Because he’s not just a man. He’s The Man. (Seriously: At one point, he owned the trademark.)
But first, a brief cultural detour to the mean streets of New Jersey, and the greatest TV series of all time, The Sopranos. In the very first episode of the first season, Tony Soprano wondered, “Whatever happened to Gary Cooper?”
You know, the archetypal ideal of American masculinity. Like Will Kane. Or The Virginian. Someone who didn’t whine about his feelings — or cry to his therapist — every time he faced a roadblock. He could down a shot of whiskey, fire a gun, protect his town, romance the ladies, and live life on his own terms.
‘Cause that’s what a REAL man does!
Or did. (Gary Cooper died 65 years ago.) And if you don’t hate Father Time enough, consider this disquieting fact: when Tony was wondering what the heck happened to Gary Cooper, the actor who portrayed him — the late, great James Gandolfini — was 37 years old.
The actress who played his daughter is now 45. The actor who played his son is now 41. Time flies. (Fuhgeddaboudit!)
And we’re yet another generation removed from the “real man” archetype.
Tony Soprano idolized Gary Cooper, the strong and silent type. Zoomer men idolize Tony Soprano — the rough-and-tumble mafia kingpin who dabbled in gambling, guns, and goombahs. Each generation feels famished for the missing ingredient of masculinity, whatever it is at the moment.
But every now and then, there’s a throwback. A walking, talking anachronism — the glorious embodiment of “old school” masculine ideals.
He’s The Man.
And he stands out, too. You kiddin’ me?! In an era of introverts, abstinence, “safe spaces,” and meekness, he stands out like a sore thumb.
Or a bleached blonde mane.
Because he’s the last real man in America. The last real man on earth. You can’t stop him! Nothing can stop him!
His liver makes Keith Richards’ liver look like Mitt Romney’s liver.
Maybe he’s immortal. I mean, we can’t completely rule it out, because A) He’s pushing 80 and still alive — even though most of his contemporaries, sadly, died decades ago — and B) He’s already survived:
- A coma
- Kidney failure
- A plane crash (where he broke his back)
- Struck by lightning
- Heart attack
As well as being a functional alcoholic who consumed at least 15 drinks a day.
When he was in his 20s and 30s, he drank like a fish, partied like a rock star, and still looked like a million bucks. With his bulging biceps, trim waist, and long blond hair, he graced the cover of countless magazines. He wore Rolexes and fancy suits; he rode limousines and flew on private jets. He boasted he spent more money on spilled liquor than most people make in a year.
He was so iconic that today’s hip-hop fans — generations removed and an industry away — still worship his fashion “drip.” Just Gary Cooper was The Man to Tony Soprano, he’s The Man to them. His prime years were must-see TV.
But that was when he was in his 20s and 30s.
By the time he hit his 40s, his body began to change. His once-flawless physique began to sag. (His opponent said he had “more loose skin than a Shar-Pei puppy.”) Don’t get me wrong — he was still in exceptional shape for a man his age — but The Man was a man in winter.
The walls were closing in.
One of the things that made The Man so unusual was that he competed in a profession where you had free license to be anything you wanted to be.
No hyperbole: the only limit was your imagination.
It was the Land of Make-Believe — and Lord Almighty, how his contemporaries took advantage of it!
Some pretended to be evil commie Russians. Others transformed themselves into the undead. There were tobacco-spitting cowboys, garbage truck drivers, a Mississippi-born “Ugandan” cannibal, an Italian-American “Indian” chief, and even a human rooster.
But The Man did the opposite: He actually became his gimmick. It was no longer a character or a performance; Richard Fliehr became “The Nature Boy” Ric Flair 24/7.
Turns out it was way more fun being Ric Flair than Richard Fliehr. Richard Fliehr had angry exes, broken marriages, disappointed kids, financial problems, legal hassles, and panic attacks.
Ric Flair didn’t have a care in the world. He partied all night long — Wooooo! — and made all the pretty girls cry. He was the Rolex-wearing, diamond-ring-wearing, kiss-stealing, wheeling and dealing, limousine-riding, jet-flying, son-of-a-gun.
