Whenever I’m in London, I round up the usual suspects and distill from them what’s really going on in Blighty.

One is a conservative retired spook. Another is veteran political journalist Nigel Nelson who calls himself GB News’ “token leftie.” I like hearing both sides—there’s always something to be learned.

In between, I walk the streets, alleys and arcades—antenna up, collecting fragments, impressions, vibes. I trust the universe to whisper whatever it wants me to know.

Here’s what I picked up:

Street Crime

A long-time American expat in Knightsbridge told me crime has never been worse.

Police stations were shut down “to save money.” The result? Daily smash-and-grabs. He personally watched two men on mopeds shatter a Mercedes window on Hans Crescent, loot it, and speed away. Police showed up 25 minutes later. After they noted his statement, the same gang rolled back in—again. Cops shrugged. “Bulgarian gangs,” he was told. “Happens at least three times a day.”

In the countryside? Romanian gangs. They don’t smash windows—they steal the whole car. Range Rovers vanish most often. As one Cotswolds detective put it: “The vehicle’s stripped and on a ship before it’s even reported stolen.” Insurance premiums? Skyrocketing.

Immigration

The crime surge is tied directly to illegal immigration, the number one issue and hottest topic of conversation in Britain this summer. Hence the rise of Nigel Farage. His Reform Party holds only four parliamentary seats, but as the politically astute Nigel Nelson put it: “If an election were held tomorrow, Farage would be Prime Minister.”

Alas, the next General Election will not take place until 2029—and, as the saying goes, even just a week is a long time in politics.

So, for now, the Mandarins of Whitehall are unconcerned about plotting democratic obstructions such as those perpetrated by their Insider Washington cousins.

Taxes

Meantime, “Keir Starmer [the current PM] is weak,” says my source in the intelligence sector. His team keeps raiding the rich with crippling new taxes to support out-of-control immigration and woke-like climate crusades.

“Whole legal industries have built up around both,” continues my source. “Government subsidizes the legal cost of defending immigrants and also pays lawyers to defend climate control initiatives. A double-drain on the tax-payer.”

Even though everything is levied to the hilt, ministers continue to dream up bizarre new taxes to pay for a welfare system that is—much like crime—way out of control.

Flat Tax

Little wonder the well-heeled are fleeing Britain in droves, leading to more sellers than buyers and a property glut.

Even Britain’s once vibrant art scene is on the downswing.~

Usually when I walk London’s streets, I am inspired and stimulated by the paintings and sculptures in gallery windows.

Not this trip. Mostly woke-emptiness.

Sadly, woke extends to the nation’s culture…

One Bright Spot

London’s cuisine has never been better.

Everyone says, “eat at Indian restaurants.” And they are not wrong.

I dined at a bunch of fabulously flavorful restaurants, including an Indian (Radjoot on Paddington Street in Marylebone), and Sexy Fish (Berkeley Square).

Here are my highlights:

Sofra (St. Christopher’s Place): humus, imam bayaldi, lamb shish; Rioja.

Caldesi (Marylebone Lane): eggplant parmigiana, tonnarelli with truffle, tiramisu.

Fischer’s (Marylebone High Street): the wurst platter with potato salad and sauerkraut).

The best dry martini?

The Ivy (Marylebone Lane).

Maître d’ Jean-Francoise and his bartenders are practically old friends after a week of 5:33 cocktail hours.

⁂

NEWS REVUE

“Major Study: Covid ‘Vaccines’ Were ‘Deliberately Engineered’ to Cause ‘Unprecedented Levels’ of Death” (Slay News)

The paper argues that the genetic signatures of SARS-CoV-2, and the dangerous spike protein it shares with the vaccines, “represent a violation of the Biological Weapons Convention.”

Military data cited in the paper show alarming spikes in myocarditis (151%), pulmonary embolism (43%), ovarian dysfunction (35%), and multiple cancers following the “vaccine” rollout.

The study directly accuses former NIAID director Dr. Anthony Fauci and U.S. intelligence officials of concealing the engineered origins of the virus.

