Jack Flynn: Origin: North of Fenway Park. Writer, actor, taxi, bus and truck driver, factory and restaurant worker, softball playing Irish American. One of God's favorite semi-wayward pupils—spent ten years on the road, East Coast, West Coast, (Haight/Ashbury LSD and hopeless despair) until he learned that locomotion never solved nuttin'.
Jack has also authored: "IT'S OKAY TO LIE If Your Fingers Are Crossed"— a raw, ironic, humorous tale—inspired by generational discord and the sexual ambivalence of the fifties—the tale of Billy Flynn—an emotionally pretzeled eleven year old, who loves The Lone Ranger, baseball, his little white cane, and doesn’t know the meaning of the word quit.
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We Came to Fight a War
So, you want to know what it feels like on a bomb run in an unpressurized B-17 aircraft at 28,000 feet—40, 50, 60 degrees below zero, knowing that at any millisecond jagged pieces of razor sharp shrapnel can rip through your body.
And if you have to jump, it is a little high. As B-17 Pilot, Bill Flynn, used to say, “Don’t worry about the ones you can see. Worry about the ones you can't."
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