George Gilbert...

Bad news travels fast. Word that the radio industry had lost a legend hustled around NE PA in a big hurry.

George Gilbert died Saturday night at home, surrounded by family. George was 76. George Gilbert was a great guy.

Really wanting to post pictures of George caused me to raid two other blogs.

I'm sure my pals(and fellow bloggers) Kevin Jordan and David Yonki won't mind me borrowing their photos.

When I first met George in late 1978, his hair had completely grayed, and he'd acquired that distinguished look which many seem fortunate enough to have come upon them in their 40s and 50s.

Tall, ramrod straight, George was a handsome man.

To say that WARM owned radio hereabouts for years may be understatement. WARM was radio hereabouts. There was WARM........then there was everyone else.

WARM wannabes were all over the place, not one of them ever breathed the same rarefied air. The Mighty 590 had the summit all to itself.

Monster ratings, air personalities known by everyone - known by name and voice, the best radio news department between here and Philly, here and NYC, and probably here and Syracuse.

People in that time didn't live in Nanticoke, or Laceyville, or Dunmore, they lived in WARMland. If you think that's nuts, just ask around, ask folks in their late 40s, in their 50s, and beyond. We all lived in WARMland. WARMland was a very real place to many people, it was wherever you could listen to WARM, and WARM was everywhere.

That unprecedented and verifiable success was pretty much the doing of one man. That man was George Gilbert Schumacher.

George created, crafted, babied, coaxed, and shaped into existence the sound that made WARM a household word. It wasn't just a radio station, it was literally a way of life. WARM was an enormous component of each and every day in NE PA for decades. George could have easily taken full credit for all of that...but he never seemed to be interested in doing so.

In accomplishing so much, George launched a lot of broadcasting careers. Mine included. More accurately, George Gilbert redirected the course of my career, such as it was. If not for George, the strong likelihood is that my life would have been spent somewhere west, far west. My immediate goal in 1978 was a job in Dallas, Texas, a job "promised" me by a radio group programming chief the second it became open. If it ever became open, I don't know. If my phone in Williamsport did ring with news of that job, no one was there answer it.

In 1978 my phone had already rung. On the other end, George Gilbert.

The mention of the name both stunned and numbed me. George was a devotee of economy when it came to words. If he had nothing worthwhile to say, he didn't. Unlike most of us blabbermouths who stumble into broadcasting, George was in reality a quiet guy. However, don't mistake the man's quiet for a lack of presence, for George was a very powerful presence. He possessed a presence that could fill a room.

He called because he had this job that I might be interested in pursuing. Thinking back on it, I can tell you with complete certainty that he told me the job was mine, if I wanted it. Before that phone call, I had never met George Gilbert, but knew him well, and had known him well since I was a kid, by name, by reputation, and by that fine baritone voice of his. He was The Mighty 590, he was WARM, he was Double-G.

Taking up George on his offer and accepting the early mid-day shift on WARM literally set the course my life would follow up until this very day. Although I spent seven years at WARM, George's time there was coming to an end as mine began. My guess is that we spent just about a year working together, during which I came to really like George Gilbert. From that first minute through the door at WARM it was clear that this guy was well-liked, beloved may have been more like it. Getting to know and like George was a package deal; you got to feel the same way about his family, too. What a genuinely nice, friendly, and sincere bunch of folks.

GG needed a challenge and a change. He went to Williamsport, where he would take a stodgy, block-programmed, simulcasting AM/FM combo and morph it into something magnificent, not to mention highly successful. I always thought it amusing that George went there after bringing me from there to here. As an aside to other dear friends Gary Chrisman and Ken Sawyer, I do hope they realize that they likewise share George's legacy as so many of us do.

Now, he's gone.

My life is better for having known George Gilbert Schumacher. No doubt countless others can and will say the same. I hope that brings comfort to his wife and kids, they deserve no less. I honestly believe that's about all George would have wanted.

Don't Get Around Much Anymore...

Not getting around much anymore comes with a simple and verifiable explanation, one which has neither to do with age, nor energy level, nor interest, nor disinterest. It's strictly a function of one inescapable truth; getting from here to there has become a nightmare.

Actually, if you can find a better way to travel, how about this for your catch phrase, "We take the nightmare out of here to there."

