Paul Rodgers of Bad Company

Ahh, to be an aging rock star. What better possible way could there be to live out one's golden years than trying vainly to relive one's golden youth? Leather pants, screaming groupies, pharmaceutically enhanced machismo. The Dennis Hopper-endorsed, carpe diem boomer mentality has given second wind to bloated rock corpses the world over, acting as necromancy for the aging masses. Former frontmen, once living off residuals and the occasional mall opening, are washing their Celebrex down with single-malt birthed before they were, limbering up in preparation to snatch your grandma's undergarments out of the air, mid-windmill.