Jack Sh*t

My father, Jack Friedman, CPA (even if he made the diploma himself), and Purple Heart recipient (even if lifted it from the guy in the bed next to him in a Tokyo Army hospital), moved to Las Vegas from Atlantic City when he was 78.

He bought a house at 84. The bank gave him a thirty-year mortgage.

This is that story. The early years-and by early, I mean his 80s. I spent more time with him at this point in his life than any other. 

I am a comedian. I had time.

This is the first volume of my conversations, arguments, buffets, and philosophical musings  with my father from the years 2004-2014. There was "The Mob," the survivor's group of those who buried their spouses, the bowling, the possible death of Bernie, the coupons, the long-suffering Jeannette "who buried two husbands. Did you ever? Two!" And always the toupees, many kept in boxes in the bedroom, garage, and sometimes out on the dinner table. 

My father, though in his 80s, thought he looked 40, and had the energy of a twenty-year-old.

"I was 16 two weeks ago, Ba. Where did it all go?"

As he entered his eighth and ninth decades, he couldn't hear, didn't listen, had no short-term memory, and mostly didn't care.

It was the perfect scenario for a son trying to understand his father.

As my sister, whose name he couldn't always remember, once said about his approach to life,  "He's been like that for as long as I've known him."

I should have started this book sooner.