Admittedly, I haven't flown from "Avoca" since before 9/11. For someone who flew regularly for years, that is a long time. The last "big trip" Carol and I took was a Bermuda cruise the summer before last. We sailed from Philly. It was sheer joy eliminating the need to fly. If you haven't done a cruise without the flights, you have no idea just how sweet it is.

We really have one airport, just like we have one stadium, one arena. So, call them the airport, the stadium, the arena. Naming rights aside, they are what they are. Our airport's name is a clumsy molar-mangling mouthful that has annoyed me for years, not to mention it being hollow and meaningless.

The "international" designation is a bit of pomp which we could do without. Yes, I know, you could fly from here to Bratislava non-stop if...if...if...

Look, if my aunt had certain body parts, two in fact, she'd be my uncle.

I'd settle for a non-stop to Pittsburgh. Might as well shoot for Bratislava, or Singapore, or even Dublin.

Flying from Philadelphia, Newark, even Allentown was often more appealing than trying to get out of Avoca. So help me, it was never about price with me, it was about avoiding tangled, convoluted, and headache connections, ones that resulted in what should be two hours pleasantly spent, into eight or nine hours and three or four airports making me miserable. Many surely know the feeling.

Please, anyone who knows me at all can vouch for my being an unabashed booster of NE PA. My cheerleading for this part of the state is constant and genuine. Say, proud to say, we sure do have a nice new airport terminal, complete with a lot of pretty neat artwork, some by an old acquaintance of mine, Henry Fells, or Hank as most call him.

The need for better air service here has long been a hot topic.

Getting it has long been a hot potato.

I'm strongly in the camp of those who think we need an independent airport board, one made up of business, community, civic, and social leaders, rather than one confined to county commissioners from two counties, two counties that should be "best pals." I figure the six commissioners have enough to do, so just get out of the airport business and be done with it.

Pittsburgh is now the source of my pain. See, I need to be in Pittsburgh in early June for at least a day, two if I choose. Long-distance driving's charm left me long ago. If I can fly somewhere, anywhere, hand me that boarding pass, return my seat to wherever you want, and buckle me in.

Years back, a USAir 737 pilot told me a pretty cool story. Flying time, air time, from Avoca to Pittsburgh could be as short as nineteen minutes. Correct, nineteen - 19 - minutes. From wheels up to wheels down, nineteen minutes. Fuel economy, and landing slots at Pittsburgh, were the only reasons the trip ran roughly an hour. Now, if you haven't done the hop from here to there recently, you might not believe how long it takes. A quick story to establish a point of reference.

I once flew from Avoca to a small town in Idaho named Pocatello, where friends of mine picked me up and drove me to their home in an even smaller town hours away. I spent roughly eleven "airline" hours that day, and boarded and deplaned at least three jets operated by three airlines, not counting intermediate stops, to make the trip. I thought it was a remarkably long journey.

Europe was closer time-wise. There was so much up and down and up and down that I really hated flying for a long time after that day. That was over twenty years ago.

Here, in 2008, getting to the other side of the state can take even longer.

I'm not driving to Pittsburgh.

If you like to play Remember When, let's remember when about the only place you could get to from Avoca was Pittsburgh. That wasn't all that long ago. I think 2001 was the big bad year when USAir's fortunes really tanked, at least as far as Pennsylvania operations were concerned. Pittsburgh used to be the center of USAir's universe, the airport authority going so far as to build a brand spanking new airport, predicated upon the logical thinking that USAir would be its anchor.

Shortly after the new 'port was built, USAir dumped 1,200 jobs in Pittsburgh and discontinued literally hundreds of daily flights. They also scrapped plans to build a major maintenance facility in Imperial, which is the town where the airport is physically located. Imperial would be Pittsburgh's Avoca, if our airport was in Avoca. Apparently, it's not, it's in Pittston Township. More deception. I give up.

Poking around the last few days, I was astonished(and frustrated) to find that there is no direct service from Avoca, Allentown, Pittsburgh, Williamsport, or even Harrisburg, to Pittsburgh. Some of Pennsylvania's key cities are at least a couple legs/stops/changes away from our gateway to the west, the city of three rivers, the Pirates, Steelers. The town that gave the world Andy Warhol, and the "Imp and Iron." ("Imp and Iron" is a shot and a beer - shot of Imperial and a glass of Iron City, on tap of course.)

