Jack Sh*t

<p>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.</p><p><br></p><p>He bought a house at 84. The bank gave him a thirty-year mortgage.</p><p><br></p><p>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. </p><p><br></p><p>I am a comedian. I had time.</p><p><br></p><p><em>This</em> 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. </p><p><br></p><p>My father though in his 80s thought he looked 40 and had the energy of a twenty-year-old.</p><p><br></p><p>I was 16 two weeks ago Ba. Where did it all go?</p><p><br></p><p>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.</p><p><br></p><p>It was the perfect scenario for a son trying to understand his father.</p><p><br></p><p>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.</p><p><br></p><p>I should have started this book sooner. </p>