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.

Open Wide

Yesterday I took Eamon for his first pediatric dental appointment. It was all very pleasant, except for the actual exam and cleaning. The poor kid had visible plaque on his lower teeth, which was why I made the appointment in the first place, so I was sort of dreading the cleaning. They had me lie down on the chair, with him lying on top of me, on his back, with his head on my shoulder, so I could hold down his arms and basically keep him from fitfully throwing himself out of the chair and away from Dr. Kenney. It was about six minutes of him screaming and crying directly into my ear. I know there are far, far worse things a toddler could have to go through, medically speaking, but this wasn't fun.

Anyway, it was over soon enough and Dr. Kenney was very nice. There were some good toys in the waiting room and a big fish tank, so Eamon was entertained while we waited. One thing I noticed, however, was that we were the only patients in the office. (I reminded myself that Dr. Kenney is the only dentist in the practice and it was mid-morning, so most of his patients would likely be in school at that time of day.)

Having the whole waiting room to ourselves made me think of my last dentist, a very nice woman with a practice conveniently located near my old office in Skokie. She seemed fine, she took my insurance, but one thing always bothered me. I never, ever saw another patient go in or out of her office in the five years I went to her. It made me start to question whether she knew what she was doing. Her receptionist was ultra-thorough with follow-up calls, reminders to make my next appointment and confirming appointments multiple times. Towards the end, I sensed a note of desperation in her voice when she'd left a third message to say, "Just calling to see if you want to set up another visit!"

When I walked in for what became my last visit, I saw someone else, and it was not the FedEx guy. Finally! An older gentleman in casual but decent clothes, wrapping up his conversation with the receptionist as I was walking in. I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God, I'm not the only one letting this woman care for my teeth. I took off my coat and grabbed a magazine, and smiled at my fellow patient as he turned to walk out. Then I heard my dentist call from behind the desk.

"Bye, Uncle Frank!"

$#&%.

Questions About the Grammys

It never fails. Every year, I watch the Grammys and wind up both embarrassed for my favorite performers for being there, and infuriated at the music industry for complaining about how no one buys music anymore despite the fact that they honor people like Katy Perry with multiple nominations. And really, song of the year, the top songwriting award, to someone who came up with this lyric:

"It's a quarter after one, I'm a little drunk and I need you now..."

Literally, a drunk person could have penned that!

Twelve hours after the broadcast (the end of which I

couldn't even bring
myself to watch, even though, thank God, Arcade Fire won best album), I still have these questions running through my head, particularly after subjecting myself to E!'s red carpet coverage:

1) Why does everything Katy Perry wears look like a bra? It's like she taught herself to sew, but only owns one pattern. I picture her closet full of nothing but sequined, satin bras with thick straps and hot pants.

2) Why oh why is Kim Kardashian at all the award shows? She is neither an actor (I'm talking to you, SAG Awards producers) nor a singer. She barely has a personality.

3) Why is it that singers who try acting are often intriguing (see: Dwight Yoakam in "Sling Blade" or even Tim McGraw in "Friday Night Lights") but actors who sing are ridiculously egotistical and usually annoying (see: Bruce Willis circa 1987). Gwyneth Paltrow's duet with Cee Lo Green was five minutes of too much Gwyneth Paltrow. She already sang her movie's song at the Country Music Awards, do we really have to indulge her again? I guess we do, because she's slated to sing at the Oscars in two weeks. God help me.

4) At what point will Lady Gaga's antics be interpreted not as "art" but as desperate pleas for attention?

5) How mortified were the members of Kings of Leon to be presenting with Miley Cyrus?

And, on a positive note:

6) Where did that guy from Mumford & Sons learn to play the banjo like that? I did buy their album last fall and I love their music and, unlike pretty much every other performance I saw, now I really want to see them live. (I didn't quite get what all the shouting was about during "Maggie's Farm," however. Were they short on microphones?)

Oh well, at least they didn't let Taylor Swift sing.

Well, That Was Fast

After my re-introduction to Twitter a few weeks ago, and approximately three "tweets" and two actual visits to my Twitter page, I have officially fallen off the Twitter bandwagon again. i've never been so proud of myself for being so disinterested.

Snow Days

The other night, we got hit with an actual blizzard. Twenty-point-five inches of snow accumulated at O'Hare, the nearest official measurement to our house. More than one hundred drivers were stranded for up to 12 hours in their cars or on CTA buses overnight Tuesday. As of last night, many Chicago side streets still hadn't been paid a visit by a Streets & Sanitation plow. The plows in our suburb didn't even get to our street until noon yesterday.

But here's the good that comes from a storm like this:

1. No school. The school-age kids on our block have been outside in the cold but fresh air both yesterday and today. They chose the giant mounds of snow at the end of our driveway as the ones best suited to tunnel through, so when we back out of our driveway, we can appreciate their handiwork on either side of us.

2. Good Samaritans. There were so many stories in this morning's paper about strangers helping one another -- like the twentysomething guys who brought backpacks of food and supplies to the people stranded on LSD, through 70 mph winds and pelting snow. Or the limo driver (the Tribune photo looks like he drives a tricked out Hummer) who picked up nurses from their various South Side homes and took them to work at Stroger Hospital.

3. A forced mid-week reprieve. Okay, so Brian spent the bulk of the morning shoveling and snow-blowing our driveway, then helping some neighbors clear out the driveways of the elderly women on our block, but he got a pretty solid chunk of time with Eamon, including a pull on his new sled, knowing that no one he works with was getting anything done either.

4. A warm house.