Out & About

 

Went over to the lake after church to see what was up. The water was certainly up because all it does in Texas is rain, every day, and this fills the lake which was once a river and before that, a vast prehistoric inland sea. But were there any fish?

I saw a couple of predators break water around noon, not untypical at Soldiers Bluff, but the couple of stalwarts manning the banks weren't getting any business, oh well. That'll surely change as the season moves on, but for now? 

Don't waste time, instead head home and marvel at the fact of a small fayre concert on the Square, what's that about? Who knows, but I checked it out later in the day and the thing seemed like fun, all kinds of food trucks, kids and some sort of pop band. 

Nice. That in mind, it seemed right to take refuge in this town's improbable cigar bar, yes there is one, and smoke a cigar, which is something I hardly ever do. It was fun, in its way, under tumultuous Texan clouds. And what will tomorrow bring?

The holy sacrifice of the Mass, 

LSP

The After Mass

 

One of the things that happens here is that we meet at 5.30 pm on Thursdays to worship God in the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass and no, this doesn't mean we blasphemously attempt to repeat the one all-sufficient sacrifice of Christ but rather, by grace, unite ourselves to it. 

Magnum mysterium, to put it mildly, sacramental unity with our Lord's paschal offering of himself for our atonement on Calvary. And right there in supernatural power  in Bosque County, Texas, there on the Altar was Christ's Body and Blood given and shed for us for the forgiveness of sins and the reconciliation of Man to God.

Heaven, for a moment, breaks through to us and we to heaven, "peace be to this house." Then we're dismissed with a benediction and vale, "May almighty God bless you, the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, this night and forevermore. The Mass has ended, go in peace to love and serve the Lord."

Reflect on this. If Christ is truly present in the Mass, if we meet him and enter into communion with him in the Eucharist, for the forgiveness of of our sins, if all this is true how could any faithful person not want, fervently, to meet our Lord at the Last Supper which is Holy Communion? Yes, judgement for sure, but also mercy and infinite compassion.

That in mind, I was heartened by the congregation this evening, our worship is growing, and waved goodbye to the guys, "See you Saturday (men's group), I'm going fishing." And there it was, Soldiers Bluff, resting under a hot Texan sun, just a minute or two away from the church.

It was beautiful to be out by the water as the sun began to set and fun to catch a scad of little perch who went back in to fight again another day.

God bless you all,

LSP

Mad Dogs And Englishmen

 

Mad dogs and Englishmen, what do they do? They go out in the noonday sun, or so it's claimed. To test this theory I loaded up the rig with a couple of rods and headed for the lake in the pyramid peak intensity of the Texan sun.

Were there any mad dogs at Soldiers Bluff? Yes there were, doing mad dog stuff on the opposite bank. Was there anyone else? No, there was not, only me, and it was starting to look like the old adage was true. Even the fish, our piscine adversary were lying low.

To test the theory further, I headed over to the other side of the dam, you know, follow the science. And guess what? It was deserted, no one was there, not even a mad dog, they were on the other side of the dam, crazily frolicking in the hot water.

No, there was just one Englishman with a US passport, some frozen shad, a few rods and the ovenlike heat of Texas in the midst of a regular day in June. Hot, so hot your eyelids are sweating while the fish, heatshocked, hang deep in cooler water.

It's a challenge and a good one. You've proved the old noonday axiom, LSP, I thought to myself, grimly tying on a #6 hook, will you get a fish? Serious question, and a seriously bad time to try your luck against our finned friends. You see, they just don't want to know, too busy sensibly sleeping out the heat.

Undeterred, I cast off with shad and worm. But where? Into the shade of the spillway's fishing pier, get the science? And lo and behold, reeled in Black Drum and Perch variants. What does this mean.

That no, fish as well as mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun, at least in Texas. Science has shown us this. Also, it may be hot as a preheating oven but get out there in the country and fish. Good for mind, body and soul.

