Okay, Now I Must Really Look Pregnant

Oh, the seventh month of pregnancy. I'm just starting to recall the discomfort brought on by the third trimester, both physical and social. These days I find myself grunting my way through bending down to pick things up off the floor, including this morning's pile of swept up kitchen crumbs. A friend suggested training Eamon to pick things up, which works in terms of his toys and other things that get dropped, but unfortunately his motor skills are not yet refined enough to handle a valet broom and dustpan. So, for now, I'm resorting to sounding like Serena Williams at the French Open.

Aside from the business of bending over, there is the business of being out and about and getting comments from people, including relatives with awkward or developing social skills. The other night at a family party, I had not one but two nephews look at my belly -- which is probably hard for them to avoid as it is eye level to them, at 8 and 6.5 years of age -- and ask, "Are you pregnant?" Both were equally matter-of-fact and grown up about the question; I was both impressed and amused.

On the flipside of that charming query is the observation made by a certain relative who has a knack for saying things she might deem in her head as conversation starters, but that are, in reality, insults. An example from our first meeting a few months after my wedding: "Hi,...you've gained some weight, huh?" The other night, it was, "Wow, you look like you're ready to go, but you're not actually ready to go." Why, thank you, for telling me I look to be roughly 40 weeks pregnant when I've actually still got ten weeks to go. It's comments like that that really make the time fly!

You, Sir, Are No Don Draper

I don't watch a lot of network TV, except for a couple of comedies I refuse to miss ("30 Rock" and "Modern Family"). Last night, we ended up watching a new set-in-the-60s show, "The Playboy Club." It's one of two network shows debuting this season -- "Pan Am" being the second -- piggybacking on the popularity of AMC's "Mad Men," albeit about four seasons too late. Both of these new shows pale in comparison to the genius (in my humble opinion) of "Mad Men," in their recreation of that era, the writing, the costumes, basically everything. Okay, so I wasn't even planned for in the 1960s to know about the costumes and sets, but from what I have read about "Mad Men" producer Matthew Weiner's obsessive attention to detail on his show, and what I've seen on the networks, they just can't compete. As one critic pointed out, no one is even smoking on these shows.

Scripts and sets aside, I also have a beef with one "Playboy Club" actor in particular. I'd never seen Eddie Cibrian in anything except the pages of US Weekly, where he became moderately famous for his affair and subsequent marriage to LeeAnn Rhimes. I think he mostly did soap operas and Lifetime movies before this show. So congrats to him for landing a prime time acting job. Unfortunately, I think he sincerely believes he's Jon Hamm. Or rather, Jon Hamm as Don Draper.

I know. Blasphemy.

But watch this clip:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=Sz4egzKDEk4

Wearing a grey suit, clutching an Old Fashioned and having half a can of pomade in your hair does not make you as slick as Don Draper. Just like setting a show in the Kennedy era and giving your actresses bouffants does not make the show an award winning drama.

In an effort to make up for mentioning LeeAnn Rhimes in this post, here is a photo of Jon Hamm. As Don Draper. Cheers!

Megabus

My mom called me twice late this afternoon. When I checked my phone, I saw she left two voicemail messages within thirty minutes. I thought someone died. Who could've died, if my mom was the one calling? An aunt or uncle? Knowing my mom, it could be someone from my hometown whom she knows but I haven't seen or heard of since I lived there in 1992, whose name I may or may not recognize. ("Betty Freeman died of a brain hemorrhage...." she'll say, as I rack my brain to come up with a general age range and face for dear Betty. RIP, by the way.)

I finished putting Eamon to bed with the seventh reading in 24 hours of "Curious George Goes to the Hospital" (more on the inept animal care taking skills of the Man in the Big Yellow Hat coming in a future post) and called her back. No, no one died. But they are taking the bus across two states to visit us next month. Not just any bus, mind you, Megabus! Apparently this is a new-ish shuttle service targeted at people, like Joe and Mary Lou, who hate flying in and out of the world's second busiest airport. It leaves on time, arrives on time, and, unlike Greyhound, is not marketed to recently released convicts. Presumably my parents' fellow passengers will be families with kids and the semi- or fully-retired like themselves. My mom seems excited about it. My dad said, "well, if we don't like it on the way there, we can always walk back."

Oooh-kay then, see you at the bus stop.

If You Knew Debbie Sue

One night last week I made a run to the mall by myself after dinner. I hadn't been shopping without a stroller and toddler in awhile, so I might have been a little slap happy when I saw this... uh...poster?...on a bulletin board.

