My apartment. ...Or wait - No, this is a picture of Dresden after the bombing.

I’m looking around my apartment for a conversational starting point. My apartment is a mess right now, so there’s a lot to see:

A full hamper of clean clothes that I haven’t yet folded and tucked away.

The (amazing and important) Paul Robeson DVD box set that Criterion released. On top of that is the Nina Simone “Four Women” anthology that Charles loaned me.

My stereo, upon which some Marianne Faithfull recordings of Kurt Weill is playing.



Books everywhere, the closest of which, to me, is “Scum Manifesto” by that blithe and sparkling literary pixie, Valerie Solanas.

A drop-leaf table from Ikea that’s nearly completed construction (since February).

A computer upon which I’m writing an, as yet, trite and aimless blog.

I really should clean this place up.

You know, speaking of Marianne Faithfull, she came into Amoeba Hollywood not that long ago. Normally, when celebrities shop our store (every hour, it seems) I turn a blind eye. I don’t want to be “that guy” that demands some stranger’s time because I “feel” like I “know them” because they played some teen star’s mom on some trite and aimless sitcom.

This is my week for spotting obscure female comedians, it seems, because today I was delighted to find myself face-to-face with the charming and razor-witted Cathy Ladman.

Cathy was often seen on TV stand-up shows; I remember, Mtv showcased her frequently. I also had the LP she shared with Paula Poundstone. She was one of my favorites and I was always excited when she showed up on billing.

Working in Hollywood, one is always running into celebrities. It's a relief when those you like end up being cool in person, as Ms. Ladman was.

I tried to find some of her stand-up on YouTube to share with y'all (I'm always looking out for you, sugar), but the few things that featured her also included many others, so I leave it to you to discover her yourself. But only, y'know, if you like laughing and stuff.

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."