“Far from benign, these vaccines have unleashed profound harm, disrupting nearly every system of the human body and contributing to unprecedented levels of morbidity and mortality,” the paper states.

The so-called conspiracy theorists—the “anti-vaxxers” mocked, censored, and de-platformed—were right all along.

And those who shamed them? Dead wrong.

We’re not talking about “unintended consequences” but deliberate engineering of a product that caused unprecedented harm. That’s not medicine. That’s malpractice on a global scale.

In a just world, the architects of this catastrophe wouldn’t be cashing in on speaking tours or sitting pretty on corporate boards. They’d be facing a tribunal—and the sentence would be severe.

“Famed Tennessee sheriff who inspired Hollywood movie 'Walking Tall' implicated in wife's murder” (ABC News)

I admired Buford Pusser for half-a-century. But truth eventually outs. May this scumbag roast in hell, for what he did—and for allowing himself to be glorified as a hero.

“Trump blocks $4.9B in foreign aid Congress OK’d, using maneuver last seen nearly 50 years ago” (AP)

Trump asks a simple question: What’s in it for the USA? Given how much ends up in Swiss accounts of foreign rulers, completely justified.

“RFK Jr. links SSRIs and mass shootings. What does science say?” (Washington Post)

Truth is, Big Pharma doesn’t like science when the findings dent their billion-dollar profits. That’s why they secretly bankroll “objective” university studies whose conclusions always—what a surprise—not only favor their interests but get reported in bold by the mainstream narrative.

“Russian missiles pound Ukraine, damage EU and British offices” (Reuters)

“The Most Dangerous Russian Spy Was a CIA Agent” (Greek Reporter)

Aldrich Hazen Ames betrayed his country, providing Moscow with invaluable secrets.

Deep Tonsils called in from Charlotte, North Carolina…

And finally…

Cassian lives a contemplative life on Butterfly Beach. She awakens by dawn believing first light carries the cleanest truths, and joins three crows for a sand crab breakfast.

What a week—whew!

And so should you.

I outgrew nostalgia some time ago, preferring to live in the moment.

But walking the streets of London, I can’t help but drown in a flood of memories, reminding me of a poem I wrote while here at 16:

Once upon a time, goes so fast,
and before you know it, it’s in the past.
When the time has gone, what can you do?
Just sit back and talk about how time flew.

Hard to believe more than a half-century has passed since then.

On other trips, sentiment carried me back to Tricky Dick’s Coffee House—a mid-1970s offshoot spinoff of my parents’ business—that I created and ran (chronicled much earlier on Substack).

This time, my mind wandered instead to my beginnings as a reporter, cutting my teeth at The American, a community papers for expat Americans in London. Passing Great Titchfield Street, I recall sprinting rolls of film to a nearby photo lab for same-day processing to make a deadline. (My, how times have changed).

On Sunday, leaving Saint Etheldreda’s Church, I found myself at the of top of New Fetter Lane…

… once home to to The Sunday People, where I broke my first major investigative story: exposing a Ku Klux Klan plot to establish a base in Britain.

Cruising by Swallow Street and the iconic Bentley’s Oyster Bar, I remember lunching with Bill Blakemore of ABC News, only to stumble into Peter Jennings and Ted Koppel standing at the bar—an introduction that left me in awe.

(I’ve since learned: respect everyone, idolize no one.)

And today I lunched with my old friend Nigel Nelson, political editor of the Sunday Mirror (doubling on TV with GB News). We first joined forces 40 years ago to expose Class War anarchists.

Nigel once forecast, to the seat, Margaret Thatcher’s margin of victory in a General Election. I’m no gambler, but I made a bundle at Labrokes. Later, he pegged John Major as Thatcher’s heir long before Major—then a dark horse—believed it himself.

⁂

At Regent’s Park, I’m reeled back into the present by what appears to be…

…a hybrid swan-duck‽

This is a true tale from nine years ago.

Message from a dream: go to London, take the subway to a borough you’ve never been, walk around.

This was followed by a second dream message. Visit Disney Street.

