1972 — I’m standing in my high school parking lot. Ronnie Lane hands me an 8-track tape. It’s a band called Black Sabbath. The cover feels dark and satanic. The songs are crazed and seem to dip into the occult. I am a reluctant Southern Baptist. I’m scared. But I’m in a garage band and know only three chords, which is pretty much all that is required for these guys. I learn that the singer’s name is Ozzy. He appears to be the sort of guy who would pee on the Alamo. He appears to be evil. Life is scary. And exciting. I have no idea what the future will bring.
2o12 — I’m running on a treadmill. I’m watching Ozzy’s wife hosting a talk show. She’s talking about interviewing Brad Pitt and how he’s so perfect that he makes her nervous. Ozzy mostly hangs out around the house these days, trying to keep the dog from peeing on the couch. He appears to be befuddled. I live next to a Southern Baptist church and often run through the parking lot. I still know pretty much the same three chords. Life is safe. And predictable. I still have no idea what the future will bring.
Life is funny.
I ran two, 12-minute pace. 102 days to go …