The Early Verse of Pops McGonigle
Poet Laureate of Moosic
(self-proclaimed) No members of the Borough Council were bribed for this honor and no animals were harmed.

The Bells of Moosic

O BELLS that ring, O bells that swing
Above the coalminers' wilderness,
Till from that reddened tunnel-line spring
The Union seed to cheer and bless,
What are your gathered nuggets oh sick ?
O Alarm bells ! Fire House bells !
O school bells of Moosic !

O bells that crash, O bells that clash
Above the chimney-crowded plain,
On wall and tower your voices dash,
But never with the old refrain;
In K mart and temple gone all sick !
Ye dangle bells ! Ye jangle bells !
Ye wretched bells of Moosic !

O bells that die, so far, so nigh,
Come back once more across the road;
Not with the zealot's furious cry,
Not with the Ford's Focus' load;
Come with the Gilette razor no nick,
O Alarm bells ! Fire House bells !
O school bells of Moosic !

Well tings have been gettin worse insteada bedder. Da Hellcat, aka, my loverly wife Helen, did not cook dinner de udder night but instead went out fer a long walk. She said when she left ya can make yerself a TV dinner. Well, it been a while since I did dat. I got da microwve ta work once so I figured I could do it again. I tink I cooked a potato in da microwave once, but da Hellcat hadda tell me ta poke holes in da potato. Well as I was eatin the TV dinner Whitney Houston came on da radio singing * The Greatest Love of All."

I decided long ago, never to walk in anyone's shadows
If I fail, if I succeed
At least I live as I believe
No matter what they take from me
They can't take away my dignity
Because the greatest love of all
Is happening to me
I found the greatest love of all
Inside of me
The greatest love of all
Is easy to achieve
Learning to love yourself
It is the greatest love of all


I was so sad dat night when I fell asleep in my sprated bed, I had another one a dem mystic vision. I saw a man dressed in black in along black coat and he was wearing dose piche nez glasses dat da English used ta wear. And he said ta me Pops ya seem ta be lacking in confidence.
Shall I tell you where the men are who believe most in themselves? For I can tell you. I know of men who believe in themselves more colossaly than Napoleon or Caesar. I know where flames the fixed star of certainty and success. I can guide you to the thrones of the Super-men. The men who really believe in themselves are all in lunatic asylums.

If you consulted your business experience instead of your ugly individualistic philosophy, you would know that believing in himself is one of the commonest signs of a rotter. Actors who can't act believe in themselves, and debtors who won't pay. It would be much truer to say that a man will certainly fail, because he believes in himself. Complete self-confidence is not merely a sin; complete self-confidence is a weakness. Believing utterly in oneself is a hysterical and superstitious belief.
And Now I give ya some a my free marriage advice:
"Love means loving the unlovable - or it is no virtue at all."
"A man imagines a happy marriage as a marriage of love; even if he makes fun of marriages that are without love, or feels sorry for lovers who are without marriage."
"Women are the only realists; their whole object in life is to pit their realism against the extravagant, excessive, and occasionally drunken idealism of men."
"The whole pleasure of marriage is that it is a perpetual crisis."
"A good man's work is effected by doing what he does, a woman's by being what she is."
"Women have a thirst for order and beauty as for something physical; there is a strange female power of hating ugliness and waste as good men can only hate sin and bad men virtue."
"Marriage is a duel to the death which no man of honour should decline."
"The first two facts which a healthy boy or girl feels about sex are these: first that it is beautiful and then that it is dangerous."
"I have little doubt that when St. George had killed the dragon he was heartily afraid of the princess."
Den he disappeared in a puff a smoke and I woke up and felt a lot better.