Sure enough, there is a Disney Street in London—actually, a half street.

⁂

Rain is merely threatened as Curt and I ease our way through traffic to St. James’s and The Cavendish Hotel where.

My mind boggles when Curt steps from the elevator to claim his room—1111—which, with a space in the middle, pops from the door (directly across from the elevator) as 11 11, an image that evokes a 45-year-old dream riddle, one is doubles—the phrase I was never able to ask Kurt Vonnegut about and could not solve… until this moment.

Before unpacking, I excitedly consult several websites: 11:11 is a sign of awakening—“a key to unlock the subconscious mind”—with a message to pay attention and be more aware than usual because a spiritual presence is reaching out.

Numerologists add numbers together to find significance. In this case, 1+1+1+1 = 4 means Order & Justness (the blessing and curse of Libra, my astrological sign).

And then this realization: The morning my father came to me in a dream with his Hays and Main message was the 11th day of the 11th month: 11/11.

Which is also Kurt Vonnegut’s birthday.

At six o’clock, a reporter who’d been dogging me for a while manifests herself and we cross to Fortnum & Mason, where the window display theme is Alice in Wonderland—speaking to Peitzke’s “rabbit hole” into which I’m falling deeper and deeper.

The female reporter and I warm to one another over Chablis, evolving into dinner at the bar. As a prerequisite for getting into what she wants to know from me, I whimsically ask if she is up for a walk and capable of keeping pace with me. She’s game, so off we trot to my destination: 23 Tedworth Square, where Mark Twain lived in mourning after the death of his Susy, his beloved daughter

“You thought you were here to pick my brain,” I tell the reporter. “Little did you know this is really about walking two miles to look up a ghost.”

The reporter enquires about the context that would lead me to such a location this late my first night in town. I explain to her the mystical nature of my visit to London—my dream journey—and my plan to travel by tube to Southwark and visit Disney Street, where a message most surely awaits me.

She enthusiastically reveals that Southwark is where the Financial Times, her employer, is headquartered. I wonder aloud if this is what our meeting is truly about because it’s otherwise much too coincident to be anything less than Jungian synchronicity.

“I guess that means you’re coming with me to Southwark,” I add. “You can show me around.”

“You really want me to?”

“The universe expects you to join me.”

I don’t know whether she finds this endearing or thinks I’m nuts. Or maybe she relishes the idea of more time to cultivate me as a source. Whichever—or both— she immediately signs on.

We cap midnight at the Hard Rock Cafe.

When the reporter (now, my muse) arrives, we (Curt included) set off down Piccadilly. I am inspired by these stenciled words on Fortnum’s window:

She leads us to Green Park tube station and onto a train. Resurfacing at the intersection of Borough High Street and Marshalsea Road—new to me—I marvel a London cityscape lorded over by The Shard, a modern skyscraper so-called because it resembles a shard of glass.

The muse guides us to nearby Disney Street.

A ceramics shop displays three skulls.

Skulls symbolize mortality, as in memento mori (“remember we must die”)—a reminder to from ancient Rome appreciate each day.

The road leads to Little Dorrit Park opposite a colorful primary school. Students noisily enjoy recess. A return to childhood.

Further on, we pass Cross Bones Graveyard, where medieval prostitutes were laid to rest. Today it celebrates their lives with colorful ribbons festooned to fences honoring the women who were so poorly treated. A reminder to treat everyone with respect.

The muse leads us through Borough Market (a celebration of good food)…

Then on to Southwark Cathedral…

…where an amplified voice fills the oldest gothic church in London with this message: “Find a piece of art or music that encourages you to move along in life.”

The Millennium Bridge, nearby, is where the muse departs.

“I’m leaving you now,” she says simply. “Cross the bridge.”

On the other side, at James Smith & Sons, I purchase a walking stick with a rabbit head handle—again, Pietzke’s Hole.

Later, in my hotel room, I struggle to identify The Message from all the fragments I collected. Then, meeting Curt at the bar, I press him for his take on our tube adventure.

