"On the Sentinel's standard obituary form, after the vital statistics are dispatched with, there's a section asking people to list ''Other interesting details about the deceased.''
But where do you possibly begin when the deceased is Ed Lindgren? A far less interesting city this would be if not for him.
That Orlando shows signs of vitality in that wide arena beyond the tourist zone and the too-often stodgy local cultural establishment is due in large part to the kinetic guy with the crooked smile who died of pneumonia Sunday at age 36.
It's tough to hang a simple label on exactly what Ed did, as far as occupations go. His obituary called him an arts and entertainment promoter, but that hints unfairly at the mercenary, which Ed most definitely wasn't.
After graduating from Edgewater High School and Brevard Community College, Ed toured as a professional dancer, then lived for awhile in Los Angeles before returning to Orlando in 1983.
Too many people who've sampled the big city art scene bring with them the snooty baggage of condescension when they resettle in the towns where they grew up. Not so with Ed. He envisioned the blossoming of a homegrown culture, of a musical and visual arts identity that was wholly Orlando. And he embraced everything, from the kitschy to the chi-chi, that would lead us there.
''I'm your basic agitator. I just like to make things happen,'' was the way Ed introduced himself to me on the evening we first met. This was back in 1986 when a handful of us gathered in the lobby of the Beacham Theatre to brainstorm what eventually became the Queen Kumquat Sashay, Orlando's annual Parade for People Who Would Not Be Permitted in Any Other Parade.
Ed's contribution to that first Sashay, as well as all subsequent ones, was his embodiment of ''Captain Eola,'' riding roller skates and, atop his head - a spouting replica of the Lake Eola fountain. He led a shopping cart-pushing battalion he called ''The Marching Transients.''
At the time, Ed was on a first-name basis with many of Orlando's transients. He had been spending time on the downscale side of downtown as part of his plan to take over a bar at the Lamar Hotel one night a week, turning it into a club called Below Zero.
''It's the Orlando version of an urban club - dark, seedy, loud and there's no telling what might happen,'' Ed called to tell me.'' But since it's here in Florida you can wear shorts.''
He was right on all counts. And Below Zero quickly became the hangout of choice for Orlando's alternative art crowd.
Ed seemed blessed with both endless curiosity and limitless energy. One day he might be organizing a campaign to save a funky, old neon sign that had run awry of modern zoning ordinances. The next day he'd be talking up the talents of a local progressive band that, as part of its show, conducted a live ''body-piercing'' exhibition.
It all came together when he opened Below Zero Studios at the Acme Glass building on Colonial Drive. On Monday nights anyone who wanted to was invited to bring in an original piece of art and put it out for all to see. The crowd was as intriguing as the art on the wall.
''Eddie was the ultimate choreographer. His special knack was for drawing a wide range of people together,'' said Miriam Saunders, a close friend. ''To enter Below Zero was to immediately feel like, my gosh, there really is something to Orlando.''
Some 350 of Ed Lindgren's friends gathered at Below Zero Studios Monday night to honor him with a wake. They played music, told stories and enjoyed what Ed used to call ''the art of the mingle.''
As the evening wore down many of them stepped outside and released helium balloons (politically correct, biodegradable ones) with handwritten messages attached.
''They were messages for the heavens,'' said Saunders. ''Messages for Eddie.''
Let this message now join them - thanks for making it interesting, pal." (from (
visit link) )