Ozzy Osbourne died today.
I was just a kid in middle school when my friend David Smith first shared Blizzard of Ozz with me.
“Mr. Crowley” was the track that burned itself into my soul.
Not long after, I bought my very first piece of music: a used cassette of Blizzard of Ozz from my friend Clay Ryan.
Five bucks in the middle school hallway. I still remember the moment the tape changed hands—
and I probably still have that cassette somewhere.
Next came Bark at the Moon. David had it on vinyl.
And from that moment on, Ozzy was just… always there. Through my youth. Through adulthood.
He wasn’t my favorite—that was Rush.
But Ozzy?
He was the background fire. The godfather of grit.
From old Sabbath to solo Ozzy… he never left the scene.
I talk a lot about being a sacred rebel.
Not a rebel without a cause, or some juvenile rejection of rules—
but a rebel against the machine, the lies, the conformity.
A rebel who finds his own voice.
That was Ozzy.
A warrior.
A sacred rebel.
An icon.
I didn’t expect this one to hit me. I usually don’t feel much around celebrity deaths.
But this one?
Ozzy was more woven into the fabric of my life than I realized.
Today, I had lunch with my son.
I told him all my Ozzy stories—middle school, the tapes, the hallway.
And on the ride home, he threw on Blizzard of Ozz and told me how cool it is.
Wow.
Just like that, a legend is gone.
And I wonder—what mark will I leave?
What will be remembered of me?
For now, I raise a glass.
To you, Ozzy.
May you truly rest in peace…
or begin the next adventure—
the way only you could:
As a Sacred Rebel.
Here’s to your next journey, brother.
- Jason