From 11/02/1965 to 02/05/2025 is 3 days 3 months 59 years
https://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/documents/remarks-swearing-ceremony-for-pamela-j-bondi-attorney-general-and-exchange-with-reporters
From 1/28/2021 ( ) To 2/5/2025 ( ) is 1469 days
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 11/10/1969 ( premiere USA TV series "Sesame Street" ) is 1469 days
https://www.imdb.com/title/tt9721646/
IMDb
The Stand
S1.E7
The Walk
Episode aired Jan 28, 2021
https://www.fox13seattle.com/news/trump-bryan-kohbergers-plea-deal
FOX 13 Seattle
Trump weighs in on Bryan Kohberger's plea deal ahead of Idaho murders sentencing
By Michael Ruiz Published July 22, 2025 8:32 am PDT
President Donald Trump waded into the "vicious" Idaho student murders case Monday with a post on Truth Social about Bryan Kohberger's upcoming sentencing, saying he hopes the judge requires some kind of explanation at Wednesday's hearing for the slayings
10/16/07 2:26 PM
I've been seeing some photos with Navy people wearing ear plugs, which this photo reminds me of.
http://www.dodmedia.osd.mil/Assets/Still/1988/Navy/DN-ST-88-02515.JPEG
A US Navy Sea-Air-Land (SEAL) team member applies camouflage paint to is face during tactical warfare training.
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 48
“Looks like that to you too, huh? It’s a flaw. Special from him. I’m not the smartest guy he’s got, not even the smartest guy in good ole Lost Wages, not by a long shot. But I’m… shit, I guess you’d say I’m his mascot.” He looked closely at Trash. “Maybe you too, who knows? Not me, that’s for sure. He’s a close one, Flagg is. Anyway, we heard about you special. Me and Whitney. That’s not the regular drill at all. Too many comin in to take special notice of many.” He paused. “Although I guess he could, if he wanted to. I guess he could take notice of just about anybody.”
Trashcan Man nodded.
“He can do magic,” Lloyd said, his voice becoming slightly hoarse. “I seen it. I’d hate to be the people against him, you know?”
“Yes,” Trashcan said.
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 39
Lloyd Henreid was down on his knees. He was humming and grinning. Every now and then he would forget what he had been humming and the grin would fade and he would sob a little bit, and then he would forget he was crying and go on humming. The song he was humming was “Camptown Races.” Every now and then, instead of humming or sobbing, he would whisper “Doo-dah, doo-dah” under his breath. The holding cellblock was utterly quiet except for the humming, the sobbing, the occasional doo-dah, and the soft scrape of the cotleg as Lloyd fumbled with it. He was trying to turn Trask’s body around so he could get at the leg. Please, waiter, bring me some more of that cole slaw and another leg.
Lloyd looked like a man who had embarked upon a radical crash diet. His prison coverall hung on his body like a limp sail. The last meal served in the holding cellblock had been lunch eight days ago. Lloyd’s skin was stretched tightly across his face, limning every curve and angle of the skull beneath. His eyes were bright and glittering. His lips had drawn back from his teeth. He had an oddly piebald look, because his hair had begun to fall out in clumps. He looked crazy.
“Doo-dah, doo-dah,” Lloyd whispered as he fished with his cotleg. Once upon a time he hadn’t known why he had bothered hurting his fingers to unscrew the damn thing. Once upon a time he had thought he had known what real hunger was. That hunger had been nothing but a slight edge to the appetite when compared with this.
“Ride around all night… ride around all day… doo-dah…”
The cotleg snagged the calf of Trask’s pantsleg and then pulled free. Lloyd put his head down and sobbed like a child. Behind him, tossed indifferently in one corner, was the skeleton of the rat he had killed in Trask’s cell on June 29, five days ago. The rat’s long pink tail was still attached to the skeleton. Lloyd had tried repeatedly to eat the tail but it was too tough. Almost all the water in the toilet bowl was gone despite his efforts to conserve it. The cell was filled with the reek of urine; he had been peeing out into the corridor so as not to contaminate his water supply. He had not—and this was understandable enough, considering the radically reduced conditions of his diet—had to move his bowels.
He had eaten the food he had squirreled away too fast. He knew that now. He had thought someone would come. He hadn’t been able to believe—
He didn’t want to eat Trask. The thought of eating Trask was horrible. Just last night he had managed to slap one of his slippers over a cockroach and had eaten it alive; he had felt it scuttering madly around inside his mouth just before his teeth had crunched it in two. Actually, it hadn’t been half bad, much tastier than the rat. No, he didn’t want to eat Trask. He didn’t want to be a cannibal. It was like the rat. He would get Trask over within reaching distance… but just in case. Just in case. He had heard a man could go a long time without food as long as he had water.
