New Jersey Is a Little Poorer Without Uncle Floyd

I never really met Floyd Vivino — “Uncle Floyd” to generations of New Jersey TV viewers — though I once did say hello to him on a checkout line in a West Orange store. It felt oddly familiar, like seeing someone you’d grown up with, even if he had no idea who you were.

For those of us who watched UHF television in New Jersey in the 1970s and ’80s, Uncle Floyd was part of the furniture of life. Before cable and streaming, before hundreds of channels, local TV personalities mattered. He was our homegrown version of Soupy Sales — madcap humor, off-kilter sketches, puppets, music, and a sense that anything could happen because it probably would.

His show looked chaotic, but there was talent behind the chaos. Floyd could really play the piano. The jokes weren’t just silly; they were musical, physical, and deliberately strange. It was a kind of humor that didn’t try to be polished. It tried to be fun. And it was.

Like many people, I was surprised and amused to later see him turn up in Good Morning, Vietnam. He had a part in a major Hollywood film — and, famously, no funny lines. Somehow that made it even funnier. The man known for wild comedy was cast straight. It was a reminder that behind the character of “Uncle Floyd” was a real performer who could step into other worlds when needed.

According to his obituary, Floyd battled serious health problems in recent years, including cancer and the aftereffects of a stroke. He kept working and connecting with fans anyway. That seems fitting for someone who made a career out of staying connected to an audience that felt more like neighbors than viewers.

Uncle Floyd wasn’t a national star in the modern sense. He didn’t need to be. He belonged to a time when New Jersey had its own television culture — when you could turn on the TV in the early evening, usually on UHF Channel 68, and see something made here, by someone who sounded like us, looked like us, and didn’t try to be anything else.

New Jersey is a little poorer today with his passing — not in money, but in character. We lose another reminder of a time when local personalities could become legends, when weirdness was allowed on the air, and when talent didn’t need a billion-dollar platform to matter.

Rest in peace, Uncle Floyd. Thanks for the laughs, the music, and those wonderfully strange early-evening hours on Channel 68.