I lived some prime years of my life through the decadent age of hard rock and heavy metal that dominated the music landscape in the 1980's. It was an incredible time. The music was loud, the clothing was loud and the hair went all the way to 11. Anything worth doing was worth overdoing.
I followed those bands with the big hair and the black leather and the flashy guitars like they were a religion. I bought the rock magazines and studied the articles. I tore the glossy photos from the rags and plastered the walls of my bedroom with them. I bought cheap mall knockoff rock star clothing and frequented every local music store dreaming of the day I would be able to afford a sexy looking $700 guitar that would make women melt without even playing a single note.
My dedication to the music, the bands and the scene led me on many great adventures. I frequently sought out the bands when they were in town. I would stalk their tour buses and wait for the opportunity to hang out with anyone from the band.
It worked many, many times and I have these stories to tell. Like this one time when I hung out with Ozzy Osbourne.
The year was 1982 and I was on a very boring trip to San Antonio, Texas. I was with my parents, far too young to be left home on my own. I'd rather have been in Disney World or some other exciting place. Instead I was stuck in the sweltering heat of southern Texas. I was stuck touring historical sites I had no interest in whatsoever. The party was lame.
We went to The Alamo one afternoon, a mandatory tourist stop when you're in San Antonio. The sun was high and bright in the sky. The heat was leeching every ounce of water from my body. I was parched and delusional. I begged my parents to buy me a drink. They scoffed, as they were want to do, and told me I could wait until we got back to the hotel room to get a sip of water from the tap. That's how they rolled.
We went to The Alamo one afternoon, a mandatory tourist stop when you're in San Antonio. The sun was high and bright in the sky. The heat was leeching every ounce of water from my body. I was parched and delusional. I begged my parents to buy me a drink. They scoffed, as they were want to do, and told me I could wait until we got back to the hotel room to get a sip of water from the tap. That's how they rolled.
We followed a tour group through the grounds of The Alamo. The tour guide would stop every few steps and mutter on in a cadence far too cheerful to match the oppressive heat of the day. I quickly lost interest and began scanning the scene for a water fountain or bathroom where I could steal a fleeting sip of cool water to quench my abominable thirst.
As luck would have it, ancient Southwestern forts were short on plumbing and there wasn't a restroom in sight. I began to rummage through the trash cans praying someone may have ditched a can of soda or juice which they may have left a minuscule sip behind. I would have fought back a hive of bees clamoring for the precious nectar if I had to. Still, I came up empty.
The droning of the tour guide continued. My parents and the other adults in the group paid rapt attention. I was offended by their ability to completely ignore the hellish heat that robbed my body of crucial fluids. I spied a path that led off into the shadows of the old fortress. In my delirium, I broke from the group, my wild water-deprived mind reasoning that the dark corridor would lead me to the pool at The Alamo.
To my surprise, I heard water running, as if from a spigot. Though I was now in the shadows and out from under the oppressive pounding of the sun's rays, I thought the heat was making me delirious. Could it be that I'd located actual running water to wet my parched mouth? I followed the sound of the running water.
The sound was coming from the back of the Alamo. I rounded the corner and the shadows gave way to the scorching heat from the sun once again. The light from the sun beamed directly at my eyes, the glare making it difficult to see the source of the running water. I shielded my eyes as best as I could.
I saw a dark shadow. Could it be a fountain that the water was pouring from. I squinted my eyes hard but it did not make the form in the desert any clearer. I approached the form, my tongue like sandpaper, dried like beef jerky in the desert heat.
"Fucking hell!" I heard the shadowy figure curse out loud, the accent was thick British.
When the glare of the sun no longer overtook his form, I almost fell over in shock. The Prince of Darkness stood before me, he wang hanging out of his trousers, squirting a steady stream of urine that he seemed helpless to control.
"Ozzy?" I asked.
Ozzy Osbourne mumbled something in reply. It could have been English or it could've been an ancient form of Latin that not even the most uppity of Latin linguistics professors could have deciphered.
"Ahh, yeah." I said hoping that was the obvious reply to whatever he just said to me.
Ozzy mumbled some more. There was an urgency in what he was trying to say. He gesticulated toward the desert with the hand that wasn't aiming his runaway piece that was still emitting a steady stream of piss. I was able to pick up one clear English word among the jumble, "demon."
Still not sure how to reply I flashed Ozzy the horns, my forefinger and pinky extended up in his direction to form devil horns. It seemed the most metal reply possible to an unclear statement Ozzy had made.
Curiously, Ozzy waved off my horns, looked down at his unabiding weener and then started getting agitated at the desert again in a more hostile flurry of mumbles. Once again, I distinctly heard the word "devil."
I scanned the wide horizon of the desert wasteland beyond the Alamo. There wasn't all that much to see, sand and rocks for the most part. Folks say the dessert is pretty. Everything was brown though, not much color. I thought it looked more dangerous than pretty.
