Remembering Patrick Flanagan: Human Flight
By Ken Sheetz
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The set was ready. Nothing glamorous—just an old metal office desk with a fake walnut top. But I knew how to light it so it popped against the green screen. Two cameras, sound rolling, everything locked down and ready. Except Patrick.
He was about an hour late, which I’d already begun to expect would become common. His staff caught me glancing at my phone and smiled.
“Patrick’s part Cherokee,” one of them said. “He works on Indian time. He might not be here for another hour or two.”
Right then, like a summoned spirit, Patrick entered. No apology, no rush—just his signature megawatt smile and an instant sense that something special was about to happen.
He scanned the set with a twinkle in his eye.
“I’ve got just the thing that’ll make this video look more scientific,” he said, already pivoting back toward the warehouse shelves.
Thirty seconds later, he returned cradling a massive glass sphere—three feet wide.
“Wow,” I said, genuinely impressed.
“It’s an evaporator I used to experiment with,” he said proudly, like a kid unveiling his science fair project. I set it on the desk beside him and took my stool behind camera one. Camera two, side view from the right, was already rolling.
The green screen hung still in the dry air. No AC. No hum. Just the open quiet of a warehouse in early March—before Arizona turns into an oven. A sacred kind of silence.
Then we began.
What followed was two solid hours of pure gold—until my batteries tapped out. We covered everything. His adventures beating the crap tables in Las Vegas. His childhood fascinations. His teenage breakthroughs. Then, he went deeper—back to his crib, literally.
“I remember looking at my toes,” he said calmly, “and thinking, Oh my God. I’m a baby again. I have to grow this body up all over again to continue my work.”
He was dead serious. In that moment, he remembered being Tesla. He remembered the transition.
Only Patrick Flanagan could say that and somehow make you wonder, What if?
We moved from story to story—how he beat the Vegas craps tables with a foolproof system, only to have goons nearly bury him in the desert.
Between tales, he sipped from a huge metal flask and made sure I did too.
“You gotta hydrate, Ken. This place’ll dry you out. Grab some Megahydrate powder from the team—trust me, it’ll light you up.” I took his advice. He smiled slyly and said, “Just making sure you can do the job my wife left me for.”
That one cut.
“Pat,” I said, shifting to that brave-but-wobbly tone I use when I’m out of my depth. “If this is going to cause trouble with your marriage, I won’t hold you to our contract.”
His face softened. “Don’t worry. Stephanie’ll come around when she sees the first video. That’s my bet. You got enough of me yet, Ken?”
“Not yet.” I checked the camera. “Although, I don’t love the glare off that evaporator. Might mess with the green screen.”
“Take it away!” he laughed. And on we went. As I pressed deeper, Patrick sharpened. I’ve interviewed over a thousand people in my documentary career—one of those docs even aired on PBS right before a presidential debate. I know how to coax truth and wonder out of folks not used to the camera. But with Patrick, I barely had to try.
He opened up like a superconductor. And then we hit the topic that changed everything—levitation. He started slowly, but his energy shifted. Eyes lit. Shoulders relaxed. And suddenly, we weren’t talking about products anymore.
We were talking about Human Flight.
He described visions of people flying with nothing but thought and vibration. Of ancient knowledge lost and rediscovered. Of the science behind spiritual potential. He forgot all about supplements and patents, and went full cosmic.
He shared stories of early Burning Man days—how he and Stephanie were among the first to set up camp when the playa was still more myth than movement. One year, he told me, they built an entire Emerald City—a tribute to The Wizard of Oz. Patrick, naturally, played the Wizard himself, beaming out from behind a wall of lights and circuitry, while Stephanie plays Dorothy. He showed me photos on his iPhone—grainy, glowing, and unforgettable.
Yeah. He was missing her. Every story seemed to find its way back to Stephanie. She wasn’t just part of his past—she was still burning in his present. And as I watched him light up talking about her, I silently promised myself: I was going to make a video so good, it might help bring her back.
Right there in that quiet March warehouse, I knew. Human Flight would be the video to launch The Flanagan Experiments. He wasn’t just a scientist. He was a soul in takeoff.
Watch HUMAN FLIGHT below… and I think you’ll understand.