He takes a few moments to collect his thoughts. “We were surrounded by death,” he finally says.

First: The skulls near Disney Street.

Second: Cross Bones Graveyard.

“And third,” Curt continues, “the ancient cathedral, standing on stone slabs over dead people or walking by tombs. It was all about dead people. The meaning for me is that I must make the most of whatever time I have left.”

With Sipsmith gin coursing my veins, I venture an observation of my own: If so much can be learned by visiting an unknown neighborhood and walking around—Borough Market, Cross Bones, Southwark Cathedral—why not put this concept to practice at least once a month?

An obscure door in an unmarked alcove off a corridor.

A portal into a hidden speakeasy.

Name: 80 Proof.

Password: Sweet talk.

Inside waits the Merlin of mixologists.

At opening time—8 p.m.—a cocktail-crafting workshop is finishing up. After which, the first hour of business/pleasure is the quietest. Suits me fine.

These days, I prefer a bar that’s classy, serene, quiet. Room to spread out. No techno-shit muzak. In this establishment, gentle jazz from the 1930s. Think Woody Allen movies.

And I don’t want a lot of robotic conversation without depth going on around me—or, especially, at me.

My favorite company is my own. A quiet drink for ritual meditation.

I was always like that. Ever since first grade at elementary school. I sat by myself in the furthest corner of the school cafeteria and quietly ate my Oscar Mayer Smokie Link sandwich while everyone else around me chatted noisily.

Observing.

I think at a young age I intuitively understood the absurdity of it all. A budding Nihilist with a touch of Camus.

I felt no need, nor had any interest, to participate. Only to absorb, like a sponge, the socialization around me. Then the bell rang and we were summoned back to the classroom. (What were we—cattle?) Whatever the schoolteacher attempted to bang into us was far less educational than my own observances/contemplations.

My skill is blending in. Not being noticed. That’s why journalism and espionage were my natural.

So I sit here alone, sipping on a Gunner’s 45—Wyoming whisky and other ingredients that blend flavors of tobacco, leather and coffee…

scribbling notes that lead to various rants.

…scribbling notes that lead to various rants.

Such as this contemplation: The longer a culture evolves, the more robotically-conditioned it becomes.

Meanwhile, Merlin takes justifiable pride in his self-created craft cocktails, each with a story attached. Even his array of bar accoutrements come with an anecdote. Say, an ornate perfume dropper containing Fee Brothers Tobacco Bitters.

I watch him work, night after night, while savoring a different concoction and learning the secrets behind each.

These are stories I may share here on Substack. Or perhaps in a short book inspired by my “seven nights in a bar” dream (reduced to five).

Otherwise, basking in mountain sun…

…and catching up with wildlife.

The Crow Native American tribe populated this part of Wyoming.

And so do actual crows (and ravens).

Crows are rich with spiritual symbolism across many cultures. Their meaning deepens when connected to wandering, journeying. They’re also seen as messengers between the physical and spiritual realms, carrying wisdom from the unseen world.

The Crow Native Americans believe humans are equal to the natural world, with animals as siblings and plants as gifts.

This region also hosts large herds of elk.

The elk symbolizes quiet strength, dignity, and spiritual endurance.

Add there’s a lotta moose crossing—and munching…

…buffalo roaming…

…and, best of all, a cozy log cabin…

…from which—on the deck—to watch Independence Day fireworks…

…in a state that prizes freedom, independence and patriotism.

Most of my ideas for stories come from dreams at night.

Many months ago—probably longer, the clock’s been ticking so fast—I woke up from a dream with the idea of spending seven successive evenings in bar I’d never been before, in a town brand new to me.

The inspiration for such a concept draws from having, over the decades, experienced two vibrant bars: That special “third place” where everyone knows your name; a saloon with an allure so strong, it becomes an addiction. Not so much for the booze, but for the ritual, the camaraderie. Real people, real stories. Better than playing potato on a couch, hypnotized by a TV buzzing with mindless sop and a laugh track so you know when something’s supposed to be funny.

