I just finished "Life," Keith Richard's autobiography. (Or would it be biography, since he had a writer.) Richards, as you will recall, was a Rolling Stones guitarist, the original out-of-control rock and roller, and once was #1 on a list of ten clebrities likely to die in the following year. He is now at 70 or so, living in an estate down state from me and seems to be none the worse for wear. There's a wonbderful picture in the book of him sitting on a couch surrounded by his wife their children and lovely grandbabies. In "Life" he gives a recipe for his beloved bangers and mashed