This is an event that most of us thought would never genuinely befall the world until the world befell itself: Ozzy Osbourne has died. The Prince of Darkness has gone home to his infernal place of abode, having given the world everything he could and then some. We should pay similar tribute to the institutional punchline that Ozzy’s death was supposed to be impossible: by all measures of both conventional and occult science, he’d pickled, salted, suspended, cursed, and preserved himself in so many ways that the ancient Egyptians were asking him for tips on efficient mummification. It was only in the last few years, when he began to fail more visibly and reduce his public appearances, that outside observers could seriously contemplate any mortal fragility in his this leering, laughing impresario of evil; he was just too powerful a personality, too monumental an existence to vanish in the way any of us could.
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