HAPPY DECORATION DAY!

My father called today and left a message on my voicemail.

"Hi son. This is Dad," he said. "It's 7 o'clock on Decoration Day. Give me a call when you get a minute."

I had no idea what he was talking about. So, when I got home, I did some research. Apparently, the holiday that Americans celebrate on the last Monday in May was originally referred to as "Decoration Day." On that day, Americans would decorate the grave sites of fallen soldiers.

But the name was officially changed to Memorial Day -- in 1868.

The only soldiers who were ever honored on Decoration Day were the men who fought in the Civil War.

I know my father is behind the times, but this is ridiculous.

Daddy and me on Decoration Day in 1868.

HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY

The Andrews Sisters perform Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy in the 1941 Abbott and Costello comedy Buck Privates.

SMOKE GETS IN YOUR PHARMACY

My pharmacist was standing in front of the pharmacy today, smoking a cigarette.

He waved at me with his "smoking hand" when I walked into the store to pick up a prescription. He was smiling and he didn't seem embarrassed or uncomfortable or anything. For a second I thought he might ask me to join him, just to be friendly.

I'm the last person to tell smeone not to smoke. I love smoking too much, even though I am fully aware of the dangers involved with it. But there's something that feels very wrong about a pharmacist smoking in front of the pharmacy.

Can you imagine if you arrived at your doctor's office and saw him outside, smoking a butt?

"Just go on in and grab a seat," your physician might say. "I'll be right with you, as soon as I finish doing permanent damage to my heart, lungs and cardiovascular system. And don't forget about the lung cancer, which runs in my family."

Wouldn't you stop seeing a doctor that behaved in such a patently unhealthy fashiosn? So why not a pharmacist? You rely on both for informed perspectives about medications and diseases. And you expect them to live healthy lifestyles.

In case you haven't heard, smoking is not part of a healthy lifestyle.

But this isn't even the half of it. There are three pharmacists who work at the pharmacy I patronize. And they all smoke. They all stand in the same spot, right in front of the pharmacy, in full view of customers and passers-by.

I've seen one of them finish a cigarette break, only to be relieved by a fellow pharmacist, lighting up on her break. It's like a shift change for smokers.

Admittedly, two of the pharmacists are foreign women around age 30. I'm not sure where they're from, but they both sound like Dracula. So maybe they're from Transylvania.

I know that foreigners smoke in greater numbers than we do. Apparently all countries need to go through that rebellious, teenage, I'm-so-cool phase, just like we did up until the early 1970s.

But once those foreigners come here and get jobs in the healthcare profession, It may be be time to re-asses bad habits.

I really want to tell these three about Chantix, a new smoking cessation medication made by Pfizer. Two people I know from work broke decades-long nicotine addictions after just a few weeks on the medication.

But that feels weird to me -- giving advice to my pharmacist(s). I mean, isn't it supposed to be the other way around?

After all, the commercials don't say "Ask your customer if Chantix is right for you."

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

Someone at work today said, "Let's set up a meeting after the holidays."

She didn't mean next January. She meant next week. How exactly is Memorial Day "the holidays?"

This is all part of a horrible trend toward political correctness in this country where people refuse to say the name of a holiday for fear that it might offend someone. It started with Christmas, extended to Thanksgiving and now it threatens Memorial Day.

Who doesn't celebrate Memorial Day? Who doesn't want to honor the men and women who have served our country? It's unpatriotic!

But it's not even about Memorial Day, per se. It's just this instinct that some idiots in corporate America have developed to avoid mention of holiday names. It's all about this ever-worsening climate of fear in which we live.

You think I'm blowing this out of proportion? I'm not. Political correctness is slowly destroying the level of discourse in this country as surely as I am slowly turning into a fat man.

Stop it.

Just say 'Have a great Memorial Day weekend" and then go home, or to the beach or on vacation or whatever the fuck you do on a three day weekend.

DO I LOOK FAT IN THIS SECURITY CAMERA?

I stopped by my favorite deli this afternoon to pick up lunch and I noticed something: I was on TV.

The deli has set up a security camera on the salad line -- apparently to make sure that no healthy-eating felons steal the pre-packaged plastic bowls of lettuce.

I think they secretly put it there for another reason -- so that customers can see themselves on the TV monitor, decide they look fat and choose to buy a $6 salad for lunch.

Like me, for example. There I am on the right of the frame, wearing a striped polo shirt and my Mets hat.


Do I look fat to you? Before you answer that question, remember one thing: the security camera adds 10 lbs.

ALSO CELEBRATING A BIRTHDAY

Actor Jimmy Stewart, born 100 years ago today.

