Like anyone who appreciates the absurd and broken, I was saddened but not shocked to hear about the death of Gary Coleman. I was sad because he was an effed-up little guy who basically existed and was exploited for the amusement of others. I wasn't surprised because I had actually gotten a chance to do a long, strange interview with him in 2003 when he was pimping the game "Postal 2."

It was maybe the freakiest interview I've ever done. No one was weirder -- in a strangely endearing, yet sad and creepy way -- than Coleman.

Celebrities are freaks. That's why they're celebrities. They really are different from you and me. Some celebs can handle it, some can't. Some are buoyed by fame, others scarred. Mostly, it's those who've faded from prominence who are weighed down by their past successes.

The appointed day and hour came. We had 20 minutes allotted for the interview, done by phone, him calling me from home. It started in the obsequious manner typical of celebrity interviews, me calling him "Mister" and explaining that I'd been a fan, blah blah blah.

I had a feeling the Willis line would be a sore point with Coleman. On the other hand, I really, really wanted to hear him say it.

SAY IT, GARY, SAY IT!
I once asked Stan Lee to sing the "Spider-Man" cartoon theme song during an interview in a microbrewery in Haight-Ashbury, and astonishingly, he did. When "Titanic" came out, I asked Jim Cameron why he didn't drown Rose earlier. He laughed. I asked Buzz Aldrin how it felt to have to go after Neil Armstrong. He didn't laugh.

But even though I had a primo generational cheese icon on the line and could forever tell people what I'd done, I could tell from Coleman's tone and timber that he was just a sad, lost little man who seemed to wish that all the stuff that had happened when he was a kid either hadn't happened or was happening now instead.

I sensed that the Willis line was a touchstone, a flint that would spark some sort of massive explosion or implosion handled wrong. And so, as the end of our 20 minutes approached, I said the one thing I could think of that might get him to say it:

"I bet it gets old when people ask you to say that ... uh, you know, that thing you used to say."

Silence.

Then, "Oh my God, you have no idea!"

I sensed a change in Coleman's demeanor. He brightened instantly. Probably fearing yet another asshole chanting, "Say it! Say it! C'mon, puh-leeze say it!" he instead had heard someone say, basically, "Wow, it must suck to have been somebody and not be now but still be a caricature of what you were and constantly be asked to trot your old glories out in a nonstop dog-and-pony show."

At that moment, Gary Coleman became my temporary BFF.



ONE MILLION CHANNELS AND NOTHING ON
But our time was up, and I said so. "Mr. Coleman, thanks so much for taking the time to talk to me, I appreciate it and ..."

"What? We're done?"

"Well, they told me we had 20 minutes, and we've gone 23, so I didn't want to ..."

"I am not doin' nothing. I am sitting here on my couch channel surfing. I've got a new satellite dish and 1 million channels and I am just sitting here flipping through them one by one. See, here's wrestling. I wish it was ladies wrestling. There's some people playing golf. A dumbass game-show ... This is all I got to do."

I could hear the channels changing in the background and I knew he wasn't kidding. This was all he had to do.

We chatted for another hour while he sat and channel surfed. Mostly it was "How's the weather where you are?" kind of stuff, like when you're 15 and your best buddy keeps you on the line while he's doing other stuff but that's OK cause you're pals.

We got off on a tangent about model trains, Coleman's secret passion. "Model trains are my mistress, and she beats me regularly," was the most memorable line from that exchange. There was other, weirder stuff. Out of respect for the dead, I'll leave it untold.

WELL, WE'RE MOVIN' ON UP ...
A couple of days after the interview, an autographed picture of Coleman showed up in my mailbox. I didn't ask for it, but honestly, I was glad to have it. I still am.

If Coleman's modern minstrel show stereotyping holds true in death, then I imagine they will play "The Jeffersons" theme song at his funeral, which is what I want played at mine. "Well, we're movin' on up ..."

He would hate it. But that would not matter. What he wanted never did. Dance, little man, dance -- and we all laughed and laughed.

You knew it wouldn't end well. But Jesus, at 42 the guy slipped and hit his head and died. I guess the best we can say is, uh, he didn't have far to fall.