(not much water but I won’t think about that now not just now no not just now)
He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to starve. He was too full of hate.
The hate had built up at a fairly leisurely pace over the last three days, growing with his hunger. He supposed that, if his long-dead pet rabbit had been capable of thought, it would have hated him in the same way (he slept a great deal now, and his sleep was always troubled with dreams of his rabbit, its body swollen, its fur matted, the maggots squirming in its eyes, and worst of all, those bloody paws: when he awoke he would look at his own fingers in dread fascination). Lloyd’s hate had coalesced around a simple imagistic concept, and this concept was THE KEY.
He was locked in. Once upon a time it had seemed right that he should be. He was one of the bad guys. Not a really bad guy; Poke had been the really bad guy. Small shit was the worst he would have done without Poke. Still, he shared a certain amount of the blame. There had been Gorgeous George in Vegas, and the three people in the white Continental—he had been in on that, and he supposed he had owned some of that heat. He supposed he deserved to take a fall, do a little time. It wasn’t something you volunteered for, but when they had you cold they gave you the bullet and you ate it. Like he had told the lawyer, he thought he deserved about twenty for his part in the “tri-state killspree.” Not in the electric chair, Christ no. The thought of Lloyd Henreid riding the lightning was just… it was crazy.
But they had THE KEY, that was the thing. They could lock you up and do what they wanted with you.
In the last three days, Lloyd had vaguely begun to grasp the symbolic, talismanic power of THE KEY. THE KEY was your reward for playing by the rules. If you didn’t, they could lock you up. It was no different than the Go to Jail card in Monopoly. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. And with THE KEY went certain prerogatives. They could take away ten years of your life, or twenty, or forty. They could hire people like Mathers to beat on you. They could even take away your life in the electric chair.
But having THE KEY didn’t give them the right to go away and leave you locked up to starve. It didn’t give them the right to force you into eating a dead rat and to try to eat the dry ticking of your mattress. It didn’t give them the right to leave you in a spot where you might just have to eat the man in the next cell to stay alive (if you can get ahold of him, that is—doo-dah, doo-dah).
There were certain things you just couldn’t do to people. Having THE KEY only took you so far and no farther. They had left him here to die a horrible death when they could have let him out. He wasn’t a mad dog killer who was going to waste the first person he saw, in spite of what the papers had said. Small shit was the worst he had ever gotten into before meeting Poke.
So he hated, and the hate commanded him to live… or at least to try. For a while it seemed to him that the hate and the determination to go on living were useless things, because all of those who had THE KEY had succumbed to the flu. They were beyond the reach of his vengeance. Then, little by little, as he grew hungrier, he realized that the flu wouldn’t kill them. It would kill the losers like him; it would kill Mathers but not that scumbag screw who had hired Mathers because the screw had THE KEY. It wasn’t going to kill the governor or the warden—the guard who said the warden was sick had obviously been a fucking liar. It wasn’t going to kill the parole officers, the county sheriffs, or the FBI agents. The flu would not touch those who had THE KEY. It wouldn’t dare. But Lloyd would touch them. If he lived long enough to get out of here, he would touch them plenty.
The cotleg snagged in Trask’s cuff again.
“Come on,” Lloyd whispered. “Come on. Come on over here… camptown ladies sing dis song… all doo-dah day.”
Trask’s body slid slowly, stiffly, along the floor of his cell. No fisherman ever played a bonita more carefully or with greater wile than Lloyd played Trask. Once Trask’s trousers ripped and Lloyd had to hook on in a new place. But at last his foot was close enough so that Lloyd could reach through the bars and grab it… if he wanted to.
“Nothing personal,” he whispered to Trask. He touched Trask’s leg. He caressed it. “Nothing personal, I ain’t going to eat you, old buddy. Not less I have to.”
He was not even aware that he was salivating.
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 65
North of Las Vegas is Emigrant Valley, and that night a small spark of fire glowed in its tumbled wilderness. Randall Flagg sat beside it, moodily cooking the carcass of a small rabbit. He turned it steadily on the crude rotisserie he had made, watching it sizzle and spit grease into the fire. There was a light breeze, blowing the savory smell out into the desert, and the wolves had come. They sat two rises over from his fire, howling at the nearly full moon and at the smell of cooking meat. Every now and then he would glance at them and two or three would begin to fight, biting and snapping and kicking with their powerful back legs until the weakest was banished. Then the others would begin to howl again, their snouts pointed at the bloated, reddish moon.
