“Get it? Werewolf bar mitzvah?” said Amanda Newman, band manager and wife of keyboard player Rob Newman. Newman also masterminded the Groucho Marx glasses as a Halloween costume for the band.

“Whatever,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I suggested ‘Kosher Delight,’ but they just had to be ‘Guy Incognito.’”

For more than two hours on Saturday night, Guy Incognito delighted a drunken audience of dozens with their awkward jubilee and self-aware swagger.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, they’re so good,” said fan club president Ben Ferguson, whose wife, Abbie, wore a shirt with band members’ faces strategically situated atop her breasts. “I want to have their babies,” he added.

Once hailed for their electrifying live performances on the North Shore coffee house circuit and exclusive rehearsals in their drummer’s mom’s basement, Guy Incognito has spent the past decade cultivating their introspective pop sound. That is, they haven’t been doing much of anything for a long, long time.

[Caption: Drummer Scott Hinden's mom has a really sweet basement.]

Despite this hiatus — this period of “going incognito,” if you will — Guy Incognito continues to be one of the most influential bands in the lives of their little sisters, girlfriends, and would-be girlfriends, who know who they are.

Guy Incognito is the reunion of front man Barry Horwitz with his longtime collaborators and BFFs Rob Newman on keyboards and Scott Hinden on drums. The trio, then known as Recollection, first released an album in 1998 that featured photos of them at a suburban train station posing pensively while wearing denim jeans and sport coats and carrying single red roses. I mean, if that doesn’t make you swoon, then you’re just an animal.

In the past year, the band added bass player Matt Wechsler, primarily for his ability to grow his own ’stache.

“They hadn’t had much luck with keeping new bass players,” Amanda Newman said of Wecshler. “This time, they kept it in the Tribe. Sure enough, Matt stuck around, and next thing you know, the band was back and better than ever.”

“He’s hairy, just like us,” added Horwitz, whose own arm hair actually looked like crazy rocker tattoos that night. (See first photo, above.)

[Caption: Horwitz gets nice and sweaty, too -- just like Steven Tyler.]

Though not actually a member of the band, legendary rocker Steven Tyler of Aerosmith, pictured above, made a cameo. Unfortunately, due to technical difficulties, no one could really hear his voice very well.

“It’s too bad the balance was off,” said Kenny G, father of band manager Newman. ”I couldn’t hear Rob enough,” he added, placing his beer hand territorially on Newman’s keyboard. “I really, really love Rob. Have you seen that smile? It’s like the Kennedys!”

Kenny G later noted with some excitement that Newman wasn’t even wearing his wedding ring.

“I was afraid my ring would catch during a really intense glissando and I’d break a key,” Newman later explained. Newman’s signature is his athletic manner of playing the piano as if it were a drum set, including a lot of banging and foot stomping and often leading to cracked, bleeding fingernails. “Why, is Amanda pissed?” he asked.

Uncharacteristically, Newman’s wife did not fly into a jealous rage, although she was quick to indicate that, back in the day, the would-be girlfriends of the band then known as Recollection would routinely give her “the stink eye” when she showed up for gigs.

“They can have him,” she said. “He’s out of his mind. I mean, have you seen this guy? He’s dressed up as a Newsie, and not even for Halloween,” she said, referencing the 1992 cult classic film, Newsies.

Newman had no comment on her own ensemble, which was described by audience members as “showy” and “obnoxious,” though it remained unclear as to whether they were talking about the costume or Newman herself.

“I mean, she showed up with her parents in a white stretch limo,” said one audience member, who declined to give her name but was dressed up as what appeared to be a rose. “That’s a bit over the top.”

Newman, after claiming her parents ordered the limo without trying to be ironic, quickly added, “But, I mean, it went really great with my outfit, don’t you think?”

But no amount of sequins or Aquanet or electric blue tights could upstage the musicians of Guy Incognito that evening, who performed at their signature high intensity. Even the bartenders took note.

“I just wandered into this place after grabbing some pizza next door,” said some drunk guy dressed like Big Bird, “and the bartender is all, ‘Did you see Guy Incognito play? They totally rocked.’

“And I was all, ‘Guy Incognito’ — who’s that?’”

Indeed.

Click here to view the embedded video.

The above footage was selected for publication specifically because it is Kenny G’s favorite song, and because it best illustrates Newman’s “foot-stompin’” style that his grandpa (who numbers among the six or seven who actually read this blog) loves so very much. More videos, in larger format, here.

For a complete photo gallery of the evening’s events, look at the pictures on the right. Or, oh, OK, I’ll make a link.

Photos (with captions!) have been up for awhile now, but here are a few video clips of special moments that just couldn’t be captured in still images.

