Governor Christie throws Bridget Anne Kelly off the bus on a one lane highway

Gov. Chris Christie with her former chief-of-staff Bridget Anne Kelly (Photo: Bergen Dispatch)

So Governor Christie of New Jersey threw Bridget Anne Kelly under the bus yesterday and on a one-lane highway too. He didn’t even says “brace yourself Bridget” before tossing her off.

The Italian governor took the Irish help and kicked her butt of the bus marked Christie 2016.

Bridget should not worry too much though, she got thrown off just as the bus is heading towards a brick wall.

Not one to mince words, the charming governor called his former Deputy Chief of Staff  “stupid” and “deceitful” and wondered how he had managed to install her in his inner circle for the past five years.

But they were great friends for five years, heck, he even showed up at her fortieth birthday last year and hung around to sample the birthday cake which we know he likes to do.

Bridget adored him.

She was well-liked, hardworking, her only flaw seemed to be playing Enya in her car to calm her down on bad days, as she told her Twitter followers.

Kelly, a mother of four, wrote the now infamous email about “Time for some traffic problems in Fort Lee” and clearly had to be fired.

But beware Christie. Hell has no fury like an Irish woman scorned and whatever ill Bridget can do she will, I’m sure.

There’s an Irish expression about the evil eye. Be aware its about to seek you out.

If you’re lying she will expose you and yes, I think you probably are being economical with the truth despite your protestations.

But what did Christie know and when did he know it? Kelly was the type of loyal aide who made no such decisions to block traffic coming off America’s busiest bridge.

She was acting on orders pure and simple.

But who did those orders come from?

Christie was busy erecting a firewall between himself and Bridget and the other conspirators in his inner office who ordered up the stupid pet trick of blocking bridge exits.

They laughed as ambulances were delayed, children confined to school buses for hours and hundreds of thousands inconvenienced commuters fumed.

The crisis has transfixed the political and media world (unless you’re Fox News which managed to pretend on Bill O’Reilly, Megyn Kelly and Sean Hannity on Tuesday night that issues like Benghazi, yes Benghazi were more pressing.

No I’d keep an eye on Bridget. “Omerta” is for the Italians. The Irish like to spill the beans when they have been wronged. The Irish evil eye is surely on Christie.

The pure joy of being home for the holidays

The joy of greeting arriving loved ones is balanced by the sadness of saying goodbye.

DUBLIN — The storms that raged over this country post-Christmas were memorable in their intensity and ferocity.

I experienced the worst of the windstorms when landing in Dublin on December 27, a terrifying yo-yo ride as the near hurricane force gale picked up and tossed the Delta plane around the sky like a matchstick.

The Dublin Airport tarmac never felt so good, nor did the hearty Irish welcome from the immigration officer.

Addressing my daughter Alana, he ascertained she was under 17.

“We have a special rule here that all girls under 17 obey their dads,” he told her with a twinkle in his eye. (I wish!)

Then he turned to me, saw by my American passport that I was Irish-born and simply said “welcome home.” Such wonderful words, and no matter how many years I spend in exile (35 and counting) Ireland is still my home in so many ways and always will be.

Outside in the arrivals hall the relatives gather to meet their emigrant sons and daughters as they fly in from all points. It would be a stone cold man who would not shed a tear at scenes of such unbridled joy.

When does your native country stop being your home? Never, I’d say, in so many profound ways.

To be home at Christmas and New Year is to exist in a different country than Ireland is the rest of the year.

No one goes to work, the traffic jams disappear, and the focus on family and friends is intense.

From Dublin to Meath of the pastures, to Louth of the saints we go, meeting relatives, showing off my daughter, catching up with so many nieces and nephews it becomes a challenge to remember their names.

One is missing of course, our beloved boy, my nephew Rory, buried in a Drogheda cemetery with his granddad and grandmother.

Rory died in New York on April 1, 2012 thanks to hospital negligence now admitted, and the saddest part of our Christmas is recalling the red-haired New York Irish lad who was so much at home among his Irish cousins. May he rest in peace and know how hard his parents and sister are fighting for his memory in order to save lives.

There is food, of course. Preposterous amounts of it everywhere we go, but we comfort ourselves with the polite fiction that we will begin a diet on January 1. (It’s now January 6 and I’m slowly getting through the last box of Cadbury’s Roses.)

I complain loudly, if only half in jest, that this year I have had no trifle, that delicious Irish dessert delicacy. Serves me right! My sister-in-law Agnes whips one up, and the following night I’m fatter than a fool and just as happy after wolfing most of it.

