JOURNAL ARCHIVE: August 9, 2006
I wrote about this a while back. I was thinking about how those people in the apartment above me in Redmond was making a lot of noise. I went up there to knock on their door to tell them to be quiet. After I knocked, I heard somebody say, obviously looking at me through the observation glass in the door: "Shh. It's the Running Man." I wondered about that for a long time, along with a million other little things like that happening to me everyday for all those years.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Running_man
The Running Man (1982) is a science fiction novel by Stephen King, written under the pseudonym of Richard Bachman.
[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 09 August 2006 excerpt ends]
JOURNAL ARCHIVE: August 5, 2006
I was never alone. Just completely isolated, not unlike a prisoner of war.
[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 05 August 2006 excerpt ends]
JOURNAL ARCHIVE: August 5, 2006
Maybe this is it actually. The dates match with my memory of leaving the Taylor in Maine for BE/E in Orlando. I remember it was snowing when I left Portland and about 36 to 48 hours later, I was driving down the beach at Daytona, still wearing a plaid flannel shirt with thermal underwear while people were sunbathing in the warm sun. Those are some good memories.
[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 05 August 2006 excerpt ends]
JOURNAL ARCHIVE: Date: Mon, 27 Mar 2006 18:42:45 -0800 (PST)
From: "Kerry Burgess"
Subject: Re: those who helped
To: "Kerry Burgess"
Kerry Burgess wrote:
I was walking on the Burke-gilman trail on my way to the bridge. I don't remember exactly where I was, probably 15 or twenty miles from Marymoor. It was late and dark and intimidating. I was expecting someone to jump out of the bushes at any time.
[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 27 March 2006 excerpt ends]
[ Bill Gates-Microsoft-Corbis-Nazi the cowardly International Terrorist Organization violently against the United States of America actively instigate insurrection and subversive activity against the United States of America with all Bill Gates-Microsoft-Corbis-Nazi staff partners contributors employees contractors lawyers managers of any capacity as severely treasonous criminal accomplices and that are active unlawful obstructions, combinations, or assemblages, or rebellion against the authority of the United States that actively make it impracticable to enforce the laws of the United States in the United States and in the Severely Treasonous and Criminally Rebellious State of Washington by the ordinary course of judicial proceedings ]
http://www.tv.com/shows/stargate-sg-1/its-good-to-be-king-343943
tv.com
Stargate SG-1
Season 8, Episode 13
It's Good To Be King
Air Date
Friday February 4, 2005
Quotes
Maybourne: I guess congratulations are in order. You made general.
Jack: You made king!
Maybourne: Right. Well, it's not a contest.
http://www.e-reading.org.ua/bookreader.php/72427/King_-_Carrie.html
stephen
KING
CARRIE [ RACKETEER INFLUENCED AND CORRUPT ORGANIZATIONS US Title 18 ]
Part One
Blood Sport
News item from the Westover ( Me. ) weekly Enterprise , August 19, 1966 :
RAIN OF STONES REPORTED
It was reliably reported by several persons that a rain of stones fell from a clear blue sky on Carlin Street in the town of Chamberlain on August 17th. The stones fell principally on the home of Mrs Margaret White, damaging the roof extensively and ruining two gutters and a downspout valued at approximately $25. Mrs White, a widow, lives with her three-year-old daughter, Carietta.
Mrs White could not be reached for comment.
Nobody was really surprised when it happened, not really, not at the subconscious level where savage things grow. On the surface, all the girls in the shower room were shocked, thrilled, ashamed, or simply glad that the White bitch had taken it in the mouth again. Some of them might also have claimed surprise, but of course their claim was untrue. Carrie had been going to school with some of them since the first grade, and this had been building since that time, building slowly and immutably, in accordance with all the laws that govern human nature, building with all the steadiness of a chain reaction approaching critical mass.
What none of them knew, of course, was that Carrie White was telekinetic.
http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/probable%20cause
probable cause
(law) evidence sufficient to warrant an arrest
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A32281-2005Mar13.html
Monday, March 14, 2005; Page C01
At a town meeting in Little Rock last month, Bush was joined onstage by Gloria Bennett, a part-time food inspector.
"I'm from De Queen, Arkansas," she told the president.
