The first signal of his approach is the abrupt appearance of a small black dog, hauling its thoroughly pregnant belly behind a couch just quickly enough to cause you to disbelieve your eyes. Seconds later, a head pokes around the corner with all the caution of a vaudeville comedian who wants to get the feel of an undetermined audience. Then, assured that the audience is friendly, he falls into a grinning puddle on the couch.

He still wears the look of a neglected British popstar; taller, perhaps, than you might have expected, but thin enough to send any Jewish mother scurrying for the stove. Those unmistakeable sagging eyes are framed with shaggy clumps of hair that show traces of red and yellow streaking through the brown. Though the faded jeans say that today he’s wearing his lounging clothes, the burgundy smoking jacket and shiny silver boots would be proud additions to any tastemaker’s wardrobe. He’s not exactly what you would call pretty in the silver screen sense, but he’s certainly fun to look at.