What he remembered clearly, though, was an overwhelming need to relieve himself. Later, Ozzy would be hazy as to where he was heading that day. In an effort to confine his drunken idylls to their hotel suite, Sharon had taken to hiding his clothes, hence the gown, which was hers.
His partner, Sharon, was carping again about his drinking, which typically began when he rose in the morning, as it had on this day. He and his bandmates, scheduled to perform a set at the San Antonio Convention Center that night, were squabbling. Collins and other collectors have recently been ensnared in a feud with archivists and activists who say that some of their accumulated memorabilia is of suspect origin or is downright bogus. He is the ultimate believer-although he’s taken a bit of fire lately. He represents the apotheosis of Alamo “traditionalism,” which is to say, he is deeply invested in the sanctity of the shrine and its tales of heroism. In Texas, though, where he has donated his collection as the core of a grand new museum planned for San Antonio, Collins is a giant among men. He believes these are “orbs,” globs of paranormal energy. He has hundreds of old Alamo photos, many flecked with small balls of white light.
He was once told that in a previous life, he’d been a courier dashing in and out of the old mission in the days before Santa Anna’s soldiers stormed it. He named his Jack Russell terrier Travis. Like many aficionados of a certain age, Collins caught the Alamo bug as a boy watching Fess Parker’s Davy Crockett on the small screen and John Wayne’s on the big.
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