So you had a dream?

Not many dreams about my father and Barry, but I came out of my house and Barry with my driveway.

Barry with a shitty shirt, shitty pants, and his ugly, the ugliest running shoes I've ever seen in my life.

You know the ones that look like from Jerry Seinfeld?

Yeah.

The guy who, they were like,

the rougher and, yeah, yeah, Kramer, that he could jump on the thing, right?

With Malt-Tarbe.

So I said, Barry, what are he doing here?

He goes, I want to talk to you.

That's Frank D'Angelo, one of Barry Sherman's close friends and a partner in businesses as diverse as juice,

beer, films, a talk show, and the now-closed Forget About its Supper Club and Mamma Dee's

restaurant. Frank's six feet tall, big chest, bull neck, broad face, jet black thinning hair.

The two men couldn't be more different.

Frank comes off like an Italian gangster from one of the many movies that Barry bankrolled.

Barry, well, he's a scientist with a white lab coat and a pen protector.

On this day, Frank's telling me about a bizarre dream that awoke him from a dead

sleep.

Go, Barry, what the fuck happened to you?

There's no one asking. I go, Barry, you gotta tell me, I'm dying, I'm dying, I'm fucking

dying every day. What happened to you?

To say Frank is fixated is an understatement.

...