First is in the backseat with little Evie, driving from the Venice airport back to Andy and Sarah’s home in Aviano. It was love at first sight.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Later in the week, during the four-hour drive to Florence, Rob and Andy were charged with trying to keep Eva awake, so she wouldn’t be up all night. You’ll be rewarded if you watch all the way through to the end, where, around 2:32, Rob starts rehearsing quietly to himself, lest he should disappoint Evie or his television audience with a flawed performance.

Click here to view the embedded video.

In Florence, Sarah and I decided we wanted to get our palms read by a fortune-teller in the street. Andy can spot a tourist trap when he sees one and insisted that he could read our palms just fine. Not sure where he learned to have such utter confidence in his own BS, but it clearly is what makes him such a good litigator.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Oh, how I miss our friends. It’s almost easier not to see them or talk to them at all, because it makes the time go by more quickly. Just thinking about them makes my heart hurt. Happily, Sarah and Eva are coming to stay with us for a few days in November, and they will all be living somewhere in the States within a year!

I would like to take this opportunity to remind my poor, disappointed friend, and all the other crazy marathon aspirants, that the name “marathon” comes from the legend of Pheidippides, a Greek messenger that ran the entire distance of 26 miles from the town of Marathon to Athens yelling, “The Persians are coming! The Persians are coming!”

Wait. No. Wrong story.

He actually ran this great distance to announce that the Greeks had defeated the Persians.

Now, if you have half a brain at all, you realize that no one in their right mind would run that far just to announce good news.

But, alas, Pheidippides was indeed out of his mind. Upon arriving in Athens, he hollered, “”Νενικήκαμεν” (”We have won!”).

And collapsed. And died on the spot.

(That’s a true story, told to me by a real Greek and confirmed on Wikipedia, where anyone in the world can write about anything they want about any subject, so you know you are getting the best possible information.)

So, my dear friend and other assorted crazy running-type persons, let the original marathon be a lesson to you. Running 26 miles, for any reason that is not absolutely urgent or life-threatening, is in and of itself life-threatening. And therefore utterly foolish. The human body is not meant to run 26 miles consecutively. Don’t do it.

This, mind you, coming from a girl who is sitting on a special cushion to relieve the lower back pain experienced from L4-L5 disc herniation, which has flared up about once a year for the past ten years and was undoubtedly developed during the constant pounding and compression of her joints and nerves and fascia of competitive gymnastics during all of her formative years.

So, take my opinion for what you will. Consider the source. Does this make me just a naysayer? Or does it make me AN EXPERT?

While you mull that, I’m heading off not to Greece but to another beautifully backwards place: bella Italia. We are visiting our dear friends Andy and Sarah, and their new baby Eva, at their home on the US Air Force Base in Aviano, before embarking with them on a road trip along the Mediterranean coast, hopefully to Nice and Monaco. (They boys want to see Monte Carlo.)

Italy, the US military, and a road trip with a 3-month old to the world’s fanciest casinos. Talk about backwards.

My goals for this trip include:

1) taking photographs to frame and display in our home, so the walls aren’t so bare and it looks like someone actually lives there, despite the fact that it is also permanently a construction zone;

2) losing weight, which oddly enough I usually do on vacations (because I’m not sitting in my kitchen and visiting the fridge every 10 minutes because I lack the humanity and stimulation of interpersonal interaction that an office setting provides), despite the fact that I will be subsisting entirely on a diet of wine, cheese, bread, and gelato; and

3) not falling in love with the baby, so I won’t want one and can continue to live the life of a Stay At Home Wife and Crazy Dog Lady, spending all my money on fancy clothes and vacations and random unnecessary crap for the dog, and letting my sister’s children take care of me in my old age, despite the fact that I have already fallen in love with this baby, from the just the photos alone, and that I have somehow always known, even before Andy and Sarah were even married, that the moment I held their baby in my arms, I would want one of my own, and it would be the one thing that could and would put me over the edge.

Rob’s goals for the trip include:

1) relaxing, despite the fact that he has not once in his life succeeded in doing so;

2)  learning to speak Italian, despite the fact that I just told him this morning that he does not in fact already know some Italian, and that Italian is not in fact simply Spanish spoken with that signature Italian lilt; and

3) teaching Evie to say “Rob,” despite the fact that I just told him this morning that no 3-month old human has ever intentionally spoken a recognizable word (even the children of those parents who think that their 10-month old is brilliant and can speak like 50 words when in reality no one can understand a thing the kid is trying to say).

It will be a special trip, no doubt. Ciao!

******

It baffles me that so many Chicagoans don’t want to host the Olympics.

Its only about an hour before we find out if the International Olympic Committee has selected Chicago to host the 2016 Olympic Games, so I guess I had better write about this while I can be certain it’s still relevant!

Briefly, here are some of the reasons people don’t want the Olympics here:

- We need better roads here. The traffic situation is horrendous, not to mention the potholes.