In Monaco, late 1980s, it was Le Texan—a cantina alive with multiple nationalities and cultures. Out of it came a chronicle (Monaco Cool) about survival in the world’s swankiest neighborhood, chock-a-block with quirky characters.

This was reality television fodder before reality TV existed. Friends would come visit me in the principality—Robert Wilson, diary columnist for the (UK) Sunday Mirror; Walt Perry, sting undercover specialist for the IRS—and after a first evening at Le Texan I’d offer a number of options for other places to go in Monaco or Menton or Eze. And they’d say, “If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon go back to Le Texan.” (For Robert Wilson it was easy fodder for his gossip column: a few days later he broke the news that Ringo Starr’s ex, Maureen Starkey, planned to marry Hard Rock Cafe founder Isaac Tigrett.)

The vibe was that good, the company—choreographed by charismatic Kate, Le Texan’s owner/manager—was compelling and captivating.

Montecito, circa 2007-11: The zone was Piatti, an Italian in the Upper Village with a dedicated bar room. Every night was a party with an ever-changing illustrious crew of characters: Beach Boy Bruce Johnston, novelists T.C. Boyle and Thom Steinbeck, TV personality Dennis Miller—to name just a few. Steve Martin would stroll in, trucker cap tipped low, dark glasses, the anal antithesis of approachability. We laughed a lot, probably drank too much.

So, with my dream and The Jackson Abstraction in mind, I refined the concept of “seven nights in a bar” to one hour each evening, same hour—8-9—see what comes.

Bar of choice: An iconic Jackson Hole saloon called The Mangy Moose.

Stooled at the bar, sipping my Bardic Brew (Wind River Brewing Co. porter)…

…I couldn’t help feeling this bar is, well, kind of… mangy.

Outside, in nature, the trees are shimmering, wind talking, moose and elk strolling. Tetons peak 7,000 feet above a valley already 6,000 feet above sea level. Cool pure air. Silence. Solitude.

Better than a bare-wood barstool in a glamorized dive.

So I bagged my bar book brainwave.

Revelation: A bar was not the destination, only the invitation.

Instead: a language of stones, trees, rivers.

In place of artificial light: a darkening dusk, a near-half-moon and, later, a sky filled with sparkling stars.

Then—wouldn’t you know it—a bar full of stories manifests.

Challenge: It is not a bar open to the general public.

Intelligence 101 exercise: Finagle your way into someplace you’re not allowed.

Utilizing this skill (a tradecraft secret), I gain access to something with far more depth than a watering hole. This speakeasy is a beautifully designed school of stories.

And since it doesn’t open on Sunday & Monday, I get to start the week fresh on a Tuesday, shorten my tale to “five nights in a bar.”

As synchronicity would have it, this bar opens at eight p.m., which fits my 8-9 paradigm: the threshold hour, between the ordinary and the odd, when dinner winds down and nightlife begins to stir.

And this bonus: The first hour will be quiet enough for its master mixologist to fire up his stories and enlighten me.

The day begins with a glorious sunrise…

…viewed from my room in Hotel Renegade, which opened in June and whose name perfectly suits my nature.

Blue Collar Coffee Co. inside Renegade is as fine as anywhere in town, as is The Highlander rooftop bar (to be revisited at sunset)…

Breakfast was supposed to be at…

…but on a Sunday morning it was like a clogged artery.

However, next a.m….

…easy-peasy, their grill’d cheese (and bacon of course) with a cup of tomato basil soup.

Back to Sunday—and Cathedral of the Rockies (Methodist-Episcopalian, all faiths welcome)…

Thereafter, The Chocolate Bar (for supplies)…

And then an open-air art museum…

Sunset from the Renegade’s rooftop bar…

Renewal (symbolized by the snake’s shedding of skin)… and the sun’s reflection on downtown and beyond.

At dusk, a jaunt through Old Boise (The Basque Block)…

…for elk loin at The Brickyard…

…followed by a stroll around this clean, compact and convivial town.

And finally, a nightcap (Nonino amaro) and jazz at…

It is always a pleasure to visit someplace I’ve never been before.

