Jack Sh*t 2

<blockquote><em>Jack Sh*t 2: Wait for the Movie. It's in Color </em>is the second installment (there will be three) in the life of my father Jack Friedman. Pushing 90-that's how he described the last half of his 80s. Still in good health he moved to Tulsa Oklahoma albeit kicking and screaming.</blockquote><blockquote><span style=color: rgba(80 0 80 1)>He dragged me here! he'd say pointing to me to those who'd ask and those who didn't.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style=color: rgba(80 0 80 1)>He wasn't completely wrong.</span></blockquote><blockquote><em>Before three four times per year I'd fly to Vegas to help him find the lost icons on his desktop change the oil in a car he should no longer be permitted to drive organize his seven antihypertensive medicines into plastic dispensers and occasionally find long-forgotten liquified potatoes. For all his ebullience and energy my father was</em> in fact pushing 90 and men that age have strokes and get lonely and forgetful and yell at those who according to him<span style=color: rgba(181 26 0 1)></span><span style=color: rgba(227 36 0 1)> </span>moved the roads.</blockquote><blockquote><span style=color: rgba(80 0 80 1)>He needed to be closer to me. He needed someone to drive him to Panera.</span></blockquote><blockquote><em>When the time came I thought better for him to die across town than in a nursing home in Vegas.</em></blockquote><blockquote><em>His dementia when he arrived in Tulsa just visited occasionally. It was parenthetical enlightening and often marked by brilliant non-sequiturs. In time that would change. But during these early years in Tulsa Jack Friedman was still very much Jack Friedman.</em></blockquote>