Baby Boomer, Mickey Rourke, 64, struts his crazy shit in Beverly Hills like nobody’s business.
Look at this guy: 64-year-old amalgamation of physical strength and gender-bender audacity.
He’s irony in motion, annihilator of boundaries, the Louis Vitton and Pomeranian standing guard at the castle gates.
After a certain point in life, successful artists just don’t give a crap what you think.
They care about what they think, which inspires the rest of humanity question conformity in general.
So while most guys his age [and level of success] don’t look anything like Mickey Rourke, inside we’re all very similar: Driven, defiant, audacious, struggling to keep the pool of relevance deep and vast against what seems like endless odds.
For this alone you have to give credit where it’s due. Mickey Rourke has taunted fate, living his life inside out in all its glory.
His appearance is emblematic.
Whatever his deepest motives if there are any], the man lives life with a middle finger to the wind, and for that he deserves respect.