For Ted
Eclipsed by my jaunt to Detroit this weekend, I wanted to say a few words about a rare gem that we lost a few days ago, Ted Flynn. Ted was known among the scene for his eccentricities in a scene full of eccentric people. His sense of humor was beyond anything I had ever encountered, and could turn even the most angry or depressed into fits of laughter. He played in many an independent project in the Speak In Tongues days as one of the primary members of the collective. Never a two were the same, the only one who was able to pull of an electric jug band and still smile while doing it.
He lived among the clutter, quite literally. Most of the stuff he owned he pulled out of the garbage. On one's luckiest day they were not able to find some of the rarities that he found, from an obscure 45 to a perfectly functional computer to most of his wardrobe. It was during the early 2000s that he and I were closest. Many a time he would call in the middle of the night and tell me that he came up with a great new way of making money : he was going to dress up as a clown and walk people across the street for a dollar. Twenty minutes he would call again and say he scrapped that idea because some guy hit him. One day he felt depressed and put on a red sweater and some white and red plaid pants and a toy monkey puppet around his neck and said he was going to entertain the masses while riding a unicycle up and down Lorain Avenue. Another time he performed at Beachland Ballroom's bar, passing out sheet music to the audience and said we were going to have a sing along and to bring up the lights so that others can see the words. But it had to be in the key of G, he said. We sang along to some old Budweiser jingles that he found in a soft cover book in the library. Perhaps the funniest memory (if there is such a thing) was one time he was performing in a coffee shop where he pulled up a chair, sat down and said "this song isn't done yet." And he sat with his hands folded in his lap for twenty minutes, because that part of the song wasn't done yet, until the audience was pelting him with food and beverages. And there was that other time he and I were at Steve's Lunch down the street from Speak In Tongues together one night and this cross eyed waitress said to me "Hey honey! Ever feel like doing it sometime?" "Doing what?" I asked. "Doncha ever want to take a man's nuts, put them between two pieces of plywood and smack them with a hammer?!" "Um ... What happens if I answer that question?" Plenty of neighborhood weirdos seemed to follow him around (anyone remember that guy who called himself Strait Jacket who beat him up at SIT or that guy Jeff the Mess who knocked himself unconscious with a beer bottle in front of him?) And he endured it with an odd grace and tenacity that only Ted could.
Ted was not perfect, not be any means. He suffered from depression and addictions, he had his bad moments like we all did. He and I even dated for a brief period in 2000, he was a dear friend. We were not all that tight in the last few years, but I was happy that he had found love with a wonderful woman JJ and seemed truly happy with her. Just when it all seemed like he was making some real headway in battling those inner demons, he died at age 46 from complications of an asthma attack with an infection that was not known of until it was too late. I am a better person for knowing his beautiful, eccentric soul like all of us were. I had returned from Egypt in 99 and gave him a white scarab made of white marble that I had bought from a merchant in the Valley of the Kings, I hope he kept it along with the rest of his never ending collection of trash. He was a true example of how one man's trash is another man's treasure.
R.I.P. Ted Flynn. You were unique thrift in every sense of the word. My words alone cannot do you justice, but I wanted to tell you somehow how much I loved you. Like everyone who we have lost in the last few years, I wish we had more time. And every time I will look at the contents of a dumpster, trash can, or even see a plastic grocery store bag billowing in the distance, I will always think that you are hiding somewhere within it.
He lived among the clutter, quite literally. Most of the stuff he owned he pulled out of the garbage. On one's luckiest day they were not able to find some of the rarities that he found, from an obscure 45 to a perfectly functional computer to most of his wardrobe. It was during the early 2000s that he and I were closest. Many a time he would call in the middle of the night and tell me that he came up with a great new way of making money : he was going to dress up as a clown and walk people across the street for a dollar. Twenty minutes he would call again and say he scrapped that idea because some guy hit him. One day he felt depressed and put on a red sweater and some white and red plaid pants and a toy monkey puppet around his neck and said he was going to entertain the masses while riding a unicycle up and down Lorain Avenue. Another time he performed at Beachland Ballroom's bar, passing out sheet music to the audience and said we were going to have a sing along and to bring up the lights so that others can see the words. But it had to be in the key of G, he said. We sang along to some old Budweiser jingles that he found in a soft cover book in the library. Perhaps the funniest memory (if there is such a thing) was one time he was performing in a coffee shop where he pulled up a chair, sat down and said "this song isn't done yet." And he sat with his hands folded in his lap for twenty minutes, because that part of the song wasn't done yet, until the audience was pelting him with food and beverages. And there was that other time he and I were at Steve's Lunch down the street from Speak In Tongues together one night and this cross eyed waitress said to me "Hey honey! Ever feel like doing it sometime?" "Doing what?" I asked. "Doncha ever want to take a man's nuts, put them between two pieces of plywood and smack them with a hammer?!" "Um ... What happens if I answer that question?" Plenty of neighborhood weirdos seemed to follow him around (anyone remember that guy who called himself Strait Jacket who beat him up at SIT or that guy Jeff the Mess who knocked himself unconscious with a beer bottle in front of him?) And he endured it with an odd grace and tenacity that only Ted could.
Ted was not perfect, not be any means. He suffered from depression and addictions, he had his bad moments like we all did. He and I even dated for a brief period in 2000, he was a dear friend. We were not all that tight in the last few years, but I was happy that he had found love with a wonderful woman JJ and seemed truly happy with her. Just when it all seemed like he was making some real headway in battling those inner demons, he died at age 46 from complications of an asthma attack with an infection that was not known of until it was too late. I am a better person for knowing his beautiful, eccentric soul like all of us were. I had returned from Egypt in 99 and gave him a white scarab made of white marble that I had bought from a merchant in the Valley of the Kings, I hope he kept it along with the rest of his never ending collection of trash. He was a true example of how one man's trash is another man's treasure.
R.I.P. Ted Flynn. You were unique thrift in every sense of the word. My words alone cannot do you justice, but I wanted to tell you somehow how much I loved you. Like everyone who we have lost in the last few years, I wish we had more time. And every time I will look at the contents of a dumpster, trash can, or even see a plastic grocery store bag billowing in the distance, I will always think that you are hiding somewhere within it.
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