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Uncategorized

And In My Neighborhood: Man Kills Friend Over Plate of Food

This gun stuff seems to come in bursts, don’t you think?  Like rounds from an AR-15 converted to fire on full auto.  This suspected shooter clearly seems to have some mommy issues.

http://www.indianagazette.com/news/police-courts/man-charged-in-killing,19943660/

You’ll also want to see the video–as the alleged shooter does a perp walk with his walker and oxygen.

http://www.wtae.com/news/state-police-neighbor-fatally-shot-over-argument-in-indiana-county/26171764

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National Poetry Month: James Dickey

A BIRTH   by James Dickey

Inventing a story with grass,
I find a young horse deep inside it.
I cannot nail wires around him;
My fence posts fail to be solid,

And he is free, strangely, without me.
With his head still browsing the greenness,
He walks slowly out of the pasture
To enter the sun of his story.

My mind freed of its own creature,
I find myself deep in my life
In a room with my child and my mother,
When I feel the sun climbing my shoulder

Change, to include a new horse.

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Funny and/or Strange Poetry

Jimmy Stewart & His Poetry on Shprockets : Best SNL Sketch Ever

hqdefaultQuite possibly the most gut-wrenchingest, funniest SNL skit of all time.  If anyone has a copy of this video–which I’ve been unable to find–send me a link, drop me a line, let me know and I’ll be eternally grateful.

Sprockets

Announcer…..Phil Hartman
Dieter…..Mike Myers
Jimmy Stewart…..Dana Carvey

[FADE IN on the “Sprockets” opening, with the nuclear bomb and city scenes.]

Announcer: Shprockets. Shprockets. Vest German television presents, “Shprockets.” Vith your host: Dieter.

[SUPERIMPOSE “LIVE SHOW” and then FADE to Dieter.]

Dieter: Velcome to “Shprockets,” I am your host, Dieter. Tonight our guest is vone of America’s foremost poets of anarchy and rebellion. An obsessed outcast, whose dark visions drag us to the edge. His book, “Jimmy Shtewart and His Poems”… [holds up book] …is filled with biting images that assault the senses, unmasking both reader and poet alike in a macabre dance of despair. He has also appeared in films. Please velcome Jimmy Shtewart!

[Audience cheers as Dieter stands up, claps stiffly, and then sits again. Jimmy Stewart finally dodders onstage in a dark gray suit and dark-rimmed glasses. He takes a seat next to Dieter.]

Dieter: Mr. Shtewart. Critic Graus Greck, in the latest issue of “Verdkunst,” described your book as an asylum, vhere man meets his Creator and screams.

Jimmy Stewart: Well, uh, thank you, Dieter. That’s, uh… Y’know–y’know, Gloria and I are big fans of YOURS.

Dieter: In your poem, “Old Rocking Chair,” you write: “You sit in the corner/Old rocking chair/It makes me feel good/To know you are there.”

Jimmy Stewart: Yeah…

Dieter: I feel emotionally obliterated.

Jimmy Stewart: I’m glad–glad–glad to HEAR that, y’see, good poetry is about DESTRUCTION.

Dieter: Under vhat conditions does a man experience such raw truth?

Jimmy Stewart: Well, Dieter, it’s no picnic, I can tell you that right now. I was holed up in a Mexico City slum. I hadn’t eaten in weeks, and what few pesos I had, I’d spent on alcohol. Some cheap crap called chocho. I was down and out. That’s when I wrote “Good Old Rockin’ Chair.” You see, you’ve gotta go through the PAIN.

Dieter: And vhat of your poem, “Funny Little Pooch”?

Jimmy Stewart: Yeah. There’s a rather interesting story about that “Funny Little Pooch” thing… There was a period of intense creativity for me, Dii-eter.

Dieter: Dieter.

Jimmy Stewart: Dooter.

Dieter: Dieter.

Jimmy Stewart: Yeah. yeah. You know, I’d been hitchhiking through Paraguay when I finally settled in Bella Cristo with a 15-year-old WHORE. For a week straight, I was either having sex or hallucinating. Yeah… And then I woke up one morning and she was GONE… she’s just–just GONE. And she’d taken all my stuff, and I–I just got crazy paranoid for a minute–well–you–know–how it can be. And I just curled up on that floor like a little baby, and just bawled my eyes out. And–and then a very interesting thing happened. I realized that I was just a speck of crud in a godless VOID. And twenty minutes later, I’d written “Funny Little Pooch.”

Dieter: Jimmy Shtewart: you are a running sore. Running from yourself, yet your scab heals us all.

Jimmy Stewart: Yeah. Yeah. Well, y’know, I just do what I do.

[laughter]

Dieter: May I read a passage from “My Kitten, My Pal”?

Jimmy Stewart: Well, I’d be HONORED, Dau-Daughter.

Dieter: Dieter.

Jimmy Stewart: Dooter.

Dieter: Dieter.

Jimmy Stewart: Yeah.

Dieter: [reading] “My kitten, my pal/You sit on my lap–”

Jimmy Stewart: Well, well, now–now–wait a minute. Now, now, you gotta read it–you gotta SCREAM it, like it’s a matter of life and death, you, can-can I show you… how, here… [takes book from him]

Dieter: Go right ahead.

Jimmy Stewart: All right… [reading] “My kitten, my pal/You sit on my lap/You’re a friendly sort of chap.” [muttering] I’m a little… thirsty here…

[Jimmy picks up a bottle of tequila and swigs from it.]

