Guilty Pleasures: Barry Manilow

My name is Frank and I am a FANILOW.

What is a Fanilow?

Urban dictionary simply defines this term as follows:

	1. Fanilow (FAN – A – LO)
	Noun: A Barry Manilow fan. Thus, fanilow. "Frank is a Fanilow and giant, raging closet queen."

I added that last part of the sentence

Embarrassed?  Yup.

Disgusted?  Yessiree.

True?  You betcha!

Once again, I am reluctantly sharing another of my guilty pleasures with the world for your amusement.  Unlike previous guilty pleasures I have described in the past, this one snuck up on me.  Like the rest of you (whether you are being honest with yourself or not) I enjoy a few things in my life that I would just assume no one know about.  However, most of those pleasures have been my little personal secret for some time.  This Manilow thing has taken me by surprise, but I have to face a bitter truth about myself.

I am a Fanilow.

I am trying to identify exactly when this metamorphosis occurred?  I attribute it to a few recent episodes.

·        The Tour.  The Brooklyn, New York native (born Barry Allen Pincus – bet you didn’t know that?  Why?  You are clearly not a Fanilow) is currently touring across the U.S. and has an upcoming stop in neighboring Worcester, MA (nope, have no bought tickets…YET).  With all of the commercials on both radio and T.V., The man who Writes the Songs that make the (nearly middle aged straight men cry) subconsciously slipped into my brain. 

·        Easy Access.  My wife is a quasi-uncommitted-Fanilow but she does own his Greatest Hits album which resides in her car. Once when I happen to be the one carting my three (soon to be disgraced by their father) children on the weekends, I noticed the CD was playing when I started up that family wagon.  Didn’t think much of it at first, but I also noticed I did not shut it off or even turn it down despite my kids plea to listen to some other annoyed pop crap.  Kids, when will they learn to appreciate true musical genius?

·        Lyrics.  What I never realized was that I have unknowingly been cataloging all of the lyrics to many of his hits over the years and I was belting out Mandy all the way to swimming lessons.

Close your eyes for a minute and picture this scenario (never mind, you are reading, how can you close your eyes?).

A beautiful Saturday morning in Anytown, USA.  Sun is shining.  The sounds of children playing.  Lawnmowers are starting up all over the neighborhood. Off in the distance you hear a strange sound.  Faint at first, it slowly becomes stronger.  All of sudden, you notice a car barreling down Main Street.  But, what is the noise coming from this Mom Mobile?  Is it singing?  Can it be? 

In a squealy baritone you can finally make out the words…

“Well you came and you gave without taking

But I sent you away, Oh Mandy!

Well you kissed me and stopped me from something

And I need you today, Oh….”

Oh crap.  Yeah, that sound was ME.  And as I pull to the stop light I quickly realized the four junior high school boys riding their bikes are hysterically laughing at me.  As the light turned green I slowly pulled away to the sounds of their laughter and feelings of shame.

(Inner Monologue)

“Real slick pal!  Might as well change the name of the song to ‘Randy’, Liberace!  Maybe next week you can just fly the kids to their lessons on your Fruity Fairy Wings? You are disgusting!  ”

How did this happen?  Without any scientific evidence to back me up I am fairly confident that 37 year old heterosexual married men are not Barry’s prime demographic?

I need a game plan to rid myself of this newfound guilty pleasure.  I need to cleanse, dare I say exorcise, this demon of an affliction that has taken hold of me.

Maybe I should drink myself half blind like Lola did every night at the Copacabana, you know, the hottest spot north of Havana?

Perhaps I need a long quiet Weekend in New England to gather my thoughts and retake my manhood?

Maybe, just maybe, I will Smile (again) Without You, Barry?

I know for certain I am Ready to Take a Chance Again with my manhood.

Even Now, I just don’t know anything anymore, but hopefully by Daybreak I will have some answers to why this has all happened?

Will I Make it Through The Rain?

I just pray that I will be able to say that it Looks Like I Made It.

Whew.  Enough with the bad references.

I need to take the ‘MAN’ in Manilow and self-apply; STAT.  Maybe I’ll head to the store and pick up a few things to break this spell.  Let’s see.  Case of Budweiser?  Check.  Carton of unfiltered cigarettes?  Check.  Old Spice deodorant?  Check.  Wrangler Jeans?  Check.  Copy of ‘Manilow: Live at Royal Albert Hall’.  Che…

No.  Wait.  DAMNIT!!!

P.S. Peter Griffin and his friends are Fanilows! Check it out!

Guilty Pleasures: People Magazine

Celebrities.

Random sightings. Red Carpet appearances. New movie or TV show premiere parties. Marriages. Break ups. I find it all fascinating and a total escape from my reality.

Where do I get all oif the latest and up-to--date news on these events. Enter People Magazine.

