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.

I AM UNDER-STIMULATED

I just found out that my economic stimulus payment is only going to be $403!

I thought everybody was supposed to get $600. But no, not me. Apparently I make too much money to receive the full stimulation. On paper, this sounds like a good problem. You make more than a certain amount, you need to be given less than others.

But here's the flaw in that logic: I live in New York City. Cigarettes cost $8 per pack here. Down in Florida you can get three packs for that much. I'm no economist, but that obviously means it's three times as expensive to live here as it is to live in other parts of the country.

And that means I should get three times the stimulation as everyone else -- not $197 less.

Sure, I don't drive. And no I don't have any kids, or a variable rate mortgage, or a car loan or car insurance payments or anything like that. But why should I be penalized for making smart choices in life?

I have managed to avoid the financial traps that most other Americans have fallen into. I should be rewarded for that, not punished.

Somebody suggested recently that I might not be living up to my earning potential. And he or she was probably right. I could make more money than I do right now -- if I took a staff job that I hated, worked long hours, became (more) depressed and generally felt trapped by a life that I didn't want.

Or I could not do that. If you had the choice, which would you pick?

And what if I had decided to do all that, just for the sake of making as much money as I can? I would get an even smaller check from the government than I'm getting now.

You'll pardon me, but I think I'm going to stick with my current plan.

Where my money, bitch?

SINCE SOME PEOPLE ASKED

A number of people asked me how I felt yesterday, on the occasion of my first Mother's Day without my mother.

I am happy to report that it felt just like any other day.

I took the train out to Connecticut and spent the day with Maggie's parents, her sister-in-law and her four year-old niece and toddler nephew. I brought her mother a bouquet of flowers, as protocol dictates. Of course the flower shop in Grand Central Station charged me about twice as much as the last time I bought flowers there. But you got to make hay while the sun shines, right?

I also called my sister and my aunt and wished them a happy Mother's Day.

But I didn't miss my mother yesterday any more or less than any other day since she died on December 28. In fact I actively endeavored to remain unsentimental. It was my act of protest to the capitalist machine that has bastardized a holiday that was meant to be anything but commercial when it was conceived by Anna Jarvis 103 years ago, following the death of her own mother.

In fact, I hadn't seen my mother on Mother's Day for the last few years, since she and my father moved to Florida back in 2005. And I've never really been a big fan of Mother's Day anyway. It always seemed forced, like a contractual obligation of childhood, rather than an organic celebration of love and appreciation.

One time when I was little I said to my mother, "How come there's Father's Day and Mother's Day but there's no Kid's Day?"

"Because every day is Kid's Day," she shot back.

The more time I spend around other people's children, the more I believe that my mother was right.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY

IT'S ALL OVER FOR ME

I just bought a pair of 36" waist jeans at the Levi's store. Actually two pair.

This is it for me. Remember this day -- May 8, 2008 -- this is the day that it all came to a tragic end, right there on 14th Street between 5th and 6th Avenue.

After weeks of struggling to cram my ever-widening midsection into pants that were multiple sizes too small, I finally relented. And in the process I broke a promise to myself: never to go higher than a 34" waist.

For years, 34 was the imaginary line of death for me. It was far in the distance, an ungraspable concept, sort of like Alzheimer's Disease or cataracts. I knew I would get there some day, but that day always seemed far, far off.

And so today, after enduring a particularly uncomfortable welt formed by the top button of my jeans digging into my rolly-polly belly, I decided that the time had come to get real and deal with the truth.

So I walked into the Levi's store on 14th Street and began to browse. There were stacks of jeans piled to the ceiling. I began flipping through the piles and found no 34" waist jeans.

I was relieved. Apparently I wasn't the only one who had hit the big 3-4.

There was a salesclerk standing next to me as I searched, but he was busy dancing to the techno remix of Kung Fu Fighting, which was playing over the PA system. Sadly, I had to interrupt him while he busted his move.

"Do you have this in a 34 waist?" I asked, wincing. "And while you're at in, let me try a 33 too." I was being optimistic.

He handed me a 33 and a 34 and I made my way to the fitting room. I pulled on the 34s and had to struggle to get them buttoned. Not only had I hit 34, I had passed it. The 33 sat there on the bench, mocking me and my hairy gut.

I walked out of the dressing room in my socks, searching for Ricardo, my dancing salesclerk.

"I need these in a 35," I said, looking down at the floor. Eye contact was too difficult at that moment.

"Oh, we don't carry 35s," my svelte helper replied. "That's only special order."

Wait a minute? I am so fat that the store has to special order my pants? How the fuck is this possible? I admit that I've let myself go a bit, but outside of New York and LA I'm considered practically anorexic. It made no sense to me.

"Well, I need the pants now," I said. "What should I do?"

"How about 36 waist?" Richardo asked.

"Shhh!" I said, holding my finger to my lip. "Not so loud! I don't want anyone else knowing about this. Just bring me a couple 36s and let's get this nightmare over with."

Ricardo gave me two pair of 36 waist Levi's jeans, a 559 and a 505. I tried both of them on. They fit comfortably.

