I didn’t think I’d cry this morning.
But there it was — headline after headline, name after name.
People I grew up watching, listening to, admiring — gone.
Ozzy Osbourne. Hulk Hogan. Julian McMahon. Chuck Mangione. Malcolm-Jamal Warner. George Kooymans.
Each name feels like a punch to the chest.
Each loss like a piece of my youth breaking off and drifting away.
I remember hearing “Feels So Good” by Chuck Mangione playing in my parents’ living room, warm sunlight pouring through the windows.
I remember watching The Cosby Show as a kid, laughing with Theo Huxtable — never imagining the man behind him would be taken from us so suddenly.
I remember sneaking late-night episodes of Nip/Tuck, mesmerized by Julian McMahon’s magnetic presence.
And Hulk Hogan? He was more than just a wrestler. He was a hero. A superhero without a cape.
Ozzy… was chaos and brilliance in human form. A legend. A fire that felt eternal.
And George Kooymans’ guitar solos? They made me want to drive fast, dream big, and feel alive.
Now they’re all just… memories.
And it’s strange — how people you’ve never met can make you feel so much, even in death.
It hurts more than I expected.
Maybe because it’s not just about them.
Maybe it’s because when they go, a part of our story goes with them.
A part of who we were, and who we wanted to be.
Rest in peace, legends.
Thank you for the music.
Thank you for the magic.
Thank you for reminding us that art really does live on — even when the artist is gone.