Tight Lines,

LSP

Fish You Fool

 

Boy With Fish

Elements of USARMY were asking, tragically, plaintively, "What shall we do?" Quick as a flash Command issued orders, "Go fishing." And so they did, putting rods and tackle into a Chevy Z71 which headed for the lake in search of fish.

Boy With Fish

Were they successful? Sure they were, fishing with light rods, circle hooks, frozen Shad and catching Gar, Flathead, young Striper and Black Drum. Well done, boys. 

Your Old Pal

Senior officers, on the other hand, stayed home, sorting out the admin of this irregular unit. Yes, this must change, we pride ourselves on leading from the front.

Fish On,

LSP

Fish On

 

The sky was beginning to lighten as I got to the marina, in search of piscine adventure. "G'morning, gentlemen," and then we were motoring out into the lake as the sun began to rise.

Beautiful, and a moment of anticipation, would we catch any fish? It's not a given and there, right from the get go, lies a moral; just because you're on a boat doesn't mean you'll catch anything.

Belay that lure...

That in mind, we'd rigged up for topwater because intel said young, ferocious striper were blitzing surface shad. And sure enough, there against the bluffs was line of spray, a frenzy of fish exploding out of the water.

Young but Fierce

Power over and look at that water boil! But not for long, there's no time to waste. Line out, zig-zag retrieve then bam, down goes your lure and it's game on, a fighting striper on a light rod bent double. Big fun and fast action, which went on as we tracked the fish across the lake. I lost count.

What great fishing! OK, the stripers weren't fully grown, only around 16-18" but still,  full of aggression and predatory fury; they went back to fight again another day. It'll be a different story in the Spring when they've reached leviathan status.

Mission accomplished, we headed back to the marina, well satisfied with a morning out on the water. And here's the thing. Just because you're on a boat may not mean you'll catch any fish, but it can help. Thanks, J, for the trip.

Tight lines,

LSP

Foiled Again

 

The plan was elegant, compelling in its simplicity. Viz. Say Morning Prayer, walk Blue Terminator to the Pick 'n Steal, then fish and shoot. What a great plan, until it fell to pieces. Clouds rolled in, thunder boomed in a leaden sky and rain lashed down like fury. No stroll for this punter down the leafy boulevards of Olde Texas, to say nothing of fishing and shooting.

So I shook my fist at the heavens like Jonah, incensed at the wrongness of it all (You did? Ed.) How racist of this small, rural farming community to culturally appropriate Aberystwyth. It just wasn't right, so  I typed up a sermon on the Trinity, called on the flock, and drove through the floods to Brookshire's for supplies. 

Not a bad result as it turned out, and it was pleasant to see most everyone at the store had left their fear, uncertainty and submission (FUS) masks behind. Of course it's a different story in the cities, where the willing dupes of the progleft rainbow utopia cling to their precious masks like a hodler refusing to let go of DOGE$.

Speaking of which, the Shiba's been playing dead for a couple of weeks, despite rising to #6 in crypto market cap, so I bought some tasty dip to encourage the playful pup. What was it someone wicked once said, the market's a way of transferring wealth from the impatient to the patient? Something like that. 

In other news, the lesbyterian Mayor of Chicago's being sued for racism because she wouldn't allow a reporter to interview her. Why? Because the journalist was white. Lori Lightfoot's wife is white, curiously. And here's an artist's impression of one of the crew who shot UK BLM pinup Sasha in the eye.

See if you can spot the perp.

Cheers,

LSP

Every Gun is a Loaded Gun

 

After celebrating the great Feast of Pentecost on Sunday it seemed right to go fishing on Monday. That was the plan and let me tell you, I was looking forward to it. But no, our Old Enemy the Weather attacked and skywater poured down from heaven as thunder rolled across the firmament like the guns of Vimy Ridge. (What? Ed.)

Seriously, it got stormy so fishing was off and looking out on the flooded vista of this rural Texan farming community from the safety of the porch was on. "Will this war ever end?" I asked myself over a steaming Yeti 20 oz tumbler of coffee, and just then a local magnate rolled up to the front of the Compound in his rig.

