This certainly must be the first time I have ever actually watched this film. I have been aware of it for a long time but I am certain I have never before watched it. Well, I might not watch all of it. My vision is kind of blurry as I have to concentrate very had to make this note at this point in the earliest video scene paused.
http://articles.sun-sentinel.com/1992-05-09/news/9202070423_1_wayward-satellite-daniel-c-brandenstein-kathryn-c-thornton
SunSentinel
New Shuttle `Endeavour` Speeds Toward Rendezvous With Satellite
May 9, 1992 The New York Times
CAPE CANAVERAL -- The space shuttle Endeavour and a wayward satellite on Friday sped toward an orbital rendezvous on Sunday in which the astroanuts are to walk in space to boost the $150 million communications satellite into its correct orbit.
JOURNAL ARCHIVE: posted by H.V.O.M at 1:51 PM Tuesday, August 29, 2006
to show you how it all began
And one of the songs that seems to haunt me lately has been a song from Coldplay. The first one from them that haunted me was "Clocks." Still haven't figured that one out
[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 29 August 2006 excerpt ends]
http://www.azlyrics.com/k/killers.html
AZ LYRICS UNIVERSE
THE KILLERS
album: "Day & Age" (2008)
http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/killers/spaceman.html
THE KILLERS
"Spaceman"
It started with a low light,
Next thing I knew they ripped me from my bed
And then they took my blood type
It left a strange impression in my head.
You know that I was hoping,
That I could leave this star-crossed world behind
But when they cut me open,
I guess I changed my mind.
And you know I might
Have just flown too far from the floor this time
Cause they're calling me by my name
And the zipping white light beams
Disregards the bombs and satellites
That was the turning point
That was one lonely night
The star maker says, "It ain't so bad"
The dream maker's gonna make you mad
The spaceman says, "Everybody look down
It's all in your mind"
Well now I'm back at home, and
I'm looking forward to this life I live
You know its gonna haunt me
So hesitation to this life I give.
You think you might cross over,
You're caught between the devil and the deep blue sea
You better look it over,
Before you make that leap
And you know I'm fine,
But I hear those voices at night sometimes-
They justify my claim,
And the public don't dwell my transmission
Cause it wasn't televised
But, it was the turning point,
Oh what a lonely night
The star maker says, "It ain't so bad"
The dream maker's gonna make you mad
The spaceman says, "Everybody look down
It's all in your mind"
The star maker says, "It ain't so bad"
The dream maker's gonna make you mad;
The spaceman says, "Everybody look down
It's all in your mind"
My global position systems are vocally addressed
They say the Nile used to run from East to West,
They say the Nile used to run...
From East to West.
And you know I'm fine
But I hear those voices at night
Sometimes...
The star maker says, "It ain't so bad"
The dream maker's gonna make you mad
The spaceman says, "Everybody look down
It's all in your mind"
The star maker says, "It ain't so bad"
The dream maker's gonna make you mad;
The spaceman says, "Everybody look down
It's all in your mind"
It's all in my mind
It's all in my mind
It's all in my mind
It's all in my mind
It's all in my mind
http://www.tv.com/shows/wayward-pines/the-truth-3079642/
tv.com
Wayward Pines Season 1 Episode 5
The Truth
Aired Thursday 9:00 PM Jun 11, 2015 on FOX
AIRED: 6/11/15
http://www.springfieldspringfield.co.uk/view_episode_scripts.php?tv-show=wayward-pines-2015&episode=s01e05
Springfield! Springfield!
Wayward Pines
The Truth
They evolved in a harsh environment and are now the single most efficient carnivores on the planet.
In the food chain, nothing else comes close, not even us.
[growling] On its own, an Abby can kill and devour an armed soldier in a matter of minutes.
Isolated, it is possible, albeit unlikely, to overcome an Abby, but they always travel in herds.
http://www.springfieldspringfield.co.uk/view_episode_scripts.php?tv-show=wayward-pines-2015&episode=s01e09
Springfield! Springfield!
Wayward Pines
A Reckoning
THERESA: You're not gonna believe this. It's Adam Hassler.
[static] [breathing heavily]
Adam?
