Three's The Charm

I've lived in my new apartment for almost 8 months. But it looks like I moved in 2 weeks ago because of all my artwork lying against the walls. My mother gave me my first piece, an enamel of an owl because my nickname in our family was The Night Owl, when I was only 16 and I've amassed a large collection since then. Last year, when I thought I was going to be homeless, my only real concern was my art collection. I even went so far as to make a list of who would get each piece. I typed the list crying. (that line added for sympathy)

In my last apartment each of the pieces was carefully curated and hung in the right spot and that means I just stuck it where there was a blank space on a wall. But now all the walls are blank and it requires some forethought as to style, grouping, colors. Bedroom? Living room? I asked for some forethought for Christmas but didn't get any. If any children are reading this, THERE IS NO SANTA CLAUS.

But that isn't the only problem with the move. Out of all the things I packed, there were missing items.

1. The electric shaver. I found the charging base but not the shaver. I shuffled the charging base from one area to another, hoping that when I one day opened up that particular hiding place, the shaver would have magically materialized and be sitting in its base. And of course from the moment I discovered it missing all I wanted to do was shave my legs via electricity. I eventually found it tucked into a side pocket of a Betsey Johnson purse, shoved high up on a shelf. Six months after I moved in. Obviously I'm over the Betsey Johnson if I didn't use it for 6 months. I can't imagine under what circumstances I decided to put it inside a pocket of that purse. To keep the purse company in the move 1.7 miles from my old home? When I see my Alzheimer's counselor next week I'll ask him what he thinks happened. I'll also ask my Alzheimer's counselor what he thinks happened when I see him next week.

2. The sign. I had it on my front door in the old apartment complex and it really cut down on the vicious menu-delivery people who bring food to one apartment and then make the rounds of the rest of the place, brandishing those cheap menu print-outs like weapons, clogging screen doors and forcing tenants to scream obscenities at people who don't even speak English because who else would take a job like that? Not Americans! God forbid! I did, however, have a celadon Buddha I bought in South Korea stashed in the planter outside the door (see photo) so before the police arrested me for that concealed weapons signage they might stop and think that I was a disciple of Mother Teresa. I know you all believe that.

I finally found the sign wedged in a box of paintings I haven't unpacked. I put it on my balcony so the squirrels won't get any bright rodentia ideas and pull up in their little moving vans when I'm not home.

Although I would pay good money to see a squirrel moving van.

3. The 32 gig back-up hard drive. When I bought it I had no idea how big 32 gigs was. I had a general idea. I knew it could hold a lot of data. Like the Magna Carta or the Gutenberg Bible. But it's not until I plugged it in and hit one of the many buttons that were written in computerese that I realized I didn't even have 7 gigs of data. Or 5. I'm not sure I had 1.

So when I came home this week and couldn't boot the computer I had an epic meltdown. First, I'd have to buy a new one with non-existent money but second, HOW DO I TRANSFER THE DATA OFF THE DEAD COMPUTER? Oh I know! I'll get it off the missing 32 gig back-up hard drive!

So now I have to buy another one. Because as soon as I do I'll find the missing one because THAT'S HOW LIFE WORKS AND THERE'S STILL NO SANTA CLAUS.

Collection #5

I've spent a lot of time in green rooms over the course of my career. Green rooms are where artists wait before they step out on a stage or a set and no, they are rarely painted green.

I decided to have people autograph my bathroom door just so I wouldn't actually have to do stand up, I could just pretend I was in a green room somewhere waiting to get paid.

In the beginning I was having anyone who came to my house sign it, just to fill it up. Dan from UPS signed it and my plumber Ray M. Why didn't Ray put his last name on it? Is he afraid his wife will find out? Ooooooh, there's trouble. Then there was Kike from Best Buy. He delivered my HDTV and thought I was going to kill him when I said, "Follow me" and ominously handed him a pen. "Death by Sharpie, film at 11." In all fairness to Kike I do have a deep voice and could at any time be confused with a repo man. And they kill you, right? Or want to? Is this thing on?

The only rule is no one I'm dating or have dated or might date can sign the door. Who needs that drama?

As I'm sure NONE of you will be surprised to hear, McLoserstene refuses to sign it. Because she's afraid that whatever retarded thing she writes will be there for eternity and people can mock her forever. I keep telling her that's the point of the door.

End of chat.

Collection #4

This is actually two collections. The books are by stand-up comics or about the art of comedy and a lot of them are out of print. Two of my faves are: Bob Hope's Vietnam Story published in 1966 and Help! I'm a Prisoner in a Chinese Bakery by Alan King, published in 1964 and autographed "To Eve, the columnist who has helped my career. So much love and thanks. Alan." EVE, PLEASE CALL ME EVEN THOUGH YOU'RE PROBABLY DEAD NOW.

The mics are a personal favorite because I've been using them since my first professional gig, when I was 15 and fronting a band. The answer to your question is "We were in France, that's why." I'm half French so I say this with love, the entire country is tone deaf.

