You don't know much about my early childhood.  That's deliberate.  There isn't much to say.  I was adopted.  I don't know who my birth parents are.  My mother was a saint.  My father was a son of a bitch.  He died in 1995 at 80 years old.  His 35 year old girlfriend must have taken him for all he was worth.  
   
    My father had no will, but I was left with everything because I was his only child, and my mother passed away many years ago.  I didn't want anything he left for me.  All he had in his safe was 60 bucks, and an old cigar.  He owned three or four houses in a bad part of southwest Philly.  I didn't want to fix them up.  I didn't want to sell them.  I didn't want anything from him.  I also didn't want to be bothered.  I left the broken-down rowhomes to my aunt.  She was always a sweet lady.  With some work, the houses could be sold.  I'm not sure how much it would have cost to fix up the houses, but I really didn't care.  My dad was a son of a bitch.