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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.
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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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IMG_0456In honor of Roger Moore, here’s a little story from the mid-eighties.

I had just started dating an attractive DJ from Rock 107 in Scranton, PA named Suzie “Something Italian” (name withheld on account of I don’t want to piss her off) and it was time to meet her parents. They lived in Kingston, PA and I found out their next door neighbor was Russel Bufalino, former head of an Italian crime family. I was hoping there wasn’t any connection.

I walked in their lovely home, was greeted by Suzie, and her Father was seated at the far end of the dinner table, stirring his coffee. The Mom was nowhere to be found. He says, “Sit down.” That was it. I sat down and the kitchen light splashed on me like an interrogation lamp and the Dad was in the dark, just staring at his coffee cup, still stirring. He never looks up. “I hear you’ve been dating my daughter and I wanted to meet you. (long pause) Godwin is an Irish name, right?” That’s correct, sir,” I said. (Strike one) And you’re a singer?” he continued, saying the word “singer” like it was a crime. “Yes”, I said, (strike two). He took a long, dramatic Marlon Brando-like pause and said, “What are you two doing, tonight?” (lingering on the word “doing” like it was a forkful of pasta) I said, “We’re going to see Octopussy,” without thinking how dirty it sounded. (strike three)

He looked up, slowly, like I was a hit man from an opposing family and said, “Octo… pussy? Oc… to… pussy? You’re taking my daughter to a pornographic film?” I said, “No sir, it’s the latest James Bond movie, ‘Octopussy’, and that’s the name of it, I swear. They had a character in one of their other films called, ‘Pussy Galore’. They use the word ‘pussy’ a lot, as a joke, sir.” (every time I say “pussy,” I make it worse) Suzie’s large, intimidating, Italian-American Father is standing now; staring a bullet hole right through me and says, “You mean to tell me the James Bond producers, in their infinite wisdom, decided to name their new movie “Octo… pussy?” Yes, sir,” I said, “The censors missed the boat on that one, eh?”

Luckily, there was a newspaper on the table and I was able to prove it was a Bond film, not a porno, and save myself from being “fish food”. As Suzie and I were leaving, her Father took me aside, gave me $20 and said, “Take her to see anything besides ‘Octo… pussy’.” We rented “The Godfather”.

Author’s note: Never judge a book by it’s Mario Puzo cover. Suzie’s Dad, as it turned out, was a sweetheart, owned a respectable silk flower business and a restaurant. The Mother, on the other hand, was the one who had it in for me; threw a drink in my face at The Crackerbox Palace in Kingston, PA and threatened worse. Long story short, I moved to Tampa.

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Bonding With Bond

IMG_0415Sean Connery was arguably the best James Bond, but Roger Moore’s dapper, smooth, and haughty take on him was more in line with Ian Flemming’s books. I never met Mr. Moore, may he rest In peace, but I did bond with Mr. Connery.

I was on WMMR’s Morning Zoo in Philly and we were doing a week of live radio shows at Bill Wyman’s Sticky Fingers in London, in July of 1990. The radio station put us up at the Grosvenor House Hotel, a place famous for being one of the Beatles’ last gigs, right before taking over America. When we were checking in, we noticed a well-dressed Sean Connery sitting in a comfy lobby chair, reading a newspaper, smoking a pipe, and drinking something brown. “This place must be great,” I said. “James Bond’s staying here.”

We asked the ole chap manning the front desk why Sean Connery was in their lobby and he says, “Leave him alone and don’t try to interview him for your radio show, because he doesn’t like being bothered. Oh, and don’t call him ‘James Bond’, unless you want to incur his wrath. He hates that.” The guy goes on to say that the very private Mr. Connery takes a month off from his work, wife and family every year and stays at the hotel to be by himself. Just then, Sean chortled at something he read. He looks happy in his solitude.

After our 1st live London radio show, we headed back to our hotel and met up at the bar. We were loud, laughing, and discussing the day’s show (we had Roger Waters on and he cursed a lot). I even played piano while La Toya Jackson sang (she was staying at the hotel and dressed like her brother, Michael, during his epaulets on the shoulders phase). It was going to be a crazy week. This was not a typical workday in Philadelphia. Sean Connery was there, too, but we never talked to him, as promised. He was quietly reading a newspaper, smoking a pipe, and drinking something brown. He never looked up and seemed content.

The whole week was nuts like that, with James Bond in a corner, by himself, oblivious to his surroundings, and us carrying on like ugly Americans. We’d do our show, interview stars like Pete Townsend, Sir Bob Geldof, and Peter Gabriel, run around town doing touristy things, go back to the hotel bar, grab something to eat, have a drink, crack wise, and there he’d be… all alone… every night… Sean Connery. It was surreal, and as much as we wanted to, we never talked to him, never invited him to be on our little show, and never called him James Bond.

One morning, after a few days of eating and imbibing too much, I figured I’d go down to the hotel gym and get a workout in. It was empty, except for myself and Sean Connery, who was on an exercise bike, reading the paper, sans the smoke and drink. I paced around for a little bit, trying to look manly, made eye contact with him, nodded, but he didn’t return my gesture. I went over to the bench press and looked at the weights on the bar. Hmm, it wasn’t labeled in pounds, it was in kilograms, the English measurement of weight, and I didn’t have a clue how much it was, but it looked do-able.

I got the loaded barbel up off the bench, shook violently, and then BOOM, it slammed down on my chest. I was trapped. It was so heavy, I couldn’t slide it down my body and the bar was choking me. It’s like I was having my own International fight to the death with a Bond villain at my throat. I closed my eyes and with all my might tried to lift it. Nothing. I’m going to die. All of sudden, the barbell was pulled off me and I breathed a sigh of relief. I opened my eyes and found myself staring face-to-face with my rescuer, former British spy, Goldfinger’s nemesis, the man who got Pussy Galore… Sean F*cking Connery. I said, “Thank you, 007, you saved my life.” He smiled and said, “Shonny boy, you may want to try a shmaller amount. Perhapsh, a weight more shuited to your body type. And the name’sh Bond, Jamesh Bond.” I laughed hard (his desired response), did some light lifting, and went back to my room.

I never told the Morning Zoo crew about my encounter with Mr. Connery, because I didn’t think they’d believe me. As we were leaving the Grosvenor House Hotel to go to the airport, Sean Connery was in the lobby, and I said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bond, and thank you for saving my life,” to which Mr. Connery replied, “You’re welcome, Shonny boy, and you may want to pick a fight with a tiny dumbbell, next time.” I looked at my Morning Zoo co-workers, their mouths agape, and said, “I’ll tell you on the plane.”

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