Thing is, it's not Frank's house. Frank's moved to Toronto. He's only in town for his son's wedding, or if he's lucky, to save his son from getting married, at least the son should not marry the stoned, goat-faced bitch that he brought down to Toronto for Frank to meet. Not that Frank's cheap or trying to avoid coughing up a wedding gift or anything like that though if there has to be a wedding and Frank has to attend, he would prefer to do so without encountering Dagmar, his dragon of an ex-wife. So while he's in town Frank will bunk in with his old buddy Weilander thankyouverymuch, and it'd only be good manners to have the body out of Weilander's house before Weilander gets home.

Which is about when the cops arrive. And a little after that the shooting starts. But if you think you know what that's about, then you haven't read Ralph Osborne, which is reasonable enough because just for comfort is Osborne's first novel. He's taken up writing only after careers as a synchronized swimming instructor, lifeguard, stone-cutter, janitor, executive director of a street-outreach organization, Sino-Canadian business consultant, real-estate salesman, bistro operator and general manager of Toronto's long and infamously defunct Rochdale College either failed to work out or otherwise came to an end. Most of them, anyway.

All of which seems to have helped Osborne understand how booze, drugs, abuse and plain stupidity can ever-so-gently nudge life off the rails, so to speak, and how uproariously funny that can be if you don't mind standing back and looking at it sideways. Not to mention what people (meaning Frank) will go through trying to ease life back onto something like a track.

just for comfort has its tender moments too if you're quick enough to catch them while they circle the drain. Buy the book and give that a try. If enough people do, maybe Ralph Osborne will write another, and that'd be a damn-fine thing.