Here are some pictures from my favorite Jimmy Stewart movies:

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939)

The Shop Around the Corner (1940)

The Philadelphia Story (1940)

It's A Wonderful Life (1946)

Harvey (1950)

79 AND COUNTING

Happy birthday to my father, born on this day in 1929.

My sister, my father and me, circa 1978

MAYBE THEY MISS ME

It's been months since I moved in with my girlfriend, and out of my apartment at 40 Horatio Street.

It's been months since I canceled my phone, cable TV and utilities. But I'm still receiving bills in the mail from Con Edison.

I just got another one on Saturday. When I saw the envelope I was immediately pissed off, convinced that some minimum wage moron had neglected to properly cancel my service. But then I opened the envelope and looked at the bill inside.

Perhaps you can explain to me why, in this economically troubled climate, you would bother to send a bill to someone who doesn't owe you anything. I mean, it costs 42 cents just to send a letter. And it's got to cost a couple cents for all the paper they use for the statement and the envelope.

Con Ed is already down half a buck just to send me this letter.

And for all you environmentalists out there, just think about how many trees died for this! Okay maybe not whole trees, but at least parts of trees. Or sawdust. Or something.

Obviously, Con Ed is not a green company! Shame on you Con Ed.

And yet, I don't owe them anything. If we're going to start sending bills to people who don't owe us anything, I have to get busy. I have like 100 million bills to send out.

Which reminds me, I need your home address and social security number please. And while you're at it, please include your mother's maiden name and that three digit number on the back of your credit card.

But the capper to all of this, the icing on the cake of waste and absurdity, was the message I found on the bottom of the statement.


Please make checks payable to Consolidated Edison? Payable for what?

Am I supposed to mail Con Ed a check for $0.00 just to keep up this elaborate ruse? And what if I don't? Will they send me a late notice? I bet they will -- and that it will include a late payment fee. And then I will actually owe them money again. And then I will start getting more bills. And then I'll start getting calls from bill collectors. I mean, more calls from bill collectors.

I see how this works. It's some sort of a scam to keep me on the hook.

I see your game Con Ed. And I ain't playing. You may miss me, but I don't miss you. Leave me alone! I don't want to get back together.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY FRANK CAPRA

Happy birthday to Academy Award winning director Frank Capra, born on this day in 1897.

Capra with Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert on the set of "It Happened One Night"

The Sicilian born Capra is best known as the director of the 1946 classic It's A Wonderful Life (which he also wrote), It Happened One Night (1934) and Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939) -- all selected by the American Film Institute for inclusion on the list of the top 100 films of all time.

Capra can sometimes be a little corny for my tastes, but when he hits the mark there's nobody better.

I've written about my lifelong affection for It's A Wonderful Life, but I think It Happened One Night is my all-around favorite Capra film. It's sharp in every way, and remarkably hip for a film from the mid-1930s. And unlike a lot of films of that period, it's not dated - at least in any way that is distracting for a modern viewer.

Yes, the fashions, behavior and mores are a product of the era, but the film feels almost modern in its sensibility and tone.

It's the perfect introduction to Capra's work, and it's available for rental viewing through iTunes.

DEPRESSING POST

I was watching Turner Classic Movies the other night and Nancy Sinatra was on, talking with host Robert Osborne about her father Frank and his relationship with Dean Martin.

"A little piece of Daddy died when Dean died," Nancy said (I'm paraphrasing). "After that, it took him longer to laugh at things."

It was certainly a tragic introduction to a comedic film, 1965's Marriage on the Rocks. But I can completely see Nancy's point.

I do feel like a little piece of me died when my mother died. Even though we weren't extremely close, even though I didn't see her particularly often, I knew that she was there. I felt her presence. And the fact that she is no longer there makes me a feel a bit adrift.

I've never been good with change. That's why I've stayed in relationships, jobs, apartments, etc. long after I stopped being happy in them. But there's something about the change that is brought on by death that is beyond my ability to comprehend. I don't really comprehend it now and I'm not sure I ever will.

I don't understand death. I don't understand what's it like to be here one day and not the next. I don't understand why it happens, or how, or when, or where or any of those things. I Mean, I know why people die. They get sick, or old or murdered, or whatever. And they die. But the cosmic significance of it is hard to get my arms around.

And experiencing it, with someone close to me, has made me a bit gun shy. I'm more conscious of death, of my own death. I'm not fixated on it, but I would concede that my thoughts about death have gotten a bit unhealthy recently.

I wasn't a particularly happy person before my mother died, and I am less happy now. It does take me longer to laugh at things. It is harder to enjoy things, just like Sinatra after Dean died.

My mother's death has made me conscious of my own mortality. I'm running from it. I'm trying to outwit it. And through all of this I am constantly reminded that my other mother is still out there, alive I'm pretty sure, somewhere, just waiting for me to find her. And to be born again.