No comfort zone, out of the box, get lost to find yourself.

But I had been here before.

In a dream.

But when I dreamt it, about five years ago, I had no idea what city I was dreaming about.

I knew I was somewhere in the USA. Somewhere with a riverwalk.

Because in my dream I was walking alongside a river, with city-style buildings on the other side. It was a beautiful cloudless day; the air crisp and clear, a hint of autumn. A riverboat passed by.

Upon awakening, I searched internet images of various cities in an attempt to discover where my dream had taken.

Providence, Rhode Island—its riverwalk—seemed possible.

But the alignment wasn’t right.

So: The first thing I do after checking into a downtown Pittsburgh hotel is hoof a half-mile down to the river.

Three rivers, actually: The Ohio, the Allegheny and the Monongahela.

They trisect at Three Rivers Heritage Trail, north side.

I cross Roberto Clemente Bridge over the Allegheny to PNC Park, home to the Pittsburgh Pirates baseball team. Then down a stairway to North Shore Riverfront Park, a stroll to the Fort Duquesne Bridge. (In addition to steel, Pittsburgh is known for its 446 iron bridges.)

That’s where I turn around and begin my scenic stroll.

Uncannily, the view is exactly what I had dreamt.

Was it premonitory—or guidance to come here?

In the next scene of my dream, I have penetrated the city and I’m walking along one of its streets.

Sure enough, Seventh Street is also the vision from my dream. A beautiful cloudless day, the air crisp and clear; a hint of autumn.

The King of Pop Art was born in Pittsburgh, so no surprise this is where one finds The Andy Warhol Museum, housing the largest permanent collection of his prolific work as a visual artist.

I hardly ever use Uber, but after a Negroni at Morton’s Steakhouse I’m in need of a ride to the stately home of the publisher of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, where I’m expected for dinner.

The driver, Glenn, is soft-spoken and courteous—and a wealth of information about the city in which he was born and drove a city bus and taxi before signing up with Uber. So I ask him to tour me around next afternoon.

***

Our first stop is Mount Washington for its panoramic overlook of the city…

Next, a cruise through the South Shore and Carson Street, known for its 40-plus bars in a city that has more bars per capita than any other city in the USA.

From there, we roll through the sprawling University of Pittsburgh campus (entwined with the city) and its formidable Cathedral of Learning…

And I realize that such a cathedral—of learning—must feature in the novel idea I dreamt a few nights earlier while in Washington, D.C., especially after consulting ChatGPT for its opinion on the matter.

This Gothic structure is not only impressive but houses the Nationality Rooms, each designed to celebrate a different culture. If education and cultural exploration are keys to your kingdom, this is a place to visit.

In addition to driving Uber, Glenn is the pastor of a church in a borough called Braddock in the eastern suburbs of Steel City

The church is called Jesus’ Dwelling Place.

While delivering a sermon in Jesus’ Dwelling Place a few months ago, Glenn the pastor was confronted by a mentally disturbed male who, minutes earlier, had shot and killed his own cousin. Now, at point blank range, the deranged man pointed his pistol at Glenn—and pulled the trigger.

The gun jammed, and a member of the congregation tackled the gunman, though it took 25 minutes for Pittsburgh’s finest to respond to reports of “an active gunman.”

Of course, I had to see Jesus’ Dwelling Place, where He most certainly resides.

Not just a temple of worship, Jesus’ Dwelling Place has a basement community center whose organizers strive to educate those questing to learn. Utilizing their full kitchen, Glenn and his helpers feed those in need of nourishment. He also raises money to create recreational facilities for the many under-privileged children who populate the Braddock neighborhood.

Thereafter, our final sight: Point State Park and its fountain, where Pittsburgh’s three rivers converge.

I tell Glenn, “The merging of rivers is a powerful source of physical and metaphysical energy. Combine that with negative ions produced by this fountain…

…and you and I are going to be the happiest people in Pittsburg today.”

When it comes time to part, I ask Glenn what I owe him for his three-and-a-half-hour tour.