Jimmy Stewart: Now… GOOD.

[sets bottle down between him and Dieter]

Jimmy Stewart: [reading] “A little bit of gray and a little bit of white/I’ll tell you, little kitten/You’re doing all right.” Yeah.

Dieter: That poem pulls down my pants and taunts me.

Jimmy Stewart: Well, that’s exactly what it’s supposed to do. Yeah, it’s not rare when something happens like–I wrote that one on a piece of toilet paper, after waking up in a puddle of my own SICK.

[laughter]

Jimmy Stewart: Now, it wasn’t pretty, wasn’t pretty.

Dieter: Is it true that you vonce killed a man?

Jimmy Stewart: N-now, now, wait a minute there, Daughter. No–

Dieter: Dieter.

Jimmy Stewart: That’s right, Dieter. No man ever really dies by the hand of another, you see, every man’s responsible for his own DEATH. And by the way, you haven’t asked me if I want to touch your MONKEY.

Dieter: I thought it beneath you.

Jimmy Stewart: Well, Dieter, if that monkey knew where I’d been, he wouldn’t LET me touch him.

Dieter: Then touch him. Touch him! Touch my monkey! [babbles in German] Touch him, LOVE HIM!

Jimmy Stewart: [walks over to monkey] All right, you little pal, let’s go–

[Dieter’s monkey squeals and jumps off his pedestal after Jimmy touches him.]

Jimmy Stewart: [yanks back hand] Oh! Oh, son of a bitch BIT me!

[Jimmy leaps back to the table and breaks off the top of the tequila bottle.]

Jimmy Stewart: [brandishing broken bottleneck] C’mon, monkey, let’s see what’s in that belly of yours!

Dieter: [standing up] Now is the time on “Shprockets” when we dance!

[The theme song starts up as the other dancers join Dieter and dance stiffly. After a moment, Jimmy squats down and starts doing the Charleston.]

Dieter: That’s all the time we have on “Shprockets.” Our guest has been Jimmy Shtewart. My name is Dieter. Auf wiedersehen.

[Dieter trots up close to the camera and dances in front of it.]

Jimmy Stewart: Hi, Gloria! [waves] I’ll see ya in six weeks! I’m making a pit stop in Turkey!

[FADE to black over applause.]

I did find this (the real deal)–Jimmy Stewart doing Jimmy Stewart is almost as good as Dana Carvey:

 

Categories
Commentary Funny and/or Strange

Two Great (And Necessary) Pop Music Parodies

First, Ron Jeremy ride’s Miley Cyrus’ Wrecking Ball

Screenshot_6

Next, James Franco & Seth Rogen skewer the ridiculous Kanye West

Screenshot_7

Every time I hear this clown, Kanye, I remember when rap was something impossibly cool and vaguely alien to an rural Appalachian white guy like me.  Compared to Eric B. & Rakim, for example, Big Daddy Kane, Digital Underground…and I’m sure a few dozen more that someone who actually listened to this stuff knows.  Those guys could rhyme some poetry!  All this Kanye guy needs is a pair of oversized shoes, a squirting flower, and a bright red nose that honks when squeezed.  And don’t even get me started on Ms. Achy Breaky–at least she’s clearly walking a path laid out by a savvy image consultant–too bad it’s not a secret path…

This is how it’s done:

Categories
Commentary

Where I Live: Indiana, PA

Image

Coming up on the beginning of the holiday season, our town kicks things off with the annual “It’s a Wonderful Night In Indiana, PA” light up festival–there will be a parade, the mayor will wave from his car, and the marching band playing Christmas songs; next up is a bonfire, hot cocoa and all sorts of fun stuff for the brats–er–kids. Oh, and Santa’s coming, too.  In honor of all that, and because I don’t feel like writing anything more thoughtful, here’s a few more things about the town I call home.

The New York Times likes our museum.

Really Famous People Were Born Here…like Edward Abbey

And This Guy, Too.  He would never have let the government shut down.

Our Football Team Rocks…and Not Just Because They Usually Win

rp_primary_Athletics_Football_92510D568

The Basketball Team is Even BETTER

We OWN tripadvisor.com!

We even pimp our “wonderful life” on the official town website!

We have our own university, but it’s name confuses people.

It’s a pretty university, too.

The IUP Journalism department has a blog.  Unlike this one, it’s good.

It’s a pretty cool place to live–something this prodigal son never thought he’d say.

You’d be hard put to find a better sandwich.

But we still need someone to open a decent micro-brewery.

It’s pretty here–I grew up in this neighborhood.

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Uncategorized

Christopher Hitchens Remembered

Christopher Hitchens Remembered

“The life and career of award-winning journalist Christopher Hitchens is chronicled in this video collection. Hitchens, in his singular voice, reports and reflects on cultural trends, political events, and the forces that define our Age.”

I certainly didn’t always agree with what Hitchens wrote, but I like reading it.  His life seems to me one prototype of what what a writer’s idealized life should be like.  There are few famous people I’d meeting, or ever wished I’d met.  Hitchens was one of those few:

There’s also this, a nice article that includes a wonderful poem by James Fenton: http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/newsdesk/2012/04/remembering-christopher-hitchens.html

And a few others:

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/newsdesk/2012/04/remembering-christopher-hitchens.html

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/newsdesk/2011/12/postscript-christopher-hitchens.html

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/backissues/2011/12/takes-christopher-hitchens.html

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/newsdesk/2012/04/remembering-christopher-hitchens.html

I wish I could have James Fenton read a poem when I die.