He was in on it.
This is Adam Hassler. It's September 15, 14:20. [ the year 4020 ] [breathing heavily] Finally finally reached the city. Oh, my God. Still no signs of any survivors. It's just Abbies.
http://www.springfieldspringfield.co.uk/view_episode_scripts.php?tv-show=wayward-pines-2015&episode=s01e09
Springfield! Springfield!
Wayward Pines
A Reckoning
They've been tracking us. I think it's I think it's the same group from before. Somehow they seem to be communicating with each other.
2016_Nk20_DSCN2125.jpg
From 9/17/1961 ( premiere US TV series "Car 54, Where Are You?" ) To 3/23/1990 ( premiere US film "Pretty Woman" ) is 10414 days
From 11/2/1965 ( my birth date in Antlers Oklahoma USA and my birthdate as the known official United States Marshal Kerry Wayne Burgess and active duty United States Marine Corps officer ) To 5/8/1994 is 10414 days
From 7/23/1982 ( premiere US film "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas" ) To 5/8/1994 is 4307 days
From 11/2/1965 ( my birth date in Antlers Oklahoma USA and my birthdate as the known official United States Marshal Kerry Wayne Burgess and active duty United States Marine Corps officer ) To 8/18/1977 ( Jimmy Carter - Director of the Office of Management and Budget Remarks of the President at a News Conference by Bert Lance Following an Investigation of His Finances ) is 4307 days
From 3/16/1991 ( my first successful major test of my ultraspace matter transportation device as Kerry Wayne Burgess the successful Ph.D. graduate Columbia South Carolina ) To 5/8/1994 is 1149 days
From 11/2/1965 ( my birth date in Antlers Oklahoma USA and my birthdate as the known official United States Marshal Kerry Wayne Burgess and active duty United States Marine Corps officer ) To 12/25/1968 ( my biological brother Thomas Reagan the United States Navy Commander circa 1968 was United States Apollo 8 spacecraft United States Navy astronaut in orbit of the planet Earth's moon ) is 1149 days
From 1/23/1942 ( premiere US film "Duke of the Navy" ) To 5/8/1994 is 19098 days
19098 = 9549 + 9549
From 11/2/1965 ( my birth date in Antlers Oklahoma USA and my birthdate as the known official United States Marshal Kerry Wayne Burgess and active duty United States Marine Corps officer ) To 12/25/1991 ( as United States Marine Corps chief warrant officer Kerry Wayne Burgess I was prisoner of war in Croatia ) is 9549 days
http://www.tv.com/shows/stephen-kings-the-stand/the-plague-1178981/
tv.com
Stephen King's The Stand Season 1 Episode 1
The Plague
Aired Sunday 12:00 AM May 08, 1994 on ABC
AIRED: 5/8/94
http://www.springfieldspringfield.co.uk/movie_script.php?movie=best-little-whorehouse-in-texas-the
Springfield! Springfield!
Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, The (1982)
For three generations, the Chicken Ranch
went peacefully about its business...
...while the people in Gilbert
went about theirs.
That is, until about seven years ago.
I was a deputy back then,
workin' for Sheriff Ed Earl Dodd.
You wanted me to remind you
about your appointment.
That was right after I had lost
the fried chicken franchise,...
...while Ed Earl had been sheriff
ever since old Jack Roy Wallace retired.
Everybody liked Ed Earl,
especially Ed Earl.
Course, he sure did know his job,
and he was a big influence on me.
Taught me everything I know.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0083642/fullcredits
IMDb
The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (1982)
Full Cast & Crew
Jim Nabors ... Deputy Fred
http://www.springfieldspringfield.co.uk/movie_script.php?movie=best-little-whorehouse-in-texas-the
Springfield! Springfield!
Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, The (1982)
It was only durin' the Hoover Depression
that the little house had tough times.
Miss Wulla Jean put in a jukebox
to spark up business.
But it wasn't always easy in them days
to come up with hard cash.
Well, you just keep that in the bag...