Because it wasn’t just a gimmick. Fliehr-turned-Flair was legitimately blowing thousands of dollars at the bar each night, drinking and — Wooooo! — partying ‘til closing time.
I’m talking a $23,000 bar tab over a single weekend.
And then, after closing time, the party continued in his hotel room. The party always continued.
It continued day in, day out, for decades at a time.
But what a party it was! Wooooo! His sexual exploits are legendary: he estimates he slept with “roughly” 10,000 women. With the flashiest clothes, the finest bling, and the sexiest babes, he fulfilled every adolescent male fantasy.
No wonder hip-hop fans still idolize his Ric Flair Drip: he is… The Man!
At least, he was.
Because, by the time he hit his 50s, he had become uncomfortably close to self-parody. He was the old guy at the nightclub, still hitting on college girls.
What once was cool had become pathetic and cringe.
At age 59, he lost his retirement match to Shawn Michaels. But he never really retired — not from wrestling and certainly not from partying. At age 72, he wrestled his “last match,” where he passed out twice.
Afterwards, his doctor realized he suffered a heart attack.
That was over four years ago. He’s now 77 — and the party is still going strong. Wooooo!
He’s still drinking. Still tipping big. Still pretending to be The Man.
He now lives in Tampa Bay, the same place I lived for 20 years. I’ve personally heard more than one account of 70-something Ric Flair drinking himself into absolute oblivion. Not just a shot or two; not just a beer or three.
Way, way more.
According to Tampa Reddit message boards, he’s drinking until he loses control of his bowels. It’s been openly discussed on Tampa Bay radio shows. (Flair profanely denied the rumor.)
Either way, that’s not the kind of Ric Flair “drip” that ANYONE idolizes. (Eww.)
Last week, he passed out on a Tampa sidewalk, near a restaurant and bar. His head bounced off the pavement and he had a concussion. I don’t know if he was drinking beforehand, but given his history, it wouldn’t exactly be a shocker.
And just like he survived being hit by lightning, breaking his back in a plane crash, kidney failure, and a coma, it looks like he’ll bounce back from this one, too. With any luck, he’ll be back to — Wooooo! — drinking and partying in no time.
Thank You All For The Messages And Prayers! I Will Get Back To You Each Individually As I Get Stronger. Thank You To All The Tampa General Hospital Staff And Doctors That Put Up With Me Until 4:30am. I Appreciate You All And Thank You For Everything You Did For Me! I Am Focused On My Healing And Recovery Right Now. I Will Be Okay! And Just So You Know For Those Who Were Asking And Wondering, I Don’t Own My Own Facebook Page Anymore. I Apologize For The Reckless Posting Behavior On My Facebook When I Was In The Hospital. It Was Completely Inappropriate!
— Ric Flair® (@RicFlairNatrBoy) October 24, 2026
But his sons probably won’t be helping him with his recovery. He publicly threatened legal action against his oldest son, David, regarding the “Ric Flair” trademark and his wrestling robes. (Which he later walked back.)
And his youngest son, Richard “Reid” Fliehr, died at age 25 of a drug overdose. Like millions of fans, Reid idolized The Man, too. So he followed his dad into the wrestling business — and into the bars, clubs, and hotel rooms.
A hotel room was where Ric Flair discovered his body.
Nor is he The Man anymore. In a sign o’ the times, Ric Flair settled his trademark dispute with the WWE — and now The Man is a female wrestler named Becky Lynch.
But he’s still a living legend. A throwback to a bygone era — when men were REALLY men. The epitome of rugged masculinity. Every schoolboy’s fantasy; every schoolgirl’s dream.
Wooooo!
And it’s the saddest, most pathetic sight in the world.
PRedictions, PRojections, PRaise, and PRedators: These columns get awfully long with the preamble and four separate “PR” sections (which are sometimes disjointed from the topic) so I’m debating putting the kibosh on that section and doubling down on longer, better-developed intros.
(With exceptions, of course, depending on the article.)
Anyhoo, let me know your thoughts. If that’s something y’all (nice Southerners) and youze (mean Yankees) valued, we can revert to the old model. Let me know in the comments.
