First, it was Dolly.
Then right after, Tim.
Both of which happened not long after we lost Ozzy.
And the absence of his beautiful darkness still lingers loud—it would be great if all the cultural icons could maybe take a break from crumbling away.
But I guess that’s just not the way of the world.
Sometimes, bad things come at you fast. Crashing over your head. Stabbing at your heart. Tearing at your gut. An unstoppable “9 to 5” tsunami of brutal “what the fuck was that?”
Every goodbye is a reminder; every funeral is a souvenir of that terrible secret they never tell when you’re growing up—there is fuck all you can actually do to stop any of it.
Because every thing, and every one, is just… temporary.
And that’s exactly why you have to make your mark.
I’m honestly surprised they made it to 80. Well, Ozzy only made it to 76. Still an accomplished feat considering the staggering amount of self-abuse involved in rocking the whole damn world.
I’m still just mucking around in my middle 50s. Too old to die young; too young to be feeling this old.
And not really noticed by anyone.
Strange thoughts festering under a full Michigan August moon.
The one lighting the curves looping around the airport road; the one illuminating all the furry casualties along the side of the road.
Bodies seemingly everywhere.
And every one breaks my heart.
Even the deer. The ones so stupid they often try to make friends with tons of imported steel racing around DeWitt Road well beyond the posted speed limit.
In the distance, runway lights twinkle. The ones flickering fluorescent reminders of sweaty battles fought against the big tin monsters. Even the shitty downsized 757 ones.
At least I won that battle.
And made the big airplane roll early for the sake of people I will never actually meet.
Because 🦊s run best when they are on the ramp.
In the empty space of time left after all the tin has been kicked, when Michigan rattles quiet in her trembling, all that is left is the urge to order another round.
And to play another song.
Because “Mama, I’m coming home.”
