Fan, as in "fanatic" or "Fanilow."

A lifelong friend of mine is going through a rough spot. Man trouble, kid trouble, work trouble and (I suspect) money trouble. She has been finding respite in a gentler past, which includes … gulp … Barry Manilow.

She saw Barry Manilow at Ravinia decades ago and he rocked her world. OK. I think some of his stuff can be fun and entertaining. I have maybe a half dozen of his songs on my iPod. I also have Helen Reddy and Bobby Sherman on my iPod. I have great affection for some pop songs because of who I was, where I was, when they were hits. I know that they certainly aren't art, but they mean something to me.

My friend's love of Manilow goes deeper. She has romantic, sexual fantasies about him. She thinks he's a great artist. She thinks he could have been the next Gene Kelly or Frank Sinatra.

Shudder. But what they hey. If it makes her happy, there's no harm.

She chats with other Fanilows on internet boards. This to me is the fascinating part. Through her I have been exposed to an entire world of Fanilows. They write about him, take umbrage on all who cast aspersions on his sexuality, express disgust toward those who dismiss his music as "schmaltz," rejoice in his recent Emmy nomination, and, most interestingly of all, live in terror of his management company … Stiletto. Apparently Stiletto has supernatural powers. Fanilows seem to believe Stiletto can control their blogs and their thoughts. Anyone who says anything even slightly negative about Barry Manilow is going down, baby.

He's Barry Manilow. He's not even Taylor Hicks. It's not like all the major magazines and news shows are clamoring for his time. Yet these folks believe he's so hot that this band of brass-knuckled image protectors are out there, guarding this evergreen man of the hour/year/decade/lifetime.

If Barry Manilow has such a passionate legion of true believers, does that mean every 70s artist who had more than one gold record also has them? What about KC and the Sunshine Band? Helen Reddy? Tony Orlando? Glen Campbell? Right now, could I be trading fond recollections of the red flannel shirts and stutter that made Bobby Sherman's TV persona so compelling to me back in 7th grade?

I know that mystery authors have serious message boards that inspire discussion. But this is new to me. The good thing, I guess, is that the Internet provides people with a sense of community they simply can't get anywhere else. It doesn't matter if you're emailing about "Mandy" or posting about your post card collection. You've found someone who shares your interest, and it makes you feel a little less lonely.

Icky Vicki of the of the Main Post Office in Oak Park, IL -- Part 2

I won't go into the detail about precisely how rude my favorite public "servant" was yesterday (except to say that I believe she took her afternoon break while waiting on me). But it was so grating that on the way out of the post office I took that happy little take one, with the smiling lady in the blue uniform, with the headline, "Let's hear from you." (Smiling? Does Vicki know she's supposed to smile?)

I called the toll-free number and complained about dear, sweet Vicki. I emphasized that every at the post office is friendly and helpful … except Vicki. It's true. Everyone smiles, everyone chats, everyone offers me phone cards, stamps or money orders … except dour, unfriendly, unhappy Vicki.

Complaining felt good. My tax dollars help pay that bitch's salary. The least she could do is return the courtesy I show her. We all inhabit this planet together. A minimal amount of respect helps keep the emotional temperature tolerable, even during this heat wave.

But can she spit in my mail?