A trip to Pittsburgh from Avoca(or wherever the airport is)can now consume up to ten hours of your travel day. Depending on times you need, ten hours or more. The minimum time would be over four hours.

Over four hours.

In four hours you could wing it down to Key West from Newark. In roughly four hours you could have an early couple eggs over easy with home fries at La Guardia, then hit several mojitos with lunch in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico. Add another hour, make it five hours, and you could be working on a tan in the US Virgin Islands.

All I need is to get to Pittsburgh.

The trip could take up to ten hours. Ten hours would be a few hours short of here to Honolulu. Ten hours is almost 75% of the flight to Australia. Ten hours would not only get me to The UK, it would give me time to get into London, find a great pub, and blow back at least two pints of an English best bitter. Chip could recommend a brand.

After a ten hour trip via either Philly, Detroit, Washington, Cleveland - and I am not kidding about that route - I'll be ready for a couple mojitos, or maybe an Imp 'n Iron or two. And I'll be tired, but enlightened as to the sad state of air travel here in the USA.

The Irish Thing...

I began pounding out a few thoughts on the Irish Thing over parade weekend. For whatever reason, once parade weekend was gone for another year, my mind wandered off in other directions. After all, the whole world isn't Irish, nor is being Irish the whole world. Proud as I can be to carry Irish blood, that about says it.

If blogger.com had a central casting site, if I asked for an Irish guy's jpeg., that could be him over there on the right. It is an Irish guy, he's not from blogger.com. He's Seamus Sweeney, late of County Louth, Republic of Ireland.

So help me, that is Seamus Sweeney, standing among his potato plants, on his farm in place called The Mills of Louth, the Sweeney ancestral home. The year would be, oh, I want to say 1970/71. Uncle Seamus, to be more accurate, great Uncle Seamus. Seamus, whose son assumed the anglicized James as his first name, was my grandfather's brother. Younger brother, I think.

See, my grandfather never really went on and on about the old country, although he left parents and brothers and one sister behind when he sailed for our shores in roughly 1907. Patrick Joseph Sweeney left The Mills of Louth because things were bad in Ireland, they were hard, there wasn't much of a future. He knew it and wanted more from life. Here he found much more. Including a young woman by the name of Mary Agnes Traynor, Agnes to most. They married. She was Catholic, which made a wedding easy. What she was not was Irish. Agnes was English. Patrick and Agnes were marvelous people, just the nicest, kindest, warmest grandparents. My memories of them both are many and wonderful. That's Patrick on the left as a very young man, location completely unknown.

Somewhere in the early 1920s, Patrick and Agnes grabbed the kids, the two that had come along so far, and sat in a studio for a family portrait. I wonder how they got there? Did they have an automobile? Maybe they took a streetcar. Could be they walked. Left to right, that is my Dad on my Grandfather Sweeney's knee, my Aunt Mary, and my Grandmother Sweeney. They're all gone now.

In total, there were six Sweeney children with my Dad being the oldest. One of them, his "sister" Esther, was actually a first cousin, legally adopted when her mother died in childbirth. Esther is the only one still living.

Sitting upon the shores of the other side of my immdediate gene pool were the Davies family. Rhys Jenkin Davies and Marianne Terret Davies. Rhys is pronounced Reese. He was known as "Shink," a once popular Welsh nickname. Shink was gone before I got here. I never had the pleasure of knowing my Welsh grandfather. My Welsh grandmother, now there was a great lady. She was my Gram. As you can see, Shink was largely bald. Patrick probably had the same number of hairs in his head the day he died in 1974 that he had the day he walked out of the Mills of Louth in 1909. It's important that you know what once Patrick J. Sweeney walked away, he never looked back.

The Davies family, by contrast, did go back a time or two, making the crossing aboard The Queen Mary.

Sorry for the tedium. We all have families of which to speak. I am, though, headed somewhere with this.

The matter of loyalty, ethnic loyalty, if you will.

Cornered and forced to choose one and only one, I doubt I could. I feel the same about my ancestry being Irish, as about it being Welsh, as about it being English. Actually, you could unite the Irish and Welsh as one. Technically, genetically, we are of the same tribe. The Irish and the Welsh are both Celts. (Our NBA team notwithstanding, the pronunciation is with a hard C; kelt, not selt. Anyone have a satisfactory explanation for that?)