People has all of these happenings conveniently packaged for my reading and viewing pleasure. You had me at ‘Hello’.

What started as a mildly interesting glance at the random issue evolved into an outright craving over the past few years. Mrs. CIBF has an admitted love for this leader of the rag mags as well; but I kept my own personal People interest from her; for a while anyway. A few years ago she was given a one year subscription to People; talk about a gift that keeps on giving. Now, instead of guiltily racing through the issue while standing in line at the grocery store and then, ultimately , over paying for a copy, People was now right at our front door, every week, without fail. Touchdown.

In the beginning, I hardly noticed being drawn in by this paparazzi-infused rabble about meaningless Hollywood hoopla. I would catch a new copy on the kitchen table. Pick it up. Maybe a quick flip through. And that, as they say, was it.

Before I knew it, I was reading a few of the articles in full. Soon I was filling in some portion of the crossword. This little hobby was slowly creeping its way towards a weekly, cover-to-cover ritual.

However, the day I realized my interest had turned into outright craving is when I knew I had a problem.

Summer 2008. I recall it was a Saturday morning. I was sitting at the waiting room of Giant Glass (“Who do you call when your windshield’s busted. CALL GIANT GLASS! 1-800-54- GIANT!” There, now that little gem of jingle will be stuck in your head for the rest of the day too. Enjoy!) As I sat waiting, I noticed a wide selection of magazines on the coffee table. I take a gander at the selection…Sports Illustrated, Men’s Health, Car & Driver, ESPN the Magazine and wait, wait, wait…,yep, there’s my beloved People at the bottom. Sweet! Grabbed that sucker and sat back down.

As I smiled and sat back to check out all the latest headlines from the week in La-La I suddenly got a pit in my stomach.

What the hell is wrong with me?

• The Celtics just won their 17^th NBA Banner and here I am checking out what ‘Brangelina’ wore to the People’s Choice Awards.
• The Red Sox were coming off their 2^nd World Series championship season while I am learning about the lineup for the next Celebrity Apprentice.
• One of the golf's greatest US Open finishes was just occurred (Tiger Woods over Rocco Mediate in an 18-hole playoff in case you forgot.) and I am more interested in reading the review of Kung Foo Panda.

And just as I could not have been more disappointed in myself, I caught a brief, but calculated, smirk from a woman in the waiting room who watched me make my sissy-man selection. To make matters worse, she was reading one of the CAR magazines!

The only consolation I had was that my guilty pleasure was still confined to my knowledge. Nobody but me and 'Little Miss Spark Plug' would ever become aware of my proclivity for celebs over sports and speedy cars. This awakening would provide me some time to reflect and address this minor, but distributing, tendency.

Unfortunately, a leopard cannot hide its spots (and by ‘leopard, I mean ‘I’ and by ‘its spots’ I mean ‘my complete and utter disdain for myself’)

A few weeks went by since my windshield waiting room Watergate episode. My wife and I were out to dinner with one of my best friends and his wife. As we sat and enjoyed a cocktail before dinner, the girls were making small talk. My buddy’s wife alludes to a celebrity break-up she read about in People and despite every alpha-male/ X Chromosome/testosterone –possessing instinct I had, I quickly interjected before anyone else could say a word.

“I know, can you believe that! What was she thinking? She’ll never do better!”

And just like that, the jig was up. (and by ‘the jig’ I mean ‘I’ and by ‘was up’ I mean ‘completely suck’ )

The table froze and I was on the receiving end of three awkward and embarrassed-for-me looks of surprise. While this moment did not last more than a few brief seconds, it felt like minutes. Before I could jump to my own defense, my friend bursts into laughter, as did the ladies.

“How the hell do you know about that?” he chuckled in disbelief.

Silence.

“I happen to catch uh, well, she has a subscript….ah,” I fumbled.

It was too late.

Cat is out of the bag. (and by ‘Cat is’ I mean ‘I am’ and by ‘bag’ I mean ‘closet’).

However, I bet more than a few of you men have scooped up one of those gossip mags and had your own fill of guilty pleasure?

No? LIARS!

Now, if you'll excuse me I hear there is a new update in the TOMKAT divorce proceedings.

Smuggler's Blues

“Perhaps you'd understand it better
Standin' in my shoes,
It's the ultimate enticement,
It's the smuggler's blues,
Smuggler's blues."

-Glen Fry

While I am fairly certain the former Eagles front man was referring to the drug trade when he sang these lyrics to the 80’s hit song, this past weekend I experienced a different kind of Smuggler’s Blues.

I woke early Monday morning in a cold sweat and a deep rooted fear of the possible.  One of the truly “wrong” things in the history of this world reared its ugly head (bad choice of words, you will learn) before my eyes over this past weekend.  Not only did it appear in front of me once, but twice.  Not only did this evil appear twice, it appeared in the form of a child; both times.