Well, I just got back from da funeral ov an old friend, Marion Lukaszevski, nee Kondrovitch. She and I went ta St. Mary's of the Greenwood grammar school tagedder and den she went off ta college ta study ta be a librarian and a research specialist and when she came back from school at Penn State she settled down n got a job wid da county library system and married Johnny Lukaszevski. She lived a quiet life der in da library, except fer de occasional rowdy student or somebody playing der hip hap music too loud on da Wakeman. She would go up ta dem and den put her index finger over her lips and say SHOOOOOOOSH! really loud and she would usually scare dem inta quietude. Whever I would go over ta da library ta spend some time wid her during her coffee and doughnuts breaks, if I started ta talk too loud, shee would give me da SHOOOOOSH. Johnnie was an auto repair man who ventally ran his own shop upon da Main Avenue on da West Side. It was called Johnnie's Auto Repair. I used ta like ta go over der ta talk ta Johnnie when my car was often bein repaired. Der's nuttin' quite like da smell a benizine n paint tinner and car paint wid da taste a Johnnie's mysterious brew he called coffee. Well, Johnnie died tragically about ten years ago when da big auto jack/lift carrying a Plymouth Duster whose brakes he was workin on fell and crushed him. Marian was heartbroken and she sold da business and moved outta da house on da West Side and sold it eventually n den moved inta one a dem convenience apartments over at da Lutterwood. She retired from da library after a few years and den volunteered fer da research at da col mine museum or waddever dey call it. Her death, too, was tragic. She was drivin along Birney Avenue late at night in a blindin rainstorm and tryin ta read da letters a da license plate a da black Volvo in fronta her. She was obsessed by da vanity plates and she hadda collection ov all da plates she had seen over da years and she wrote dem down on dose library catalog cards dat are pretty well gone now cause a da computers. Da vanity plate was RSJD, which stood fer Robert Shapiro Juris Doctor, da famous lawyer. Tragically da Moosic Ambulace company had just been activated onna call at da Birney Plaza and as dey turned inta da plaza wid sirens blazing, Atty Robert's old instinct kicked in and he stopped suddenly wid de tention ov chasing de ambulance, but Marion was followin too close or too fast n plowed right inta his back end fatally. Marion would prabaly not like me talkin about her like dis. I can almost hear her goin SHOOOOOSH! behind me right now.

Well, I just got back from the CMC. No, dis time I wasn't in der. My loverly wife, Helen, aka da Hell Cat, had heard dat her Aunt Mildred Butler, a spry 93-year-old woman was admitted ta da hospital. She had been particularly depressed over da recent death of her husband, Earl Butler. We used ta call him "da Pearl," not onna counta his basketball skills, but because of his pearly whites, which he prominently flashed when he smiled. Mildred decided that she would just kill herself, git da aches n pains over wit and join him in death.
Thinking that it would be best to get it over with quickly, she took out Earl's old Army pistol and made da decision to shoot herself in da heart, since it was so badly broken in da first place.
Not wanting to miss da vital organ and become a vegetable and burden to someone, she called her doctor's office to inquire as to just exactly where da heart would be on a woman. Da doctor said, "Your heart would be just below your left breast."
Later dat night, Mildred was admitted to da CMC with a gunshot wound to her knee.
It's been a tough week fer da whole family.

POP ALBUM REVIEWS

A diva gets stuck in the slow lane

Barbra Streisand and Barry Gibb are together again, taking a something-for-everyone approach.

Barbra Streisand
"Guilty Pleasures" (Columbia Records)


A quarter-century after teaming up for their Grammy-winning "Guilty" album, those musically strange bedfellows Barbra Streisand and Barry Gibb are together again, taking a something-for-everyone approach that works quite well ... sometimes.

Gibb co-produced (with John Merchant) and co-wrote all 11 songs on "Guilty Pleasures," which takes Streisand from Sade-like world pop to Madonna-Mariah dance-floor territory to theatrical pop ballads. But if a song is the singer's vehicle, a lot of these create the impression of Dale Earnhardt Jr. trapped behind the wheel of a Ford Focus.

Streisand's magnificent instrument cries out for long stretches of road on which it can truly open up, and the conventional pop song form in which Gibb is most at home as a writer rarely gives her the long melodic straightaways and gentle curves to show us what she's truly capable of.

"Without Your Love" is more of a Broadway-type ballad that meets her on her level, a eulogy for a faded love affair from which she wrings buckets of emotion. Her duets with Gibb, "Come Tomorrow" and "Above the Law," live up to the album's title, melding their distinctly disparate voices and styles expertly.

Several songs explore missed opportunities in the land of love, and there's some sense of a missed opportunity in this effort as well, one that might have been rectified with less energy expended on varied beats, tempos and textures and more on emotional payoff.

-- Randy Lewis

Lost In Wal-Mart

Pops McGonigle was pushing his cart around Wal-Mart when he collided into the cart of another old guy. Pops says to the other guy, "Sorry about that. I'm looking for my loverly wife, Helen, aka the HellCat and I guess I wasn't paying attention to where I was going."

The other guy says, "That's OK, It's a coincidence. I'm looking for my wife, too. I can't find her and I'm getting a little desperate."

Pops says, "Well, maybe I can help you find her. What does she look like?"

The other guy says, "Well, she is 27 yrs old, tall, with blond hair, blue eyes, long legs, big busted, and is wearing short shorts. What does your wife look like?"

