Knowing John Flint
By Michael Pullen
I got the call early Friday morning; John Michael Flint was dead. I hung up the phone and wept. A man is lucky if he has three or four truly close friends during his lifetime. John was one of mine.
It started in 1980. I raised my hand to ask a question at a Libertarian meeting in Stockton and the next thing I knew I was a candidate for US Congress. I was a thirty year old hippie woodworker and in so far over my head that I really didn't comprehend it at first. It became clear soon enough. There were press ambushes, early morning telephone radio interviews when I was still half asleep, wild haired photo's in small town newspapers. Back then we had competing news departments on local radio so coverage was intense.
When the Republican suddenly dropped out it became a much bigger story. TV cameras in the living room, Marijuana growing in the backyard. My candidacy was a train wreck. John Michael Flint called, offering his assistance as unpaid producer for radio spots and campaign manager. I knew him by reputation because of his talk show on KTRB.
We met on the appointed Saturday morning in the old KTRB parking lot. I arrived with rehearsed scripts. John brought public domain music and the spots were cut in less than an hour. With nothing left to do we quickly adjourned to a pizza parlor for lunch and a beer or two. What ensued was an epic bender. We were literally overnight best friends.
So, John and I were drinking buddies. Our haunts were West Modesto country bars; places long gone but fondly remembered by some; Dixie's Kansas Club and The Whip . Our conversations were mostly political at first, whispered over dark tables with raucous pool games and (rare) bar fights as counter point.
Those were heady days for the libertarian movement. When Dylan sang "There was music in the cafes at night and revolution in the air" he probably wasn't referring to Merle Haggard and Laissez-Faire Capitalism but that was our revolution and we pursued it with the passion of thirty somethings on a mission. Plans were made and some were carried out. There were tax initiatives and censorship groups to be battled and we won most of our fights back then.
Through it all there was always a lot of humor, mostly behind the scenes. John loved a joke, often at the expense of anyone who took themselves too seriously, and local politics provided ample opportunity for that. Local political junkies will remember some of those fights: Measure S, Measure L. Measure Y...CLEAN. It's all water under the bridge now and long forgotten by most, but those were heated local battles and John was in the middle of all of them.
We had high, wild times. John was usually in front and I was more often behind; volunteering for the opposition to gather info (even lifting a file or two, truth be told) , distributing fliers, making buttons, concocting front groups to Mao-mao the media...whatever it took.
John took the fight seriously, but never himself. That's why criticism rolled off him like it did.That was John Michael Flint's public persona. He made his share of enemies in local government long before he started writing his popular columns for the Bee.
By the tail end of the eighties I found it necessary to quit drinking and drugging. My friendship with John had grown so deep by then that it was hardly noticed. John, it turned out, had only been a tourist in that world; I was the one who lived there. His response to the news: "Well, you still drink coffee, don't you?"
Those who knew him as a friend knew a very different John Flint. Like a lot of curmudgeons John's gruffness belied a kind heart. He loved animals and never left our home without talking to each of our numerous pets. He seemed particularly fond of my chicken Amelia. John grew up in rural upstate New York. His boyhood chicken was named Gus.
In the 30 years I knew him I never once saw John turn his back on a friend. He would never you tell this story himself, but I know that he was a frequent visitor to an ailing, elderly Tom Howard. Tom was Turlock's John Michael; a bohemian sort who took on City Hall and won. Tom was nearly blind at the end, living alone as he had most of his life and with few friends left. Among them was John Flint.
I saw John a week before he died. We sat at our customary Denny's table and ate our dinner. It wasn't about the food; it was always about the conversation. We lingered much longer than usual that night; I arrived home after 10 pm. We talked like we would both live forever, but I'm sure we both knew better.
Now that it's over what can say about my best friend? He fought the good fight and had fun doing it. Can a life be better lived? I think not.