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The Flanagan Experiments Take Flight
I was getting ready to launch the first interview of Dr. Patrick Flanagan on my BuzzBroz channel, where I’d been steadily stoking excitement for the launch of The Flanagan Experiments, when Patrick himself extended a personal invitation:
“Ken,” he said over the phone, his voice carrying that musical calm that made even a last‑minute request feel like destiny, “come out to the house. Let’s screen it together before the world does.”
That morning felt electric. The Arizona sun was already warming the gravel parking lot outside the Best Western, but inside my little motel room I sat cross‑legged on the bed, meditating. Breathing deeply, I sent the intention out into the quantum sea: May this series be a big hit. May Patrick’s legacy be honored. May it reach the ones who need to hear it most.
By the time I wandered into the lobby for the breakfast buffet, I was buzzing—calm on the outside, but inwardly lighting fireworks. That morning I decided to treat myself. The waffle machine called my name.
As I poured batter and flipped the iron, I noticed two kids—identical twin boys, maybe twelve—watching with big eyes. They were Hispanic, polite, bright, and clearly fascinated with the process. My travels—twice across the continental U.S. filming A Kid’s View of the U.S. and later Kids Talk Politics—had made me a connoisseur of hotel waffle machines. My practiced hands produced a perfect golden disk.
The boys lit up. The mother, young and radiant, stood close by with their father, and when they saw their sons take interest she smiled at me. “Thank you. You are very good with kids,” she said in perfect English.
I grinned, feeling that small surge of pride that sneaks up when strangers notice something real about you. “Raised two of my own,” I said, “and directed over four hundred for my PBS and YouTube specials and Kids Talk Politics series.”
That was probably more detail than she wanted. She nodded, still smiling, and turned back to her family as the twins began to squabble—good‑naturedly—over who got the first waffle. Their laughter filled the small, windowless breakfast room with something pure.
I savored my coffee, the waffle, the moment. Outside, a blue Arizona sky was waiting. Inside, that family’s joy felt like a quiet blessing on the day ahead.
I cleared my plate, said a soft goodbye, and stepped out into the bright desert morning. The GPS on my phone blinked alive. I slid into my rental car, feeling the hum of anticipation, and typed in the address:
Patrick Flanagan’s estate. Fourteen acres of Cottonwood magic.
I followed the GPS off the main highway and onto a winding stretch of two‑lane road, the kind where the world feels quieter with every mile. Pat’s Cottonwood estate was tucked deep into the landscape, perched above the green shimmer of the Verde River.
From the curb, the house looked like something out of a dream—a sprawling one‑story of white stucco, its soft rounded corners catching the morning light. It sat between two smaller homes, one for visiting dignitaries, the other for staff who kept the fourteen acres alive and humming.
I’d seen my share of wealth. Back in Chicago, before my filmmaking chapter, I was a consultant to top CEOs in America—Fortune 500 titans whose estates boasted manicured hedges, glossy marble foyers, and fountains with more ego than water. But this…this was different. Even from outside, Pat’s place radiated innovation and a deep appreciation for the cosmic, as if the building itself had been designed to host ideas as much as people.
I climbed a stone stairway, the Verde River glinting below, and rang the bell. A breeze rustled through cottonwoods. Minutes passed. No answer.
I called Pat on my cell. He picked up with that effortless calm.
“Let yourself in, Ken,” he said. “I’m out back by the pool.”
I stepped into a hallway with a low ceiling and felt like I’d entered a sanctuary. White stucco walls flowed into one another with friendly curves. But these weren’t just walls decorated with art—everywhere I looked there were statues, sacred art objects, relics that felt alive, humming with history and reverence. It was a living museum, spiritual artifacts sharing space with Tesla coils and strange instruments, as though the house itself was in conversation with the universe.
I followed the sound of trickling water to the back and there he was: Patrick Flanagan, relaxing beside an infinity‑edge pool that seemed to dissolve into the desert horizon. He hopped up from his chair and wrapped me in a hug.
Now, I came from the handshake world of Chicago business, where hugs were rare and reserved for family. Even after four years filming notables of the conscious community—Don Miguel Ruiz (The Four Agreements), Barnet Bain, and countless others—I still felt awkward when men hugged. But Pat’s warmth disarmed me. He was already laughing, already pulling me toward the heart of his world.
He invited me into his lab, which he affectionately called “organized chaos.” Scattered notebooks, coils, and prototypes shared space with crystals and sketches of ideas that seemed too big for paper. After he grabbed his laptop we settled into his giant tan leather couch to watch.
I hit play on the first episode—Human Flight.
Pat’s face softened as the screen lit up. He watched himself sitting calmly at his desk while, through some editing magic, he appeared to be floating thirty‑five thousand feet above the clouds, speaking with that measured wisdom about how reality is inner, not outer—and why we should avoid carbonated soft drinks.
When the video ended, Pat turned to me with a mischievous glint in his eye. He asked me to raise my hand with my palm facing him, and brought his palm to mirror mine with just a few inches of space between our palms.
“This is a Hi Phi,” he said.
You read that right. A Hi Phi. If you’ve seen the later video in our series (also below), you’ll know the little marvel he and Stephanie had co‑created during their Burning Man OZ days—a subtle, touchless energy exchange as their update on the traditional hard slap of a high five!
I asked, “So… you and Stephanie patched things up?”
He shook his head gently. “Not yet.” Then, leaning forward, he asked the question that lit my creative heart on fire:
“What’s next, Ken? How do we get this video out there in a big way?”
These were still the early days of YouTube. I explained how we could prime the algorithms by buying a small push of views, enough to spark the engine. I showed him one of my own successes—50 State Rhyme from Kids Talk Politics. “Just five thousand views,” I told him, “and the whole series took off—over a million organic views after that.”
Pat’s eyes widened. He was in.
We primed Human Flight—and sure enough, it soared. Our first viral. Over one million views. Here’s a link to The Flanagan Experiments on DVD if you still use that tech. Or watch it on Vimeo.
