In October 1977, I started working in the copy department of Rolling Stone, shortly after moving to New York from Ohio. One afternoon, I encountered two tall, bearded men in the hallway bridging the art department and the rest of editorial. I was obviously a new face. They introduced themselves as Tim and Patrick and said a small group of staff were going to a club that evening to see the comedian Rodney Dangerfield. Would I like to join them?

Though I did not grasp it at the time, the moment was telling: Patrick was open-hearted, generous, and appreciated a well-told joke. Gradually, a friendship grew. It was a bit like having an older brother with only upsides. A born raconteur with a razor-sharp wit that he could also turn on himself, Patrick shared innumerable stories about his world travels and life lessons, and proved to be one of the most astute observers of human nature I’ve ever encountered.

A weeknight post-deadline might find a small group of coworkers around the table in one of our apartments playing dominoes, me a rapt audience to the elders spinning tales of Rolling Stone’s history, with Patrick slamming down a tile, declaring, “Think long, think wrong!”

The landscape shifted a few years on. Tim Reitz, also my friend and Patrick’s partner in the magazine’s camera department—both of them expert craftsmen in prepping individual pages for the printer—decided he wanted a different escape after the issues closed. He scouted, and found, a house in rural Orange County, New York. Conveniently, about a quarter mile west on the other side of the road, a ramshackle former hunting cabin was for sale. Tim and Patrick now had country homes, where visitors like me could take long walks in the woods, jog a less-traveled road, and for a few years in a row, enjoy costumed Halloween blowouts.

Along the way, Patrick met and had the good sense to marry Ellyce. She was the One; they were the couple the Universe had all but shouted were meant for each other. I considered myself lucky to have two friends where there’d been one.

The decades rolled on, with more of us finding partners, having kids, or changing jobs. Conversations shifted to former colleagues, homes, gardening, kids—Patrick was so proud of his daughter, Sara, always. His multitude of friendships endured. So did his storytelling: One of the last he related, earlier this year, was about the time in the 80s when he was summoned to Jann Wenner’s office. The boss wanted to see him immediately. There, Jann said words to the effect of: “Since when do I have to use your name to get a reservation at Cipriani’s?” That being the hot restaurant of the moment, housed nearby in the posh Sherry Netherland Hotel, where all the fabulous faces went to be seen. Jann’s assistant had been trying unsuccessfully on his behalf, until Jann himself called, asked for a table, and heard, “Oh, you work with Patrick Cavanaugh. Of course you can come!” Any fault with the details here lies with me, but it seems Patrick, on one of his trips, had met a young man on a hippie beach in Mexico. The guy had lost all his belongings in a fire where he’d been staying and needed $50 to get back to Mexico City. Patrick gave him the money. Somehow in that non-digital era, the stranger later found Patrick and paid him back–oh, and turned out to become a top-tier chef, eventually at Cipriani’s in the Sherry Netherland. Their friendship also lasted the decades; though the chef now lives far away, he was going to visit New York this October, and they planned to have dinner.

Memory—especially at my age—is a poor substitute for a dear friend who has passed, but the character of the man endures. 

So, so many memories of Patrick—-the kind of memories that gently force your mouth to smile.  

Where to begin  

My first wife, Diana, who tragically died just prior to her 41st birthday, and my current wife, Robin, were only just getting to know me when they met Patrick.  He was the first of my friends or family to meet my future wives.  I sometimes think that, in a way, Patrick’s reaction to them and they to him was a way for me to be certain I was headed in the right direction.  

I miss him every day. 

July 7, 2024

Dear Ellyce and Sara,

Patrick's picture in India is wonderful.

I guess everyone is unique but The Cavanaugh was uniquer than most of us. Patrick was able to live his days on his own terms, and he worked hard for that privilege. He loved and cared well for Ellyce and Sara and I admired that greatly. His country cabin was not simply a leisure spot. Patrick was a garlic farmer and the yearly photos of Sara (from birth) sitting in a basket surrounded by the fruits of his & Ellyce's labors were the best baby photos of all. I met Patrick and Ellyce and Sara in September of 1993. Sara and Sam started 2nd grade together and we met on "back to school night." 

I know that there will never be another you, Patrick. Ellyce has a very wide group of people who love her and she is surrounded with love and many old and new friends and Sara. I trust she will be OK after a time. 

I will always remember and miss Patrick, and hear his husky voice. 

With All Love,

Gina

I miss my friend, and I would like one more dinner with Patrick and Ellyce, or I would like one more lunch with Patrick and David and Jim, or one more Cuddebacke excursion.  But you can’t always get what you want so, with all due respect to Nanker Phelge, I send this condolence.  

You Can’t Always Keep What You Want 

I saw him today in my perception  

A glass of stout in his hand

I know he was going to meet his celestial connection

The loves of his life by his bed 

No, you can’t always keep what you want

You can’t always keep what you want

You can’t always keep what you want 

But you just might find 

You keep what you need

E saw him today in recollection

Remembrance  of years in her mind

She knew she would make soul connection

In her heart her footloose man

No, you can’t always keep what you want 

You can’t always keep what you want 

You can’t always keep what you want 

But you just might find 

You keep what you need 

And I went down to Minetta Tavern

To get my fair share of his abuse

Eating fries and cheese hamburgers 

If we do, gonna blow a healthy diet

Sing it to me Patrick

You can’t always keep what you want 

You can’t always keep what you want 

You can’t always keep what you want

But you just might find 

You keep what you need 

I went down to the Capri drugstore

To get my prescription filled 

I was sitting in situ with Mr. Timmy

We decided that we would have a toke-a

My favorite flavor Sensimil

Obey said one word to me 

And that was “Pass”

I said to him

No, you can’t always get what you want 

You can’t always get what you want 

You can’t always get what you want 

But you just might find

You get what you need 

Ah, Woe

You get what you keep 

O’Cavanaugh

Saw Sarah today in meditation

In her heart a most loving dad

She was practiced in the glow of his affection

I could tell by love-filled eyes

Sing it

You can’t always keep what you want

You can’t always keep what you want 

You can’t always keep what you want 

All times

You keep what you need

 In loving memory to dear Patrick Cavanaugh                   

I knew Patrick and Ellyce from Ed’s Tai Chi class. I loved Patrick’s cinnamon ice cream. He and Ellyce were always so friendly to me.

I know his death is a deep and tragic loss for Ellyce and their daughter Sara.

Nancy Balaban