I Fought The Law, The Law Won

Or the aliens. Or the time warp. Sid posted a comment regarding Roy Thinnes in THE INVADERS, a great show from the 60s--I don't even want to think that this is going back almost half a century--where the dude is on the run from aliens in Bakersfield, California. They have the shape of humans, but bend their little finger in a weird Spock-wannabe movement. Roy Huggins created the show, along with Christian I. Nyby II (one damn cool name there, as a kid I thought it was Christian 1 Nyby 2). It was a follow-up to THE FUGITIVE, starring David Janssen as Dr. Richard Kimble. Forget ANY other version. Janssen was the man, in almost every scene back in a time when there were forty episodes a year, not twenty or piss and moan shows with ensemble casts. Kimble and Lt. Gerard, played by Barry Morse, whose hair made me think he had a matchstick for hair. (In two years, God willin' and if the creeks don't rise, I will have outlived Janssen, who died on Valentine's Day 1980, playing golf in Palm Springs. Heart attack. Me, I want to explode. Not a suicide bomber thing. Just a freak accident in a trans-dimensional attempt at finding an alternate universe where I actually have a girlfriend). But I digress. Kimble brought the one-armed man to justice--well, he killed him on the Mahia Mahia ride at Santa Monica Pier even though it was supposed to be Stafford, Indiana (see, I know my stuff). August 29th, 1967, the day the running stopped. Kimble with hottie Diane Baker, who then appeared in the first episode of THE INVADERS. An odd cycle, symmetry like in RUN, LOLA, RUN with Franke Potente. I posted the last shot for the guys reading the blog, I'm just saying, is all. I wasn't the only one running. Pant, pant, pant. I have Janssen's heart, if I outlive him, as I did Elvis and Karl Edward Wagner, Rod Serling is next on my list. One man's list, which wil take him to a place we can only call...THE TWILIGHT ZONE. Freaky, chain-smoking bastard. (I'm kidding, I'd be hotboxing Pall Malls with him in a second...) Well, time to shut my babbling brain off, see what happens when I can type fast? Your chattel, Wayne

Stepping Into The Twilight Zone With Dr. Richard Kimble

Back in 1989, the sign in the first photo read GAGE PARK FINER FOODS, and I marveled as I read the words from impossible angles. The break in the traffic in the second photo shows where I was standing, on the yellow line. It was 11:11 AM. When I hit the ground, everything in my mind split open and outward; the best that I can explain this is by thinking of a wet handful of sand hitting cement. I was unconscious for 20 minutes, and when I woke up, the first thing I heard was the Pakistani grocer calling out "Not to touch! Not to touch!" I could not see my arm, my head was bleeding, and in some only-Wayne-could-do-that way, after my arm broke, my own fist knocked four teeth out from behind my left jaw. While I was gone, because I to this day KNOW I was no longer part of this life, I was in a grey fog, like the false dawn an hour before the sun rises. I recall looking around, shrugging, and walking forward. There was no light, no flashing neon, no wisps of blackness swirling around my ankles. I walked for awhile before he came into view. I swear on the Polish Bible on my shelf, I came face to face with David Janssen, Dr. Richard Kimble, THE FUGITIVE himself. Dead at the age of 49, on Valentines Day, 1980. Kimble was always on the run, looking for the one-armed man who killed his wife. My subconscious was still functioning, trying to tell me I had one arm now, at least for the next 68 days. Kimble had this quirky smile, he'd use it when someone like Ed Asner or Terry Savalas said that he looked familiar. He stood before me and I could not pass him. He gave me that smile, somewhere between Elvis's sneer and Etain's smirk, and said that it wasn't time yet. Nothing about my Creator, my Higher Power. There was nothing around us, no deserted streets, maybe it was false dawn because The Fugitive was filmed in glorious black & white. I am sitting here, my chin in my palm, recalling the image. He put his hand on my shoulder and patted it, as if he knew I was going to make it. The television doctor, my emissary. And then he was gone, I was staring at gravel in my eye and listening to the Pakistani man. Not to touch. Not to touch.