Never light a cigarette at a gas station, lest you should ignite the few drops of gasoline that have spilled en route from tank to pump, or the gallons that have choked unstoppably forth from the nozzle when some yuppie idiot girl on her iPhone pulls it from her car before it’s done pumping and without making sure the nozzle lock is off — and as she stands there, unable to figure out how to make it stop, looking around idiotically for help, the highly flammable liquid spews and splatters all over everything (her car, her yoga pants, her knit Ugg boots, and yes, the ground), and her fluffy little dog leans out the window and sneezes in protest at the chemical smell, as if trying to tell the idiot girl to just shut the damn thing off already — before, finally, the gas station attendant comes rushing out to help, and they both proceed to wipe out on the little lake of gas that has formed and is, surprisingly enough, quite slippery.

And never use your cell phone while operating a gas pump, lest you should be that very girl.

Now, does anyone know how to get the smell of gasoline out of my boots? They’ve already been through my washing machine twice …

This is the first post in a new section of Vanity Fairest called Faves (see tab above) in which I plug my favorite things, for to possibly be renamed something more clever. Because, if Julie Andrews can do it, and Oprah can do it, why the heck can’t I?

Everyone on my Christmas shopping list this year is getting an Eddie Bauer Down Ice Scraper Mitt.

It’s a pretty sturdy scraper, but the handle is tucked inside a huge down-stuffed mitt, so your hand stays toasty warm while you go at the ice your windshield.

What could be better than that? There’s a reason “warm woolen mittens” are expressly mentioned in the song about favorite things. How have I gotten through 14 years of driving in Chicago winters without this?

I’m only slightly perturbed to discover, upon pulling up the Eddie Bauer website for this item, that Oprah has already featured it on her favorite things. At least I know I have good taste.

Price: $14.50, or, for a limited time, $9.99 with any purchase.

Bad dog mom that I am, I had almost forgotten that today is Molly’s birthday!

I always think her birthday is in February, but that’s actually the anniversary of the day we drove 20 hours round trip in a sleeting-sideways blizzard to pick her up in Missouri, Rob grumbling the whole way there about how he doesn’t want a non-human living in his house, and then the woman pulled from the back of her Suburban this quivering ball of fuzz, sopping in its own vomit and urine, and Rob took one look, gasped audibly and exclaimed, ”Look at that face!” the way only a man smitten with an animal baby can. And then Molly clung fearfully to me the whole way home, and I didn’t just tolerate it but almost kind of liked it, and it occurred to me that that is the way mothers must feel about their babies’ poop — not only is it just not that bad, but its endearing to the point of being pleasant. Almost. Especially if the poor thing is sick and frightened and clinging to you for dear life, and all you want in the world is for her to know she’s safe and to wag her tail.

Happy Birthday, Molly! Today you are three years old. Now that the Terrible Twos are behind us, I expect you will comport yourself with the civility and decorum befitting of your age.

To that end, instead of complaining about how horrendous of a little monster you can be, I’ll share some footage of you being the very dear little doggie that I love.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Happy birthday, Molls!

Seven months ago, I was in New York City for my big show at Lincoln Center, the culmination of a year’s worth of concerts and hard work. I had a television network coming to my event the next day to film a pilot presentation for their top execs, I had just unequivocally turned down another producer that had been clamoring for our attention, and I was rushing out to meet up with a top producer from a major network, who also wanted my involvement in their upcoming reality show.

Somehow, I failed to realize that 15 minutes was not enough time to get a cab in Midtown during Friday rush hour, even if I was only going 20 blocks.

So what do I do? I get in a freaking rickshaw.

That’s right. I pulled up for my meeting with a television exec in this classy ride, powered by human sweat.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Funny part is, the producer was waiting for me outside the restaurant and saw the whole embarrassing thing. Even funnier, I suppose, is that I ended up turned him down. We had better offers.

Today, I’m grocery shopping for Thanksgiving at the Drive-By Dominick’s (so named for its proximity to the projects) when my phone rings. It’s a New York City area code, and one of my event producers had just called me five minutes earlier from his office line, which has a New York City area code. So, although I am in the habit of screening unidentified numbers, I assume it’s him, pick it up and say, “Heya! What’s up?” (which, admittedly, is not too bad compared with the innumerable other ridiculous and unprofessional things I could have said and indeed have said to this person on the phone in the past).

It is not my event producer. It is the vice president of original programming for yet another television network. She wants to talk to me, while I’m pushing my cart through the kamikaze maze that is the grocery store produce section two days before Thanksgiving, about putting my programs on the teevee.

I think this is why I have a hard time giving myself enough credit for running my own business, or for having chosen an unorthodox career: even when exciting things happen — things that might finally lend some legitimacy to what might otherwise be construed as a whole lot of screwing around, even by me — I somehow inevitably end up taking a Third World mode of transport to an important meeting, or pitching a television concept while knocking down a display of cans of evaporated milk and having to pause the conversation because I can’t hear her over the loudspeaker announcement of a price check on aisle two.

If one of these shows ever takes off and I have to spend any amount of time in Los Angeles, in a city and an industry that is all about appearances, I am going to last about 15 minutes without supervision. My saving grace will be that, from what I can gather, these Hollywood types seem to find my unique brand of unassuming idiocy to be disarming. Or at least charming, in a Midwestern sort of way.

The producer lady today asked, “Do you have a host for your show? Wouldn’t it be great if we could get someone from Glee in to host?” and I’m all immediately with the verbal diarrhea:

“Ya KNOWwwww, I was in show choir in high school with the co-creator of that show. I was Wife #52 to his King in ‘The King and I,’ ha ha ha, though I personally did less acting than I did chasing around the two two-year olds that were supposed to be my children. Last year they hired a veejay to host our finals, and she did an OK job and everything, but it was a weird choice because she was friends with Kim Kardashian and was always on that show and right before our event she got in all kinds of trouble for appearing in some sort of sex video that was all over You Tube. She wore this odd side-boob top for our show, but it really was nothing compared with what everyone there had just seen her doing on the Internet!”

… as if that is of any interest to her at all, let alone help. As if you are ever supposed to talk about your high school acting career or utter the words “side boob” in any professional context whatsoever.

I wizened up shortly thereafter and told her to please call my agent, who fortunately understands the concept of playing it cool.

He was, after all, in a college a cappella group.

Chicago, IL (October 31, 2009) — For the first time in more than ten years, the legendary band Recollection has reunited under a new name — Guy Incognito — to christen Amp Rock Lounge in what some are hailing as the band’s werewolf bar mitzvah.

“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.

… from your favorite deranged bumblebee.

We had an awesome time in Italy visiting our very dearest friends, Andy and Sarah, and their new baby, Eva.

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!

Speaking of crazy athletics, the Chicago Marathon is coming up. The time of year when tens of thousands of lunatics take to the street and spend the duration of the morning giving new, literal meaning to the phrase “pounding the pavement.”

My friend, who is an avid and talented runner, is totally bummed she can’t participate, despite her training, because she has a benign cyst on her hip joint (or something like that). (I mean benign in the non-cancerous way, not the this-doesn’t-cause-me-physical-and-emotional-anguish-on-a-daily-basis way. And damn, that adjective invention would make me happier if it wasn’t a double negative. But I’m not a talented writer, don’t you know, so I’m not going to bother fixing it. That’s right: apathy.)

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!

Update: I published this post just moments before Chicago was the first city eliminated in the IOC’s voting.

******

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.