"That," Bush replied, nodding, "is right next to De King."
http://www.e-reading.org.ua/bookreader.php/80261/King_-_The_Stand.html
Stephen King
The Stand - The Complete & Uncut Edition [ RACKETEER INFLUENCED AND CORRUPT ORGANIZATIONS US Title 18 ]
Chapter 37
At first Stu accepted the sound without question; it was such a typical part of a bright summer morning. He had just passed through the town of South Ryegate, New Hampshire, and now the highway wound through a pretty country of overhanging elms that dappled the road with coins of moving sunlight. The underbrush on either side was thick—bright sumac, blue-gray juniper, lots of bushes he couldn’t name. The profusion of them was still a wonder to his eyes, accustomed as they were to East Texas, where the roadside flora had nothing like this variety. On the left, an ancient rock wall meandered in and out of the brush, and on the right a small brook gurgled cheerily east. Every now and then small animals would move in the underbrush (yesterday he had been transfixed by the sight of a large doe standing on the white line of 302, scenting the morning air), and birds called raucously. And against that background of sound, the barking dog sounded like the most natural thing in the world.
He walked almost another mile before it occurred to him that the dog—closer now, by the sound—might be out of the ordinary after all. He had seen a great many dead dogs since leaving Stovington, but no live ones. Well, he supposed, the flu had killed most but not all of the people. Apparently it had killed most but not all of the dogs, as well. Probably it would be extremely people-shy by now. When it scented him, it would most likely crawl back into the bushes and bark hysterically at him until Stu left its territory.
He adjusted the straps of the Day-Glo pack he was wearing and refolded the handkerchiefs that lay under the straps at each shoulder. He was wearing a pair of Georgia Giants, and three days of walking had rubbed most of the new from them. On his head was a jaunty, wide-brimmed red felt hat, and there was an army carbine slung across his shoulder. He did not expect to run across marauders, but he had a vague idea that it might be a good idea to have a gun. Fresh meat, maybe. Well, he had seen fresh meat yesterday, still on the hoof, and he had been too amazed and pleased to even think about shooting it.
The pack riding easily again, he went on up the road. The dog sounded as if it was just beyond the next bend. Maybe I’ll see him after all, Stu thought.
He had picked up 302 going east because he supposed that sooner or later it would take him to the ocean. He had made a kind of compact with himself: When I get to the ocean, I’ll decide what I’m going to do. Until then, I won’t think about it at all. His walk, now in its fourth day, had been a kind of healing process. He had thought about taking a ten-speed bike or maybe a motorcycle with which he could thread his way through—the occasional crashes that blocked the road, but instead had decided to walk. He had always enjoyed hiking, and his body cried out for exercise. Until his escape from Stovington he had been cooped up for nearly two weeks, and he felt flabby and out of shape. He supposed that sooner or later his slow progress would make him impatient and he would get the bike or motorcycle, but for now he was content to hike east on this road, looking at whatever he wanted to look at, taking five when he wanted to, or in the afternoon, dropping off for a snooze during the hottest part of the day. It was good for him to be doing this. Little by little the lunatic search for a way out was fading into memory, just something that had happened instead of a thing so vivid it brought cold sweat out onto his skin. The memory of that feeling of someone following him had been the hardest to shake. The first two nights on the road he had dreamed again and again of his final encounter with Elder, when Elder had come to carry out his orders. In the dreams Stu was always too slow with the chair. Elder stepped back out of its arc, pulled the trigger of his pistol, and Stu felt a heavy but painless boxing glove weighted with lead shot land on his chest. He dreamed this over and over until he woke unrested in the morning, but so glad to be alive that he hardly realized it. Last night the dream hadn’t come. He doubted if the willies would stop all at once, but he thought he might be walking the poison out of his system little by little. Maybe he would never get rid of all of it, but when most of it was gone he felt sure he would be able to think better about what came next, whether he had reached the ocean by then or not.
He came around the bend and there was the dog, an auburn-colored Irish setter. It barked joyously at the sight of Stu and ran up the road, toenails clicking on the composition surface, tail wagging frantically back and forth. It jumped up, placing its forepaws on Stu’s belly, and its forward motion made him stagger back a step. “Whoa, boy,” he said, grinning.
The dog barked happily at the sound of his voice and leaped up again.
“Kojak!” a stern voice said, and Stu jumped and stared around. “Get down! Leave that man alone! You’re going to track all over his shirt! Miserable dog!”