My first reaction was, "Oh, that's too funny, she used an outdated photo and this is ironic." Then I read the titles of her books:

My Husband the Stranger

Still Single

Still Dating

Then I saw her web site. Her web site, www.stillsingle.org (how does she have nonprofit status?), seems to be current based on the copy. She references her book that was published last September. The layout, much like the design of her poster/flyer, looks like she designed it in 1996. In her home office. On her IBM 486.

As far as I can tell, Debbie Sue is not being ironic. And she really goes by Debbie Sue. With a haircut like that, why not?

City[-adjacent] Mouse

It's official. I know now why I could never live any further west or north of where we are currently. Our suburb borders the City of Chicago, so most of our streets follow the city's well-planned and reasonably well-executed grid. (Thank you, Daniel Burnham and your cohorts in the Plan of Chicago, even if not all your ideas were put into place.) Go a couple of suburbs out, however, and you'll find yourself in the land of sprawl.

I worked for a Los Angeles-based organization for about eight years, and while I appreciated their weather, I didn't appreciate how spread out everything was. You have to take the expressway everywhere, it seemed. And when you got off the expressway, you had to drive a mile between stoplights. And God forbid you miss your turn, because you'll have to drive another mile before you can even think of making a u-turn, legal or otherwise.

Evidently, the people who planned the greater Los Angeles area are now working for the suburbs of Chicago.

Today I had to drop off a form at our pediatrician's office. Rather than go into the north side Chicago office, where we usually go for appointments, I thought -- heh heh -- it would be faster to go to the north suburban location. Same amount of miles, yet ten times the frustration. It didn't help that the doctor's office had moved, and hadn't updated their information on their voicemail greeting to indicate the new office location, so I had to not only go to the old office in the middle of a random corporate park, take the toddler out of the car seat, go into the building, find the right suite, THEN see the sign on the door with the map to the new office. [Insert muttered cursing here.] Then I had to drive another ten minutes to get, I kid you not, less than a mile, because of the winding roads of this corporate park and the corporate park in which the new (albeit lovely) office is located.

If I'd just stuck to my usual route and gone to the Lincoln Park office, I'd have been there in 20 minutes, including the time it takes to park. It's not that I didn't know where the suburban office was, in fact I could have given driving directions to anyone else, even drawn them a tidy little map of the route. It was the sprawl, the damned suburban sprawl, that got me. Give me a grid, hell, even throw in an angled street now and then, any day. I don't care how small our house has to be in order to afford to live in our city-adjacent suburb. I am clearly a city-adjacent mouse.

Open Letter to Lady Gaga

Dear Lady Gaga,

You're on the edge of glory, huh? Did you steal those lyrics out of Jon Bon Jovi's eighth grade diary, or did he actually sell them to you?

...Out on the edge of glory

And I'm hangin' on a moment with you.

I could go on, but, oh boy.

Sincerely,

Me

Add Her to My List of Likable Celebrities

I know virtually nothing about Olivia Wilde, other than the fact that she chose her stage name based on one of her favorite writers, Oscar Wilde. (I don't know why I remember reading that in an interview years ago.) But I do know I like what she has to say about celebrity culture in the current issue of Marie Claire:

“I’d like to refocus everyone’s attention away from the Kardashians and onto Doctors Without Borders or aid workers," the star says in the August issue of Marie Claire. "Let’s redefine scandal. Scandal is not who so-and-so is dating; scandal is the fact that 1.2 million people are still living in tents in Haiti, and cholera is rampant because Nepalese U.N. soldiers dumped s-it from their Porta-Potties into the river. That’s a f-cking scandal. If the average 15-year-old was hearing about that instead of so-and-so’s plastic surgery or cheating in Hollywood, I’d feel better about our future.”

I heard about this so-called "dis" (are we still using that word?) of the Kardashians -- whose collective fame and inexplicable wealth drive me batty -- while watching "Access Hollywood" the other night. (Full disclosure: I watch NBC Nightly News whenever I remember to turn it on, and I'd left the TV on while cooking dinner. And, okay, I didn't lunge for the remote to turn it off when this show started.) They reported on this story and even interviewed Wilde and let her explain herself further. Then they cut back to host Billy Bush in studio, who rambles something about how important those causes are, then drops the teaser about the next story, "Coming up, what starlet chopped off all her hair?!" Dude's gotta earn a living, right?