At the races in Leopardstown the women are out in high fashion, the horses are flashing by in that beautiful amphitheater and the men are mostly disconsolate, except for the bookies who almost always win.

Then it’s all over. At the airport it is goodbye and back to America.

The same happy faces are sad. Now, tears of sorrow not joy as they bid their offspring goodbye.

So begins and end the great Irish Christmas. I can’t wait for it to happen all over again.

New Boston mayor overcame cancer, being shot and alcoholism

The son of  Connemara parents, Martin Walsh is inaugurated as Mayor of Boston (Photo: Boston.com)

Marty Walsh was sworn in as Boston mayor yesterday and Beantown could hardly believe it.

When Yo-Yo Ma plays “ Danny Boy” and the Dropkick Murphys blast it out and the Boston Fire pipe and drum band beats its battle tattoo you know it is not Bill de Blasio they are inaugurating – thankfully.

But Marty Walsh would not have been a favorite pick when the contest began.

Too much of the old style they said, a neighborhood guy, not sophisticated.

All true, but he overcame that and much more.

And when you add Walsh’s Connemara mother Mary, who gave interviews in her native Gaelic tongue, then you know it is a throwback Boston mayor they are inaugurating.

Not since James Michael Curley, whose sainted mother and father were also from Galway, had an immigrant couple’s son occupied the city’s top office.

“Now it’s Maaahty Time” as acerbic columnist Howie Carr noted in the Boston Herald.
You've come a long way Marty and family.

His mother Mary and her late husband John grew up in remote Connemara with little hope of work and set out in the mid fifties for what Irish speakers calls “An T-Oilean Ur” or 'the fresh land' as they call America.

Ordinary immigrants on a familiar trail, their life’s destiny seemed set fair.

After the road to the bright city, as some immigrants called Boston, John and Mary met, married and had two kids.

Marty’s prospects in life looked dim to say the least. If Boston had passed casino legislation back then you could have bet the house against him becoming mayor.

He merely battled cancer as a child, was shot in a drive-by shooting, defeated alcoholism, dropped out of college.

Just standing up and not falling down might have been a remarkable achievement after all that.
Instead he has become mayor of, arguably, America’s most politically tough city.

It has been a long time since a shanty Irishman from the neighborhoods took the storied position once held by Honey Fitz and Mayor Curley.

The son of working class Irish immigrants and a laborer himself for many years, Walsh beat an opponent, John Connolly, with a Harvard education and upper class Irish roots, formerly known as lace curtain Irish.

Boston may be the only city in America where such distinctions still count, but there was a lot of satisfaction among Walsh backers I spoke to right after the election.

The Dorchester Irish love their local boy. He still eats the $4 special in his local diner. You won’t find any lace curtains in his modest home.

The working class hero persona fits him; there is nothing fake.

But he is not just a mayor for the Irish. These lines in his speech reinforce his commitment to treating each neighborhood equally:

“Boston has been called, a “City upon a Hill.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard someone use that phrase to make a lofty point.

But let me tell you what I think about when I hear it, with apologies to John Winthrop, the Puritan settler who said it first.

We are a City Upon a Hill, but it’s not just the shining light of Beacon Hill.

It’s Savin Hill, where I live. It’s Bunker Hill, Bellevue Hill and Fort Hill. It’s Pope’s Hill, Jones Hill, and Telegraph Hill. It’s Copp’s Hill, Mission Hill and Eagle Hill.”

The remarkable underdog campaign of Marty Walsh was predicated on that same commitment. Many years ago shanty Irish and lace curtain Irish were not just at eachother’s throat, but also shamelessly exploited racial fears in minority neighborhoods against each other.

Marty Walsh secured key minority endorsements by making clear his commitment to helping each neighborhood equally and bringing Boston together.

While he comes from a traditionalist, Irish past he is very much a politician for the future.

Back in November, right after his election, his first event was our Irish Central/Irish Emigrant salute to Boston Marathon heroes.

At that event he slipped in the back, no security, neither demanded nor sought any  extra attention.
There is that rare bird, I thought, a politician very comfortable in his own skin not in the least impressed with himself.

I think Boston has just elected a very different and very talented mayor.

Here's footage of the inauguration:

The Pope Francis message of hope and help has remarkable impact

Pope Francis is seen as giving meaning back to the Catholic Church.

According to latest surveys, the pews are filling up in Catholic churches worldwide once again.

The new pope is widely seen as the reason why.

Perhaps Pope Francis fulfills a deeper need than maybe he even realizes in the world today.

