Won’t You Be My NeighRAWR

(Many moons ago, I had another blog, which got zero attention and documented Pennsylvania’s oddities.  This is me, reusing that content.)

One of those quite uniquely Pennsylvanian phenomena which managed to world is Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood. Produced in Pennsylvania, (Pittsburgh, in fact), and featuring people who lived in Pennsylvania, and made by Pennsylvanians. (The Land of Make Believe is probably just outside Allegheny county… prove me wrong).

The show was gentle, soothing, and slow paced, keeping kids interest at a totally different pace than most shows in the modern era. It entertained children through generation, with Mr. Rogers at the forefront, as a sympathetic, approachable and kind character.

So, what better way to commemorate him, you ask, than dressing up a giant statue of a carnivorous prehistoric beast in his image?
Standing outside of WQED in Pittsburg, that is in fact a Tyranosaurus Rex Mr. Rogers. He’s cradling Henrietta Pussycat and King Friday XIII, who usually kept to the land of Make Believe and didn’t keep company with the human Mr. Rogers–because he voiced them. That’s probably why the dino version of Rogers is so cranky… or because he can’t reach to consume him with his tiny, useless arms.

The puppets are better realized than the T Rex itself, but seriously look. It’s wearing white soled sneakers for the dinosaur to somehow take off at the beginning of the show. His tie is done in an impeccable Half Windsor.  Weirdest, the trolley is actually going up his back.

I would love for this to be the rebranding of the show for the next generation, quite frankly, but I figure that won’t happen.

To see Fred Roger’s real life, non-man eating genius, check this out

Zinc

http://m.weather.com/news/science/haunting-photos-abandoned-factory-20140502

This was near my house when I grew up.  It sat on a wide field, the pollution so bad that everything around was dead, brown and gray.  The factories were squat shadowy things.

My mom was driving with me and my cousin, when my cousin fell sick.  We pulled over in front of the rusty fence that separated the factory from the highway.  While my mom cared for my cousin, I stared at the windows, which were playing with the red orange light of the sunset, like the whole inside was on fire.

Later, I found the line “Dark, Satanic mills” in a Blake poem, and it pulled it to mind even in the wrong context.

its gone now, torn down and bulldozed over, but I’m shocked that this was the inside.  I always thought it was where nightmares came from.  But really, it’s sort of beautiful.