"I'll take them, I said to Ricardo, as I walked slowly out of the fitting room. "But I want you to know one thing. This is a temporary situation. I will be back in a couple months, and I'll be asking you for size 33. Mark my words, amigo. Mark my words!"

"Okay dude," Ricardo said. "Cash or credit?"

WHAT'S THE POINT?

Isn't every store 99 cents & Up?

ALWAYS BET ON BLACK

Before I left work on Tuesday, I asked a co-worker if she was going to watch the coverage of the North Carolina and Indiana primaries when she got home.

"Nope," she said. "I don't vote. They're all liars."

She's right, of course. The system is sadly, depressingly, almost irreperably flawed. But I can't imagine throwing up my hands and abandoning it.

I am obsessed with presidential campaign coverage. I watch MSNBC every night, I listen to tons of podcasts, I read The New York Times. I record all the Sunday morning shows -- This Week, Meet the Press, Face the Nation, Reliable Sources and more.

I've been fascinated with the political process ever since the 1980 election, when I supported independent candidate John Anderson against Ronald Reagan and Jimmy Carter (the only time in the last 28 years I didn't support a Democrat).

The dye was cast that year. In the six campaigns since Reagan's victory in 1980, my candidate has come up on the losing side of the ledger four times. In fact, the first time I cast a vote for president, in 1988, my guy lost badly to Reagan's V.P., the first George Bush.

Oh, Michael Dukakis, I had such high hopes for you!

This is not an interest that reoccurs every four years and is put to rest until the next election. It's a year-round, 24/7 fascination. Even though I am often disgusted by the politicians and their behavior, I choose to remain aware and engaged. I have to. What other choice do I have?

Until I decide to move to Canada -- which I might just consider in the event of a McCain presidency -- this is the only political system that I have. And, while it is imperfect -- and certainly in need of some major repairs -- it is a better than most of the other options out there.

There is so much at stake, so much to do. And that's why I'm watching Chris Matthews, Keith Olbermann and Tim Russert on MSNBC at 1 AM on a Tuesday night. And this year, of all years, how could anyone disengage from the process?

This is a election that will be talked about for generations to come. Fifty years from now, when my (hypothetical) grandchildren ask me what it was like the first time a black man and a woman ran for president, I want to be able to speak from an informed perspective.

And I really want to be able to say, "President Obama changed things in this country, for the better."

I know it's a longshot, but I've been betting on the longshots since the beginning.

SECOND HAND SNACKING

I saw something at the gym today that I've never seen before.

A rather large man in a football jersey was pedaling away on a stationary bike, watching 60 Minutes on his individual TV monitor. And he was eating snacks.

That's right, he had a plastic Tupperware tub of what looked like Veggie Booty, along with a bottle of blue Powerade, and he was just snacking away during his "workout."

I've seen people eat at the gym before, usually protein bars or shakes, or healthy things like that. But green Cheese Doodles? That's what Veggie Booty is (are?). It's just green-colored Cheese Doodles with some algae, or kelp or seaweed or something added to it so moms will think it's a healthy snack.

Maybe it's better for you than Cheetos, but it's still junk food. Who eats junk food at the gym? Is this guy so malnourished that he can't wait 30 minutes until his workout is over before he busts out the eats?

No wonder half the country is obese.

I blame this situation on the individual video monitors at each cardio machine. Many Americans snack in front of the TV. I do it myself. It's totally understandable. But at the gym? You go to the gym to lose weight, not gain it.

My question is, why doesn't the New York Sports Club outlaw this type of thing? Where do they draw the line? Is it okay to bring in a bag of McDonald's? What about a bucket of KFC? And how about smoking? Can I smoke a cigarette on the treadmill?

If not, why not? Sure, you can say that secondhand smoke has an impact on those around the smoker, those who have not chosen to smoke. But what about secondhand snacking?

I had to watch this guy stuff his face for half an hour while I was running on the treadmill. And what's the first thing I did when I left the gym? I went to the deli and bought some Veggie Booty, thus negating the positive impact of my workout.

And I blame it all on the fat guy at the gym, chowing down on Veggie Booty while the rest of us were busting our asses.

Shame on you, fat man! Shame on you, New Yorks Sports Club. And shame on me for figuring out a way to gain weight, even when I go the gym.

It is tasty, I have to admit.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BING

Happy 105th birthday to Bing Crosby, born May 3, 1903.

Crosby was a star of movies, radio and records, and one of the most distinctive vocalists of the 20th Century.

He was also, apparently, a dedicated pothead. As if I needed another reason to like him.

What's in the pipe, Bing?

BACK IN PRINT

I make my triumphant, long-awaited return to print journalism today, with a piece in three different New York City weeklies.

It's a feature story about memoirist Janice Erlbaum, author of the new book Have You Found Her. The piece is the lead arts story is this week's edition of The Villager, Downtown Express and Chelsea Now.

You can read it by clicking here.

Have You Found Her is great read and I highly recommend it. Janice's first book, Girlbomb, is also amazing.

You can learn more about Janice Erlbaum here.