When my parents first got married, my dad had just come back from Vietnam. He was living in his car when they met, so he only had a few things to his name: some clothes, his service medals, and his records. Like me, his taste in music was all over the map—from Peter, Paul & Mary to Black Sabbath.
He discovered Sabbath while he was overseas—said one of the guys in his unit had a reel-to-reel tape of their first album, and it sounded like what war felt like.
My mom, raised Baptist, found his Sabbath records after they moved in together—and burned them. Needless to say, they were only married five years.
My dad suffered deeply from PTSD. He was a point man—what they called a “pony man”—a cavalry scout in the Army. His job was one of the most dangerous you could have: to ride ahead of his unit, often through dense jungle, eyes scanning for tripwires, ambushes, landmines, and booby traps. He was the first line of defense. The first one out front. The first one in danger. Every step could have been his last, and he knew it.
But he did it anyway.
He was brave. He still is my hero.
My dad is the 5th guy standing on the right wearing the baggy shirt. (Feb, 1969)
When he came to Columbia for Dad’s Weekend my freshman year at Mizzou, we spent hours talking about the past—about what he was doing when he was 19. He told me that after the war, the first place he went was San Francisco in August of 1970. That’s when he went to one of the Dead’s acid test parties—Jerry himself handed him a cup of Kool-Aid.
For my 16th birthday, he gave me a copy of The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe. My mom tore it up. So when I got to college, I bought another copy. And yeah, we had some of our own acid parties. That’s when I understood what it means to break on through to the other side.
That was the height of my Grateful Dead years. Around then, he sent me a postcard from Haight-Ashbury. On the front: Tie dye pic of Haight Asbury. On the back, “The 60s—love ‘em or leave the Haight.” and he scrawled lyrics from The End by The Doors:
“I awoke with dawn, p
utting on my boots,
I take a face from the ancient gallery
And walk on down the hall.”
Then he wrote:
“The West is the best.
See ya in September.
Love, Dad.”
That same weekend at Mizzou, he told me the story about my mom burning his Sabbath albums—how she’d found them not long after they moved in together, called them devil music, and threw them into a fire. He just shook his head and laughed, like he’d made peace with it, but you could still hear the sting in his voice.
Then he took me to Streetside Records and bought me a copy of Paranoid. Said it was his favorite. Said it came out the year before I was born. Told me he used to blast that record in his old bedroom after he moved back into his parents’ house—cranked it up loud to drown out my grandfather, who used to call him a worthless hippy every time he walked in the door.
We sat in the car after that, and I finally worked up the nerve to tell him I’d started smoking weed. I braced myself for a lecture, or at least a long pause. But he just looked at me, calm as ever, and said, “Just be careful.”
It broke my heart to know what he went through in Vietnam—and what he went through when he came home. The war didn’t end when he got off the plane. He had to fight for peace in his own house, in his own mind, every single day.
I wanted to be like him.
A rebel.
A wiseman.
Someone who had seen beyond the veil and didn’t flinch.
Someone who knew.
Someone who could still love.
He loved me fiercely. No matter what was happening in his own head, he always made room for mine. He made sure I saw the world from all sides—not just the one my conservative mother tried to shield me with. He wanted me to question, to feel, to think for myself. To never be afraid of the dark—or the truth hiding in it.
He became a vegetarian. A Buddhist.
A man who had once walked point through jungles and tripwires, now walking gently through this world—choosing compassion, silence, stillness. He had seen death up close and decided, in the end, to live with tenderness.
The day my brother Sean was born, my dad was at a feminist rally—because of course he was. Fighting for equality one minute, racing to the hospital the next. That was him in a nutshell: one boot in protest, the other in fatherhood.
And even near the end, he was still showing up for others. Before he died, he was teaching the Chinese family who lived next door how to speak English—patiently sitting with them, one word at a time, offering the language of belonging like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because to him, it was.
He died from Agent Orange exposure—slow poison from a war he never stopped fighting.
