Overthunk

The year was probably 1983. I, a 13-year-old rocker (or "freak" as we were known at my place of schooling), with frosted hair combed and sprayed into wings and a quarter inch of black liner beneath each eye, shuffled through the Target checkout line after my mom, who was likely slightly blitzed at the time. She paid for her stuff and I somewhat boldly but with no small amount of trepidation placed Ozzy Osbourne's "Diary of a Madman" LP (shown) onto the familiar red counter, fully prepared to pay all my week's babysitting wages for the thing. The checkout girl, who was probably only a few years older than me but considerably more mainstream in her level of conformity gawked at the tattered, blood-spattered Englishman on the cover, then at me, then at my mom, all in disgust. A sense of delicious rebellion flooded through me, multiplying with every second she disliked the album, and myself for buying it. A short time later, my father (who may well have been on ...

"...Fuck Pears." George Carlin is gone . I trained my comedic chops at the heels of this record (which was actually my brother's, but I played when he wasn't there to pound me). Some of its sweetly bitter sarcasm and incisive wit will remain lodged in my consciousness until I follow along into the great beyond. May cynical cherubs fly thee to thy rest, sir.