The Most Kind Man I Have Ever Known

DANNY SUGERMAN

Danny Sugerman, perhaps best known for his friendship with Jim Morrison, is the author of Morrison’s biography, No One Here Gets Out Alive, which has sold over two million copies and has been translated into twenty-two foreign languages. Today Sugerman continues his writing career and oversees the operations of the Doors’ estate. He is credited with the Doors’ staying power and bringing the band’s music and Jim’s poetry to generation after generation. Sugerman also wrote Wonderland Avenue: Tales of Glamour & Excess. The book, released in 1988 to wide critical acclaim, led to his friendship with Timothy Leary who read the book and contributed an enthusiastic quote for the back cover. The two became close, forming a similar mentor-student relationship to the one Sugerman had once had with Morrison.

Thus far, there has been a lot said and a lot unsaid, and written, all of which I think Timothy would’ve enjoyed—positive or negative. He liked being a celebrity, and much more will be added since his death—more tributes, and Tim deserves every one, every kind word, remembrance, good-bye, farewell, love. . . . Not only was his spirit indefatigable, his heart was enormous in its boundless love of people, art, artists, LIFE.

Michael McClure, Timothy Leary, Barbara Leary, Jello Biafra, and Danny Sugerman backstage at the Roxy after a reading

He was, of course, the first in his class to die (not to disrespect Abbie Hoffman) a natural death. But, from what I’ve heard, Tim was the first at many things. When I first learned of his egalitarian “Every man has a right to meet God!” approach to LSD versus Aldous Huxley’s more British, reserved, “Must be very careful with this, only the best and the brightest,” it confirmed for me Tim’s true enthusiasm, complete abandonment, and unbridled faith in his fellow man and the unity of all living things.

He had a way of making whomever he was with feel as if they were the most important person on the planet. A rare gift. Some people couldn’t believe their initial encounter with the man. My wife, Fawn Hall, couldn’t accept Tim’s instant acceptance of her, while much of Hollywod judged and mislabeled her as a far-right republican. He didn’t care what other people thought. He just liked her. He had no agenda. She would come to love him as much as I. Forget the old “I’ll give you the shirt off my back” breed of humble generosity many people can summon (especially for people in need), Tim gave you not only his home and food and good company—he gave you him. And on many occasions he gave people, myself included, back their own selves. To my knowledge he did this with every sentient being he encountered.

This energy cannot be faked. Timothy Leary did not simply offer up true Irish charm and wit, although he gave that too. Timothy Leary held back nothing. He gave people, especially those he loved, everything. And of course in acts of true gratitude for such friendship people naturally gave back to Tim.

He was one of the few true friends I’ve had. I considered it an honor to meet him and even more of an honor to consider him a friend. But he wasn’t just a friend. I’m proud to say Timothy was like a father to me after I lost my own, a priest to me when I needed ministering, a kindred soul, a tribal elder, a mentor, an inventor, an artist, anarchist, writer, performer, philosopher, scientist, psychologist, guru.

He was one of the most kind men I’ve ever known. In a town plagued by ego and riddled with judgment, Timothy loved me with complete, unconditional love. Nothing I said or did, from the time my first book hit No. 1 through the time my last book came out, as a psychotic, paranoid crack addict seriously in need of a miracle . . . on top or in the gutter, Tim was always there for me. We spent hours together researching Ibogaine as a cure for my methadone addiction.

In his final years I tried to pay him back but the debt was too big and he was too much of a gentleman to accept it. Still, I tried to let him know I was now there for him, if he needed me. I had his house cleaned, brought him groceries, drove him to doctors, told him I loved him. “Yes,” he said, “now love yourself.” He was not a taker. But how do you give, what do you give, to a man who has everything?