About every five years or so, I remember about the KOOL-TV newsroom hostage drama, and down the rabbit hole I go. Can't help it--my morbid fascination compels me.

NOTE: Every time I watch this, I get PTSD from that horrible beige newsroom. You see kids, some sick fuck in 1972 decided that the color palette for offices, airports, hotels, and schools should be oatmeal, nut-brown, and shit-brown -- no deviations -- a trend that sadly lasted about a decade. It wasn't until 1983 or so that we collectively awoke from our '70s stupor and began to rebel. You might think the '80s went too far with the loud colors and the tackiness, but seriously, when the alternative is taupe and diarrhea? I'll take those eyeball-burning neons every time.

I mean, we just wanted to feel something, you know?

Without further ado, here's the video:

TL;DW -- In May 1982, a paranoid schizophrenic forced his way into a news station in Phoenix, held the whole crew at gunpoint, and got the anchorman to read his cracked-out ramblings live on air. 

Some highlights: 

At the 1:07 mark, we get our first mention of The Ten Prophets: "Johnny Cash, Ronnie Milsap, Eddie Rabbitt, Larry Gatlin, Hank Williams Jr., Rex Allen Jr., Willie Nelson, Conway Twitty, Loretta Lynn, Lacy J. Dalton, Tanya Tucker, and Barbara Mandrell." That's actually twelve prophets, but you know what? I'm gonna guess that Tanya and Barbara were last-minute additions, and Joseph Billie Gwinn just forgot to update the number. It happens. I'm also going to take a stab in the dark and say that Gwinn was a fan of country music, and that these "prophets" were simply artists that he was into at the time. If I were to assemble my own cabal based on my current Spotify playlist, I would select Debbie Harry, Freak Slug, Nation of Language, Bodega, The Bug Club, Suburban Lawns (Su Tissue is an otherworldly being with supernatural powers, and I NEED her in my corner!), Tegan and Sara, MJ Lenderman, Wet Leg, and Wishy. (Hey, this is fun!)

At 3:12 -- Imagine Joe Shmoe of Phoenix AZ innocently sitting down to watch the local news and hearing the anchorman say that cities full of gay men will soon be cropping up around the country. It's like something out of a Dead Milkmen song: "I told you Stuart, it's the queers! They're in it with the aliens! I swear to God, Stuart!"

13:34 -- "Ricky Reagan"? I'm not familiar with him.

At 14:27 We learn that unless the Queen heeds Johnny Cash's warning, Argentina will drop the A-bomb on London. "Oi Maggie! Eat this!" (Shouldn't have invaded the Falklands, I guess.)

22:03 The moment that Bill Close--absolute legend--nonchalantly takes the gun from Gwinn, distracts him with a handshake, then tells the police not to shoot him. The veteran newsman actually seems annoyed more than anything else, and I can see why. Born in 1921, he's from my grandparents' era, the "when men were men" generation. He has no time for your mental illness! "Cut the crap, for God's sake! Get a haircut and get a real job, son, and you won't be worried about Johnny Cash and Barbra Streisand and the Queen of England. Now bring me a whiskey neat!"  

Speaking of legends, the unsung hero of this whole ordeal is production assistant Luis Vila, who saved his female colleague from Gwinn's initial attack. I hope that KOOL-TV gave the guy a year-long, all-expense-paid vacation and a lifetime of free therapy for his trouble.    

And now I'll probably forget about this for another few years, until it's time to discover it again.