To which Pops says, "Doesn't matter . . . let's look for yours."

Bob Lewandowski came over ta da house da other day and proudly showed us a pair a tickets dat he had got fer Bubbles n himself ta da filming taping o da Polish Polka Party which is shown Sadday Nights on WVIA. You know it's dat show where ya have Polka bands and a lotta old people dancin around. Some Slow, Some fast, n sometimes ya got two women dancing together. I don't tink dey were Lebanese, but you never know. N den you have Dottie with the pick of the best couple fer da polka dancin. So dis usually means dat ya get an opportunity ta make a foola yourself on local TV. Well, as it turns out, Bob n' Bubbles gotta terible case a da food poisoning at one a da church pickanicks (I'm not gonna tell ya which one because I don't want da priests n nuns yellin at me) and so he very recalcitrantly gave da tickets ta me n da HellCat, aka my loverly wife Helen and we went ta da filming n da first couple a spins around da floor, I felt like a dancin rat trying ta pick his way thru one a dose mazes dat da psychopaths set up fer der experiments, but den we got inta da swing a tings. Well we weren't picked fer da best couple. Maybe because we were wearin an authentic etnick costume. Unfortunately it was a costume uv a lepracaun dat I had left over from or ready fer dis up coming Halloween, but I must say dat da HellCat looked like Maureen O'Hara in dat John Wayne movie in Ireland, da 12 Angry Men, I fergit.
73's from Pops

I been sayin WHAT alot lately in response to da Hellcat aka my loverly wife Helen and I'm not referrin ta da inventor a da steam engine. Da Hellcat always has my best interest in mind so she insists dat I go downa da Northeast Ear Institute and git a hearin' test. Well, dey give ya deese various pitches ta listen to. It's a lot like goin ta da optametrics fer da eye test. Da technician is writing down a lotta tings as I answer whether I can hear da sound and da difference between da sounds and da volume a da sounds. So da doctor comes in wid dis big stacka papers and his name is Doctor Mock and he says da bad news first dat Im gonna need a hearin aid fer da left ear but dat the right ear is doin OK so far. I said well what's da good news? We have a large variety of relatively inexpensive devices that can assist you in your deficient hearing range. So dey fitted me wid dis little ting dat fits inside da ear and I must be honest it did help a lot but it also made a lotta noise and feedback itself that I hadda keep adjustin the levels n stuff. Da Hellcat was happy dat I was saying what a lot less dan before. I kept havin strange dreams after I took the hearing aid out fer da night. I kept dreamin about dis guy and he was a big band conductor named Beethoven and he would be conducting away and all the musicians would stop playing and start laughin at him. I couldn't figure it out. Well da next day me n da Hellcat took out da Ford Focus n we were runnin it pretty close ta empty, so when we pulled inta da station I tole da guy ta filler up figurin dat wid an eight gallon tank da bill couldn't be too much and when I said how much he said tirty five dollars, I said WHAAAAAAAAT!
73s from Pops

Well, you probably thought that it was bound ta happen. I went fer drivin lessons. No not those kind of lessons--golf driving lessons. Me n Bob Lwandowski n Bubbles n my loverly wife Helen aka da Hellcat went down ta da Daleville Drivin range fer some exercise n and evenin of fun. I was havin such a hard time hittin da dang golf ball dat I tink I was ingineering myself in an inconspicuous place. I would hit da back of da rubber pad behind da ball and miss da ball entirely or I would just nick it slightly and it would dribble off da concrete stand. Da poor guy dat ran da drivin range took such pity on me dat he came over wid a special rubber tee dat he installed in da mat instead a da other one. He said I was tryin too hard ta imitate John Daly. Since I didn't know who John Daly was, I toght I would humorize him. He said He huffed and he puffed but John Daly couldn't drive a golf ball across the gorge at the Horseshoe Falls in a televised stunt a couple a weeks back. He said he smacked 20 balls from a platform at Table Rock in attempting to span the 342-yard distance to Goat Island in the Niagara River. Well dis was startin ta get my goat so I musterd up all da strength dat I had and really gave a ball a wallop and da tin took off in a line drive about two feet above da ground n den it hit di rock dat was der. It seemed ta be shaped like da head of Dan Dierdorf, da guy day announced Monday Night Football n den it careemed off da rock and hit me right in da head before I hadda chance ta duck. Da boys n girls from da Daleville Volunteer Ambulance Corps was very kind ta me and I shook der hands and tried ta remember der names, since dis was a new ambulance staf fer me. Da staff at da CMC was very familiar ta me me and dey were quite kind, specially Dr. Abda and DeNaples. He tried ta sell me a motorcycle, but dat's a story fer another time.
73s from Pops