The struggle for meaning in life is deep in the human psyche.

The need for heroes, for people and institutions to admire and look up  has never been greater than now.

In a society where a relentless focus on trivia, materialism and self-importance has left a spiritual void, Francis has suddenly become such a beacon.

Despite all the material success people have never felt so isolated or starved of spiritual sustenance. The search for meaning becomes ever more important when so much meaningless behavior abounds.

What we don’t need are heroes with feet of clay, who seem only preoccupied with their own aggrandizement.

The failure of the Catholic Church in recent decades has been profound.

Instead of being a wise fatherly institution it became a watchword for incompetence and cover-up and one disastrous policy after another.

Most Catholics love the Sermon on the Mount where Jesus portrayed the message of Christianity so beautifully as one of where the meek, the humble, will be exalted and where good deeds will be rewarded.

That is how so many would  like to see themselves, as servants of their better natures.

Francis has suddenly appeared out of nowhere to replenish and refresh that message.

He has done it in a stunningly simple way.

Whether it is embracing the poor man with hideous facial deformities or dining with homeless men on his birthday or admitting he is unsure about spouting absolute certainties, Francis has exalted the humble, brought himself down to their level and created a new sense of priority among Catholics.

In American business school parlance, the leadership of the church is suddenly flat, at the same level as everyone in it. No longer are there the exalted few towering above the faithful and lecturing them. Instead there is a conversation.

It was no surprise to read about the packed churches in Ireland and elsewhere over Christmas, as the faithful poured back into churches, content that a caring institution is once more highlighting its own accessibility rather than its previous rigidity.

We are all sinners as Francis states clearly, the message, amazingly, all want to hear. Doctrinal rigidity and fancy semantics around cover-ups never had any place in an institution set up to care and give meaning to life.

Francis has made the church accessible to millions again.

That is his true genius.

Ireland still forcing too many of its children onto emigrant planes

A recent survey revealed that two-thirds of Irish workers would consider leaving Ireland. 

DUBLIN -- I spent the last morning of the old year at the Museum of Natural History here in Dublin. There are lots of extinct species replicated and some that are endangered too.

Coincidentally, it is next door to government buildings and the back entrance to the Irish parliament.

Successive policies there have made many Irish-born an endangered species too, as far as living in their own country.

Fintan O’Toole caught it beautifully in his year-end column in the Irish Times, noting that Ireland can be neatly summarized under headings of Plan A and Plan B.

He writes: “Plan A for Ireland is the same as for any state that emerged from the turmoil of the breakup of empires after the first World War. It is what those who participated in the nationalist revolt a century ago imagined they were creating: a stable democratic state with a reasonably prosperous economy and an independent place in the world.”

We all know that was the aspiration, but as he points out Plan B is much more the reality.

“Plan B is fecking off [Irish slang for leaving]. Sometimes it’s an active strategy: 200,000 people have left during the present crisis. But it goes much deeper than that. Even if you don’t actually leave, the possibility occupies a part of your brain. Consider the extraordinary figure that emerged last week from a survey of Irish workers by the recruitment firm Hays. It found that 67.4 percent of those surveyed would consider leaving Ireland if their career prospects do not improve over the next three years.”

He is right. It is amazing that that 67 percent of the people of the island have a mind to leave if things don’t improve.

Migration is so deeply embedded in the Irish psyche that it is almost not remarked on, it has become such a part of the scenery.

Yet Ireland’s tenuous awakening from the economic nightmare in recent months is heavily dependent on enough Irish leaving so that those left behind can prosper and real unemployment numbers can be fudged.

It was so in the 1920s, 1950s 1980s and is so again now – a thirty-year cycle of  leavetaking that takes hold when times go bad.

Sure it is dressed up these days in fancy words about opportunity overseas etc., but  there is no disguising the old failings, that a country that cannot gainfully employ its own people has failed in some deep and fundamental way.

As O’Toole wrote:

“The big problem for Ireland is that Plan B has worked better than Plan A. Plan A has been fitful and inconsistent. It has had some real success but too many failures. The State hasn’t managed to create political, legal and regulatory institutions that work effectively, coherently and fairly. It hasn’t managed to establish an ethic of equal citizenship. It hasn’t managed to convince citizens that the State really does belong to them all.

“But we’re brilliant at Plan B. We do emigration better than we do anything else. We are the world champions at fecking off. ..”

Can Ireland ever deliver on Plan A? Gazing at  the endangered species in the Natural Museum of History and those already extinct I have to say I have grave doubts. Human nature and failings appears to run its course in every generation.

Some things it seems never change.