The world’s a little quieter today, and not in a good way.
Ozzy Osbourne, the Prince of Darkness, and Hulk Hogan, the bleach-blonde titan of the squared circle, are gone. Both kicked the bucket this week: Ozzy at 76, surrounded by family, and Hogan at 71, felled by a cardiac arrest. The news hit like a chair to the back of the head, and while Malcolm-Jamaal Warner joins these two this week in a grim trifecta, I want to pause to consider what Ozzy and Hulk meant, not just to their fans but to a culture that’s increasingly allergic to raw, unfiltered humanity. Continue reading

