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One of the most clever songwriters and quick-witted live comedians in the business... with his high speed, low-drag act that constantly changes and evolves, Pat has such strong material and improv skills, no two shows are ever the same... not even close.
seen and heard on last comic standing the howard stern show the bob and tom show schedule get tickets

Pat Godwin in Vincennes on te%

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Pat Godwin in Vincennes on te%

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The Eddie Money Button

Eddie Money did our show, WMMR’s Morning Zoo, in the early 90s and was such a guy’s guy, down to earth, charming interview subject, albeit a little rough around the edges. He regaled us with tales from the road and took great delight in shocking us with his Rock-N-Roll debauchery. The night before, after his show, he told us he got in a bit of trouble and woke up without his watch, but wouldn’t tell us how. He hinted someone may have rolled him or he traded it for “something”. He kept us guessing with that crooked smile of his and said, “I’d better be careful what I say, my wife may be listening.” 

I would always have a guitar and piano handy and our lead guy, John DeBella, coaxed a cigarette raspy, hungover, missing his watch Eddie Money into singing at 7 am and It took a lot of begging on our part, but he finally caved in. During the break, Eddie, asked if I would play the acoustic guitar on “Two Tickets To Paradise” and he would play piano. We were rehearsing during the break and Eddie didn’t realize we had come back on the air and says to me, “Hey, kid, when you get to the chorus, really hit that FUCKING guitar and don’t leave me hanging here with my DICK in my hands.” (I put fuck and dick in caps because he shouted both expletives for emphasis) We never worked with a dump button or 7 second delay and DeBella, aghast for a beat or two, says, “We’re here on the show today with Eddie Money as part of our Christian programming requirement.” Eddie, big goofy twisted smile, never acknowledged his cursing and then launched in to a blistering version of his iconic hit, and I didn’t leave him fucking hanging with his dick in his hands. 

The next day, our General Manager, Mike Craven, got got us that 7 second delay device and we called it the “Eddie Money” button. R.I.P., Eddie Money

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The Happiness Life

1B34B9F9-D51C-463D-8ADA-C68007B45371Jimmy was asking me what it was like when his Mom and I were together. I told him we had a lot of fun taking him and his big Sister to dinner, going to the movies, walking in the park, playing in the snow, and we had a great time. He got quiet and said, “Why don’t you get back together with Mom so I could have ‘the happiness life’. I said, “Jimmy, I know divorce isn’t easy at your age, but I promise, I’ll give you the best ‘happiness life’ I can.”

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The Great Irish Potato Fire of ’86

IMG_2114I’m lucky to be alive for a number of reasons, but the fact I survived “The Potato Fire of ’86” is a miracle.

I had been kicked to the curb by the first of many Kims, so I was staying at a friend’s apartment in Kingston, PA. He was shacking up at his girlfriend’s place, but kept his crappy, barely furnished apartment, just in case things soured in paradise. I had been nursing my broken heart by staying out late and having a few beers, so after getting back to my new digs, I was tipsy and starving.

What’s there to eat? It’s 3 a.m., everything’s closed within safe drunk driving distance, and the frig is bare, except for some butter and soon to curdled chocolate milk. I’m no cook, but what the hell, what’s in the cupboard? I found a bottle of soy sauce, rice, ketchup packets, sugar, salt and pepper shakers, couscous, Fleishmann’s vodka, and 3 old potatoes with the eyes hanging out like a Tim Burton puppet. I know what will work, I can cook these potatoes. Yeah, I got butter and salt and pepper, that’ll do. But first, since we’re improvising, the chef needs a little libation, so I’m going to make myself a Chodka, which is 3/4 of a glass of old chocolate milk and 2 shots of cheap vodka. You know it’s not bad, much better than the Gatorum I had, last week.

Ok, let’s do this. I can’t bake these spuds, because that’ll take too long, but I know, I’ll boil them. I’ll make mashed potatoes, or rather, since the cook is impaired, smashed potatoes. Ha! I kill me. Where’s a pot? There’s a pot. Is it clean? No. Who cares. Put it on the stove, fill it with water, turn the burner to high, take a sip of Chodka, trim the potatoes, shave the potatoes, get a bandaid, put it on the wound, more Chodka, put potatoes in the pot, and wait.

It dawns on me, that while I’m waiting for the potatoes to boil, playing my guitar, drunk, I’m quite the Irish stereotype. Just put a shillelagh in my hand and I’m ready for the St. Paddy’s Day Parade. I’m also very tired, but there’s no couch or even a chair. There’s a mattress on the floor, a yellowed pillow, and a Spider-Man blanket. That’s it. I miss my girlfriend; she could have comforted me in my time of need, whipped me up something. Maybe I shouldn’t have kissed Shelly, her office mate, at the New Year’s Eve party a week ago, but that’s another story. Well, I’m going to lay down for a couple of minutes while my McTaters are cooking. Ahh, this sucks… zzz.

