Outliving Aging Public Figures Like Biden, Jagger, and Carville

At 82.5 years of age, I realize that one fine day the road will rise up to meet me only because I have face planted for good. Before I take the long dirt nap, however, I am determined to {make water} on the graves of three Aging Public Figures whom I cannot abide: Joe Biden, Mick Jagger, and James Carville.

🧠 Joe Biden: The Gaffe That Keeps on Giving
For all his studied folksiness, Joe Biden has spent half a century perfecting the twin arts of political mendacity and mediocrity. He voted for the Iraq War, helped architect the 1994 crime bill that turbocharged mass incarceration, and spent decades cozying up to credit card companies while Delaware’s working class got hollowed out. His presidency, meanwhile, has been a masterclass in geriatric drift–where bold promises go to die in bipartisan committees and someone else’s hand was on the autopen. He’s not just old; he’s emblematic of a system that rewards longevity over lucidity. Biden’s twilight years have been less “elder statesman” and more “teleprompter hostage.” At 82, he’s already been pushed off the political stage by his own damn party, following a debate performance that made even his podium look concerned. He’s one anecdote away from confusing NATO with Costco.

On the other hand, I still remember where I parked my car. I don’t need a team of handlers to explain what day it is. Unlike Crooked Joe, who requires an entourage just to navigate a staircase, I ascend mine solo. My cognition isn’t “under evaluation,” it’s under constant renovation, with better lighting and fewer lobbyists.

🕺 Mick Jagger: The World’s Youngest Octogenarian (On Paper)
Mick Jagger, cultural vampire extraordinaire, has been coasting since the Nixon administration. He’s the poster child for boomer indulgence: a man who turned rebellion into branded merchandise and whose greatest act of defiance now involves surviving his own legacy. He’s dodged accountability for everything from tax exile antics to the commodification of the counterculture. (And let’s not forget Altamont.) At this point, he’s less rock star and more relic–an animatronic reminder that fame ages poorly when it refuses to retire.

Jagger, 82, still prances across stages like a caffeinated gazelle, but his longevity is dependent on cod liver oil, Pilates, and a diet so virtuous it could stagger Gwyneth Paltrow. He starts his day with ginseng smoothies, avoids refined sugar after 6 p.m., and maintains a 28-inch waist like it’s a Cold War secret.

Even the most disciplined rock star, however, can’t outrun entropy. Sir Mick looked “frail” leaving his 82nd  birthday party. His security team practically carried him out like a relic from the British Museum.

For my part, I don’t need ballet to stay upright. I rely on the ancient art of not pretending I’m still 28=–a discipline lost on rock stars and politicians who think Lycra and denial can outpace gravity. I don’t pirouette through life; I walk, with dignity, not choreography. My posture isn’t curated–it’s earned, like a scar or a punchline.

ðŸŽ™ï¸ James Carville: The Ragin’ Cajun, Now Just Cajun
James Carville, the Ragin’ Cajun turned cable curmudgeon, helped engineer the Clinton campaign that hot wired  progressive momentum in the 1990s. He’s frittered his time since then hurling  grenades from the sidelines, defending the indefensible with a drawl and a smirk. His greatest offense has been turning political strategy into a game of cynical optics, where winning matters more than meaning. He’s not just a relic of the consultant class–he’s its patron saint.

Carville, all but 80, can still fling political hot takes like Mardi Gras beads. Nonetheless, beneath the bravado lies a man whose health rumors swirl like gumbo steam. He’s denied having cancer, and there’s no public illness to report, unfortunately–but let’s not confuse absence of diagnosis with presence of vitality.

Carville’s ADHD-fueled energy may have served him well for decades, but today he’s more likely to be mistaken for a wax figure of himself. His recent media appearances suggest he’s still capable of the occasional sharp, if somewhat senile, remark; but the man once tripped walking his dogs and showed up on MSNBC with a black eye. That’s not strategy–it’s gravity.

Meanwhile, I walk my own dog. No entourage, no orthopedic retinue, no segment on Morning Joe to confirm I’m still vertical. I don’t need Mika, that witch, to narrate my gait or Joe, that other witch, to nod solemnly at my ability to “climb” a curb. I simply exist–upright, untelevised, and unbothered.

The good Lord willing and the sludge don’t rise, I plan to outlive these dirt balls. Not by luck, but because I didn’t waste my youth on tour buses, campaign trails, or in Senate chambers with questionable lighting. I’ve preserved myself through the radical act of not being famous. And now, I get to watch the icons fade while I sharpen my wit and sip my coffee without a medical disclaimer.

Let the record show: I’m not just surviving. I’m winning. May they rest in peace.

For more red-hot cultural dispatches from a culture in decline, click here and duck for cover.

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