2016_Nk20_DSCN2124.JPG
http://www.e-reading.org.ua/bookreader.php/80261/King_-_The_Stand.html
Stephen King
The Stand - The Complete & Uncut Edition
Chapter 48
He came staggering and flapping up a long upgrade, the heat of the sun stewing his stomach and baking his brains. The interstate shimmered with reflected radiant heat. He had been Donald Merwin Elbert once, now he was Trashcan Man forever and ever, and he beheld the fabled City, Seven-in-One, Cibola.
How long had he been traveling west? How long since The Kid? God might know; Trashcan Man did not. It had been days. Nights. Oh, he remembered the nights!
He stood, swaying in his rags, looking down at Cibola, the City that is Promised, the City of Dreams. He was a wreck. The wrist that he had broken when he leaped the railing of the stairway bolted to the Cheery Oil tank had not healed right, and that wrist was a grotesque lump wrapped in a dirty, unraveling Ace bandage. All the bones in the fingers of that hand had pulled up somehow, turning the hand into a Quasimodo claw. His left arm was a slowly healing mass of burn tissue from elbow to shoulder. It no longer smelled bad and suppurated, but the new flesh was hairless and pink, like the skin of a cheap doll. His grinning, mad face was sunburned, peeling, scruffy-bearded, and covered with scabs from the header he had taken when the front wheel of his bike had parted company from the frame. He wore a faded blue J.C. Penney workshirt that was marked with expanding rings of sweatstain and a dirty pair of corduroy trousers. His pack, which had been new not so long ago, had now taken on the style and substance of its owner—one strap had broken, Trash had knotted it as best he could, and the pack now hung askew on his back like a shutter on a haunted house. It was dusty, its creases filled with desert sand. On his feet were Keds now bound together with hanks of twine, and from them his scratched and sand-chafed ankles rose innocent of socks.
He stared at the city far ahead and below. He turned his face up to the savage gunmetal sky and to the sun that blared down, coating him with furnace heat. He screamed. It was a savage, triumphant scream, very much like the one Susan Stern had uttered when she split Roger Rabbit’s skull with the butt of his own shotgun.
He began to do a shuffling, victorious dance on the hot, shimmering surface of Interstate 15 while the desert sirocco blew sand across the highway and the blue peaks of the Pahranagat and Spotted ranges sawed their teeth indifferently at the brilliant sky as they had done for millennia. Off the other side of the highway, a Lincoln Continental and a T-Bird were now almost buried in sand, their occupants mummified behind safety glass. Up ahead on Trashcan’s side was an overturned pickup, everything covered but the wheels and the rocker panels.
He danced. His feet, clad in the lashed and bulging Keds, bumped up and down on the highway in a drunken sort of hornpipe. The tattered tail of his shirt flapped. His canteen clunked against his pack. The unraveling ends of the Ace bandage fluttered in the hot breath of the wind. Pink, smooth burn tissue gleamed rawly. Clocksprings of veins bulged at his temples. He had been in God’s frying pan for a week now, moving southwest across Utah, the tip of Arizona, and then into Nevada, and he was just as mad as a hatter.
As he danced, he sang monotonously, the same words over and over, to a tune that had been popular when he was in the Terre Haute institution, a song called “Down to the Nightclub” that had been done by a black group called Tower of Power. But the words were his own. He sang:
“Ci-a-bola, Ci-a-bola, bump-ty, bump-ty, bump! Ci-a-bola, Ci-a-bola, bump-ty, bump-ty, bump! ” Each final “bump! ” was followed by a little skipping leap until the heat made everything swim and the harsh bright sky went twilight gray and he collapsed on the road, half fainting, his taxed heart thundering crazily in his arid chest. With the last of his strength, blubbering and grinning, he pulled himself over the overturned pickup truck and lay in its diminishing shade, shivering in the heat and panting.
