There he was: Barry Manilow, sixty-nine years old, spiffy in a black dinner jacket, black pants, and white shirt; hair moussed and mussed; face lifted. His expression was one of joy. He waved his arms, bowed, laughed, rolled his eyes. Aww, shucks. He loves his people and his people love him. He looks, as Dick Clark once did, or as Joan Rivers and Liza Minnelli do now, like an entertainment survivor, a person in whom …
SOURCE: The New Yorker at 12:55PM on January 30, 2013