We went out da udder night ta celebrate my birtday and we went ta one a dem Italian pastie places. It was up der offa da Carbondale highway Giovanni's Room or sumthin and da HellCat aka my loverly wife Helen said dat she was gonna pay fer da whole meal. Dis was better dan die usual August extravaganza of goin down to da St. Hedwig's parish picnic fer some funnel cakes. It's kinda hard ta put da candles in da funnel cakes and cause I git so many candles itsa kina fire hazard. Well da Hellkat invited Bob and Bubbles fer da celebration and der was a lotta people at da restaurant and dey even had a band dat was playing dat kind a pop music. Well, after da meal I got talkin ta one a da band members. He was the alto saxophone player and his name was Henry Kowalczyk and he usta be wid a polka band dat played at pikniks, so we got talkin about dat. Henry usta be in da Marines and he was kinda gung ho as dey say. As dey got up ta play some more one a da kids dat was at one a da udder tables came up and threw a meat ball down the front uv his alto horn. Before I hadda chance ta warn him, he began blowin on da horn and dis meatball goes flyin across da room and hits some big guy in da face and den he starts comin over and grabs me and starts chokin me because he tink dat I tossed it at him and den Henry jumps on him ta pertect me and den da Hellcat jumps in swing her purse which weighs as much a small elephant Bubbles demonstrated she had a mean uppercut. And den dis big fight breaks out and dey come from da D.C. Police and da Fire Department and I see some friendly old faces as dey put me in da Ambulance. Just some bruises.
73's from Pops

Ordinarily July is a quiet month at the McGonigle household. We that is, the loverly wife Helen, aka the Hell Cat, and myself, stick mostly ta da gardenin, and dat is mostly da weeding. We try ta protect ourselves from da sun, but it's been such a sunny summer dat we got all bronzed up as dey say in da TV comercials. We try ta use da sunblock with the PTB rating of 24, but since we buy it at Doug's Dollar Dump, we can't say how fresh and effective da stuff is. We decided ta take a night off fer some cultural entertainment. It was kinda spur a da momentum, so we took Dugger over ta Bob Lewandowski's and headed fer da Masonic Temple in our gardening duds. brown leather gardening boots, dirty, overalls and a flannel shirt, very dirty; brown felt hats, much battered and smashed and a pair of old golf umbrellies in case it rained. We parked in da parkin lot by da Guild and climbed up da hill ta da Cultural Center. We attracted a lotta atenshun at da theatre, specially when we went ta da ticket window ta pick up the tickets fer da ballet. Da ticket taker said dat we should go downa St. Francis Kitchen if we wanned some food, and I showed him da money and said we wanned some tickets fer da ballet. We finally talked him inta givin us da tickets and we sat down at da back a da theatre. It was da new York City Ballet fer der one and only appearnce in Scranton dis year. It reminded me of an old war story like da Batttle a da Bulge, but it was called Shambards, is a dense ballet that is hard to absorb in one sitting on one's butt. It stays with you long after you've left the theater, much longer dan a Chinese meal, anyways. It has no plot but packs an emotional wallop through inventive and powerful choreography that juxtaposes highly charged images of strife, joy, passion, love and death. I'm just quoting the program here, cause I had no idea what da blam tin was about. The title Shambards comes from Edwin Muir's poem Scotland 1941, in which the eminent Scottish poet names Burns and Scott, sham bards of a sham nation,and Scottish composer James MacMillan's dissonant score with Highland folk tunes drives the ballet's propulsive pace. I tink I shudda been insulted cause I got some Scottish poet blood in me someplace.

As the curtain goes up, two lines of dancers in earth-tone leotards [dey look almost neked ta me.] are frozen in dis zigzag design with der arms up. It's supposed ta symbolice some tin, but I give up. Da women lie on the floor spoke-fashion sorta like da old June Taylor dancers and the men step between them in some kinda weird sword dance. According ta da program da brilliant centerpiece of Shambards is the passionately wrought tug-of-war pas de deux in which Jock Soto and Miranda Weese, in deep red tattered tulle, relentlessly torment each other. Now den dey was gettin too close ta home here. Den der was some Scottish dancing day was quite fast.

Den we went down ta da Smith Family Restaurant fer some after da ballet food. Nobody seemed ta mind da way we were dressed der and nobody was dancin with leotards der.

73's from Pops

Running through the dailies, I noticed that the rumors are flying about the Indians building a casino in the Catskills. It just serves those Indians right.