Well, at least they gave her a chance to further drive home her point.

More from the Word Police

This mini-rant could also fall under the Oprah category, but here goes:

We need to stop using the phrase "aha moment." I read somewhere that Oprah's corporation was suing some smaller outfit for using that phrase. Come on, it's so overused, do you really need to claim it at this point?

Also, when did the phrase "learning experience" become "teachable moment?"

Okay, now I'm done.

Zoo Thoughts

See this giraffe? She looks bored, right? So did the lion at the Lincoln Park Zoo, where I took Eamon today because the weather was perfect. I have such mixed feelings about zoos. The Lion House does it to me every time -- those cats, some of them the fastest animals on land, just lie around on their fake rocks, looking so down, with nothing to do but lick themselves clean. The jaguar sometimes paces, as if he's still angry about being captured, though he was more than likely born at another zoo. Either way, I think he might know what he's missing and knows just how fast he could be. His image is used a hood ornament on a really nice car, for Pete's sake. I don't think I've ever been there to see the lion not taking a nap, completely checked out from the rest of the world. Because his world is a 20' x 30' expanse of professionally landscaped foliage and damp cement, with one whole side consisting of a wall of humans pointing and staring at him while he snores.

Despite my cynicism, I do appreciate a good trip to the zoo. Eamon loves seeing all the animals up close, and those gorillas do seem to be having a good time in the new ape house. The last time we were there, a zoo worker was on hand at the wolf habitat to explain to us how they breed the wolves and virtually brought the red wolf back from extinction right there in downtown Chicago. (Being the smart ass that I am, I asked if any coyotes ever come into the zoo at night to taunt the wolves with their freedom to roam the Chicago forest preserve system.) So they are doing good things at the zoo, even if the animals are trapped, bored and maybe a little depressed.

Get O-ver Yourself

Some people might say Oprah put the 'O' in ego.

- Mark Caro, Chicago Tribune

Okay, okay, Oprah. Goodbye already. Really. People are being killed by tornadoes left and right in this country while you hosted a two day extravaganza love fest to yourself, where you invited your most famous friends to come onstage at a huge venue and proclaim their love for you and everything you touch. All because you decided to bring your talk show to an end.

I have a like-hate relationship with Oprah. On one hand, I do admire what she's done to get people reading. I don't personally know anyone who reads more because Oprah told them to, but judging from the success of the books to which she has given her logo blessing, people are reading them somewhere. And keeping the publishing industry in the black is a good thing. I also know she has shed light on a lot of serious issues that maybe we would otherwise avoid thinking about -- domestic violence, child abuse, poverty, etc. And I admire how far she has come in life give her rough childhood; clearly she didn't come from privilege. So for those things, I'll give her credit.

I sat in her audience two years ago for a taping, and it was a memorable experience. She definitely has a presence, and the topic (how we Americans can provide microloans to women in third world countries who want to start their own businesses to become self-sufficient) was certainly important. But she didn't try to hide the fact that she is the boss on that show, berating one of her directors in front of her guests and audience. I sort of cringed for the guy when she got pissed about the wrong camera being used. Okay, so she's a woman who knows what she wants, whatever.

What bugs me is the preachiness that we should live our best life. You know, Oprah, maybe there are days when I just want to be mediocre and not try so hard. Is that so wrong? I don't want to read "A New Earth" and believe in "The Secret" so I can be like you. I'm pretty happy being who I am. Stop making us feel like we aren't good enough.

And then there's the multiple accents, depending on who her guest is. She has Paula Deen on, she's suddenly back in Mississippi with a drawl. Chris Rock is a guest and she's a sista. Celine Dion? I'm surprised she didn't articulate like a French Canadian. Just be yourself, Oprah, the accent-free broadcaster you started your career as.

The other thing that gets me is the ego. You start a magazine, and you only ever put yourself on the cover? And make sure every cover photo is airbrushed to death? Please. We know it's your magazine, you don't have to cram yourself down our throats. And now this self-hosted tribute show, which supposedly her staff put together and was a total "surprise." I'm sure she didn't have a hand in any of it.

Ed. Note: I should probably just change this blog to "Celebrities-I-Hate.com" and stop trying to come up with the occasional positive, cheerful post.

