The Las Vegas Hilton is home to none other than Mr. Barry Manilow. I can’t escape his visage. It’s everywhere. The outside of the building, the posters in the lobby, the hallways, the Barry Manilow store (yes, an entire store of Barry Manilow shwag)—even my room key, fer crissakes.
About a month ago, I spotted Mr. Manilow at the Bristol Lounge in Boston’s Four Seasons hotel. That face … that nose … that hair … those eyes … eyes that appeared unable to blink thanks to enough plastic surgery to take all of the slack out of a human being’s face. How he can even move his mouth is mystery to me.
Please, someone … make it stop.