After a few weeks of utter dejectedness, I think I’m finally ready to talk about “The Manilow Debacle.” Let me fill you in on the most humiliating experience of my career: Barry Manilow hung up on me. That’s right, after only three questions.

I admit it’s hard to think of Barry Manilow—and his music and his clothes and his face—without snickering. But I insist that I approached this assignment in good faith. I’ve always been sincerely fascinated by Manilow’s career. The ultimate shameless hack, he started out writing jingles (“You Deserve a Break Today,” “And Like a Good Neighbor” and “I’m a Pepper” are all Manilow productions) and then parlayed his stint as Bette Midler’s music director into selling bazillions of the slickest records you’ll ever hear. Thank you, Clive Davis, for bringing us grocery-store staples such as “Looks Like We Made It,” released July 1977, the month I was born.

But my personal journey began in earnest 1989, when I was in seventh grade. I found a box of my parents’ old records in the attic. Sorry, Mom and Dad, but there was nothing remotely cool in there. Only the worst the ‘70s had to offer FM radio, including some Carpenters, some Bread and Manilow’s 1978 blockbuster, Even Now. That album has the hit single “Can’t Smile Without You,” which I adore to this day, and you know, I really don’t care what you think about that. I played that thing until the grooves wore out, realizing that listening to stupidly commercial pap shamelessly could be even cooler than Violent Femmes, as long as you knew exactly how awful it was. Barry Manilow, in all his polyester glory, was my first encounter with kitsch.

When the publicist first connected the call, Barry’s snotty, singsongy inflection gave me a mental picture of him in a boudoir in Vegas, surrounded by impeccable satin pillows and white thoroughbred dogs. He was bitchy right away, but charmingly so. Exactly as I’d hoped! I didn’t dare ask him a contentious question (like maybe “Are you gay or what?”). I asked him how he chose the songs for his (shitty) new ‘50s and ‘60s covers albums. And then I asked why he’s embraced every other style of American pop but rock & roll. He quipped that it’s not his thing, then asked me how old I am. Well I might as well have said “I’m 15 and I write for my high-school newspaper and the purpose of this interview is to make fun of you, you old fogy. Remember that line in The Breakfast Club about your wardrobe? Tee hee hee.” But I didn’t. I told him my real age (29) and then asked him about growing up in Williamsburg, where I might be considered an old hag myself. By the time I had finished that question, the line was dead.

Barry, if you’re reading this, guess who won’t be at your Madison Square Garden shows next week. Oh, don’t look at me like that, with those ice-blue eyes of yours. You’re Clive Davis’ bitch. You have only yourself to blame for this. Who’s crying now, you plastic-faced, polyester-wearing, schmaltz-peddling industry whore?