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I suppose it’s inevitable—once you reach a certain age, the stars of screen and music you grew up with begin to die.
It always hits hard, though.
In your mind, they’re forever young.
Forever on stage.
Forever on screen.
Today, we lost Ozzy.
Like Elvis, Ozzy needs no last name.
This one hurts—especially on the heels of Malcolm-Jamal Warner’s passing yesterday.
Ozzy was the ’80s.
Ozzy was my teen years.
My daughter said, “But he was old.”
And while that’s true, in my mind he was still young.
Still biting the heads off bats.
Still mesmerizing crowds at concerts.
Time moves on.
But we still remember.
Somewhere out there—where jelly shoes slap pavement, mullets blow in the breeze, and Love’s Baby Soft hangs sweet in the summer air—
Ozzy’s still howling.
Still the Prince of Darkness.
Still ours.
The stage is dimmer now—but somewhere, he's still howling.
