Just heard this news. Paul passed away last night from "a chronic illness". He was 61. My heart is breaking, as he was one of the kindest souls I ever met. He gave away thousands of dollars, which I witnessed many times. Here’s a cute story:
He called it “whacking”. It began near his property on 12th Street, Manhattan. He’d get his driver to circle Union Square while he identified a suitable beggar; then he’d jump out, shove a hundred-dollar bill into their hand, jump back in and drive off. Soon, he realised that many of the people he was giving to were schizophrenic and he was scaring them out of their wits. So he started passing the money to his daughter because, he reasoned, they were more likely to accept it from a three-year-old girl. He gradually increased the amount he gave – from a hundred to ten, twenty, fifty thousand dollars in a roll of notes. Paul O’Neill and his daughter would drive around the square and she’d say: “Let’s whack ’em, Dad, let’s whack ’em hard.”
I met him twice and he seemed down to earth and kind. He was a man of God and told me the last time I met him, he actually wrote the song, “St. Patrick’s” on STREETS in that cathedral.
God bless his family and friends. His words changed my life, especially on STREETS, where he told my story.
"I am the way,
I am the light.
I am the dark inside the night.
I hear your hopes,
I feel your dreams and in the dark,
I hear your screams.
Don't turn away,
just take my hand
and when you make your final stand,
I'll be right there,
I'll never leave.
All I ask of you is...BELIEVE".
RIP, Paul - you were the best of us.
He called it “whacking”. It began near his property on 12th Street, Manhattan. He’d get his driver to circle Union Square while he identified a suitable beggar; then he’d jump out, shove a hundred-dollar bill into their hand, jump back in and drive off. Soon, he realised that many of the people he was giving to were schizophrenic and he was scaring them out of their wits. So he started passing the money to his daughter because, he reasoned, they were more likely to accept it from a three-year-old girl. He gradually increased the amount he gave – from a hundred to ten, twenty, fifty thousand dollars in a roll of notes. Paul O’Neill and his daughter would drive around the square and she’d say: “Let’s whack ’em, Dad, let’s whack ’em hard.”
I met him twice and he seemed down to earth and kind. He was a man of God and told me the last time I met him, he actually wrote the song, “St. Patrick’s” on STREETS in that cathedral.
God bless his family and friends. His words changed my life, especially on STREETS, where he told my story.
"I am the way,
I am the light.
I am the dark inside the night.
I hear your hopes,
I feel your dreams and in the dark,
I hear your screams.
Don't turn away,
just take my hand
and when you make your final stand,
I'll be right there,
I'll never leave.
All I ask of you is...BELIEVE".
RIP, Paul - you were the best of us.