While proud of my roots, there is also a big part of me that says it's getting about time we wrap up this preoccupation with "what" we are, for what we are is Americans.

Each year when parade weekend comes around, I often think of my grandfather Sweeney. Always nice thoughts, for sure. He was a great storyteller, he had a story for every situation, every occurrence. Patrick was, you could say, a raconteur. Two of his frequently told stories, both short, were;

1) The great admiration he had for the eastern Europeans and Italians who came here at roughly the same time he did, late 19th and early 20th century. Essentially, he thought his great journey was nothing compared to theirs. Many times he told me of how they came not knowing the language, not one word, while he'd been speaking English his entire life. That, he would say, made things easy for him. It was a humble thing to say. Patrick Joseph Sweeney was indeed a humble man.

2) Not so much a story, but rather an observation, and a telling one at that. A number of times in his later years, family offered to send him back "home" for a visit. The thinking was generous, figuring he'd like to see the old country again, to walk the roads he walked as a kid, to spend time with what family he had left, and there was family. There still is. Whenever the offer of a trip came up, his answer was always the same. I can hear him now, his brogue likely as thick as when he made the crossing as a teenager, "Now why would you think I'd want to go back? Why the hell do you think I left in the first place?"

Kind of hard to argue with that.

A Town Named Jim...

It is, by golly, The Switzerland of America. And it's right down the road; under an hour's drive from our place.

I think Mauch Chunk should come from your lips as "Mawk" Chunk, with "Mawk" rhyming with hawk. It is said that Mauch Chunk means Bear Mountain. Ostensibly, it would be Lenni Lenape for Bear Mountain. We came to call the Lenni Lenape Tribe, The Delaware Tribe. We've lost the Delawares, they moved west, all the way to Oklahoma. We made them go. They signed ridiculous treaties and off they went to Oklahoma.

There was Mauch Chunk, there was East Mauch Chunk. Today they are one.

Since East Mauch Chunk and Mauch Chunk consolidated, brought together by a corpse, the world has known this pretty little borough as Jim Thorpe. That in itself is a one-of-a-kind story. The original settlement along a series of riffles in the Lehigh River began life as Coalville, which is about as exciting as Dullsville, especially considering the nature of its business; coal. Not much imagination there. Mining, shipping, and getting wealthy.

Money, coal, canal boats, then railroads...and the hanging of a Molly Maguire by the name of Alexander Campbell. (Here's a thought; how about we get some consensus on the spelling Is it Maguire, or is it McGuire? Pick one, I'll stick to it).

As Campbell was led to the gallows, he slapped his hand upon his cell wall, proclaiming that its print would be there forever as a testament to his innocence. The hand print is still there. There are marvelous stories surrounding the hand print, and a lot of science backing up its existence, and the inability of generations who have tried unsuccessfully to make it go away. It has gone nowhere in over 135 years. I've never seen it. When we're in town, we never visit the old county jail where the hand print is. Oddly, I don't know why. I love ghostly legends, always clinging to the notion that at least one of them will someday be proven true.

Carol and I were in Jim Thorpe this past weekend. We love the town. It has a charm that continues to draw me back time and time again. Charm around every corner, as the saying goes...and there is indeed. We typically park near the old CNJ RR Station, where you can still board an excursion train in season. From there, we wander on up Broadway.

For roughly one long block on Broadway you'll find some really neat shops, a hotel, a couple bars, then the street gives way to old Victorians and small office buildings, most of which have been lovingly restored and are at present lovingly maintained. One of our favorite stops is The Emporium, alternately known as The Emporium of Curious Goods. It is that.

Emporium owner, Barrett Ravenhurst, PhD, is a most fascinating man, and a magician. He also has this really neat cat in his store. His cat, his store, and a great story. See, this cat is ghost. There is no cat in Barrett's store save for the apparition of what appears to be a gray cat, a sizable gray cat. It's been seen over the years by a lot of people, often spotted scurrying around the store.

People see this cat, ask about this cat, want to know this cat's name, often enough they'd like to pet this cat, so asking if it exists seems silly; to more than a few mortals it has to exist, they've seen it. I haven't seen it yet, but hope to one of these days.

