O DANNY BOY

Jerry Harkins



Paddy, we hardly knew ye.

The day we have long dreaded has come. Daniel Patrick Moynihan has left the building and gone home to God at the age of 76. They say it was complications from appendix surgery. Is that right, lad? Your fucking appendix? You died because of some remnant organ we inherited from nematodes? An organ that does nothing and never did do anything we could figure out? A lousy joke, boy-o. You’re sure now it wasn’t the liver? Ah, Danny, it’s been so long we have been worrying about your obituary and about what we might say by way of eulogy. One never wants to mislead the reader but at the same time it is culturally necessary to recognize your genius and greatness of spirit.

Just know, my friend, that I have already established the International Committee for the Canonization of Pat Moynihan. I’m thinking of asking Al d’Amato to serve as Honorary Chair in tribute to all the years you gave the voters reason to think one intelligent senator was enough. March 26 will make a fine feast day. No one else of importance died on that date except Beethoven and Walt Whitman, the former a Protestant and the latter…well, the less said the better.

There’s so much to do this will have to be shorter than I would like. There’s the Ladies Auxiliary of the Oswego Volunteer Fire Department that will be wanting to erect a monument. They’ve been threatening to put up a Rococo fountain spouting cheap gin instead of water. Then there is the traditional Irish wake to arrange—without the guest of honor of course in respect of Liz’s feelings. I must say, Paddy, it disappointed me to learn of your desire to be laid to rest in Arlington. They offered the crypt under the altar at St. Patrick’s but Liz said you’d be uncomfortable so close to that son of a bitch Spellman. But Arlington? Ah, well, “Let your spirit rest where the heroes are, your memory shine like the morning star.” Joyce Kilmer, of course, another Irish hero. And we need to look after Liz. A marvelous woman but the Brennans, you know, were always more lace curtain than their lessers including, no disrespect meant, the Moynihans of County Kerry. So if this eulogy must be brief, it’s not because we love you any the less but because there are so many loose ends.

At a time like this it comforts me to recall Robert Browning’s line, “A man’s reach should exceed his grasp / Else what’s a heaven for?” Daniel Patrick Moynihan never got things perfectly right but he came closer than anyone else and had great fun doing so. Do you recall his struggle to find just the right word to express revulsion toward Bill Clinton’s sexual peccadilloes? Trying to stave off impeachment by the red meat radicals, he said in September of ’98 that it was important to face “…the profound moral consequences that will arise not just from what has happened but from what might happen if we do not proceed with the measure of moral compass.” By “the measure of moral compass” I think he meant the jawbone of an ass in lieu of impeachment, and who was better qualified to wield said jawbone? Later, he simplified it to deplorable and reprehensible, but both of these were seen as too wimpy. Senator Hatch contributed the idea that Mr. Clinton needed to worry about, “…leaving an eensy-weensy, itsy-bitsy better legacy than he has so far.” Paddy however knew that history smiles on more muscular language. He really wanted to go for degenerate or pervert but they didn’t make the cut because they might have appeared self-referential. After all, Paddy had been the only solon who dared defend his old drinking buddy, Bob Packwood, who stood accused of advanced swordsmanship. He rejected The Times’ low rent because of its racist undertones, and bum cut too close to the quick. Too bad because it’s a really short word that would not have challenged the average Republican.

Throughout, Paddy was only trying to do his part but, as so often in a colorful career, he found himself in bed with uncouth ignoramuses promoting agendas that would make Ted Kaczynski blanch. People for example who were calling on Janet Reno to expand Ken Starr’s mandate to include the scandal over Tinky Winky Teletubby’s sexual orientation. Pat discovered that being the only good apple in a barrel of slime was not a viable career choice.

He never did find the right word but it was important to make the effort because Paddy’s words carried gravitas. He alone was not a hypocrite. He was not an adulterer. He was not a liar. He was not stupid. One could ignore the demented obsession of The New York Times’ all-the-scandal-all-the time journalism which was perfectly explained by Toni Morrison as a reaction to the nation’s first black president. Unlike the denizens of the Sulzberger Mafia, Pat knew that the President’s sins were trivial and that all the fuss was nothing more important than right wing politics. Unlike Grand Inquisitor Henry Hyde, he knew that the impeachment marked the nadir of American history. Since no one with any brains would believe the drivel being pushed by the Times and the Ayatollah of Illinoiah, someone with credibility had to stand up for the ten commandments and then move on. The task was hopeless of course which is all the more reason to admire Pat for taking it on.

His was a glorious life marred only by a single tragic flaw in the manner of Odysseus or Achilles. In his case, the flaw was hubris. The poor bastard came to believe the mirror on the wall when it told him he was the smartest of them all. This faith in the objectivity of mirrors is one of the most charming conceits of Irish intellectuals and, in his case, the mirror was not lying. But pride is invariably fatal to a politician because it makes such an easy target for the Yahoos. Poor Paddy! His name will live forever but, like Roger Maris’s, it will always have an asterisk appended.