When we were in Las Vegas, we stayed at the Hilton where Barry Manilow, Mr Music and Passion himself, was playing. To promote his act, the key card for our room had his picture on it, complete with his little monkey face grimacing as he’s belting out one of many, many big numbers. When I got back here I found the key card in my wallet and in a moment of misplaced whimsy, propped it up on my desk at work.
Since then several people visiting me have been most struck by it. (I want to mention that when they redecorated our office I adamantly refused a visitors chair for my cube under the mistaken concept that if people couldn’t sit down, they wouldn’t stick around to bother me. I obviously underestimated the stamina of my co-workers.) Anyway, these visitors keep commenting on it, always in sort of mystified tones. “Is that Barry Manilow?” they ask in disbelief. It’s not that these folks are so cool that Little Miss Manilow is beyond them, more, it’s that they grasp on some level that I am not, and could never be, a Barry fan. Still, they feel compelled to share their fond, fond memories of the man who brought us Mandie. One of them started humming something. I have no idea what.
I have to get rid of that goddam key card.