But the wolves bored him now.
He wore his jeans and his tattered walking boots and his sheepskin jacket with its two buttons on the breast pockets: smiley-smile and HOW’S YOUR PORK? The night wind flapped fitfully at his collar.
He didn’t like the way things were going.
There were bad omens in the wind, evil portents like bats fluttering in the dark loft of a deserted barn. The old woman had died and at first he had thought that was good. In spite of everything, he had been afraid of the old woman. She had died, and he had told Dayna Jurgens that she had died in a coma… but was it true? He was no longer quite so sure.
Had she talked, at the end? And if so, what had she said?
What were they planning?
He had developed a sort of third eye. It was like the levitating ability; something he had and accepted but which he didn’t really understand. He was able to send it out, to see… almost always. But sometimes the eye fell mysteriously blind. He had been able to look into the old woman’s death chamber, had seen them gathered around her, their tailfeathers still singed from Harold and Nadine’s little surprise… but then the vision had faded away and he had been back in the desert, wrapped in his bedroll, looking up and seeing nothing but Cassiopeia in her starry rocking chair. And there had been a voice inside him that said: She’s gone. They waited for her to talk but she never did.
But he no longer trusted the voice.
There was the troubling matter of the spies.
The Judge, with his head blown off.
The girl, who had eluded him at the last second. And she had known, Goddammit! She had known!
He threw a sudden furious stare at the wolves and nearly half a dozen fell to fighting, their guttural sounds like ripping cloth in the stillness.
He knew all their secrets except… the third. Who was the third? He had sent the Eye out over and over again, and it afforded him with nothing but the cryptic, idiotic face of the moon. M-O-O-N, that spells moon.
Who was the third?
by me, Kerry Burgess, typed after being released from the USA Veterans Affairs psychiatric hospital enduring many months sitting in a grungy two-computer room in a homeless shelter on the waterfront in downtown Seattle:
10/16/07 12:49 AM
I must have had to eject from my aircraft into a swamp, on at least one occasion and that explains certain artificial memories.
I am also certain that the artificial memories I wrote of where I was watching a plastic ship burning is actually about the Stark on fire on 5/17/1987.
10/16/07 9:14 AM
Phoebe, my wife, certainly chose the right guy to take her top off for.
10/16/07 9:18 AM
And she did that for love. All this was hers regardless of that movie. That probably actually gave her controlling share of my assets.
10/16/07 9:26 AM
That's if we ever needed to split our assets, which we never will.
Now if I could just get the zombies to quit disrupting our lives, where they shown no signs of abatement or remorse about disrupting our lives and endangering our family.
10/16/07 1:19 PM
Besides the zombie in the camoflauge jacket, there were some people, zombies perhaps, taking caution to record me on video as I approached them. From the distance, they had the cameras on me, but as I approached, they tried to make it look like they were recording the Space Needle. That happens a lot but I don't see much point in reporting it, especially since these zombies are tracing me at this very minute. And that is probably one of the very reasons that are monitoring me 24 hours a day.
10/16/07 2:12 PM
I hope we got to spend a lot of time with her before I got shot down in Africa on 2/14/1986.
I am still thinking she knew something about what was happening to me at the time, but I am not sure what details she knew. I don't think she knew I was in Africa. If she was working for the CIA back then too, they were probably letting her know some of what was going on. Something about Mexico I guess. Maybe she thought I was....I don't know. In a Mexican prison?
10/16/07 2:54 PM
Ear plugs seem to be standard procedure during weapons training.
http://www.dodmedia.osd.mil/Assets/Still/1988/Navy/DN-ST-88-00618.JPEG
A Sea-Air-Land (SEAL) team instructor makes a point during a field training exercise.
10/16/07 5:49 PM
I wish I could remember one day with Phoebe of true memory.
What did we do on 7/16/1997, for example?
10/16/07 5:50 PM
What about 12/25/1997? What did we do on that day?
10/15/07 4:04 PM
Why do I even "remember" those details about Tracie? Just to reinforce that I was never happy with anyone but Phoebe?
10/15/07 4:09 PM
I don't know what they did to my brain in support of this special operation, but there was a sense that I would have come out of this a changed person and I certainly did not want to lose my feelings for Phoebe. There was that risk.
And I sure as hell would not have risked something so valuable to me if this wasn't such an important special operation.
- by me, Kerry Wayne Burgess, posted by me: 1:47 PM Pacific-timezone USA Friday 08/15/2025
