It seems like show business people fall into two camps – either they die of a heart attack in their forties or they live on forever and die when they fall over the wash pail during the big Follies Hanukkah Show at the Home for Aged Actors in Poughkeepsie or Sherman Oaks at the age of 103. Either the pressure and the booze gets to you or it doesn’t. Take your choice.
Rockers are different – they’re immersed in this weird macho rebel culture that revels in self-destruction. I’d go on at length except you’ve already heard it one hundred million times. Today I’d rather celebrate Mick and all the other rock survivors. In fact I think I’ll initiate a new department that will be in such charge of such celebrations. I’ll start with some other Stones: Hooray for drummer Charlie Watts – already 103 and busy practicing for their next world tour. And Hooray for Bill Wyman, their original bass player, who makes Charlie look like a pup. He retired like a man of wisdom and goes to the beach with his metal detector every morning, already over one million years old. Way to go, Bill!