Jim Thorpe is a small and quiet town. Please don't let me misrepresent it to you. If a lot of neon, fast food, and big-box stores tickle you, pass this one by and find another town. Although the Sweeneys can spend several hours there without getting even a little bored, there is no guarantee it won't bore you silly within minutes. We really love Jim Thorpe.

(If you go, let me suggest your route of travel bring you down Route 209 via Lehighton. From that approach you can see Jim Thorpe open up before you in that deep mountain cleft worn over millions of years by the always moving waters of the Lehigh River.)

Jim Thorpe the man, of course, is a legend in himself. Long story short; the boroughs, one on each side of the river, bought Mr. Thorpe's body, entombed it, renamed the now united boroughs after the man, and here we are today. Oddly, while The Lenni Lenapes we shoved to Oklahoma gave us the name Mauch Chunk, Oklahoma gave us Jim Thorpe, both man and town.

His family made serious noise about wanting the body back not all that long ago. I have no idea if that was ever resolved with any satisfaction since Thorpers(Thorpsters?) weren't interested in giving anything back to anyone. They'd already given this great athlete(often called the world's greatest ever) a fitting burial and built him a fitting monument complete with numerous plaques. They now keep the lawn around it neatly trimmed, treat his body's resting place with respect, and live their lives in a town named after the man they've surely come to consider their own.

It was a marketing gimmick. A little odd, but odd isn't always bad. It made no one wealthy. I don't think many people come to Jim Thorpe to see the mausoleum. It's widely accepted that Thorpe himself never made footfall in the town that carries his name. He probably never so much as passed through Carbon County. They come because it's simply a great little town.

There are lots of ghost stories drifting around the town, and ample sightings to accompany them, but there seems to be a complete lack of any ghost stories about the man himself, about Jim Thorpe.

If you're a ghost tale lover, you already know that would be a solid indication that Jim's spirit is long gone from this breathtaking gorge of the Lehigh River. It would seem to mean the man is at peace somewhere else, that if his conciousness was ever there, and it may never have been, it's long gone. Somehow, I can believe that.

Now, moving right along with the strangely spiritual, what about reincarnation?

To me, reincarnation is a viable possibility. I am most assuredly not sold in total on the idea, but there is something within the idea that appeals to me, that makes sense to me on an inner level that goes beyond the reasonable and logical. It strikes a chord within my guts, it works on my viscera which so many people trust completely.

I think it entirely possible I lived in Mauch Chunk(and not East Mauch Chunk) in some other life. I think it possible that's what keeps me coming back, that's what makes me so comfortable and peaceful whenever I am there. It might explain why, when I look up a tight alley, or down a small walk between buildings, I think, "Yeah, I know this place."

While I certainly cannot prove reincarnation is real, I doubt anyone can prove it is not. Please, don't quote Old or New Testament; there are several passages in both that would strongly suggest reincarnation is very real to go along with passages treating it as an absurdity.

So, if I did live there, if there was an earlier life, who was I?

Not to be flip, but I haven't the faintest idea, none, not one clue. I don't think I was Asa Packer, or Josiah White, or any other millionaire industrialist who took and never gave in and around Mauch Chunk. Actually, I sure as hell hope I wasn't one of those guys.

So we'll keep going back to Jim Thorpe. Not expecting any answers to past lives, mind you. Just going back because we like it and really enjoy the time spent there. I like an uncomplicated life. Besides, I'd like to see Dr. Ravenhurst's cat.

This Is Big...

Diocesan teachers want what they feel is their right.

The bishop says no.

The teachers don't submit and go away.

The bishop gets arrogant.

The teachers dig in their heels.

So does the bishop.

Then the headline this week announces that the Signatura, the RC version of the supreme court, will hear the case. The Signatura, in Rome, in Vatican City.

Someone is in trouble.

This is big, big, big.

I think Americans want their church back, at least the temporal component of their church.

I think they're going to get what they want.

Much more to say. I will oblige soon.

Until then, bravo! Justice lives...

Blogger's Blahs...

Blogging each and every day sure seems like a great idea. Most all of us should have at least one thing worth mentioning that happens within a twenty-four time frame. Yeah, well, OK, maybe.

I figure that if I bore myself, it's pretty much a given that I'll bore you, so I take a pass. Some times, it turns into a leave of absence, a furlough lasting a week or beyond.