I woke up to thick smoke and two Kingston fireman dragging me out of the apartment complex, asking me why I didn’t hear the smoke alarm, with all of the scowl-faced residents in bathrobes on the street shivering in the January cold. I told them I was cooking and fell asleep, which is, for the most part true, but they were looking at me like a junky with a lit cigarette. Holy shite, I could’ve killed someone with my little home cooking show, “PlasteredChef”.

Apparently, after I passed out, the water had cooked off, leaving the 3 potatoes in a bare pot, red from the heat and shaking violently. The vibration had ironically caused an old cookbook on the back of the stove to fall in to the pot, causing the fire. All that was left of the cookbook was a recipe for mashed potatoes (kidding).

Thankfully, no one was hurt and the firefighters got there in time. “The Potatoe Fire of ’86” was the reason I stopped cooking and turned to microwaving for all my late-night hunger pangs, till “The Egg Explosion of ’91”. (Don’t ask, but when microwaving something for 3 minutes, make sure it’s not mistakenly set for 30 minutes)

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Boobies & Stuff

How old am I? We used to ride our bikes down Oak Drive in Carverton Heights, PA, past the County Down, an out of the way fishing hole, take that windy dirt road that narrowed at the end, lay our bikes down, walk the rest of what now is a path, to an Oak tree, and by that tree was a large rock, with a tell-tale scratch on it, and under that rock was a moldy old 1967 Playboy some boys from the neighborhood left for us, and in that Playboy was boobies and stuff, and that’s how we saw our first naked ladies. That’s how old I am.

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IMG_1014I was looking forward to watching the 4th of July fireworks with my son, Jimmy, but when they started, he asked if he could watch them on top of the slides with some older boys he just met on the playground. I was a little disappointed, but said, “Sure… stay close where I can see you, though.” I thought to myself, “Geez, he’s only 6 years-old and I lost him, already.” As I glumly watched the first 5 minutes of the fireworks, feeling sorry for myself, not enjoying them alone, I felt someone give me a big hug from behind. It was Jimmy. I said, “You came back to watch the fireworks with me. Thank you!” He said, “That’s what friendship is all about.” I said, “The boys were mean to you, right?” Jimmy replied, “Pretty much.”

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I Smell Burnt Toast

IMG_5421As the opening band was mauling a Bruno Mars song, last night, I went outside to tune my guitar and accidentally locked myself out of the back of theater. SH*T! I’m on right after this song mercifully ends. I ran around to the front of the place as fast as my 50 year-old legs would take me and heard, “Put your hands together for PAT GOODWIN.” I had the length of the theater before I reached the mike, so I just started talking loud and acting like the dramatic, sprinting entrance was just part of my “act”. It took me a good 10 minutes to recover, and I’m still experiencing shortness of breath, a tingling on my left side, and I smell burnt toast. Is that normal?

Author’s note: This is the 2nd time I locked myself out of this particular theater and the 11,459th time I was introduced as Pat Goodwin.


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I’m A Widower

IMG_0211Hotel Clerk: “Are you married? Because, if you are, you should bring your wife next time, this is a great couples resort.”
Me: “I’m a widower, or at least I should be, if everything goes according to plan. I’m waiting on a phone call.”
Hotel Clerk: (nothing) “Ok, here’s your room keys.”

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Sock It To Me

IMG_0501Comedians brag about ‘Killing’ and the ‘Standing Os’ they get, and they’re usually lying, but I just killed at my dry cleaners, I swear.

An older lady brings my Martinized, sanitized, clean pressed shirts out to me and there’s a lone, dirty white sock stapled to the bag. She said, “We never throw anything out, in case it’s of value.” I was embarrassed at first, but then thought I’d have fun with it. (There were 2 High School kids working behind her, and that’s who I played to) “I’m glad you kept that filthy sock,” I said. “That was my grandma’s, and we were going to bury her with it, but we couldn’t find the darn thing. The whole family’s been going crazy looking for her sock.” I took a beat and said, “We lost her over the Memorial Day weekend in a bizarre accident during a game of ‘Jarts’.” (the kids are stifling laughs, so I continue) “Mema Godwin wore that one sock while she worked in the garden, bless her soul. It was kinda like a Michael Jackson one glove thing. She said it gave her better footing to plant the tomatoes. You didn’t happen to find her fishing knickers, did ya?” (On the word “knickers”, the one girl spit out her soda) My work is done here.

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