“Cibola!” He croaked. “Bumpty-bumpty-bump! ”
He fumbled his canteen off his shoulder with his claw hand and shook it. The canteen was nearly empty. Didn’t matter. He would drink every single drop and lay up here until the sun went down, and then he would walk down the highway and into Cibola, fabled City. Seven-in-One. Tonight he would drink from ever-springing fountains faced in gold. But not until the killer sun went down. God was the greatest firebug of them all. A long time ago a boy named Donald Merwin Elbert had burned up old lady Semple’s pension check. That same boy had torched the Methodist Church in Powtanville, and if there had been anything left of Donald Merwin Elbert in this shell, it had surely been cremated with the oiltanks in Gary, Indiana. Over nine dozen of them, and they had gone up like a walloping string of firecrackers. Just in time for the Fourth of July, too. Nice. And in the wake of that conflagration, only the Trashcan Man had been left, his left arm a cracked and boiling stew, a fire inside his body that was never going to go out… at least not until his body was so much blackened charcoal.
And tonight he would drink the water of Cibola, yes, and it would taste like wine.
He upended the canteen and his throat worked as the last of his water, pisswarm, gurgled down into his belly. When it was gone, he threw the canteen out into the desert. Sweat had broken on his forehead like dew. He lay shivering deliciously with water cramps.
“Cibola!” He muttered. “Cibola! I’m coming! I’m coming! I’ll do whatever you want! My life for you! Bumpty-bumpty-bump! ”
Drowsiness began to steal over him now that his thirst was a little slaked. He was nearly asleep when a polar thought slipped up through the floor of his mind like an icy stiletto blade:
What if Cibola had been a mirage?
“No,” he muttered. “No, uh-uh, no.”
But simple denial would not drive the thought off. The blade probed and poked, keeping sleep at arm’s length. What if he had drunk the last of his water in celebration of a mirage? In his own way he recognized his madness, and that was the sort of thing mad people did, right enough. If it had been a mirage, he would die here in the desert and the buzzards would dine on him.
At last, unable to bear the hideous possibility any longer, he staggered to his feet and made his way back to the road, fighting off the waves of faintness and nausea that wanted to take him down. At the breast of the hill he stared out anxiously into the long flat plain below, studded with yucca and tumbleweed and devil’s mantilla. His breath caught in his throat and unraveled into a sigh, like a sleeve of fabric on a spike.
It was there!
Cibola, fabled of old, searched for by many, found by the Trashcan Man!
Far down in the desert, surrounded by blue mountains, blue itself in the haze of distance, its towers and avenues gleamed in the desert day. There were palm trees… he could see palm trees… and movement… and water!
“Oh, Cibola…” he crooned, and staggered back to the shade of the pickup. It was farther than it looked, he knew that. Tonight, after God’s torch had left the sky, he would walk as he never had before. He would reach Cibola and his first act would be to plunge headlong into the first fountain he came to. Then he would find him, the man who had bade him come here. The man who had drawn him across the plains and the mountains and finally into the desert, all in a month’s time and despite his horribly burned arm.
He who Is —the dark man, the hardcase. He waited for Trashcan Man in Cibola, and his were the armies of the night, his were the white-faced riders of the dead who would sweep out of the west and into the very face of the rising sun. They would come raving and grinning and stinking of sweat and gunpowder. There would be shrieks, and Trashcan cared very little for shrieks, there would be rape and subjugation, things about which he cared even less, there would be murder, which was immaterial—
–and there would be a Great Burning.
About that he cared very much. In the dreams the dark man came to him and spread out his arms from a high place and showed Trashcan a country in flames. Cities going up like bombs. Cultivated fields drawn in lines of fire. The very rivers of Chicago and Pittsburgh and Detroit and Birmingham ablaze with floating oil. And the dark man had told him a very simple thing in his dreams, a thing which had brought him running: I will set you high in my artillery. You are the man I want.
He rolled on his side, his cheeks and eyelids chafed and irritated from the blowing sand. He had been losing hope—yes, ever since the wheel had fallen off his bike he had been losing hope. God, the God of father-killing sheriffs, the God of Carley Yates, was stronger than the dark man after all, it seemed. Yet he had kept his faith and had kept on. And at last, when it seemed he was going to burn up in this desert before he ever got to Cibola where the dark man waited, he had seen it far below, dreaming in the sun.
“Cibola!” he whispered, and slept.
- posted by H.V.O.M - Kerry Wayne Burgess 07:22 AM Pacific Time Spokane Valley Washington USA Saturday 23 April 2016
