our mortal coil

I saw a dead body last week. Not in a controlled situation like a funeral or an anatomy class. On the street. In the middle of the street, in fact, having previously been hit by a car driven by a man that didn’t see him. It was at an intersection of sorts. “Of sorts” because though it was indeed the intersection of two streets, it was somewhat less of one in my mind due to its absence of lights or stop signs. There was a crosswalk, though; and, in retrospect, the painted lines really do little to protect those within them. One of the man’s shoes was in the crosswalk, another halfway across the intersection, and the man himself was laying on the other side as if he’d actually been trying to cross from that side. He wasn’t crumpled, or broken oddly that I could see. He was simply laying in the street, very very still, and covered mostly with a sheet.

The driver of the car, not drunk or anything from what rumors had circulated, was leaning casually against his wrecked car staring at the dead body that he had just created, lying some fifteen feet away. He would lean casually, legs crossed for a bit, looking awkward, then straighten up and look severe, then try to seem calm again shifting his position…but nary did his eyes leave his creation. I wondered what was going through his head at that moment, and my best guess is…absolutely nothing. White noise. Static. Complete mental overload. His girlfriend (presumably) brought him a bottle of water from a nearby liquor store, and stroked his hair and back as she handed it to him. They tried to have a normal conversation. They had been going somewhere before this incident. The person lying in the street had been, too. Now, white noise.

Later, realization. How was your night last night? Fine. Get up to anything? Saw a movie, killed a man.

For the rest of his life, he saw a movie and killed a man. Does that not seem odd to you, too?

I’d like to think that witnessing death gives you perspective. It does…temporarily. Very temporarily. Within 10 minutes, I’d already told an inappropriate joke and followed it by an even jokier, “Too soon??”. I am a bad person, and my own life keeps tick tick ticking away.

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i love to hate you

Aaron: http://www.savagechickens.com/images/chickencommunication.jpg
David: it would be like you if there were martini glasses and it said “I hate you”
Aaron: i love to hate you
David: song title
Aaron: Loving you is easy ‘cus i hate your guts
Aaron: do m do an doo doo
David: it will be a great song. Though gay when the fans find out you wrote it about another dude
Aaron: aren’t we a gay band
David: we are if you’re in it
David: zing!
Aaron: again
Aaron: http://seteditions.com/mercy.html
Aaron: why do we fight?
David: because you’re a dick
Aaron: nice

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reading is fundamental

I like to deliver unintentional soliloquies. I like that I stumbled on the correct spelling of “soliloquies” on the first try.

I like to deliver unintentional soliloquies. More often than not, when in one-on-one conversations, I start to wax poetic and verbally play out little skits that I have running, nearly constantly, through my mind. At the end of these diatribes, speeches, scenes, verbose entreaties the recipient invariably asks me if I write. I’m not sure why this is but I’m assuming that it has something to do with the graphic and imaginative way in which I just described their future life and eventual grisly horrible death (or similar). I therefore seem to have an active imagination which should be harnessed by writing.

I don’t have an active imagination. Or at least in comparison to the creatives I work with every day.

I was out to dinner last night and I got the glassy look in my eyes that signifies a story, told it, was asked if I was a writer, and then was asked if I could then tell my guest about the past, and everything leading up to the present. Then this person told me that I had a little time to think about it as they went to the bathroom.

I don’t need time to think about it.

And that is why I am not a writer. Writers have a plan in mind, an outline, and I’ve never had any such thing. I’ve written, or attempted to write, stories all my life. And I never have an idea before doing so, I just start, write, and then stop. They all end up being short stories, everything wrapped up in a neat little package in under 10 pages. A novel seems so unnecessary. Why do I need so many pages to say she was born, she lived, she died?

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you so cuh-razy!

I was confronted (accosted?) by one of the crazy homeless dudes in Venice/Marina del Rey this morning. I was sitting outside enjoying the sun when he parked his shopping cart at the end of the alley and stomped up to me 20 feet away:

YOU’RE THE MAN, RIGHT?! (and not in a cool, “You da man!” like way, but more of an accusatory tone)
I’m a man, sure.
YOU’RE THE MAN, AND YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT
Actually, I don’t know what you’re talking about.
YOU’RE THE MAN AND I’M A MAN AND YOU NEED TO TREAT ME WITH RESPECT SO STOP FOLLOWING ME!
I’m not following you.
YOU’RE FOLLOWING ME AND YOU AIN’T NO MAN!
Well, I live around here, so I’m gonna see you again.
STOP FOLLOWING ME AND LEAVE ME ALONE!
If you say so, have a good day!

It’s funny the things that don’t phase you even a little as you get older. A younger version of me would have had the blood pumping in his ears, his stress-level up, a stammer in his voice, and fully expecting to get jumped. The now me just doesn’t give a shit and was totally calm.

I just wish I could stop following him!

Actually, I should start following him, so I can find out what he’s trying to hide.

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this is not funny

Typically, I’m funny on this blog. Maybe that’s a gross over-generalization along with a certain amount of overwhelming arrogance, so maybe I should instead say that typically, I try to be funny on this blog. Entertaining at least.

Life is not always funny, though. For some people it almost never is.

I have this friend out in Singapore. A gorgeous, funny, intelligent girl who has more to offer than most…who is beaten regularly by her ex-boyfriend.