Word Police

The following is one of those lists that builds up in my head gradually, usually after a visit to Facebook or an evening watching a bit too much television. The following are words, non-words and phrases we need to stop using:

"Seriously." Seriously, stop saying seriously, everyone. "Grey's Anatomy" is not even using it anymore, to my knowledge. (Then again, I stopped watching that show after the fourth time McDreamy and what-her-face broke up, so I can't say with absolute certainty it is not used at least six times per episode in an attempt at comedy.) Try "really," "honestly," or my favorite, "are you (expletive) kidding me?"

"Prolly." What? Prolly? Do you mean probably, random Facebook commenter? Your speech might have gotten lazier with the use of texting and Facebooking, but just because you aren't required to ever speak on the phone again doesn't mean you don't have to spell words correctly and not exactly as you lazily (mis)pronounce them. "Prolly" might be worse than "supposebly," but the jury is still out on that one.

"Easy breezy." I think this started as part of a cosmetics company's tagline, as in, "Easy, breezy, beautiful, Cover Girl." Now it's a phrase cheesy breezy people use to convince others of how simple something is. Just say "easy." It's easier.

Mystery of the Universe

Every now and then, I notice something about society for which I'm not sure there is a definitive explanation. I came across one the other day.

Why do elderly women like to do all their shopping at Walgreens? Is it the small, manageable shopping carts that are the perfect size to hold one's cane? The in-house pharmacy? Are their ads exceptionally eyecatching to one whose eyesight might be failing? Maybe it's because there is a Walgreens on every corner, so for those who can no longer drive at night, it's the only place they can walk to that accepts Medicare and sells the National Enquirer.

Whatever the reason, I don't believe I have ever been in a Walgreen's without seeing an 87-year-old woman rifling through that week's "circular," bent over her cart handle because her cane is in the basket. And I'm sure one day I will be that woman, and then I will have my answer.

An open letter to Gwyneth Paltrow

Dear G,

Stop. Just, please, stop. I turned on the TV the other night and saw you plugging yet another project -- a cookbook. We, the public, had such a nice little break from you when you married and had kids and gave them unusual names.

But then you befriended Madonna. Then you launched a Web site which I've heard is irritating. Then, you made a PBS series about Spain with Mario Batali, Mark Bittman and some Spanish actress, in which Bittman and the Spanish actress's segments were far more entertaining, except for the episode where you ate tapas with Michael Stipe. Then you decided to befriend Jay-Z and Faith Hill in the same couple of years and record a country song and show up onstage at every awards show and "Glee" (which, okay, I don't watch but I heard you were on), where you did a cover of that Cee Lo Green song that always gets stuck in my head, alternating from your version to the original version and I can't remember the words, so the same line about "change in my pocket" keeps replaying...aaah! And now, the cookbook.

Gwyneth, stop with the projects. We get it - you are afraid we will forget you. You've done enough in the last six weeks to ensure we never will. Now it's time to go into hiding. Move over and let someone else take the stage, the space in the recording studio, the makeup chair at the photo session, the spot on the red carpet.

Gratefully,

Me

P.S.: Is that belt made of bungee cord?

Why do I punish myself?

In case anyone was wondering, here is some breaking news from People.com:

Hilary Duff cites reason for constant hair changes: Boredom!

Presumably (hopefully) the same can be said for the "reporter" at People.com whose beat is Hilary Duff's hair. His/her parents must be so proud of their J-school graduate!

...Where the Air is Sweet

I'm trying to comply with the "no TV for kids under 2" policy the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends. Sometimes, though, I am checking something online and Eamon wants to sit on my lap. I resisted any and all screen time at first, but after awhile I thought, eh, what's the big deal? I met a mom recently who plops her 22-month-old down in front of entire Pixar movies. I'm practically home schooling my son compared to her.

Anyway, my first instinct was to check Sesame Street's Web site, and sure enough they have 1-3 minute videos of Elmo, Ernie and Bert, and the rest that are just long enough to not make me feel guilty but enough to appease a 17-month-old. There are also some classic sketches on there, such as Ernie and Bert's "banana in my ear" scene, that I remember finding funny as a kid just for the exasperated look on Bert's face.

And of course, I have noticed a few things:

1) For a place of learning, Sesame Street's characters sometimes have a problem with their pronouns. Cookie Monster says "me" instead of "I," and Elmo refers to himself in the third person.

2) Oscar the Grouch is one of the few characters who doesn't have a nose. This explains so much.

3) If I try too hard, I can't understand what Elmo is saying. It reminds me of my Philosophy 050 professor, Dr. Vande Velde. He was Belgian, and he often put the accent on the wrong syllable and messed up his vowels. He pronounced consequently as con-SEE-kwent-lee. All semester I struggled not to correct it in my head during his lectures. I had to just go with it or I'd lose my train of thought.

