Let me tell you about Barry and me. We go way back.
(The following story may be a blog repeat, but I did a quick, lazy search; my CTRL+F function didn't find any mention of Manilow.)
When I was in sixth grade, my teacher came up with an assignment where we would all write individual letters to various celebrities and then wait to see who would get responses. This seemed exciting enough. We were to take the day to think about who we would write and then inform her of our selections the following day. All night I racked my brain to come up with the perfect celebrity to make contact with, and dreamed of what kind of penpal relationship we would develop. I thought about writing Whitney Houston to tell her I wore out her tape by playing it too many times while I did imaginary triple-toe-loops on my roller skates in the garage. I imagined she would gladly send me a brand new one. I also considered Debbie Gibson and the incomparable Bette Midler. I figured the final choice would be a game-time decision.
The next day, the teacher went around the room asking who we selected. My classmates were eagerly selecting their Jordan Knight's and Shannon Doherty's (even though she was/is nuts) when the turn came to me. All eyes were turned in my direction. I started to speak but suddenly found that I could not recall my stellar list. I sat dumbly for a minute before I said the only name that bounced around the walls of my brain, "Barry Manilow". Naturally my fellow sixth graders were silent (with awe?), until one of them asked who Mr. Manilow was. My teacher had to explain that he was an aging singer who sang famously terrible songs and was not at all popular in the lives of grade school children.
How did I come to think of Barry, you ask? Well, my brother would frequently go through music stages where he would become obsessed with certain artists and play their tapes continuously. There was Peter Cetera (remember him from Chicago and when he branched out on his own to sing that great song from Karate Kid?), Color Me Badd (my mom took this tape away after the song "I Want to Sex You Up" came on one too many times), and of course good ole Barry Manilow (we all knew the words to Copacabana at an early age). So of course Barry Manilow's name assaulted me when none other could be found.
After the proclamation was made, I was forced (by my own pride) to carry out the mission and write an admiring letter to Barry Manilow. I'm sure it went something like this, "Dear Berry Manilow, I am in 6th grade and I am writing this letter hoping to get free stuff. I think your music is ok, kind of corny - but catchy nonetheless. My brother really likes your music, I hope you send him something, too. Thanks for your time and consideration. Love, Lily." This was written on personalized stationary with giant colored balloons all over it.
Not long after, I received a letter back... not from Barry Manilow, but from someone nerdy enough to run his fan club. I was officially enrolled. I believe it was a lifetime membership because I think I got newsletters and updates on him well into my college years.
I'm hoping Barry Manilow reads this post and feels awed by my devotion. Mr. Manilow, when you are in town in April, would you like to come over for dinner? I hope you are not allergic to cats. Fat Linda will try to eat your food and Lorenzo will take bites of your hair, particularly if it is not real (which it looks like it may not be). I also hope you like good food because we'll be having fish sticks and tator tots for dinner.
I bet a giant Barry Manilow t-shirt would go well with my leggings... so send me one when you get a chance.
"Her name was Lily, she was a showgirl..."
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