“Do the lizard Dion. Go on! Show everybody how you do the lizard!” said Blake. Dion was pasted to the floor flat on his scales, hissing and wiggling his tongue around. He got up and greeted me, covered in sweat, slurring his sentences, trying to tell me about his favorite lizard song for the movie. I again pleaded for his brain not to explode.
The week before the accompanying film to this article was set to release, I really thought Dion might finally pass on, riding the eternal keyboard nap all the way to the heavens. He had just arrived in California, after spending a week running around Copenhagen with skate dogs and photogs documenting some hell of a skate comp, eventually leaving everyone for a beautiful wounded bird from Sweden. Which is very similar to the time he left me, eventually to cry in my Big Mac alone at 4 a.m. on my 30th birthday at McDonalds, again for another beautiful wounded bird, again in Sweden. But that’s another Dion tale. Dion and visual tech guru Blake Myers spent that week locked up in an editing cave, injecting coffee and pounding their keyboards trying to make the film’s deadline. I would occasionally stop by to make sure he was still breathing, only to find Dion was slowly morphing into the slimy lizard that haunted his mushroom dreams in Bali.
But for now, Dion is our pic-taking, plane-planning, movie-making, partyboying, shred-dogging boss. He organizes our cab rides, gets the proper exposure for his 14 different cameras, has four different electronic communicating devices with him at any given time, all sizzling with chimes and updates and “likes,” which he uses to answer one bazillion emails, conduct Skype meetings with investors, buyers, babes, bosses, manufacturers, filmers, photographers and dinosaurs. He orders our villas for the trip one day in advance, so we have to change rooms every other day. It’s ok. He buys models expensive drinks, runs three different blogs, has a signature clothing and shoe line, and another whole fucking company. He takes mushrooms and talks to the universe while we sleep, flies us to the wrong side of an island, drinks four gallons of coffee and tells a 30-minute story about a man named Boris who may or may not be making bags for one of his infinity ideas yet to hatch. He’s good looking, humble, fashionable, personable, charming, amazingly passionate, sweet, innocent, short, smart, funny, a filmer, director, photographer, designer, model, incredibly motivated, beautifully bearded, and somehow, on top of all that, he is a really, really damn good professional surfer, and has been on the cutting edge of progression for almost a decade. Please don’t explode, Dion’s head.
Dion Agius is our boss. One day his head will explode into morsels of coffee and potential post-blog sludge. Silver bullet clumps of his beard will smash against the walls in all directions at the speed of light dripping brain matter filled with flight itineraries and color way possibilities. One particularly freakish piece of his brain will take a rogue flight pattern, piercing Beren Hall’s RED camera, lodging itself onto the motherboard, spontaneously generating the first self-filming, bearded, surfing cyborg to reach infinity views on YouTube.