Other than these minor gripes, I do love that Sesame Street is still around. And I'm looking forward to Eamon turning two so I can introduce him to a full episode.

Election Day

When I was a kid, my parents would sometimes stop by their polling place with me in tow. I always thought it was kind of fun to go into the little booth and see them cast their vote. Since I'm home with Eamon, I have the luxury of being able to bring him with me when I vote in the hopes that it will stick in his head that he should do his civic duty.

So this morning, I loaded him into the stroller and we entered the very quiet park district building, where we were greeted by four eager volunteers who all, judging by their reaction when they saw us, recognized Eamon from last November's election.

We were greeted as if we were old friends who'd moved out of town, each election worker taking turns with their comments, like, "Look how big he's gotten!" and "Hi cutie! How old is he now?" I prompted Eamon to smile, which he did, and I was admittedly proud that they remembered him from last fall.

After we walked out, I wondered, am I either a) one of the only people in my precinct who brings their kid with them to vote or b) one of the only people who votes? I hope to God it's the former.

Inspiration

This morning at the gym I was paging through a local magazine and its cover story on "Chicago's Most Beautiful People." The list included flattering blurbs and photo spreads on local and national celebrities (singer/actress Jennifer Hudson) and a variety of charming local executives, entrepreneurs and socialites. I'm always drawn to these articles (see also: Crain's Chicago Business' annual "40 Under 40" list) but somehow always feel a little less impressed with myself after reading them.

Where, I ask you, is the list of people whose utter lack of ambition, fabulous hair and good shoes might make the rest of us feel better about our wonderful but not-very-exciting lives? I need a cover story like this:

"Sad Sacks and Jerkfaces: Chicagoans You Wouldn't Want to Be"

Gary Schmelz Unemployed since well before the recession hit, Schmelz lives in his younger sister's basement and sleeps on a futon he's owned since his first and only semester at Eastern Illinois University. Recent projects include a run at beating his personal best on Missile Command on his parent's circa-1980 Atari system he inherited when they moved to Florida.

Linda Peterson Thrice-divorced Peterson, 58, is the unpleasant woman behind the counter at the DMV. She says the best part of her job, which she has held for two months, is seeing the frustration rise in her fellow citizens as they try to navigate the Secretary of State's system. Currently she is yelling at her neighbor's kids for standing on the sidewalk in front of her house.

Jeff Barkowitz Since getting a taste of fame as a cast member of the reality show "Mr. Personality" (in which the female contestant was tasked with choosing her mate from among mask-wearing men, basing her decision solely on their - you guessed it - personality!), 42-year-old Barkowitz has left his full-time bartending job behind and spends his days applying to appear on every other reality show in development in search of his 15 minutes of fame.

Now that kind of list would inspire me to work a little harder at life.

Why do I read this stuff?

For some reason I find myself checking People.com nearly every day. Once in awhile that site offers some legitimate piece of breaking celebrity news, and God forbid I miss it.

Most of the time, however, they have headlines like this:

PHOTO: Hillary Duff cuts her bangs

And then I feel the need to go read a lengthy novel.

"It's been so long! Have you been...working out?"

Ah, Facebook. You have provided me with some really nice online reunions with both college and high school friends. Some have, sincerely, been fun to catch up with, a couple really leave me wondering how I lost touch with this person or that. Others, meh, I could take or leave 'em. Every once in awhile, though, Facebook provides a "what the #$*@?" moment.

About a year ago, I "friended" a girl I knew in high school. She was a year behind me, not someone I would have hung out with one on one, but nice enough. She came from a fairly wealthy family and always had interests that were sort of above and beyond what the normal Southwest Iowa teen takes on, like equestrianism, for example. So when I became her Facebook "friend," I wasn't surprised to see recent photos of her competing in steeplechase and whatever other horse riding events exist.

Yesterday, however, she revealed her new hobby. Evidently she is not just into, um, working out, she is actually a competitive (prizewinning!) bodybuilder. She posted a photo of herself, holding a trophy. In a very small, hot pink bikini. With arms the size of my husband's and clearly enhanced "girls." And a skin color that makes the female cast of Jersey Shore look like geishas.