Kojak put all four feet on the road again and walked around Stu with his tail between his legs. The tail was still flipping back and forth in suppressed joy despite its confinement, however, and Stu decided this one would never make much of a canine put-on artist.
Now he could see the owner of the voice—and of Kojak, it seemed like. A man of about sixty wearing a ragged sweater, old gray pants… and a beret. He was sitting on a piano stool and holding a palette. An easel with a canvas on it stood before him.
Now he stood up, placed the palette on the piano stool (under his breath Stu heard him mutter, “Now don’t forget and sit on that”), and walked toward Stu with his hand extended. Beneath the beret his fluffy grayish hair bounced in a small and mellow breeze.
“I hope you intend no foul play with that rifle, sir. Glen Bateman, at your service.”
Stu stepped forward and took the outstretched hand (Kojak was growing frisky again, bouncing around Stu but not daring to renew his leaps—not yet, at least). “Stuart Redman. Don’t worry about the gun. I ain’t seen enough people to start shootin em. In fact, I ain’t seen any, until you.”
“Do you like caviar?”
“Never tried it.”
“Then it’s time you did. And if you don’t care for it, there’s plenty of other things. Kojak, don’t jump. I know you’re thinking of renewing your crazed leaps—I can read you like a book—but control yourself. Always remember, Kojak, that control is what separates the higher orders from the lower. Control!”
His better nature thus appealed to, Kojak shrank down on his haunches and began to pant. He had a big grin on his doggy face. It had been Stu’s experience that a grinning dog is either a biting dog or a damned good dog. And this didn’t look like a biting dog.
“I’m inviting you to lunch,” Bateman said. “You’re the first human being I’ve seen, at least in the last week. Will you stay?”
“I’d be glad to.”
“Southerner, aren’t you?”
“East Texas.”
“An Easterner, my mistake.” Bateman cackled at his own wit and turned back to his picture, an indifferent watercolor of the woods across the road.
“I wouldn’t sit down on that piano stool, if I were you,” Stu said.
“Shit, no! Wouldn’t do at all, would it?”
http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/depechemode/blasphemousrumours.html
DEPECHE MODE
"Blasphemous Rumours"
Girl of 16
Whole life ahead of her
Slashed her wrists
Bored with life
Didn't succeed
Thank the lord
For small mercies
Fighting back the tears
Mother reads the note again
16 candles burn in her mind
She takes the blame
It's always the same
She goes down on her knees
And prays
I don't want to start
Any blasphemous rumours
But I think that God's
Got a sick sense of humour
And when I die
I expect to find Him laughing
Girl of 18
Fell in love with everything
Found new life
In Jesus Christ
Hit by a car
Ended up
On a life support machine
Summer's day
As she passed away
Birds were singing
In the summer sky
Then came the rain
And once again
A tear fell
From her mother's eye
http://www.e-reading.org.ua/bookreader.php/133431/King_-_The_Long_Walk.html
Richard Bachman
The Long Walk [ RACKETEER INFLUENCED AND CORRUPT ORGANIZATIONS US Title 18 ]
“The reporter, Dumbo. Did he ask you how you felt?”
“No, he didn’t get to me.” He wished Barkovitch would go away. He wished the throbbing pain in the soles of his feet would go away.
“They asked me,” Barkovitch said. “You know what I told them?”
“Huh-uh.”
“I told them I felt great,” Barkovitch said aggressively. The rainhat was still flopping in his back pocket. “I told them I felt real strong. I told them I felt prepared to go on forever. And do you know what else I told them?”
“Oh, shut up,” Pearson said.
“Who asked you, long, tall and ugly?” Barkovitch said.
“Go away,” McVries said. “You give me a headache.”
Insulted once more, Barkovitch moved on up the line and grabbed Collie Parker. “Did he ask you what-”
“Get out of here before I pull your fucking nose off and make you eat it,” Collie Parker snarled. Barkovitch moved on quickly. The word on Collie Parker was that he was one mean son of a bitch.
“That guy drives me up the wall,” Pearson said.
“He’d be glad to hear it,” McVries said. “He likes it. He also told that reporter that he planned to dance on a lot of graves. He means it, too. That’s what keeps him going.”
“Next time he comes around I think I’ll trip him,” Olson said. His voice sounded dull and drained.
“Tut-tut,” McVries said. “Rule 8, no interference with your fellow Walkers.”