Maybe it's lack of inspiration; writer's block or whatever. If that be it, that horse over there has nothing to do with the situation at hand. It's just one of my photos from The Land at Hillside Farms. Neat place, you should make some time to visit. http://www.thelandsathillsidefarms.org/

Could also be plain good old-fashioned laziness, which I've been afflicted with since childhood. Despite that, I have worked hard all my life but every bit as much enjoy those times when work isn't necessary. That would be a day like today. Today is a day off and at home.

Yesterday being Easter, I got to thinking of how the day was once so important, not only in my life, but I think important to the general populace of NE PA, if you were of the Christian faith. It is indeed the day celebrating the occurrence upon which all of Christianity is founded, the Risen Christ. Sorry, it's not Christmas, it's Easter. The nuns taught us that, and so, so much more.

On the subject of the good sisters, I am saddened to read that the IHM order's membership is in troubling decline. The Sisters, Servants of The Immaculate Heart of Mary, were responsible for much of whatever goodness there lies within me, and I am happy to say so. They were and still are wonderful women.

Easter finery was big. Boys got new suits, girls got new "outfits." Do we do that anymore? Somehow, I don't think so.




Been watching HBO's John Adams. The portrait of John Adams gives you a reference in deciding whether or not Paul Giamatti looks like the 2nd president of the United States or not. To me, Giamatti doesn't look unlike him, there is a resemblance. I'd say that John Adams makes for great TV, but it really isn't TV, it's a long theatrical movie presented on a premium channel. If one of the networks did a version of John Adams, I'd skip it, for you could pretty much count on it being inaccurate historically. By all accounts the HBO version is solid and sound in its accuracy. The cast is sensational; Tom Wilkinson, David Morse, Laura Linney, and I'm just hitting the highlights there.

Also on HBO, a new George Carlin Special. This is his 14th HBO Special.

Carlin will turn 71 years of age in May. George Carlin was a hero to my generation. Being a child of the 60s/70s, George Carlin's biting and irreverent observations of the absurdity of the the human condition used to make tears roll down my cheeks. Amazingly, he still does. I think this special is great. His last one, not so much so. He had a not-so-hot special, but sure as hell looks like he's bounced back to me. His first HBO Special was filmed(yes, filmed, not taped) in 1977. Carlin was also the very first host of SNL in 1975.

His full name is George Denis Patrick Carlin. Irish completely. All of his grandparents born in Ireland. What I'd love to see is Carlin come to Scranton for the parade, then do an hour on what he saw, felt, liked, disliked. My guess is what he'd have to say wouldn't make a lot of people happy.


Smells of Spring are in the air. Mainly the scent of skunks on the move. This is the time of year for propagation. So, if you smell skunk, you smell Spring. That can't be bad. Also noticed buds yesterday on our Forsythia - and it's not For-cynthia has some are bound and determined to call it - which is likewise a sure sign of Spring. There is and was no Cynthia involved with this woody perennial. Forsythia is a member of the olive family, and takes its name from a gentlemen named Forsyth.
Hey, I know these things, I was once a PSU Certified Master Gardener.

Admittedly, I let the "certified" part lapse by not keeping up with ongoing education. It was my choice, my decision, I simply didn't have the time. However, I suppose I am still considered a PSU Master Gardener, maybe an uncertified PSU Master Gardener. It wouldn't be a decertified PSU Master Gardener, because you'd need some sort of ceremony for the decertification. There wasn't one. If there was, I missed it. All the more reason to consider my certification lapsed.

A door gets closed, a window opens, I guess. While through my own fault I am no longer certified as a PSU MG, I am now a member of The Pennsylvania Public Television Network Commission. I am actually Commissioner Sweeney, and it says so right there on the commission I received from the governor. It's an honor and privilege to serve my commonwealth, and very much the same to be appointed to this position by the governor, following which the state senate confirmed my nomination unanimously. I was notified of the confirmation by Senator Lisa Baker, and subsequently congratulated by Senator Robert J. Mellow. Thank you both. How 'bout that?

That's it for this time around. Remember, see you next Fall at The Bloomsburg Fair!

Permission To Speak Freely...

That would have made one hell of a billboard, don't you think?

The look is serious, deliberate, almost like I'm about to make some profound statement on the origins of the universe, or reveal the recipe for Coney Island Texas Wiener sauce. (I don't have it, don't ask.)

