Last night I saw Charo. And I thought that would be the highlight of my week.

All this week I'm in Los Angeles taping interviews. I'm staying at the stunning Beverly Hilton. The hotel evokes a Hollywood when stars were stars and the Oscars mattered. (In fact the Golden Globes are held in the hotel's International Ballroom.) Poolside the polynesian-themed Trader Vic's epitomizes Mai Tai glamor.

Well today I drove into Hollywood to interview a genius rock and roll photographer named Deborah Chesher. Deborah's knockout book Everybody I Shot Is Dead (perhaps the greatest title ever) features 400 previously unreleased photos of the greatest dearly departed musicians of the 1970s: Frank Zappa, George Harrison, Waylon Jennings, Terry Kath, John Bonham, the members of Badfinger, just to name a few. During the course of the interview Deborah gave me a t-shirt with the name of the book, and I put it on.

At about 6pm tonight I returned to the Beverly Hilton to find a long line of cars. In the lobby, outside the International Ballroom, there was a big photo op. The backdrop read "Ella Awards." Before I could ask what the "Ellas" are, I saw 1950s heartthrob - and father of Debbie - Pat Boone! (I've often wondered if the Nazca Lines of Peru were ancient Incan "Love Letters in the Sand.")

I fumbled with my Blackberry so that I could get a picture, but Pat started walking away. I turned to catch up with him, when I nearly ran into ... Carol Burnett.

I would be here all day if I tried to explain my affection for Carol Burnett. I suspect you understand. For untold millions, the Carol Burnett Show was the last time families watched television together, before everything became fragmented and we all burrowed into our own little entertainment cubbyholes. Perhaps if she'd stayed on television longer, she could have kept us all together. Certainly no one who's come after is as hilarious, heartbreaking, and human as Carol Burnett.

Now here's a free piece of advice on how to endear yourself to big stars: Mention a project for which they're rarely acknowledged. Preferably something more presitigious than that sitcom role that made them gobs of money, but made them feel cheap. For instance, when I met Audra Lindley, best known as Mrs. Roper from Three's Company, I knew exactly what to say. My friend Mario had arranged the meeting.

"Audra," said Mario, "I want you to meet my friend, Mo."
"Hi, Mo," said Audrey, looking quite lovely and not wearing a muumuu.
"Ms. Lindley," I said, "it's such a thrill to meet you. I loved you in..."
And here I could see Audra's jaw clench and mouth tighten. She was going to have to pretend to be flattered. And she was dreading it.
"... The Heartbreak Kid," I said, referring to Neil Simon's 1972 comedy classic, in which Audra played Cybill Shepherd's mother. "What an amazing movie. And you were terrific in it!"

Audra sighed relief. The reprieve from Mrs. Roper-dom made her so damned happy she momentarily forgot she ever loved James Whitmore. At this moment she only had eyes for me.

"Thank you so much," she said, beaming with pride. "Working with Elaine May [the director] was a thrill."

This is a technique guaranteed to work with stars. Need more proof? When I met Cindy WIlliams (Shirley to Penny Marshall's Laverne), I naturally acknowledged her work in ... Francis Ford Coppola's The Conversation. She positively glowed. It was as if I'd handed her an Oscar.

Anyway, with Carol Burnett, the task was trickier: everything she's done is rightfully and constantly acclaimed. The trick is to mention that one thing that nobody else remembers. And I had just the thing!

"Excuse me, Ms. Burnett," I said gently. Her eyes met mine tentatively . "I just have to tell you how much I loved that song you did about John Foster Dulles." I was, of course, referring to the 1956 novelty song "I Made a Fool of Myself Over John Foster Dulles" -- a hilarious parody of the teen anthems of the day. Instead of singing about Troy Donohue, Carol sang about Eisenhower's Secretary of State -- and it put her on the map. "You really are the greatest," I said, careful not to gush too much.

She seemed baffled, but touched. She laughed. We had a connection, and I had my in to ask for a picture. But before I could get the words out to ask, she glanced down ... at my t-shirt.



There's no debating it. Carol thought I was a psycho. She carefully turned away, all the while smiling. I wanted to explain but before I could repair the damage, Judge Judy Sheindlin swooped in, Judge Jerry in tow. (In my opinion, Jerry was unfairly removed from the bench of the People's Court. And that's not a swipe at Marilyn Millan.)

Judy's intervention (in a smart red ensemble) was swift and uncompromising. Perhaps Judy sensed trouble. Perhaps her intuition is that good. (There's a reason she's got a 4-year $100 million deal and flies in a private jet.) The two women locked into each other and I was on the outs. In a matter of minutes they'd be swept into the International Ballroom.

To buy some time I turned to one of the young women distributing table assignments. What was this event?

"It's called the Ella Awards. It's for singers who do, um, social work. Tonight they're honoring the singer ... Andy Williams?" she said, as if she'd just learned who he is.

Andy WIlliams! First Carol Burnett, then Andy Williams. How much more could I take? During the great Perry Como-Andy Williams War of the 1960s, I was firmly a Williams partisan. I loved all his greatest hits (Born Free, Days of Wine and Roses, and his little known cover of MacArthur Park.)

"Is Andy Williams here now?" My eyes widened. This time I knew I looked like a freak.
"Uh, yeah," she said, then glanced at my t-shirt. "I mean, not yet ... I don't know." She was going to call security.

That's when I turned back to Carol Burnett, who was still in session with Judges Judy and Jerry - and discovered my lifeline. None other than Florence Henderson breezed in through the doors! I know Florence and she's awesome. I'd met her on the set of NBC's Today years ago. (At the time I'd made a great impression by asking her about her 1965 King and I tour with Ricardo Montalban.) If I could just make eye contact with Florence, she would open the doors and maybe get me into the event.

TO BE CONTINUED... (Part II here)