“The Osbournes”not -mandias but rock godi remember the way the boysidolized him despite the stage-body and -hair drenched in sweateyeliner running down a facefrom nightmares and tales ofhim biting heads off rubber batsi mean, where was the appeal in thatexcepthis music utterly rockeddecimated the competitionhe was iron manhe barked at the moontook shots in the darkruled his rock stage like a monarchsent from the pits of hellfor showmanship alonenow his slurred British accentcurses not time nor establishmentbut tiny dogs fluffy as bedroom pillowsas he stoops, picks up each pieceof excrement left behind, pleads with the help to help pick them upas he steps in another brown mess,his slurred English accent not poshbut sounding inebriated and oldlike the family uncle that simply can’t put down the bottle, swearing he needs their BLEEPED-OUT helpbc his wife’s immune system is compromised,he can’t stand the thought of her loss, of her illness, so despite paying staffand lecturing his teens on the valueof cleanliness around her, he droopsdown, curses, and picks up each chunkon the floor of their palatial homewhile in another room, his wife sits,laughs, slowly strokes the doghe curses to himself his BLEEPING“drug addict kids” returned from rehabyet welcomes them into the family bedwith him and his wife of many yearsfor familial embraces, teens mouthing off yet cuddling with their motheras though afraid she’ll shatter and be forever gone, daughter bitching about her curfew and boring life as her private stylist does her hair the week of her rock concert debut, the same daughter conquering the stage that night crooning she’s not daddy’s little girl anymore--yet follows daddy’s footsteps, later leans her head on her mom’s shoulder, her mother strokes through her daughter’s multicolored locks, tells her she’s so BLEEPing proud of her, cursing her like a lullaby, her father far away yet connected via screenand flying electrons.he calls from the couch to his familyhow they must BLEEPING know how muchhe BLEEPING loves them in words censoredfrom those outside spying into their lives through camera lens eyes--and yetwhen he returns to the stageto belt out his greatest hits,still composing yet more to screamat screaming crowds that flock to worshipat the altar of another rock god, he STILL is Ozzytime may have stooped himbut he’s stayed the course with the woman he loves and children he adores,true to who he is, who he always has been:loud, crude, and uncensored despite their tearing out his every other word--we know exactly what he means--devoted husband, rock idol, picking up shitin his grand palatial home, dealing with brattyteenage kids--adoring them, adored by othersthe years between my childhood days and today’sgive and take from us all--rock idols and middle-class housewives alike. The girl I was trapped in this menopausal bodyweighed down by years, lifted by experiencehe doesn’t give a rat’s ass--or a bat’s head--what anyone else thinksDo I?# *inspired by an episode of “ The Osbournes ” I caught streaming one sleepless night two months before his death. RIP, Ozzy. **image “ Ozzy Osbourne Portrait: Portrait of Ozzy Osbourne with Union Jack flag background ,” courtesy of Crimson Rose via Public Domain license and PublicDomainPictures.net