We visited for a while and discussed the chicanery of our times. "How many of our beloved leaders, Mr. M, do you think are involved in ritual occult satanism? I say this as a religious professional." He paused and fixed me with a clear hunter's eye, "I'd reckon more than we might like to know." I agreed, "I'm not a gambling man but if I was I lay odds on."

The upshot of it all was this: The psychosociopaths in control of the West hate the Church and want to stamp it out and secondly, he'd send his crew to clean up the church grounds as soon as the climate changed. What a good result, and he's been an ally over the years, not least in terms of range access.

In other news, it seems the UK's famous BLM celebrity blacktivist, Sasha, got herself shot in the head in South London the other day. Which is weird, because guns aren't allowed in England. My take? Oxford educated Sasha decided to hang out with the real deal, and one of the gangstas bizarrely forgot trigger/muzzle discipline. Oops.

Remember, gentlemen and women, every gun is a loaded gun.

#2A,

LSP

Sic Transit Gloria Marinae

 

After a hearty late breakfast of Texas toast, eggs over easy, hash browns and sausage, it seemed right to scout out the waters of the Brazos and Lake Whitney. The water was up, no doubt about it, but no one was catching, so I drove over to Uncle Gus' Marina Abramovic.

Desolate

The marina went bankrupt last month, apparently no amount of spirit cooking could save it, so I was curious, what would I find and could you still fish there? 

No, you can't fish there because the docks and their cleaning station, a favorite place to fish, were closed off and the place stood desolate and abandoned. Who knows, perhaps it'll be turned into a migrant holding center or a lakeside reeducation camp for people insane enough to distrust our beloved rulers.

Shut Down

Then again, it might become a marina again, and a holiday spot for people fleeing the DFW metrosprawl in search of Striper and lakeish fun. Who knows, maybe one of our oligarch overlords will buy the COVID ravaged resort for pennies on the dollar and open it up.

Art Philosophy

Maybe so. In the meanwhile, I'm waiting for the water to settle, the climate to change and the fish to bite. 

Cheers,

LSP

Gone Fishing

 

A beautiful, balmy, spring day in Texas. So what to do? Go fishing, and that's exactly what happened. I drove off to Soldiers' Bluff on Lake Whitney and cast out into the depths. Would the piscine adversary bite?

Hard to tell, the climate's been strange lately, thanks to its Czar, Wooden Top, and this confuses the fish, so anything was possible. To be honest, I wasn't expecting much. But what am I saying? How much more do you want than an early afternoon under the free Texan sky?

As it was, I caught a drum and a couple of perch. Not bad, and all good action on a light rod. Then it was back to the Compound to recoup before jukebox action and tracking the Shiba on various charts. Stay tuned and regardless, a good day.

Fish on,

LSP

Systemic Rural Racism

 

One of the many problems country people face is racism, systemic racism, that ingrained, institutional, just the way things are racism which so afflicts entities of color in America's rural landscape. 

Parks, gardens, sky, fields, starlit night sky? All crushingly racist along with their iniquitous purveyors. That's the theory, and I drove out to Uncle Gus' Marina to test it out.

Sure enough, there was a banner of good ole Nazi "Uncle Gus" welcoming visitors and guests. And guess what? Uncle so-called "Gus" was white and holding a captive Bass of Color (BOC). Here, let's zoom in.

Unsurprised but still shocked, I drove carefully down to the apartheid marina and guiltily cast my line in the waters of the oppressed deep. No luck, anarcho-marxist cardres had trained these fish to avoid the hooks, lures and bait (worms) of their white colonialist oppressors.

Huh. I gave up the fight, vowing to return, "Watch out, you piscine Reds, I'll be back, with a vengeance," and headed over to the dam spillway.

Where it was raining, this being Biden's America, but undaunted, line out. No luck. Rinse, repeat at various angles. And then? That chomp, tug that every angler loves to feel. Pull up! Hookset! and there it is, a fish at the end of your line, diving, thrashing and doing its Bolshevikk best to escape, but it doesn't. 

