"There he goes. One of God's own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production." - Hunter S Thompson.
Lee Lyons is dead at 35 years old.
Lee isn’t going to get a front page obituary anywhere but
here, so I’m going to make this count.
He was the strangest person I’ve ever met, and that’s not an
exaggeration. Keep in mind that for many years I frequented circles of punk
rockers, goths, junkies, hippies, LSD users, ravers, cocaine dealers, pot
dealers, journalists, political scientists, historians, rail fans, comic book
fans, Star Wars geeks and prostitutes of all persuasions.
Not one of them comes close to Lee.
I first met him when I was in the late middle school early
high school years, between the ages of 12 and 14. I can’t pinpoint the exact
year or the exact date, but I can make a hazy estimate: Lee was already armed
and dangerous with a VHS camcorder, and already had at least one movie under
his belt.
He had already christened his movie company: Giant Terd
Productions.
I met him through a friend. Lee and I didn’t go to the same
school — I was part of an arts magnet program that Lee probably belonged in,
while Lee went to conventional public school. Lucky for me, a neighbor of his
was in my school, and that neighbor, Hunter, shared with me an artistic talent:
we both played cello.
Hunter was already part of Lee’s inner-circle of actors and
off-camera collaborators, which we affectionately dubbed “The Terds.”
Aside from his movies, which I hope are preserved and remain
unseen by any law enforcement agencies and future employers, Lee was also a
avid musician, visual artist and writer. Though he created a lot by himself, in
his ‘workshop’ where he made our movies using an old analogue, throttle-based
video editor, he also collaborated widely with anyone who was interested in
playing a role.
As a young, geeky high school kid who was part arts geek and
part culture nerd, I envied the way Lee seemed able to attract members of
different cliques among the youth of our home town. Lee’s movies featured
black, white, Asian and Latino kids in what was essentially a self-segregated
city. He featured rich and poor kids, jocks, ‘gangsters,’ preppies, punks, both
the beautiful and the disfigured, all equally respected and ridiculed.
Members of the circle of Terds came and went – a few of the
actors who preceded me left as Lee’s behavior and his artistic choices became
more erratic, or as they matured and became concerned about their reputations.
For a time, I was a regular, spending time not only playing roles, but also
helping to edit and score Lee’s movies.
See, Lee and his camera became ever-present factors of every
weekend gathering during our late middle school and high school lives. So all
of our embarrassing moments, all of our skeletons were documented and
catalogued in his expanding collection of VHS tapes and what I can only now
imagine is gigabytes of video files.
He shot film of our experimentations with drugs and our
encounters with sexuality, all of which he edited to emphasize how ridiculous
teenage boys are.
Much of the footage is humiliating to watch as an adult.
As we grew older and began to go our separate ways, I became
concerned with Lee’s collection of footage. As social media networks came into
their own, my concerns were justified as Lee began posting some of our nostalgic
footage for the world to see.
At the time, I didn’t want my name associated with movies
named “Pervert’s Quest” and “Assblast.” I didn’t want people to see me
partially nude, or simulating sex acts and drug use (much of the drug use was
NON simulated, if I recall correctly). I was trying to build a career and a
reputation. I cared.
Lee, on the other hand, never learned the burden of giving a
shit. Even after becoming a father, he still lived more freely than I ever
could. Lee faithfully uploaded our movies, posted them on Facebook, and tagged
us in them.
Lee was the kind of guy who almost never had cigarettes, but
when he did he would bum them out generously. He was the kid who spent the
balance of his allowance on a dimebag of pot just to get his friends high. He
was the guy who would call everyone out-of-the-blue on a boring summer day to
get together in a public park to create something — chaos, if not art.
Lee was the kind of guy who would wake you up at 3 a.m. to
dose LSD and just walk around the suburbs — which sounds kind of lame in
hindsight, but with him it was always an adventure.
The character of Charley Kelly, from “It’s Always Sunny in
Philadelphia,” bears a striking resemblance to Lee in his creativity and
strangeness.
I lost touch with Lee around the same time I married my
wife. Our lives were moving in different directions. While we were working our
way through school, Lee was calling us up looking for places to buy drugs we
weren’t even using anymore. He was knocking at our door unannounced. Some times
we would pretend like we weren’t home to avoid the awkward conversations.
Though, for a time, it looked as if he might grow up, Lee
struggled with some addictions, some personal turbulence, and type 1 diabetes.
In the end, it was the diabetes that got him.
But, because Lee was such a creative soul, he’s left behind
a treasure-trove of media for his family and friends to sort through. He has
one of the best documented lives on the planet. There’s no chance that any of
us who knew Lee would ever be able to forget him. Trust me, some of us tried.
I’m a little ashamed of trying.
See, when we moved away from Lexington to chase a career, my
wife and I were acutely aware of how limited our time in our hometown would be,
so we started to closely guard when we were coming back to visit so people like
Lee wouldn’t be able to find out and dominate our time. I didn’t have precious
hours to devote to his silliness. It was a difficult decision to make, but we
decided to prioritize family and a subset of friends who were taking their
lives in directions similar to ours.
I feel a lot of guilt about that decision now, even though I
came to find out that I wasn’t the only one who did that.
Now I know I’ll never get one of those weird phone calls
again, I’ll never play music with him again, I’ll never drunkenly sing Nine
Inch Nails songs with him again, I’ll never get throw-up drunk off of Montezuma
Tequila with him again, I'll never walk five miles in the rain while on LSD with him again, and I’ll never be a Terd again. It’s breaking my heart.
But I’m also so grateful that for a couple of years I was a
part of his life.
Lee passed away on Christmas day, leaving behind a son, an
ex-wife, heartbroken parents and siblings, and too many friends to keep track
of. I can't imagine what they're feeling - yes, I lost a sibling during the holidays many, many moons ago, but he was an infant. Lee's fingerprints are all over their lives.
Lee made us all laugh, and he made us all laughable. He knew
he was ridiculous, too, he broke down all your attempts to be the ‘straight
man’ — in Lee’s world, there was no room for Bud Abbott or Zeppo Marx, we were
all Lou Costello or Groucho or Harpo. Everybody was a punchline. In a way, through Lee’s eyes, we were all
equally dumb and awkward and silly and broken, but we all had creative
potential.
That’s a damn beautiful way of looking at the world, isn’t
it?