Death is Afraid of Leningrad

I've written on this subject before, my dad and his Eastern European history loving, East Village living in, eccentric friend.I met my parents for dinner at Katz and my dad's friend joined us. He asked me if I saw the exhibit on German writers in exile at the something something, then about some story in the New Yorker on Gertrude Stein living in Vichy France as she was a right winger. I had no idea what he was talking about, though he is a very nice guy. He makes my interest in Eastern Europe seem beyond amateurish.The exacerberated (sp?) look on my mom's face said it'd been a long day, hanging out with these two sixty something men who quoted obscure movies and made references to things leaving me deep in the dark.It's a window into Toby and my future-our children beffudled, probably embarrassed to some extent and our wives completely lost and certainly exhausted by the immature ramblings, frequently straying into gibberish. This is not to say my dad and his friend speak in gibberish, this is more what Toby and I do, but the parallels are clear.Actual girlfriends have already suffered through some 20-something version. I shudder to think what it will be like when we're in our sixties.No doubt awesome.