- Our train system is horrendous. Who thought it was a good idea to have a train above ground? And its murder to get to and from the airport. How are all these people going to get to and from the airport?

- Our recycling program is nonexistent.

- We don’t want a tax increase.

- There is way too much crime here. Especially in Washington Park, the proposed site for The Games.

- There is way too much corruption in our local political system.

- We need to concentrate on stopping crime.

- We need to concentrate on creating jobs.

- We need to concentrate on providing housing.

In short (and this is a quote paraphrased from a protester I heard on Chicago Public Radio yesterday), Chicago has a lot of things to fix before we’re ready to host the Olympic Games.

Um, hello? It’s like the lights are on, but nobody’s home.

These are all great things to protest about Chicago; they are all great suggestions of things we need to work on. And it’s true that it would be an international embarrassment for the world to come to Chicago and see us in our current state.

But that is exactly why we need the Olympics.

Turning the world’s focus on our fair city is just the impetus we need to actually get started on fixing all of these problems. Preparation for the Olympics would turn the world’s focus on The Second City, and we would want to look good. There would be billions in private funding (that means no tax increase, people) for economic activity in hotel, residential, commercial and infrastructure construction.

Jobs! Housing! Public safety galore!

Sure, we have to be smart about it. Many cities haven’t budgeted properly, and we would undoubtedly go in the hole for awhile. It’s not the end of the world. Especially because many cities have done it successfully and have enjoyed huge increases in tourism dollars.

And, certainly, our corrupt politicians are always going to be corrupt. I mean, come on.

And at least the Olympics would shed some light on our problems like it did for China. If you didn’t know what was embarrassing about China before the Olympics, you certainly do now that the world has spent a summer there.

Of the naysayers, I ask: How would not having the Olympics help any of our problems? Nobody is doing anything to fix anything right now. There is no motivation to clean up our city.

But if we want any of these great things for our city, the Olympics are a surefire way to make them happen. Hell, its arguably the only likely way to make them happen any time soon.

It kind of makes me feel better that there are so many protests against the Olympics, which are, as far as most countries are concerned, an honor and a privilege (and in  many ways, a gift) to host. I get so many complaints from a cappella crazies about things that I’m doing for their own good, and for the good of our programs and the community at large.

I guess there are always going to be complainers. People just don’t know what’s good for them.

The cabinets are painted, and the color is fine. If you blur your eyes, or, for instance, look at a photograph taken from a distance, it looks halfway decent. (Note sample paint color on wall.)

But if you look closer (and how can you not, in a room the size of a walk-in closet), the paint is all goopy and globby, and it didn’t stick to the cabinets, even though I used the same special primer that I used to paint the mantel last year, so it’s already all chippy and peel-y and awful.

So it’s back to Home Depot for scrapers and putty knives and highly toxic paint remover that looks and smells dangerously like melted orange sherbet. (And yes, I mean sherbet, not sorbet — the gooey kind that comes in a giant two-gallon plastic tub from Jewel.)

Dangerous, that is, for me. I’m not concerned about Molly eating it. She won’t event set foot in The Room Where The Bathtub Is And Also Where She Keeps The Hairdryer Monster.

Looks like we’re refinishing the bathroom cabinets, now, kids! Any suggestions for stain color?

Do you think they make a pill for people like me? Somebody, please, save me from myself.

Oh god, scary thought: Am I nesting? Is this hormonal?

My inspiration (source: Restoration Hardware)

I swear I decided to do this almost on a whim. I mean, I ran it by Rob, but just barely. In fact, he kind of imploded about it last night when he came home, but fortunately for our marriage, it looks like its going to turn out OK.

Of course, this essentially necessitates painting the walls. Probably like the picture, though I’ve picked out a bit more of a greenish shade. And, while I’ve had a can of white semi-gloss open, I’ve been touching up the trim around the house. Because, I mean, why not.

Oh yeah, and this nightstand, too.

And then tomorrow, my neighbor and I are going to the mothership Home Depot to pick out some flower bulbs and shrubs to plant in the front yard. I got a quote from a landscaper, but of course we know that we can do it better ourselves, and for free. (She works from home, too.)

I definitely do not have time for this.

I definitely missed my calling as a manual laborer.

Even Molly thinks I’m nuts.

Most people have a fabulous friend — or if they don’t, they should. Nearly all of my Back In The Day When We Were Young And Crazy stories involve Liz. She brings something out in me, although she swears up and down it’s the other way around.

From almost the day we met, Liz was adamant that I was fabulous — far more fabulous than I thought — and that she was fabulous, and that a girl was entitled to be fabulous. A girl ought to be girly, she insisted, and her things ought to be covered in rhinestones and sequins and pink maribou.

This is the girl who was so gobsmacked when she learned I never had a pedicure that she gave me one on the spot, in her mother’s kitchen. This is the girl who taught me all manner of Important Things To Know When You Are In A Relationship, from lingerie to, uhm, personal grooming, to, errrm, technique.

