Today is 08/09/2026

by me, Kerry Burgess, December 16, 2017 7:01 pm

Jesus Christ bible-thumpers, will simply change their story when the facts prove they are wrong. Million of monkey-men were wrong about Zeus so they simply invented a phony God easier to believe.









4:10 PM December 23, 2020

Astro_Spook @Kerry_W_Burgess

They just won't shut up about a White Christmas here in Spokane on local live-tv news

Happened almost every year I've lived here, I haven't counted

Would think they wouldn't care about it anymore



I can tell you one thing for certain: Life, miserable as it is, is better without Christmas

Better without birthday celebration, Thanksgiving

Keep the Superstition in Christmas!









4:06 PM December 23, 2020

Astro_Spook @Kerry_W_Burgess

Meanwhile, on local live-tv news...

"91 Covid patients at Kootenai Health"



by me, Kerry Burgess

In 2018, and earlier, person with common-cold virus could have probably, I am thinking, gone into that same hospital and receive the exact same treatment as their getting with Covid-19 today

"When you're a hammer, everything's a nail" the expression goes



Astro_Spook @Kerry_W_Burgess

Nobody - NOBODY - goes to the hospital for the common-cold









02:41 AM December 23, 2020

Astro_Spook @Kerry_W_Burgess

Quote Tweet

Anthony Masiello @antmasiello Dec 6

Now for a November jet stream-perspective: here's the mean 250mb u-wind (west/east directions) for 2014-2020 (warmest SST) and then their u-wind difference with 1979-2013 on the right. The migration of the jet southward over the Pacific is delayed for recent Novembers.



Astro_Spook @Kerry_W_Burgess

Quote Tweet

Kaylan Patel @WxPatel

Dec 6 Replying to @antmasiello

Is there any particular reason why the migration has been delayed or is it just a coincidence that it's happened 3 years in a row?



Astro_Spook @Kerry_W_Burgess

Quote Tweet

Brian Brettschneider @Climatologist49

Dec 6 Replying to @antmasiello

It's as if something has changed. Thinking face



Astro_Spook @Kerry_W_Burgess

Quote Tweet

Jim Hughes windweather sun and stratosphere @JimWindweather Nov 22

We have been under the influence of the Northern Polar coronal hole for a while now when it rotates back into geoeffective position. I do not recall this lengthy of an influence, at this stage of the solar cycle, during the 2 previous Sunspot Cycles, 23 & 24. KP Index 5 Peak









5:48 PM December 23, 2020

Astro_Spook @Kerry_W_Burgess

Watching those Bubblehead Parrots on CBS tv national-news, I have to wonder if there is a nefarious purpose to the new vaccine, bolstered by my extensive research

Informing my opinion by my extensive research

Of which *you* have none, none of you have informed opinion



First, those conspirators have established that even a moderately infectious contagion, lethal, would have killed off all you polluters by now, all these months later

Two, the infiltrators have thoroughly comprised the process that will be used for The Fire Next Time









https://www.yahoo.com/news/weather-news/article/washington-fire-updates-spokane-arson-suspect-faces-4-more-charges-as-crews-gain-ground-152238152.html

Yahoo News

Washington fire updates: Spokane arson suspect faces 4 more charges as crews gain ground

Aaron Farinacci now faces five counts of first-degree arson. He did not enter a plea at his arraignment and will undergo a competency evaluation.

Jack Brewster, Jasmine Andersson, Mike Bebernes

Updated Sun, August 9, 2026 at 8:48 AM PDT

A man was arrested Monday on suspicion of starting one of the three fires. Aaron F. Farinacci, 37, of Spokane, now faces five counts of first-degree arson. Prosecutors added four after he told detectives he had lit about 25 fires in his neighborhood since July 2025. Investigators verified four of them.

The added counts cover the Aubrey White fire, which burned more than 1,200 acres in July 2025; a second blaze two days later within five miles of it; the Equestrian Fire that August; and the Indian Bluff Fire last month. Prosecutors said the charges "may be further amended as the full extent of the defendant's criminal acts becomes known."

