The Unauthorized Autobiography of a man named after Liberace
Lee was born inside the world’s first Cadbury egg, part of a secret government cross special genetic program to create the perfect soldier who never melts and gives the enemy severe hypoglycemia. Once the engineers drained the creamy center and Lee’s fetus out of the chocolate shell, they realized Lee wanted to be a lover, not a fighter so he was infiltrated into the regular populace with merely an especially high craving for chocolate, as a symbolic and constant re-birthing therapy. Lee could not be left sitting on a hot dashboard.
Lee lived in Indiana until he was 14, at which point his father changed jobs and he was plunged into a new world of suburban Philadelphia where large men on roadways sold soft pretzels hard enough to be used to protect the space shuttle on reentry and he discovered that if one ever crossed a picket line, as NFL substitute players did in 1987, be prepared to be hosed down, no matter the age or even if you’re in a wheelchair. Lee made it through high school and eventually puberty and went to Trenton State College which changed its name to The College of New Jersey, Lee postulated, when the president of the school drove down to Trenton one day and got carjacked when trying to buy apples. Lee graduated with honors in statistics, went to graduate school for two years for statistics, then had a semi-private inner nervous breakdown. He rediscovered theatre and repeatedly picked up parts in Des Moines Community theater. It saved his chocolately ass.
Two years later, Lee moved to San Francisco, at which point he ceased dating Lisas. At this point, he had dated five in a row. No mas. In the Bay City, Lee wrote and directed his play for the SF Fringe Festival, still, pacing the alley, listening to the crowd reaction, one of the defining moments of his life. If we live in a Matrix, the machines served up a winner with that memory. He also owned a 1987 Honda Magna 750cc, the greatest motorcycle to ever get devoured by sea salt. There is a commemorative statue of it in someone’s basement who remains anonymously Richard Pringlerstein.
After five years living one block from the freshest sexiest ocean this side of Andromeda, he moved to NYC armed with arms and a zeal to create and whistle in simultaneous subharmonics of talking, singing, playing, emoting that when blended would form a Grand Unifying Field Theory of Ohm, sponsored by the game of Life, for the only way to win it is to become a doctor and have six children that take up all the pegs in your car.
Over the last several years Lee has written, acted, performed, rolled out of bed at 4:30am for two weeks to be trained by an ex-Navy Seal to get into shape, found his birth parents with an ending only an adult choose your own adventure book could concoct, spoken to God, fought with God, and is rapidly approaching the event horizon of a life, evolving to the point where one day he will become a tweet, and then sound and then back inside a Cadbury egg, a solider of love, as only Donny Osmond could express in song.
Lee owns a 2012 Triumph Bonneville named Sheila and an acoustic Hohner guitar named Gladys. In August 2015 he found his new animal companion, Fitzgerald, a black dachshund puppy.
He can sum himself up in this quote:
“My soul is an oil pan for when the moon leaks; my imagination is bootlegged form the stars.”
Peace, love and sexual healing to all.
