Reminiscing about my past life is a random jumble of indiscriminate recollections. With sentimental ramblings, certain fond memories arise from the inner depths. Bits and pieces of personal history remain scattered around the cosmos of my head in a mysterious universe of events. They come and go as unrelated events trigger thoughts, reminders of what occurred in a patchwork of days gone by the wayside.
It happens to everyone. Recently someone mentioned the passing of Ozzy Osbourne, the original lead singer for Black Sabbath. I thought about the first time I heard this man and his band. It was a winter day in 1970. I was playing hooky with a bunch of school friends. We were hiding out in a large wooden doghouse found in the backyard of a boy who lived there.
We were listening to the first Led Zeppelin album when somebody said, ”Hey, you need to hear this other new band called Black Sabbath.” He pulled it from the pile of 8-track tapes. The title song came on. At first, I was bored, then skeptical as the sounds of rain and thunder played on with a dissonant church bell tolling a solitary ringing. It went on forever. Until the guitar riffs and drums transported us to a strange place. But I didn’t think much of it.
Looking at the cover art on the 8-track confirmed my doubts. It looked like a scene from some vintage vampire film. The hash made it appear even more ridiculous. Buckling under peer pressure, I pretended to like it more than I did. For some unknown reason, when your idols die, you can usually recall the first time you heard of them. I admired Ozzy over the decades for his staying power. He spawned generations of headbangers and metalheads. There’s something odd about that. But, like Alice Cooper, who’s still alive, it’s more about the theater than the music. Iggy and Bowie could fit in that high drama category.
The heroes are dying. Some songs stick with you, while others skirt the periphery. There are many songs, stories, and poems that can hold and keep you forever. I recall the day I heard Charles Bukowski died. It was a spring afternoon in 1994. I was sitting at the bar in the Right Bank Café in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, drinking beers and reading the newspaper. At first, I thought about Kerouac and his death from alcoholism. I thought about Rimbaud, Henry Miller, and all the others.
I wasn’t surprised by the news of Bukowski’s untimely demise. Likewise, he was a survivor, like most poets and others who live on the edge, and hung around longer than you’d think. It still stung hard. Another one bites the dust. They were like family to me, more than my own. When Chuck Berry died, I thought about Keith Richards. When James Brown knocked off, I thought of Martin Luther King’s assassination. I could go on about death and dying. It’s my burden, not yours.
I don’t give a shit about Hulk Hogan, and I don’t know if Chuck Mangione feels so good anymore. I loathed that instrumental horn tooting like an imitation Herb Alpert. Someday I’ll know the meaning of it all. Death: the great equalizer, free for everyone. Boom, boom out go the lights.
Fame and fortune don’t save the rich from the grim reaper. The poor have no choice. I’m neither rich nor famous. I may have a certain infamy to a few concerning my life as a poet, artist, and musician. Then again, so what? I care enough not to care. That’s apathy for you. I’ll fall apart beautifully. Roll them bones. Let them thrive in some lonesome stranger's garden.