For two arms and two legs, he’s some kind of man.
It’s Hollywood rent-a-weirdo Bob “Phoebe’s Dad” Balaban
He was also a TV exec in Seinfeld and was a Movie Exec in the West Wing. I assume he gets all these roles because of his raw Beta-Dog magnetism. Little known fact, he did all his scenes in Friends wearing costume above the belt only. Below the equator, he was as openly wafting his mandibles about like nature never intended. Little sultana-butt.
Another week has drawn to a close, with temperatures in the south of England hitting 27 degrees and me being forced to change out of denims as Meg couldn’t handle my sticky-thigh related crankiness. Squeak squeak crank crank. Fart.
Last week I visited Zurich for the day, a major step up from the surprisingly drab Geneva. Not that Geneva stank of turnips and was filled with rusty syringes, but just wasn’t that cubic zirconium level of luxuray that I, the discerning continental business traveller has become accustomed to. Zurich is seemingly the medieval banking capital of Switzerland and visually suggests there are legions of malformed subterranean catacomb-dwellers who emerge from the darkness once every hundred years to steal a child from the “normellos” and make it their King. Legend has it, one of them has returned to live amongst us.
His name? King Robert BallBag-Man. Shortened to…
There was an anecdote I was told about the place that was entirely broth-based where hundreds of years ago the top lad of Zurich sent a big pot of soup down the river to the top lad of Strasbourg as a savoury symbol of friendship. It arrived still hot, showing how close the two cities were in commerce despite their geographic distance. And their shared reverence for the bouillion cube.
Top ten soup story there.
Switzerland is my 8th country ticked off in my current job that I hadn’t been to before but hardly the strangest. Having eaten everything from whale skin to zebra to a crab that looked like he had a beard on his butt, Switzerland is one of the more pedestrian adventures I have had in “the service” but I did get to sit in a swishy (the secretly-preferred adjective of Switzerland) bank and then steal all the branded truffles they had out. For Meg.
She’s a real scumbag.
In wedding news, we are currently putting together something called a save-the-date. Or as my aunt Shena calls it “save our date.” We had spent weeks deciding on a format/font and imagery and in so doing exposing me for the first time to Pintrest. Or as my aunt Shena calls it “Pin Interest.” Our big thing we are looking forward to in wedding planning is the tasting session where we snarf our way through every single dish on the menu and every single wine before collapsing in sugary tears and choosing our menu for the day. Or as my aunt Shena calls it “Food Big.”
She was warned. Read the blog, or be in it. Dem’s the rules. Tell the people.
I asked and I asked but he just wouldn’t retweet me. Taste the pain Balaban. Balablam!
Apart from that both Meg and I have remarked as to how little we have practically had to do thus far for this wedding thing. Do a few emails, make a chicken sandwich. This thing is basically running itself. Right Meg? …Meg?
I am firmly on terra-Britannia for the rest of this month but next month’s travel will more than make up for it with Lille, Frankfurt and New York City all on my list. Our trip to New York last year exposed me to both the best sandwich and pizza of my life. Devastating for past-me and every other sandwich and pizza he ate. But screw that jerk! Am I right?
You seem a bit low affect. Not really feeling the level of ardour I’m trying to invoke? Past-me stands on the left in the escalator, farts on people on rush hour trains and puts the milk in first. Now you’re feeling it.
The best sandwich ever came from a countertop at a deli, behind which there was a wheelybin sized tub of pickles and no compunction against frying already smoked meat, cooked meat and probably human meat if the opportunity arose. Walky meat, squawky meat and… talky meat.
The pizza came from a place where there was a maze on the tablemat that you could do with a crayon. Well maybe YOU couldn’t do it. It was pretty tough. But the waiter’s said I was a very brave and handsome boy. So yeah. I pimpin’.
New York will also give me a chance to catch up with big-time Ian “dusting for finger” Prince. A man who when we lived nearby in Japan, rather than knocking on our door, would just stand in the car park shouting our names. The Japanese found his lack of subtlety, “difficult.” He’s attempting to crack the acting game there and as well as breaking into a lesbian web-series on Youtube (as “the hetero in the background”), is starring in a podcast called Law and Porter.
Plugitty plug Law and Porter … I take no responsibility if it makes your ears seal up like Bob Balabans (I apparently cannot stop myself) prom dates legs. I’m starting to listen tomorrow.
For reference, that was a Bob Bala-Burn. Look at this putz. She ain’t putting out Balaban!
The topic of podcasts returns me to the issue of my own foray into big audio podcast dynamite. We are now a full 7 episodes recorded into our ideal set of 10 before we start unleashing them on an unsuspecting world. Having done this many, I have now noticed a bit of a pattern. They generally start off quite professional and respectful of foreign cultures and so on, before I am left to listen to other people speak for a while, lose my mind at this (to others) simple act of humility and patience and start making dinkle jokes in the middle of a history lesson about something hilarious like a colonial genocide or slaughtered student dissidents.
Isn’t history a right old larf all the same?
In other news, Meg and I spent the weekend with fellow member of the ancient guild of TraleeBoyz (an honorrific taken from my first attempt to explain Tralee to Meg using Youtube and finding only videos of 11 year olds showing off their six-packs, flipping the bird to the camera to a soundtrack of DJ Tiesto) Niall. Piggybacking on his rented ride we found one of the crappest towns in Surrey (up yours Red Hill!) and then played crazy-golf at Mr Mulligans Pirate Golf. “A gold dubloon to the salty dog that can prize the jewel-encrusted putter from betwixt Davy Jones’ briny buttocks.”
You can keep your dubloon Cap’n. I’ll do it for a kiss. And a song.
“Leeet meee tell theeee of Davy Jones’ putter.. it laaaay two foot deep in Davy Jones’ shkutter,
he drove it in with oil and butter and thus starts the tale of Davy Jones’ putter..”
12 more verses now!
Davy Joner of Leek