The mic that is partially cut off at the top, mainly because I'm obviously not that great a photographer, is a working lamp. That one and the one next to it, called a Bullet Mic because of its shape, have been loaned out to music videos and movie sets.
The round medallion hanging off the Joan Rivers books on the left is an old lapel microphone. They must have had some incredibly serious lapels back then.
This is a closeup of some of my favorite mics. The KAVN is made by Avon, shaped like an old mic and is still full of the Wild Country After Shave that it was filled with. Over the years Avon has variously packaged that cologne into a miniature 1936 MG, log cabin and other replica cars from the 30's and 40's. It doesn't even smell rancid which I think major perfumers need to look into. Hello Quadrille by Balenciaga. Call me?

The mic on top of the red box, which is a child's sing-a-long toy from the 60's, is molded wood and fits your hand like a glove, something metal mics don't do. The little picture is me performing in 1983 at the first comedy club that passed me, Comedy U on University Place in New York. The frame has all the New York tourist hot spots on it, including the twin towers.

End of broadcast.

Collection #3

When I was 15 years old, my Dad gave me a shoe box full of postcards that he had saved since he was a kid. I'm not sure why I developed an attachment to them but over my lifetime I carted them around to every city I lived in. When I became a stand-up comic I spent an inordinate amount of time in airports. I saw a lot of postcard stands over the years and always picked up a couple of cards from whatever city I was in and stashed them in this box of postcards. By the time I relocated to L.A. I decided to buy my own stand but didn't know how to go about doing that. There was no Internet back then. My God, how did we all survive that?

I went to a souvenir shop on Hollywood Boulevard one day and copied down the name of a postcard company whose sticker adorned the base of a stand. I requested their catalog (I actually had to take time out from my very busy schedule of sitting by the pool and place a call to these people. Again, how I - and we all - survived this antediluvian ritual escapes me) and eventually ordered a rack. It's one of my favorite things and people need to stop picking cards out and then putting them back WHEREVER THEY WANT. What are we, savages?

And the stand revolves! Like the bolts in my brain! Wheeeeeeeeeeee.

End of chat.

Collection #2

I disposed of my Dad’s possessions after he died in 2001. He had many collections. Coins, stamps, decorative plates and about 75 toy cars. Overwhelmed by the fact that I had to unload two apartments in a state 3,000 miles away and handle the estate with attorneys and accountants at the same time, I just motored through it blindly. I had no one to help me as my only sister couldn’t have been bothered. Eventually it took me three years to get it all done. It nearly did me in. I was still drinking in those days and looking back, it both saved me and ruined me.

For some reason I couldn’t wait to get rid of the toy cars. I would look at them and think, “Who is going to love these cars now that my Dad is gone?” That is one thing you learn when someone dies. The things that they loved become the stuff that you can’t wait to unload. You know you shouldn’t feel that way but you do. And then you look around your own house and know that some day, someone will be combing through your prized crap thinking the same thing.

I gave the bigger cars that were still in their original boxes to all of the doormen in my Dad's building, most of whom had children. Some cars I sold through a local thrift shop. The only two that I kept were the Jeep and the little green and white car that are in this picture. I kept the Jeep because Dad was in the Army and that replica cost $55.00. (He kept all his receipts) The Army replaced Jeeps with Humvees long ago so it’s a memory of times past, when we were the good guys in the fight and the world loved us.

One day about two months ago I decided to just look at EBay to see if they had any cool toy cars. I found some and then found some more at the Melrose Flea Market. I paid money to start a collection that I couldn't wait to get rid of six years ago.

End of chat.

Collection #1

I've always wanted to read a magazine with only weird shit in it. Like an Andy Kaufman of magazines. If there is such a thing and I've missed it - and how that is even possible that I have missed one since I am Queen Zeen - please send me the name of that publication.

Every day this week I'm posting pictures of some of my atypical collections. Here, I'll save you the trouble; I'm not normal. And by normal I mean boring.

One day I was holding a tie clip that belonged to my Dad. It was one of a few pieces of jewelry of his that I kept after he died in 2001. Another one had his initials, HA, on it but I gave it to my then boyfriend Elvis since he was a comedian. The one I was walking around with two years ago had the comedy and tragedy masks on it. As a kid I saw my father wear it with the matching cuff links that made up the set. I always thought it was weird that my Dad had something like that since he was a Colonel in the Army and also worked for the government. I see the tragedy in those two jobs, but the comedy? Not so much.

I don't know why I was walking around with this tie clip in my hand but I have no job so maybe the two are connected. As I stood over one of my desks wondering when my phantom maid was going to straighten it up, I absent-mindedly attached the tie clip onto the shade of a lamp.

And the rest is EBay history.I got rid of the lamp last year and was left with 56 bazillion tie clips. So I decided to put them on the curtains in my bedroom. The curtains are made of black leather so the tie clips clamp on nicely. I guess the next question is why I have black leather curtains in my bedroom.

Because I'm not normal. And definitely not boring.

End of chat.