the area around the grain bins, which I returned to.

Again, a tremendous whirring of wings as countless birds darted out of the trees around the bins, in all directions - just feet away from me. But I wasn't going to shoot and risk the wrath of the horse guardian. Instead I shouldered the gun and watched the quarry speed away to safety; never seen so many of the creatures so close and in the air at the same time.

Frustrating and doubly so when I learned the cause of the screaming. It was all a case of mistaken identity.

It seems a neighbour was in the custom of driving down the dirt road in his pick-up and taking pot-shots at birds from the window of the truck - towards the horses. Bonnie figured that was the source of the shots. Hence the invective; turns out I could have kept shooting. As it was, the one 'bird down' made for a tasty snack.

Moral of the story?

1. Don't shoot out of the window of your truck towards the barn - it spoils it for the rest of us.

2. Tell Bonnie when you're going to shoot.

3. Fresh dove tastes great.

Simple, really.

Hope you've had a blessed Sunday.

LSP