My first thought when I saw her photo was that she was standing in front of one of those plywood cutouts at a carnival where you stick your face in the designated hole. ("Ha ha, look at me, I'm a farmer! And my husband's a cow!") Then I realized the skin on her face perfectly matched the skin on the plywood cutout's body and that it was, indeed, her own body in that bikini.

I mean, good for you for being "fit," but holy crap, dial it down a notch.

Note: The photo above is not her.

Lesson(s) Learned

A couple of weeks ago, I was just cleaning up after dinner when our doorbell rang. At the door was a sizable teenager - I could only guess his age by how he was speaking, rapidly and nervously reciting a spiel about scholarship money and Chicago Tribune newspaper sales and wouldyouhelpmebysubscribingforjusttwentydollars? We already have a subscription, so I asked if I could just make a donation. He said that would be fine, he'd just mark on my receipt that it was just that so we wouldn't get billed by the paper. A receipt? Great. This is totally legit!

As I went to get my wallet, I thought of a few other people who had told me about similar experiences, where a teenager comes to their door at dinnertime with something to sell or a charity to support. Typically the message is, 'this is a scam - do not give them money.' For some reason, I ignored that thought and handed over $20, thinking it was better than giving him a personal check with our information on it. He then asked me for my mailing address so he could write it on the order form, so I gave it to him, and got a little nervous, wondering if I should even do that. But then, I realized, all he has to do is look at our address on our house - he's standing on my front porch, after all - to get that information. He was really polite, very appreciative and smiled and waved at Eamon. He handed me the receipt and walked off down the block to the next house. I looked down at the receipt as I shut the door and noticed that it had no information on it regarding a scholarship - it just had the Chicago Tribune logo, no indication that it was for a charity of any kind. I mumbled to myself, "idiot." And left the receipt on the table.

When my husband got home, he too agreed it was probably a scam because the receipt looked shady. Then he suggested I not answer the door when I'm home by myself at night, because anyone could just burst through the door. I thought of how big the kid was - he was built like a linebacker - and eventually lost about three hours of sleep that night thinking about how stupid I was for even opening the door and putting Eamon and myself in harm's way. I am a naive suburbanite, I thought, wondering where and when I'd lost my street smarts. I very rarely if ever give to panhandlers. I used to always deny those kids selling M&Ms on the street corners who say they're raising money for their basketball teams. Why would I give twenty bucks to a teenager on my front porch? I should have just turned the porch light off and ignored him.

Today in the mail I got a letter from the Chicago Tribune and a check for $20 from an organization called Starr E. Sales Inc. The message on the form letter said they apologized, but their records show I already have a subscription and therefore cannot subscribe through that charity. So, the kid was trustworthy, he just didn't have his information straight -- donations weren't allowed, only new subscriptions were accepted. I was glad I initially went with my gut and trusted him, and embarrassed that I thought he might have been a threat, and wonder now how many kids I've turned down who were honestly trying to raise money for something worthwhile. I'm a little sorry I wasn't able to support him in the end.

But I am still looking for my misplaced street smarts.

And, in other aged rockers' news...

Phil Collins has announced he is "quitting" the music business. Because his back hurts.

Sympathy for the Devil

I just finished reading Keith Richards' autobiography, Life. All my life, I'd heard various urban legends about this guy -- the whole "having my blood replaced" thing, all the drugs he's done, even the more recent falling out of a tree. So I was anxious to read this book. And who knew? Most of the stories are more or less true. Okay, he didn't actually have all of his blood replaced, but it might not have been a bad idea at the time were it medically possible. And he actually did snort his dad's ashes. I mean, of course, it's an autobiography, so should be taken with a grain of salt, but he doesn't exactly paint a totally rosy picture of himself.

Oddly enough, after reading his life story, I not only find him to be a pretty likable guy ("I trust you until you do something to make me not trust you.") who truly loves what he does and has a great passion for many types of music. He comes across as very down-to-earth, even including his recipe for bangers and mash in the last chapter, but I also think he is not human. The man almost died, like, 87 times. And not from drug overdoses. From multiple car accidents, falling from a ladder in his Connecticut library, almost being electrocuted. The list goes on. And mark my words, he's nearly 70, but I think he'll be around for another 25, easily. And in the end, he will probably die of natural causes.

You say Qaddafi, I say Gadhafi...

The man has been in power longer than I have been alive, and we still don't know how to spell his name.

New York Times: Col. Muammar el-Qaddafi

MSNBC: Gadafi

Washington Post: Gaddafi

Pick a spelling and go with it, media.