Glenn shakes his head and says, “Nothing, I had a good time hanging with you.”

(Of course, I did not let “nothing” happen.)

And then, as he does most days, Glenn goes off to play chess in Market Square…

…where he beats everyone.

As for myself, I have a return engagement with the publisher of the Post-Gazette, this time as the very elegant Duquesne Club, where I encounter the most immaculate washroom I’ve ever visited…

Their “patio” is no slouch either…

And when all is said and done, I retire to Blend Bar for solitude and contemplation over a fancy beer and a Hemingway Short Story.

Two messages during my morning walk—an awe walk.

What makes it awesome?

Pay attention, notice everything. (And maybe act on it.)

And…

And at the National Academy of Art, this special exhibition: Paris 1874, The Impressionist Moment.

A celebration of the birth of Impressionism, including the painting that started it all and launched a renegade movement of independents…

Along with a painting that takes me back to my childhood because a print of it hung on a wall near the side door of my family’s ranch house all through the 1960s…

Set free to be eight years-old again—and to see everything around me with the wonderment and vision that comes with being eight.

After strolling along the Potomac at Georgetown Waterfront Park…

…I sit upon a bench and, taking it all in, get taken myself by a satori:

An understanding that the rhythm of everything happening around me, people walking their dogs amid a natural setting of birds singing and dancing on a trellis above… that it was always meant to be exactly this way; that life and the universe is perfect in every way.

This moves me to feel gratitude. For today, for every day, each new morning. Grateful for family and friends. For all I have been given in life. And most especially for the autumn around me (in my autumn years) on such a glorious afternoon.

Come 5:33, I make my way to Chez Billy Sud, a bistro/wine bar, authentically French, world-class.

The bartender recommends an elixir called Club de Gazon (French for grass): gin, dry vermouth, maraschino liqueur, absinthe, orange bitters…

…and during the night, perhaps provoked by this magic potion, a dream produces an awesome idea for a book.

There is nothing quite like Georgetown on a chill autumn day in October: colorful, vibrant—and Halloween-ish.

And no finer place to begin the day than the iconic Georgetown movie theater, now a coffee lounge.

As modern culture reshapes M Street, antique stores and art galleries are out.

Cannabis dispensaries are in.

Fortunately, venerable Georgetown Tobacco is still around.

I was hoping to see a long-time friend who was very senior at CIA about 20 years ago.

This e-mail came back: “We moved to Florida last month. I’ve finally escaped the clutches of DC and its swamp.”

At historic Grace Episcopal, built in 1867, a few moments of contemplation and solitude while breathing in positive prayer.

Followed by hot (dark) chocolate at L.A. Burdick…

If there’s a theme around town, it seems to be…

Which also seems to sum up Washington, D.C. these past few years.

However, an angel appears to be leading the way forward…

And the right place to savor The Last Word and coq au vin is…

I first moved to Washington, D.C. in September 1975 to attend American University (AU) while Gerald Ford occupied the White House.

Researching the Bilderberg Group for a term paper in Dr. Abdul Said’s famed course on international relations that autumn, my letter to President Ford (who attended two Bilderberg Meetings) earned a written response from a State Department "Public Affairs Adviser."  Francis Seidner advised me to mind my own business.

The budding journalist I was (the second rule of reporting, after facts, is perseverance), I phoned Seidner to clarify his advice.  He became rather snotty after I suggested that Ford had not been elected president (which, of course, he hadn't).

I was still at AU when Jimmy Carter was running for president.  Of all the candidates (most of whom came to speak at AU), Carter was the smuggest; the only candidate selling campaign buttons instead of giving them away. 

I would later understand why, as my investigation evolved from Bilderberg to the Trilateral Commission, from whose American contingent (supported by globalists) Jimmy quietly garnished big money and subliminal Establishment support while mainstream media pretended not to notice and instead asked, Jimmy who?

But Carter’s presidency was ill fated and Ronald Reagan replaced him in the White House in January 1981.  

Not two months later, I was in DC to cover the Trilateral Commission’s annual confab for an Australian radio program when Reagan got shot.   