You reel zhir in, get the photo op, and release the unrepentant Menshivik back into the depths. Well done, fish, you live again to fight another day. Then, because the climate changed owing to Texas not paying enough tax, it started to rain and I headed for home. And now? Curry, Thai Texan style.

OK, a good morning out in the good clean air of Texas, well done. But back to the point. Was the countryside's endemic racism made better or worse by this piscatorial endeavor?

As always, you be the judge,

LSP

Super Tuesday

Go to the dam and fish, what a great plan, elegant in its simplicity. But how did it work out? Slowly, to be honest, with the slipway waters churning and surging and the fish not biting. Who can blame them, they were surely shell-shocked by the current.

Pedro wasn't having any luck either at the other end of the pier, so I watched the mighty Brazos for a meditative moment or two then headed over to Soldiers' Bluff. Maybe the bite'd be on at the Bluff, which isn't a bluff anymore since it was flooded by the dammed up river.

Reflections on Brazos and Bosque County history aside, the waters of the lake were still and tranquil under the big sky and the bank was empty, peaceful. It had that topwater feel, but I went with worms instead.

Nothing, then a chime on the phone, a text, "I'm hoping for Sanders with plurality, a contested convention at which they hand it to Biden, and then RIOTS." This obviously worked as some kind of trigger because there was vicious tug on the line and out it played.

Up came a predatory socialist bass who was clearly in the business of snatching up free stuff. I put him back to find some other means of production to appropriate, before going berserk when Comrade Bernie's cheated of the nomination yet again. 

One more bass later, a baby, it was time to head for home, mission accomplished. And that, fellow adventurers on the roiling seas of life, is the story of that.

Fish on,

LSP

Monsters Of The Deep?

So you're standing on the rip-rap like a warrior on the edge of time, beholding the mighty Brazos as it flows beneath you to Houston and its enormous Dalek. You have a choice, stare in amazement at the fabled waterway and reflect on its storied history or get a rod from the truck and go after some action.

There's no "rule," either way is OK, but I chose the latter path and went to the pier armed with a light Shakespeare Ugly Stick and a couple of boxes of worms. I felt the fish would love these worms and they did, snapping, tugging and bumping with pretty much every cast.

All well and good, but I wasn't closing the deal. Fishing wizardry told me juvenile perch and bass were plundering the line and a smaller hook was in order. Such is piscine soothsaying, don't discount it.

Sure enough, before too long I was reeling in the young 'uns, and ferocious predators they were too, going at the juicy worms like Democrats boarding a Greyhound for Chicago. But you're saying, in that mocking tone of voice, "Aren't they a bit small?"

Not so fast, readers of this popular international mind blog, they may have been small but a fish is a fish and even a small fish is value on a light rod. So I left the dam pleased, mission accomplished. 

And I tell you, it's good for the soul to get out in the clean air and big sky of an overcast Texan morning and fish, no matter what you catch.

Tight lines,

LSP

LSP - All Talk No Action?

So Where's The Action Buddy?

Yeah, so what about the new rig and the lever gun, so-called "LSP," if that's your real name, which we doubt. 

Good question, and right about now the readers of this popular if lighthearted mind blog are wondering if it's all talk and no action. Sure, you talk the talk, "LSP," but where's the walk?

Where's the fishing, the guns, the horses, where's all of that? Where's the country life we don't pay good money to see played out in real time, straight from a rural haven deep in the heart of Texas? Where is it? I'll tell you.

Shaolin Glory Brexit

First off, unexpected evolution with a returning son; there goes the rig and the gun. Secondly, recovering from being kicked off the back of an Arab, who btw self-identifies as a woman, and being tended to by a dog and a recruit. 

Will the leg heal in time to see the kid off to Basic? To find out I hopped and climbed into the rig and drove to Walmart. Guess what? No problem, couldn't have done it a week ago. So there is movement and this, philosophers, signifies life. Which in this instance is made up of small triumphs.

In other news, the European Union's setting up an Army! The world trembles at the dread step of the rainbow phalanx. Who knows, perhaps the enemy'll die laughing.

Advance to contact,

LSP