This is the girl that made a girl out of me. And she is the closest thing to an older sister as I’ve ever had.

I have a beautiful memory of Liz and I leaning over the sinks in the community bathroom of her dorm at Brown, sizing ourselves up in the mirror, powdering and plucking and primping, singing along to a certain TLC song — that anthem of Getting Ready To Go Out, played in bedrooms and dorm rooms across the country in the winter of 1999.

Apparently I met Jim from The Office that night, and the princess of some island in the Pacific — both her classmates — but those recollections are hazy at best. But I do remember getting ready. I was happy that night. I wasn’t happy many nights in those days, but I was happy then.

Oh, and there was glitter. Lots of body glitter.

Back then, Liz was also heavily into Mac Cosmetics. Fabulosity was her religion, and damn straight she was prosthelytizing. Liz made it her personal mission to rid my paltry little makeup bag of Cover Girl mascara and those matte brown eyeshadows that come with little sponge applicators. Walgreens makeup, she liked to call it.

So, for my 20th birthday, Liz took me to the suburban mall, parked me on a stool at the Mac counter, and ordered the works. And I went home that afternoon just a little more f*cking fabulous, thankyouverymuch.

Of course, I have proudly (and dutifully) worn the same eyeshadow and lip color ever since. I get a lot of compliments, too, and I have made Patina eyeshadow-users out of many a friend and acquaintance. In fact, it was this summer, at her own wedding, when Liz overheard me recommending my eyeshadow to a wedding guest and immediately flew into a blind rage. Who, she demanded to know, uses the same singular eyeshadow for nearly ten years?! And then, in the words of her new husband: How dare you.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, then, when the entire contents of a Mac store arrived on my doorstep on my birthday last month, courtesy of Her Fabulousness. We’re talking palettes of coordinating eyeshadows, eyeliners, lipstick, lip gloss, and an assortment of brushes I have no idea how to use. And an illustrated sketch of where and for what occasion I should apply each shade.

I have mostly stared at these items for a month, flabbergasted by Liz’s generosity and by her confidence in my ability to pull off more than one shade of eyeshadow on the same lid at the same time.

Finally, I gave it a shot. Abbie was over — we were having one of our Work Dates and were naturally being very busy and important — and we decided to try one of the eyeshadow palettes on her. Even though our coloring is totally different and I’m sure Liz would totally lose it if she witnessed this breach, as would the counter guy with the neon orange eyeshadow and the makeup belt who custom selected these particular shades for me based on the photos Liz brought him.

Apart from Abbie looking only slightly like she could stand to spend 20 minutes with a bag of frozen peas over her eyes — largely a product not of the colors but of my complete ineptitude to select from a variety of brushes or to blend without using my fingers — I think we ended up looking pretty great. Pretty damn fabulous, in fact. Not bad for a pair of girls with crooked faces and upsettingly visible smile lines.

Liz, this is for you. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for the gift, and more importantly, for that special way you always have of making me feel beautiful, inside and out.

Now I just need you to come home to Chicago so you can show me how to use this stuff.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Afterword: I just learned that the actual lyrics are “all the makeup that man can make.” Dislike.

I threw my back out earlier this week — bending down to turn off the fan that Rob and I cannot sleep without — which puts me out of commission for yoga for a good week. Bathing the dog — inevitably a leaning, heaving, sopping, sloshing endeavor — is out of the question.

Most people would go to their husband for this kind of thing — but that’s out of the question, too. I am, after all, a single dog mom.

So I was left with no alternative but to give her a sponge bath, to try to sanitize the, erm, pee spots. I used water and rubbing alcohol, so I wouldn’t have to worry about rinsing.

Molly was not a happy camper.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Here’s the desk after an ungodly amount of sanding and scraping:

Let the finishing process begin! I can’t begin to describe the joy I felt when I saw that the stain was soaking into the wood, rather than beading up (which would have happened if I wasn’t successful in scraping and sanding away the old varnish).

Molly was a huge help, obviously.

Of course, I didn’t manage to finish the desk before the arrival of my friend Brianna, who was staying with me while she was in town for our mutual friend’s wedding. I still needed to install the new drawer pulls, so that all the crap I had unloaded on the guest bed could go back into the drawers.

Fortunately for me, Brianna was quite adept at concealing her horror at having to live for the weekend in a room coated in a quarter inch of sawdust and reeking of polyurethane. Even better, she is a surgical nurse who has experience using power tools to drill into bone. I put her straight to work on the drawer pulls.

(Guests at my house get the royal treatment, eh?)

At long last, the desk is finished. And, so far, the stain hasn’t been rubbing off. I’m pretty proud of myself.

For the sake of comparison, let’s not forget where we began:

And the finished product:

It’ll look even better once we get rid of that grodacious carpeting!