And then I spent the rest of Reagan’s presidency in London and in the vicinity of Manhattan, where I operated as a literary agent, peddling books by Washington insiders, including former CIA Director William Colby and terrorism-studies pioneer Robert Kupperman.

George Bush occupied the White House when I moved to the DC-area in August 1990 and settled into the Westgate neighborhood of Bethesda, Maryland.  

Much earlier (April 1979), I interviewed Bush inside his suite at the Madison Hotel when he was running for president against Reagan and Carter.  Bush was having lunch by himself in the Madison’s café when I approached him to explain that I was his next scheduled appointment.  

Bush graciously asked me to sit down, the gentleman he was, and we were able to chitchat for a short while before heading upstairs to do the interview, during which he became defensive and agitated when I questioned him about his membership in the Trilateral Commission.

Soon after, William Loeb, publisher of the Union-Leader, New Hampshire’s most influential newspaper, made an issue of Bush’s Trilateral Commission membership, which Ronald Reagan exploited into a surprise victory in that state’s important primary, propelling him to become the Republican nominee. As consolation to the globalists (and to ensure a landslide victory against Carter), Reagan made Bush his running mate.

Eleven years later, after Bush followed Reagan into the White House, he openly acknowledged the existence of a (globalist) “new world order,” previously reported by mainstream media to be a “conspiracy theory.”

Twenty months thereafter, Bill Clinton beat Bush after ingratiating himself with globalists at a Bilderberg Meeting, to which he was invited by Bilderberg steering committee member Vernon Jordan.

I was cynical about Bubba’s presidency from the start, delighted when another Bush replaced him in the White House. Not because I believe in political dynasties (I do not), but I felt the White House needed adult supervision.  And I also felt Clinton’s national security policies were useless, based on my experience operating undercover for FBI Counterintelligence, which kowtowed to political pressure from Bubba’s Department of Justice. 

We have Clinton to thank for 9/11 and the rise of Vladimir Putin. (He was, of course, gone from the White House by then, but he laid the groundwork for what would soon transpire.)

During the brouhaha over the Bush-Gore vote, television news reported that pro-Bush protestors were assembled outside the Vice President’s Mansion, where Al Gore lived, chanting, “Get out of Cheney’s house!”

I drove straight own Massachusetts Avenue to the alleged event and found that the vicinity outside the mansion was crickets—the beginning of fake news?

By then, I resided on a quiet cul-de-sac in Wesley Heights, in a house known by my teenage daughter’s friends as Moon Tower because of the parties I allowed her to throw. Al Gore, Jr. showed up to one of them—and I had to configure a contingency plan for where to hide him (for his own protection from bad publicity) if noise complaints from neighbors resulted in a police visit and they discovered an underage keg party.

When I put Moon Tower on the market in late 2000, First Lady Hillary Clinton (scouting a post-White House DC residence) came to view it, escorted by a full motorcade that left my neighbors in awe. Hillary apparently loved Moon Tower and considered buying it. But the dining space was not conducive to large dinner parties so instead she purchased a house near Embassy Row.

I was living in Montecito, California when Barack Obama got elected president.  I thought he was unqualified and that his election was an Obamaration. Little about his presidency ever dissuaded me from my first impression.

And then the country that invented Reality TV got exactly what it deserved.

The person most responsible for Donald Trump’s election was Hillary Clinton and her two-step program:  One, collusion with the Democratic National Committee to sabotage Bernie Sanders.  Two, connive to edge Trump ahead of the pack on the basis that he would be the easiest Republican to beat.

Hillary's bluster about Russian manipulation and American misogyny about having a female as president is pure bunkum.  The USA in 2016 was ripe for a female president.  Just not her. 

And though Russia tried to influence our election (as we try to influence theirs and many others around the globe), Vladimir Putin’s dream of causing a second U.S. civil war did not come true (though the division that ensued was his delight).

But what you truly need to know about Washington, D.C. is this:

Presidents come and go. Insider Washington endures and mostly prevails.