The great and glorious Barney Frank, the congressman who wielded wit like a scalpel and turned the corridors of power into his personal comedy club, has finally called it a day at the age of 86. Frank, the first openly gay member of the United States House of Representatives to come out voluntarily (as opposed to being dragged out by a scandal or a particularly nosy journalist), has left us to navigate the dreary seas of politics without his acerbic lighthouse. He was a man who could reduce a budget hearing to pure farce with a single raised eyebrow, a man whose one-liners were sharper than a serpent's tooth and twice as poisonous to the self-important.
Frank's career was a masterclass in the art of the possible, laced with the venom of the necessary. He served Massachusetts for 32 years, a tenure that saw him become the ranking Democrat on the House Financial Services Committee, a position from which he could savour the panic of bankers with the relish of a gourmand. His greatest legislative triumph was the Dodd-Frank Act, a piece of financial reform that bore his name like a brand, a scarlet letter for the bankers who had gambled with the economy and lost. But Frank was more than just a regulator; he was a cultural phenomenon. He came out in 1987, at a time when doing so was akin to painting a target on your back, and he did it with such casual defiance that the political establishment barely had time to splutter.
His wit was legendary. When asked about his sexuality, he once remarked, "I am not gay in the sense that I am not interested in men. I am interested in men who are interested in men." This is the sort of logic that would make a Jesuit weep with joy. He could dismantle a Republican argument with a single sentence, like a child pulling the legs off a spider. He once said of a fellow congressman, "He has the maturity of a turnip and the intellectual curiosity of a brick." Such was the man.
Frank's death, announced by his husband, Jim Ready, was a quiet affair, a far cry from the cacophony of his life. He had been battling heart issues and other ailments, but his spirit never dimmed. In his final years, he taught at Harvard and remained a vocal presence in the public sphere, offering commentary that was equal parts wisdom and barbed wire. He was a man who understood that politics is a contact sport, and he never shied away from the scrum.
In the end, we are left with the memory of a man who made Washington, D.C. a slightly less boring place, a man who proved that you could be both a serious legislator and a relentless satirist. The world is now a little less bright, a little less witty, and a lot less entertaining. Goodbye, Barney. You've earned your rest. But do try to find a decent gin in the afterlife, for your sake.
