Last Thursday, as I was casually filing away recordings of stand-up comedians, both famous and obscure, I was approached by a sparkling, blond woman with glimmering, gold eyeshadow, who, in a squeaky voice asked me for help with some classical music.

It was Victoria Jackson.

She and I briefly discussed our preferences in both romanticism and choral compositions over a few recordings of Fauré.

I am almost never star-struck, and even less inclined to vocalize awareness-of-identity to a celebrity. You could call it respect, but a more accurate term would be pride. However, after she thanked me and turned to go, I said:

"Before you leave, I have to tell you that I'm a fan."

She smiled and said, in that trademark voice, "Oh, thank you. You have really pretty eyeballs."