But, hey, and faith and begorrah, the big parade is tomorrow, and those wieners will be in huge demand as folks carb up on marvelous National Bakery rolls filled with short Gutheinz weenies, mustard, onions, and sauce.

In that order, too - roll, dog(split of course), mustard, onions, sauce. Got that? Memorize it, OK?
Good.

I committed it to memory years ago, back when I worked right up the street on Adams Avenue. At least three days a week, I'd walk through the door, one that that had a very busy American railroad running damned near on top of the building, and order two for lunch. That's all you had to say, "Two, please."

One, two, three, seven, nine, it didn't matter. Just give the man the count and he'd make 'em, wrap 'em, and you were good to go. On the right is the original location; somewhat beneath it, the present location. Why there are two is still a mystery to me. I'd once heard a family feud was involved. That story could be bogus. I'm staying out of family politics, their Texas Wiener is all that matters. Frankly, the best in the land, the absolute best, there is The Coney Island Texas Wiener, then there is everyone else's. Gourmet Magazine once tried to bribe the Karampalis family into giving them the recipe for the sauce. These tough and independent Greek Orthodox people told Gourmet to go stick their knuckles in someone else's baklava.

Standing, waiting for my order, I once heard a dufus, clearly uninitiated, order a salad at The Coney Island Texas Lunch. The place fell silent. It was that silence that could have preceded loud laughter, but I guess the crowd at the counter, and back in the booths that were all but five feet away, were too embarrassed for the young man.

A salad indeed.

The pleasant and hard-working Greek gentleman behind the counter quietly and politely responded, "Uhh, we, uhhh, we don't have salads." Come to think of it, I might have turned a bit red in a show of sympathy for this fellow's blunder. And, sonofagun, that man is still around Scranton. I see his picture in the paper now and again. Nice guy, I assume. He shall remain nameless, for a transgression upon The Coney Island Texas Lunch is a transgression upon Scranton and her multitudinous traditions, magnificent idiosyncrasies, and fine peculiarities.

Parade weekend is no time for transgressions against Scranton.

I have no recollection of why, when, or where that picture way up top was taken...nor do I recall by whom.

It's got several years on it, which is obvious; my beard isn't completely gray. Now, it is, and has been for at least five years. The tie is still in use. A good guess would be that the picture was done for something my former employer was going to do in the way of a promotion but never actually got around to doing. There's a lot of that in the broadcasting business. You get used to it. Opportunities missed are opportunities lost.

The big thing is that I need some reason to pop in here with a post. It's been awhile. Some would say few are the thoughts which have passed my mind that have gone unspoken. Those some might be right.

Let's go back to that word, begorrah.

Seems the word is like so many others such as jeepers, gosh, golly, jiminy, cripes, crikey, etc. Those are all words that we humans made up so that we could use the deity's name without actually saying it.

Begorrah essentially means "By God."

Do we actually know God's name? Some of this planet's larger religions and other organizations claim that they do, but that God's name is unspeakable, also unprintable. On different levels, I can understand that. Whatever your position on it is, we don't much think or talk about it; we simply call God God, not much wondering if the Supreme Architect of The Universe has an actual name.

I was once chastised for saying God on the air. I can tell you without equivocation that my use of it was in the proper context, and it was not used in vain. Still, someone who must have a better relationship than me with God knew I'd been a bad boy, so he called to scold me. I don't suffer scolding easily. Equally so, my capacity to suffer fools is tiny. To state the obvious, that conversation didn't go well. I so dislike those who know God better than the rest of us.

With St. Patrick's Day approaching(and do remember it is on March 17th every single year, not on parade day), I'll ask forgiveness for breaking one of my own rules. That rule would be, "Never annoy friends and family with pointless forwards, or worse yet, forwarded forwards, of any kind." Sticking to that rule is important to me. This time around, though, a rare exception. I honestly believe you'll like this.

Should you have a Guinness, Harp, or Murphy's at hand, maybe a Paddy's or a Jameson's, bottoms up, take a sip, love life. I wish you nothing but abundant good luck, and of course, God's great blessings.

It may take a minute to load, depending on your pipe speed, but I think it's worth it. Don't look for a laugh. A tear, maybe, just maybe.

http://www.e-water.net/viewflash.php?flash=irishblessing_en