The sound was coming from the back of the Alamo. I rounded the corner and the shadows gave way to the scorching heat from the sun once again. The light from the sun beamed directly at my eyes, the glare making it difficult to see the source of the running water. I shielded my eyes as best as I could.
I saw a dark shadow. Could it be a fountain that the water was pouring from. I squinted my eyes hard but it did not make the form in the desert any clearer. I approached the form, my tongue like sandpaper, dried like beef jerky in the desert heat.
"Fucking hell!" I heard the shadowy figure curse out loud, the accent was thick British.
When the glare of the sun no longer overtook his form, I almost fell over in shock. The Prince of Darkness stood before me, he wang hanging out of his trousers, squirting a steady stream of urine that he seemed helpless to control.
"Ozzy?" I asked.
Ozzy Osbourne mumbled something in reply. It could have been English or it could've been an ancient form of Latin that not even the most uppity of Latin linguistics professors could have deciphered.
"Ahh, yeah." I said hoping that was the obvious reply to whatever he just said to me.
Ozzy mumbled some more. There was an urgency in what he was trying to say. He gesticulated toward the desert with the hand that wasn't aiming his runaway piece that was still emitting a steady stream of piss. I was able to pick up one clear English word among the jumble, "demon."
Still not sure how to reply I flashed Ozzy the horns, my forefinger and pinky extended up in his direction to form devil horns. It seemed the most metal reply possible to an unclear statement Ozzy had made.
Curiously, Ozzy waved off my horns, looked down at his unabiding weener and then started getting agitated at the desert again in a more hostile flurry of mumbles. Once again, I distinctly heard the word "devil."
I scanned the wide horizon of the desert wasteland beyond the Alamo. There wasn't all that much to see, sand and rocks for the most part. Folks say the dessert is pretty. Everything was brown though, not much color. I thought it looked more dangerous than pretty.
To prove my point, a wind whipped across the sands and the ground trembled. The force of the winds stung my face with loose sand. Ozzy said something that sounded like "ouch" in his version of the Queens parlance. I threw my arm across my eyes to shield them from the sand blast. Ozzy turned his back to the wind, his pee arching across the dessert sands.
The tremors coming from the ground increased to a rumble. I squinted, trying to see what sounded like a tractor trailer speeding in our direction. I spotted something else instead. A dust devil. It looked just like the Tasmanian Devil from the cartoons when he became a whirling dervish of destruction. It was a whirlwind of sand and chaos.
"Ahh, fucking hell! Sharron?!" Ozzy called out.
I didn't know if he was worried about the dust devil spinning towards us or if he was agitated because he couldn't stop peeing. I have to admit, I would be worried if I kept peeing and peeing, too, dust devils be damned.
"C'mere ya fah-king nit!" Ozzy said, like he was egging on a fight with the dust devil.
In reply, the sand storm made straight for Ozzy. I stepped back. Ozzy thrust his hips at the dust devil, his piss flow increasing. I was impressed with the trajectory he was getting. For someone peeing for so long, his flow was increasing in power instead of waning.
The dust devil grew and hummed like an angry bulldozer. I swear, to this day, I saw the face of a wicked demon form in the swirling sands and sneer at Ozzy Osbourne.
As legends go, Ozzy is most famous for biting the head off a bat, live in concert. But he did that in front of tens of thousands of people. For me, the most legendary act Ozzy Osbourne ever performed was just behind the Alamo in San Antonio, Texas when he faced down a demonic dust devil and pissed it to death.
Ozzy's hot, yellow piss stream speared the charging dust devil like a lightsaber through cold steel. The angry growl of the sand storm became a baleful groan and it's guts were wetted by the impressive output from Ozzy's bladder. The piss soaked sands robbed the dust devil of its own body and it diminished to a forgettable swirl of sand on the floor, barely able to do more than twist a stray piece of straw paper around on the ground.
Ozzy Osbourne had saved the Alamo from certain destruction and I was the only one who knew about it.
And do you know what thanks he got? He got a lifetime ban from The Alamo and San Antonio, Texas.
You see, after the dust had settled and the winds had passed, Ozzy's piss stream was still going full flow. He was blinded from the dust the blew in his face during the great dust devil battle. He was disoriented, trying to get his bearings. He faced the Alamo, yelling, "Sharron! Sharron!" desperate for his wife help save him from himself.
All the ruckus drew the attention of The Alamo's security team. When they rounded the bend, the found Ozzy, neck craned back, eyes to the sky, hips thrust forward, pissing on the Alamo like it was a giant urinal.
He was detained and held for arrest by the San Antonio police department. His pants, pissed soaked. I thought it was fucked up what they did to Ozzy. He was a hero that was treated like a criminal. I tried to tell the security guards what happened, but nobody ever believes kids.
I find justice knowing that Ozzy must have pissed all over the back of that police car. I still wonder though, did Ozzy ever stop pissing?
