A couple of hours later, my mom was smearing my cheeks, forehead and chin with white face paint, dribbling fake blood at the corners of my mouth. My aunt teased my hair into a manic nest. I shredded a pair of white pants and splattered them with blood. I added long white fringe to the sleeves of a blue soccer jersey, transforming it into an exact replica of the shirt Ozzy wears on the "Diary" cover. I drew tattoos all over my body -- not just the word "Ozzy" across my left knuckles -- but a dagger and skull on my left forearm and a rose on my right shoulder, with great detail and in full color. My younger brother, Ted, searched for a blank cassette tape and prepared to record my radio appearance. Friends dropped by the house to check my progress. My older brother Chris and a friend dressed as chauffeurs and drove me to KGON.

When we arrived at the station, the guys opened the car door for me as if I had been a rock star. The crowd, which had gathered outside the small brown building that housed the station, froze with excitement as I stepped from the car, believing for a brief moment that I was the Madman himself. The day was hot and I felt the black mascara begin to run under my eyes. The crowd applauded.

I was ushered into the studio with the other finalists, and there he was, Ozzy Osbourne. He was shorter than I had imagined, wearing royal blue pants and a white collarless dress shirt. His hair was shoulder-length and frosted. He was very friendly -- almost shy -- and his thick Birmingham accent was easier to decipher than it is today. I stood next to him for the interview and he asked me if my tattoos were real. I met his fiancée Sharon (they were married a month later, on July 4), who looked more like a den mother than the manager and soon-to-be-wife of a heavy-metal god. Savvy fan that I was, I knew of the impending nuptials and told her that she had "the coolest husband!" and she thanked me. I got his autograph, backstage passes and tickets to the concert.

For half a day my silly fascination with Ozzy Osbourne gave my family some solace, allowing my mom and brothers and friends to breathe, smile and even to laugh a little during a very difficult time. I don't know what made my mom change her mind; neither of us can recall. Perhaps it was seeing her husband's body lying still and lifeless. Or the generous amounts of foundation on his face, hiding the sutures that held his skin together. Maybe it was his mouth, which so often wore a smile, positioned with straight indifference. Whatever it was, she returned from the funeral parlor with a new perspective, maybe as simple as "Life is too short."

The next day, with my ears ringing, I sat in St. John's Church wearing dress clothes that chafed and tugged in awkward directions, poking me into uncomfortable angles in the pew. The rush of the concert couldn't have been a greater contrast with the morning's services. The encore had ended and the hard part had begun.

I don't remember much of the funeral or the wake that followed. I do remember being alone with my brothers and mom after everyone had left. Sitting in our house filled with flowers, surrounded by picked-over deli trays, ham and cheese curling in the heat, beer cans floating in coolers of melted ice, and half-drunk bottles of wine standing shoulder to shoulder on the countertops. The sun shining as if nothing had happened.

The vinyl sleeves of my scrapbook are cracked with age and stained with fingerprints, still stuffed with articles neatly torn from the pages of Hit Parader, Circus and Kerrang magazines. Halfway through the binder are two pages dedicated to that warm week in June 20 years ago. On the yellowing piece of paper bearing the contest details is written I WON!!! enthusiastically underlined three times.

Every time I come across those pages, I'm hit with competing feelings of pain and joy that layer in my memory. These days, though, knowing that so many people are looking at Ozzy Osbourne as the unlikely paragon of family values, my confusion yields to a sense of justification. Somehow, the Madman's warm acceptance as a cultural and familial icon confirms my mom's decision to let her son turn to the Prince of Darkness for comfort during the worse week of his life.

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