everybody loves barry, so raymond can suck it
Barry Manilow and I are pen pals. Well, not exactly. I mean who uses pens anymore or even writes actual letters? Be honest. Other than signing a birthday card, when’s the last time you used a writing utensil to send a message to someone? Post It notes don’t count.
See what I mean? Most of us use our phones to write messages. And many people (I’m not one of them) have gotten so “advanced” (er… lazy?) that they don’t even use the keypad anymore. They just talk and let their phones translate into text messages that nearly always come out like James Spader’s lines during the “Word Salad” episode of Boston Legal.
Now that I have all of you youngsters asking Siri to list the ingredients in a word salad or tell you who Barry Manilow is, let me get back to the point… Barry sends me email. I didn’t ask him to. I’m not even sure how he got my email address. It’s actually kind of a one-sided relationship. I know I should write back once in a while, but I don’t. It’s not because I don’t love Barry. I do. Everybody does, even though most people are afraid to admit it until they get old enough to realize Barry is amazing.
If you read my last post, you know I have a bit of a man crush on Zach Anner. It’s nothing of a sexual nature, I assure you. It’s just that I admire his spirit. People who have what he has are simply inspiring. And they attract inspiring people. I mention Zach because his girlfriend posted a cover of “Can’t Smile Without You” on her YouTube channel, proving once again that everybody loves Barry. And that harps are not just for fictional creatures.
We went to see Barry a few years ago. Come to think of it, it was probably more than a few years ago. And no, it wasn’t at Melody Fair or at Vegas night in the local Moose lodge. He was playing the Bridgestone Arena before Bridgestone got the naming rights. And he drew as many people as a Nashville Predators’ playoff game draws today, which is to say he packed the house, even though most of his core audience should have long since turned in their driver’s licenses. I’m not sure how they all got to the arena—there was no Lyft or Uber back then. Maybe they made their children or grandchildren drive them. Maybe that’s why there were so many youngsters in the crowd. Or maybe the kids were there because everybody loves Barry. Even the most steadfast “Barry haters” can’t resist him. They start off bitching, of course.
“Oh please!”
“Not that again!”
“You know you don’t have to listen just because he sends you email!”
“Whatever I did, I’m sorry!”
But then something happens. The melodies win them over first. They start humming along. And then they start singing along. They don’t even realize it until they are right there with Barry and Lola and Rico at the Copacabana. Not with Tony. Poor bastard’s dead. Why? Well, because Rico shot him. It’s a story song. But that’s the right answer to the wrong “why” question. Why… can no one resist Barry? Because he writes the songs that make the whole world sing, of course.
Whenever I hear “Copacabana,” I imagine my father in-law in a powder blue leisure suit. The windows are open and the walls are vibrating with the salsa beat. Is that a salsa beat? Doesn’t matter. Anyway there he is, dancing around and singing at the top of his lungs like no one’s watching because he doesn’t know I’m watching. In my mind. You can hear him belting out Barry from the corner of Roosevelt and Carolina. And, for some reason I can’t explain, he has a Sonny Bono mustache. And a mood ring (“Siri… what is a mood ring?”).
No, I don’t have any evidence of Charlie’s one-man Copacabana show–not even on cassette. Don’t you think I would’ve posted it if I had such a gem? You bet your ass I would have. But alas, that kind of awesome exists only in my imagination… or does it? Mom? Any help here? I promise if a Charlie-in-the-70s photo like this makes its way to my computer, I will find a way to incorporate into a future post. But back to Barry.
I can’t bring myself to unsubscribe from his emails. He and I have been tight for too many years. Our connection goes all the way back to grade school.
In second grade, I had a gigantic 7-year old boy crush on Lori Hendricks. I just knew she was the one because her favorite song was “The Old Songs.” She loved Barry, so it had to be fate, right? Wrong.
Back then, I didn’t realize that everyone loves Barry. And sadly, even he didn’t have the juice to make Lori like me as more than a friend. She and I were destined to be just pals, but I’d be lying if I tried to tell you I don’t think of her whenever I hear that song. But now it’s in a purely platonic way. I’m actually listening to it as I write this, but with headphones so the neighbors don’t judge. Hey Lori—hope all is well in your world.
Let’s bring this full circle with another confession. I’ve never watched a single episode of Everybody Loves Raymond. It may be a great show. Raymond may be a wonderful guy. But he never sent me an email. Not one. No, he’s no Barry. The end.
Cheers!