Court documents say he began planning the Old Trails Fire about two weeks out, using a weather app to pick a day with high wind, low humidity and heat, and settled on Aug. 1. He also studied the methods of other arsonists, including John Leonard Orr, and bought materials to build what the affidavit calls a "time delay device."

"He feels fire is powerful, beautiful, and that things that go through fire experience a kind of rebirth," wrote one of the detectives who interviewed him.

Farinacci did not enter a plea at his arraignment Thursday. His attorney requested a competency evaluation, and the judge raised his bond to $2 million. His next hearing is Sept. 4.

Court records show Farinacci has a history of mental health problems.

Farinacci shot and killed his adoptive father, Jeffrey Farinacci, at their home in Mesa, Ariz., in October 2010 after an argument over dishes, the Associated Press reported, citing records. Court documents say he took a .22-caliber pistol from a closet and fired twice as his father came through a bedroom door. He then ran from the house and shot himself in the chest.

The dispute went beyond the dishes, according to court records reviewed by NBC News. Farinacci described his father "slapping him around, cornered him and was in his face." He gave investigators shifting accounts of the shooting itself, saying at various points that his father barged in, that the gun went off accidentally and that he fired in self-defense.

A grand jury charged him with first-degree murder. Before sentencing, a court-ordered psychological evaluation found his intelligence was below average and documented severe anxiety, chronic depression and repeated suicide attempts, NBC reported. It also flagged signs of bipolar disorder and several psychiatric hospitalizations.

He pleaded guilty in 2012 to manslaughter and aggravated assault, drawing 12 years in prison and three years of probation. A sentencing memo said he "hopes to learn appropriate skills while in prison to deal with his anger issues." Arizona corrections records show he was released Dec. 23, 2020.

He moved to Washington in 2022 and remained on probation until 2024. He had been staying at his adoptive mother's apartment in Spokane, unemployed and dealing with depression, someone close to the family told NBC News.









From 10/24/1994 ( premiere USA film "Stargate" ) To 8/1/2026 ( ) is 11604 days

From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 8/10/1997 ( premiere USA TV series episode "Mysteries of the Bible"::"Messiah" ) is 11604 days









Star Trek

"The Paradise Syndrome"

Original Airdate: Oct 4, 1968

(from internet transcript)

KIRK: It's only the wind and the thunder.

MIRAMANEE: I act like a stupid child. I have nothing to fear. You are here. (she looks outside) It is time.

KIRK; Time?

MIRAMANEE: To go to the temple. The people will be waiting.

KIRK: Why?

MIRAMANEE: To save them.

KIRK: But it's only the wind. The wind can't harm them.

MIRAMANEE: The wind is only the beginning. Soon the sky will darken, the lake will go wild, and the earth will tremble. Only you can save us.

KIRK: But I can't do anything about the wind or the sky.

MIRAMANEE: If we don't go now, it will be too late. You must go inside the temple and make the blue flame come out.

KIRK: I don't know how to get inside the temple.

MIRAMANEE: But you are a god.









https://www.yahoo.com/news/us/articles/arson-suspect-confessed-setting-dozens-214500723.html

Yahoo! News

The Center Square

Arson suspect confessed to setting dozens of Spokane wildfires, records show

Andrew Paxton

Updated Thu, August 6, 2026 at 2:45 PM PDT 3 min read

Among those incidents was the July 6, 2025, Aubrey White fire near mile marker 30 of the Centennial Trail. Court documents state that after igniting the fire, Farinacci sat on a nearby boulder, injured, expecting authorities to track the trail of flames directly to him.









The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King, author

excerpt, Chapter 34

Hey, Trash, ya fuckin firebug!

The place in Terre Haute let him go when he was thirteen. They didn’t know if he was cured or not, but they said he was. They needed his room so they could put some other crazy kid in it for a couple of years. Trashcan went home. He was way behind in his schoolwork now, and he couldn’t seem to catch the hang of it. They had given him shock treatments in Terre Haute, and when he got back to Powtanville, he couldn’t remember things. He would study for a test and then forget half the stuff and flunk with a 60 or 40 or something like that.









The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King, author

excerpt, 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



- by me, Kerry Wayne Burgess, posted by me: 10:59 AM Pacific-timezone USA Sunday 08/09/2026