Beaten.
Badly.
Beaten to a bloody face and a broken body that screams at her movement and leaves her laid-up for days. Beaten in such a way that makes her wonder why she deserves it, which, is and even deeper damage than the physical pain…that she should ever think that she deserves this from anyone at anytime.

I don’t care what you think, and maybe it is old-fashioned, but there are maybe one or two reasons for it to be ever justified to hit a woman.

You just killed my mother and have shown up on my doorstep drenched in her blood and a smile on your face, or
2. You are Hitler

I don’t care if you’ve lied to me, cheated on me with my best friend, called me a small-dicked son of a bitch, killed my dog, lied on your taxes, screwed me out of a job, stolen my money and on and on. You do not deserve to be beaten. Will I hate you? I will. Will I ever speak to you again? I will not. Will I get revenge in some way? As best as I’m able. But I will not beat you, a representative of the fairer sex, to a pulp.

No one deserves that shame, that disrespect, that damage. That is too much. That is not an eye for an eye, that is a limb for a nail.

Singapore is a small place, and you become easy to be found. You can be followed to your favorite bar, waiting outside your place of work, going to the places you go and seeing the people you see. What do you do? What do you do when he is a cop?

I’d like to say that she’s never gone back to him, but I can’t. I’d like to say that he’ll never do it again as she remains firm in the resolution that it is over…but I can’t.

And that is a feeling of helplessness. Be safe, my friend. As best you can.

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save a tree, kill the forest

I know that this is specious logic, but my company adds a little environmental statement to the end of all of our emails. It’s a couple of carriage returns, the statement "Please think before you print", and then a couple of more carriage returns. The idea being, that once seeing this, you will be so overcome by empathy for our environment, our little blue dot in the vast emptiness of space, that you will be motivated to refrain from printing out the multi-page email of Priest/Rabbi/Hindu Monk jokes.

But who do we think we’re kidding? There are two types of people: (1) the ones who print out all of their emails and, (2) good people…and neither the twain shall meet. Once an Email Printer, always an Email Printer (is my theory).

SO, theoretically, by adding an additional:

“Please think before you print”

to the end of every email, and then extrapolating that to all of the endless replies in a typical email chain, you could be wasting at least another page or two with every email.And I don’t know about the rest of you, but I get a shitload (it’s a unit of measurement, you know) of email every day.

Good thing I’m a good person.

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video killed the radio star

I need to murder my television. Some of you limp-wristed cheese-eaters would suggest that I simply unplug it, but pacifism is for the weak. I want the visceral sensation of cold delicious murder to thrill through my body.

I mean did you SEE American Idol last week?!

I kid, I don’t watch American Idol, but lately that seems to be about the only thing I don’t. I’ve fallen into a rut of working 12 hour days and then crashing on the weekends, rarely moving from my couch and watching The Cosby Show over and over again. I’ve recently transitioned from, “Ohhhh, I remember this one!” to “Ohhhh, I remember this one…from last night.” Then, come Monday morning, I have The Remorse, and think about all the things I was going to do over the weekend…like go for a bike ride or get the basic ingredients of food (if you’ve ever wondered how long you can subsist on saved McDonald’s ketchup packets and one box of penne, I have the data to show you).

So, to prove my motivation to get the hell out of the house, I mortally wounded my television, bounced off the couch…and ran to my laptop to type this. Ah, but NOW I’m going outside for real!

After I check weather.com

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i just want to bang on me drum all day

I go to a lot of shows. I go to enough shows that I get the feeling that my hearing ain’t so great…which is ironic as that means that I won’t be able to enjoy said shows forever. But you know what? It’s worth it.

Or so I tell myself.

It’s worth it, no question…because there are few experiences that have the ability to effect you the way music does. There’s love, there’s loss, and there’s music to describe them both.

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i love technology. but not more than you, you see

have y’all heard of this “Twitter” thing? It’s cuh-raaazy! I just got used to the idea of “microwaves” cooking my food for me and now this?

I kid.

But as I was twittering, after being sucked into facebook for an hour, followed now in the immediate present with blogging when I should be in the shower, or really already on the way to work, or really already sitting at my desk, or really already taking a break from the work that I’ve been going hard at for two hours by now…I realized that what with all the monitoring of the virtual representation of my life, so as to make sure that everyone is aware of what I am doing at all times, that I sped so much time doing said monitoring that I may be forgetting to actually go about the mere minor detail of living my life.

Because right now I’m still in bed.
And am considering watching Hell’s Kitchen on hulu before getting out of it.
And will then have to twitter my deep and interior thoughts about it.
And will then blog about twittering it.
And will then change my facebook status to be a vague amalgamation of those two data points that will only make sense to me so as to make me seem mysterious and deep thinking.

David is eliminating the couch kitchen

TGIF

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desperation, hope, relief

From: Van
Sent: Monday, March 16, 2009 3:44 AM
To: David Kleeman
Subject: Flight

David,

I’m probably going to miss my flight. I left my wallet at home and had to go back and retrieve it. So i will take the next available. I will keep you posted.

Thanks,

——-

From: Van
Sent: Monday, March 16, 2009 4:55 AM
To: David Kleeman
Subject: Flight Update

David,

I actually might make the flight if I can make it through security. Will keep you posted.

Thanks,

——-

From: Van
Sent: Monday, March 16, 2009 5:16 AM
To: David Kleeman
Subject: Made it on the flight!

Whew!

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