Here’s a little New York story.

David and I were walking to the diner to have breakfast when we see a guy wearing a Tony Romo Dallas Cowboys t shirt.

As we pass David says  “I don’t like that shirt as much as I did a week ago”.

Something I already guessed because he and his sons had removed his man Tony from the top of his Christmas tree and replaced him with either Jesus or some guy from “Breaking Bad”

(To all you regular people out there it seems that there was some football  scoring tragedy that occurred this week)

The guy turns around and goes absolutely ape shit. He starts screaming about the Dallas Cowboys offense and how the head coach doesn’t know jack shit about football. This rant goes on for two blocks with this guy not taking a breath. When we get to the diner we  nod towards it so that the guy knows that we’ve gotten to our destination. He doesn’t acknowledge it at all, except he finishes his diatribe, turns and continues down the street, no good bye no nothing.

People have been saying that I write about David too much but I can only write about what I know.

He lives across the hall from me and with Liz gone much of the time we see each other a lot.

And ya gotta admit he is a colorful person and he doesn’t know the meaning of shut the fuck up.

Why just this morning we were enjoying the surprising spring weather on his terrace and he referred to something he was reading in  what he affectionately likes to call the Jew York Times, or the Communist Manifesto.

“Everybody should have the right to bear arms except kids, fruitcakes or felons.” He went on an on about gun control, Obamacare, and Obama himself.

I suggested that it’s only a matter of time before he becomes one of those nutty old guys sitting on his front porch screaming invectives at passerbys.

That thought didn’t displease him at all.

What does displease him is that he thinks I don’t portray him as he really is. He says I soften his image and therefore distort his message.

“Are you planning on running for President?”

“You never know”

” I do know and I know something else. If I wrote half of what you really think Lizzie would kill me. In fact that’s why I left out your saying this morning that you hate Nancy Pelosi because she’s a “see you next tuesday”.  Think how mad she’d be about that? .”

He didn’t answer because he’d pretty much stopped listening to me by that time”

I didn’t get his attention again until I mentioned that I asked his son’s girlfriend, Valerie, what David’s ex wife was like.

“Why would you ask her that? That’s none of your business.”

“I’m not saying that it’s my business, but it isn’t “not” my business either. I was curious.”

“You mean nosy”  He was dying to say “pushy” I could tell.

You won’t believe how long this went on with me insisting that as long as I wasn’t asking about someone’s finances or weight there was nothing you couldn’t put on the table and him saying that polite conversation demands that anything other than world events, sports and news was taboo.

That brought to mind a dinner party I once went to at Liz’ house when one of her friends, an absolute knockout, suggested that she and dave, my husband at the time, meet for lunch since they both spoke Japanese. Even then, when I thought dave was trustworthy, I spoke my mind. The whole table got quiet when I said “Yeah, that’s gonna happen”.

“That’s why I hate your WASP parties. No one says how they feel. It’s a load of small talk, something I have no ability in.”

And here’s why I love Liz. She let’s me be me. She even takes me to her fancy Jew Hatin’ Club (She’s going to hate that I call it that. Whenever I say it she’s always forced to name Jews that belong but after Wendy Wasserstein she pretty much comes up empty).

As I was saying, she let’s me be me. Whenever she introduces me to any of her friends she always says ” Just because she asks you a question doesn’t mean you have to answer” and then she leaves me to my own devices.

Whereas if I had a nickel for every time David told me that something wasn’t my business, well I’d have a lot of nickels.