Some men died on the battlefield.
Some died forty years later.
But they all gave the same sacrifice.
Like Ozzy, he died in his 70s—taken too soon by Parkinson’s.
Two warriors from different worlds.
Both loud, both gentle.
Both mine to cherish.
So, when Ozzy died, I cried.
Like… a lot.
But I think it was because I couldn’t stop thinking of my dad.
That’s what really broke me open.
That’s what’s making me cry now.
My mom called him Honey.
His family called him Butch.
I called him Honey Butchy.
There is no one on earth like your dad.
And there never will be.
God, I miss you, Daddy.
I know your blood runs in my veins.
I know you’re always with me.
And I like to believe that somewhere out there,
you’re hanging with Jerry and Ozzy—
jamming, laughing,
and passing around some sweet leaf.
This one’s for Ozzy, Jerry, and my Dad.
Honey Butchy forever.
The “Ozz’ Power Bowl
Description
The Ozz-Bowl: moody, bold, and plant-based to the core. Black rice, crispy tofu, miso eggplant, and a tahini-ginger drizzle that hits like a power chord. 🖤🥢
Ingredients
- 1 cup black rice, cooked according to package directions, and fluffed.
- Splash of rice vinegar + sesame oil for flavor
Crispy Tofu:
- 1 block extra-firm tofu, pressed and cubed
- 2 tbsp tamari
- 1 tbsp sesame oil
- 1 tbsp cornstarch
- 1 tsp garlic powder
- Optional: black sesame seeds
Miso-Glazed Eggplant:
- 1 small eggplant, sliced into half-moons
- 1 tbsp white miso paste
- 1 tbsp maple syrup
- 1 tbsp rice vinegar
- 1 tsp soy sauce
- 1 tsp sesame oil
Blistered Shishito Peppers:
- 1 cup shishito peppers
- 1 tsp avocado oil or olive oil
- Sea salt to finish
Charred Greens:
- 2 cups kale or collard greens, chopped
- 1 clove garlic, minced
- 1 tsp olive oil
- Pinch of chili flakes
Tahini-Ginger Drizzle:
- 2 tbsp tahini
- 1 tbsp lemon juice
- 1 tbsp water (more as needed)
- 1 tsp fresh grated ginger
- 1 tsp maple syrup
- 1/2 tsp tamari
Chili “Bat Wing” Crisp:
- 1 tortilla (charcoal or black bean for color)
- 1 tsp olive oil
- Chili powder + flaky salt
Instructions
-
Cook black rice according to package. Season lightly with rice vinegar and sesame oil if desired. Set aside.
-
Make crispy tofu:
Toss tofu in tamari, sesame oil, garlic powder, and cornstarch. Air-fry at 400°F for 10–15 min or bake at 425°F for 25 min until golden and crisp. Optional: toss in black sesame seeds. -
Prepare miso eggplant:
Mix glaze ingredients and brush over sliced eggplant. Roast at 425°F for 20 min, flipping halfway, until caramelized. -
Blister shishitos:
Sear peppers in a hot skillet with oil until blistered and slightly charred, about 5 minutes. Sprinkle with sea salt. -
Char greens:
Sauté garlic in oil, add greens and chili flakes, cook until just wilted and edges start to char. -
Make drizzle:
Whisk tahini, lemon juice, ginger, maple, tamari, and water until pourable. -
Create “bat wing” crisp:
Cut tortilla into jagged bat wing shapes, brush with oil, sprinkle with chili powder and salt. Bake at 375°F for ~7 minutes or until crisp and dark. -
Assemble:
In a shallow bowl, layer black rice, tofu, eggplant, greens, and shishitos. Drizzle with tahini-ginger sauce and crown it with your chili bat wing crisp.
🔥 Optional Garnishes:
-
Pickled red onions
-
Black garlic paste swirl
-
Edible black flowers (like viola or pansy) for that gothic flair
-
Microgreens or scallions
