Let Me See You Go Fucking Crazy

 

Let Me See You Go Fucking Crazy

For Ozzy. From a kid who wasn’t allowed to listen, and did anyway.

I didn’t grow up in a house filled with music.

I grew up in a house filled with silence, rules, and fear.

No radio.

No MTV.

No late-night rock shows.

No “devil music.”

So when my parents divorced, and the walls cracked open just enough for sound to sneak in, music didn’t just become an interest.

It became my language.

My religion.

My rebellion.

My first taste of freedom.

And there, rising out of the static like a bat with its head already bitten off—

Was Ozzy.

I must’ve been ten the first time I saw someone buying tickets to his show at a Sound Warehouse. They had their kid with them, and I remember thinking, “How the hell are you taking a child to see the devil?”

That’s what it felt like. Ozzy was chaos incarnate. He was danger wrapped in eyeliner and leather.

But little did I know…

That same chaos would raise me better than most adults ever did.

Because Ozzy wasn’t the devil.

He was the high priest of every kid who never fit in.

He was the trembling scream of every misfit who’d been told to shut up.

He was the wild, weird uncle of rock who never gave a damn what you thought and never stopped giving a damn about his fans.

For decades, he’s been there in the background of my life.

Not just the music—though Black Sabbath will always live in my bloodstream—but the presence. The madness. The authenticity.

He showed up loud, weird, broken, and proud.

And I said for years: I’m the Ozzy of authors.

Not because I think I’m legendary, but because I know I’m unmanageable.

Unhinged. Unfiltered.

Too honest. Too loud. Too much.

Just like him.

Today, it feels like I lost a family member.

Not one who shared my blood—

One who made it boil.

One who taught me that it’s okay to snarl when the world whispers.

I won’t say “rest in peace,” Ozzy.

I’ll say:

Let me see you go fucking crazy.

One last time.

— Wes