The release date for this song was 3 years, 3 months, 18 days, after 4/14/77. Multiplying 30 times 0.59 equals 17.7, meaning that it could be a 3 year, 3.59 month, clue. It was also a few months after we tried to rescue the hostages in Iran, suggesting I was addicted to trying to save people. 3 years, 3.59 months, earlier, I had returned to Earth after saving the planet. Why else would I be going out to try to save our people being held hostage in Iran?
Released 1 August 1980
Melancholy and introspective, "Ashes to Ashes" featured Bowie’s reinterpretation of "a guy that’s been in such an early song", namely Major Tom from his first hit in 1969, "Space Oddity". Described as "containing more messages per second" than any single released in 1980,[2] the song also included plaintive reflections on the singer’s moral and artistic journey:
I’ve never done good things
I’ve never done bad things
I never did anything out of the blue
Instead of a hippie astronaut who casually slips the bonds of a crass and material world to journey beyond the stars, Bowie now saw Major Tom as a "junkie, strung out in heaven's high, hitting an all-time low". The last line was interpreted by some critics as a play on the title of Bowie’s 1977 album Low, which charted his withdrawal inwards following his drug excesses in America a short time before, another reversal of Major Tom’s original withdrawal 'outwards' or towards space.[2]
The final lines, "My mama said, to get things done, you better not mess with Major Tom", have been compared to the verse from a nursery rhyme:[3]
My mother said
That I never should
Play with the gypsies in the wood
Bowie himself said in an interview with NME shortly after the single's release, "It really is an ode to childhood, if you like, a popular nursery rhyme. It's about space men becoming junkies (laughs)."
I think of the quarter-dollar coin every time I look at the image of the Prisoner Of War Medal. I believe that President Reagan had that medal commissioned in 1986 because I was a captive of the Libyans in 1986.
I wonder if pay telephones had already switched over to quarter-dollar coins by 1986.
The notion of the quarter-dollar has come up before in the past few years. Especially - as I noted in my journal around the time - during that time when they were starving me out. There is some kind of notion about calling someone who cares. I don’t think Ronald Reagan ever really believed I had been killed on 4/14/86. He probably just thought I couldn’t get in touch with them. He never lost hope that I was gone.
In the United States, the coin rate for a local direct-dialed station-to-station call from a payphone has been 50¢ in most areas since mid-2001, for an unlimited number of minutes. Previously, the charge had been per minute, or per number of minutes. During the 1960s and 1970s, the same call in the United States and Canada typically cost 10¢. In inflation adjusted terms, in 2006 USD, this was 68¢ in 1960, and 28¢ in 1979. While some areas only cost 5¢, smaller companies occasionally charged as high as 15¢ to 20¢. In the late 1970s and early 1980s, this price gradually changed to 20¢, and again rose to 25¢ in some areas between 1985 and 1990
I find myself thinking about this speech for several reasons. One is that I realize certain elements have shown up in my writing. Another is just because this was the time when I think my family thought I had been killed in Africa. But as I wrote earlier, I am not certain all of them had completely given up home. Especially President Reagan. I am thinking he was quite certain that I was still alive; he just didn't know where I was. The Libyan's had probably told him I was dead and I had been killed on 4/14/86, but I think he might have discussed with me later about how he always had doubts and that, as in 10 years earlier, I would show up and beat the odds.
Address Before a Joint Session of Congress on the State of the Union
January 27th, 1987
Mr. Speaker, Mr. President, distinguished Members of Congress, honored guests, and fellow citizens:
May I congratulate all of you who are Members of this historic 100th Congress of the United States of America. In this 200th anniversary year of our Constitution, you and I stand on the shoulders of giants—men whose words and deeds put wind in the sails of freedom. However, we must always remember that our Constitution is to be celebrated not for being old, but for being young—young with the same energy, spirit, and promise that filled each eventful day in Philadelphia's statehouse. We will be guided tonight by their acts, and we will be guided forever by their words.
Now, forgive me, but I can't resist sharing a story from those historic days. Philadelphia was bursting with civic pride in the spring of 1787, and its newspapers began embellishing the arrival of the Convention delegates with elaborate social classifications. Governors of States were called Excellency. Justices and Chancellors had reserved for them honorable with a capital "H." For Congressmen, it was honorable with a small "h." And all others were referred to as "the following respectable characters." [Laughter] Well, for this 100th Congress, I invoke special executive powers to declare that each of you must never be titled less than honorable with a capital "H." Incidentally, I'm delighted you are celebrating the 100th birthday of the Congress. It's always a pleasure to congratulate someone with more birthdays than I've had. [Laughter]
One time at Six Flags in Dallas, we had an old-style photograph made. I can still visualize Randy Romine in it. I can also "remember" that I had been hit by a baseball a few days earlier and I still had a wound on my chin, which was visible in the grainy photo. We were dressed at a Confederate family and Randy and I were in Confederate uniforms. I was holding a sword and I had one hand on the handle and the other hand actually on the blade, which puzzled me over the past few years when I "remembered" that "memory."
That "memory" most certainly represents that I fought for the South Vietnamese military. The wound on my chin probably represents that I had been wounded in combat. I have puzzled several over that "memory" about how the doctors had told Randy he would never walk again because he had stepped on a landmine. I am thinking he stepped on three landmines. I can "remember" finding his three Purple Hearts stored away on the top shelf of the closet in my bedroom. I wonder if that "memory" about him never walking again actually represents something about me being in danger of not getting to walk on the Moon because I was getting involved in combat operations during the Vietnam War.
It could be that I was indeed wounded three times in the Vietnam War. Why else would I have that “memory”? None of my “memories” are real. The notion of the Confederacy is because I served with the South Vietnamese as they fought against being over run. That notion was reinforced as I was watching parts of “Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid” this morning. I have no memories of seeing that movie over the past 8.74 years. I believe that I was asked to input certain parts of the script and they didn’t know the source I was pulling from for that input. The part about the bicycle has something to do with me first flying a jet aircraft about two years earlier. The part about the miner being desperate and that “Sundance Kid” “could shoot” represents that South Vietnamese officials offered me an officer’s commission to help them resist being over run by the invaders.