Can this horror actually be happening?

Is some divine force intervening and causing this pain I have suffered?

What is that which I speak of, you ask?

Answer:  Grape Smuggler Bathing Suits.

Urban Dictionary.com defines Grape Smuggler as follows…

“A tight piece of clothing for the lower body (usually a speedo) that clearly displays the male genetalia.”

Yes, I am truly sad to report these occurrences.  On Saturday, I witnessed a boy, approximately age 6, wearing a constricting bathing suit while we were visiting family at their town pool club.  I actually did the quadruple-take when I saw this grotesque site.  Now, before you grab that waste basket to throw up in, let me soften the blow a little bit; the smuggler we speak of was not of the “speedo” variety, but rather a tight fitting spandex-type bathing suit.  Nonetheless, this is not a whole lot better.  As my neck nearly snapped from contorting it around like that girl in The Exorcist I was simply awe struck.  I quickly realized I was staring at this kid Sandusky-style and needed to redirect my gaze before the authorities (or ‘Pimples’, the 17 year old Life Guard on duty) were called to action. 

As I started to speed walk back to our seating area, I decided I should not feel badly for staring at this injustice.  What kind of parents would dress their toddler in such garb?  Is this mother possibly blind?  I sat in my chair and quickly searched for an alcoholic beverage (or a hot poker to gouge my eyes) in my kids’ beach bag.  DAMN!  Only juice boxes.  A few minutes passed as I continued to try to wrap my arms around this fiasco and come up with a rational explanation.

Is it possible this is some type of ‘floatie underwear’ this poor boy was wearing for safety’s sake?  No, the whole physics/center of gravity-thing throws this theory of the window.

Maybe it is the bottom part of some cool wetsuit?  Not a chance.  We are in an 80 degree pool and I don’t see a wetsuit top or surfboard on the premises.

Wait, wait, wait.  They must be foreign!  Yes, that’s’ the ticket.  Maybe they are French-Canadians visiting their American cousins or something?  That has to be the answer. No?

And then I heard it….

Mom of ‘Junior McTwigginberries’ shouting across pool is a most heinous Massachusetts accent…

“Taaaawwwwmy, get ovah heyah and get some sunscreen awn ya!”

(Sigh)

Well, I am out of guesses.  Clearly this was an intentional act of cruelty and it appeared as if I was the only one who was witnessing the utter insanity of this scene.

Before I knew it, I realized I had not checked in on my own three kids who could now easily be in a steel cage breath-holding match at the bottom of the pool for all I know.  Anyway, I decided to just mind my Ps and Qs and enjoy the rest of the afternoon.  I will simply chalk this one up to random chance.  This poor kid will likely undergo years of psycho-analysis and be the subject of ridicule.  Bon Jour, ‘Little Jacque LaRocks’!  You are going to need it.

I deliberately deleted these surreal swimming shenanigans from my memory bank; until the next day when the demons I had exorcised would return.  Once again they would appear in the form of a child.

On a beautiful and warm Sunday, I needed to occupy my cherubs with some fun, aquatic activity.  With Mom at work, I decided to take them to our local pond where there is a great family beach, a dock for the kids to jump off, etc., etc.  Another relaxing day in the sun and a chance for the kids to safely play and stay cool at the same time.  As I set them free to enjoy the day, I sat my white Irish arse down in a comfy beach chair and grabbed the newspaper.  Today was a going to be a nice lazy day without strange wardrobes puzzles to pontificate.

And then it happened again.  As I looked up over the Comics, er Sports, section, I saw it again.  I could not believe my eyes.  Yet another small boy wearing an altered version of the classic Banana Hammock!  What the?  I jumped up quickly and, again, stared toward the dock at ‘Jean Claude Van DAMN BOY WHAT ARE YOU WEARING’!?!

After gladly peeling my eyes away from ‘Smallsy Smuggler #2’, I frantically looked all around me praying the French Foreign Legion had landed on this small beach and we were under attack by some mutant midget army of seed swaddlers?  Once again, no such luck.  This child was the spawn of, what appeared to be, a normal American family that was sitting just steps from my perch.

Well, this is just too much.  Did I miss some new style, trend, or fad for kids?  Is there some medical reason these boys are dressed like they part of some adolescent Tour de France Fan Club?  Is it possible that these ‘coin purse cut offs’ were scientifically designed to keep the sun away from ‘Marvin Gaye and the Grapevines’? (that’s what I heard)

You know what?  I don’t care and I don’t really want to know.  I am defeated and not going to waste one more second pondering why these odd children and their parents are attempting to sneak ‘Cheech and Chong’ over the border.  Not my problem.  Not on my watch.

Come on kids, time to go.  You can play inside….for the rest of the summer.