I grew up with Bill Cosby.
Not with the man, per se but with the man’s work.
His stand-up records were the continual soundtrack to my childhood. I laid in my bed for countless hours, soaking in the unmistakably buoyant voice of the man telling the stories he wove so brilliantly. In high school when we were asked to memorize and recite a spoken word piece for Language Arts, I chose Cosby’s Go Carts routine. (It was already well committed to memory, along with a hundred of his other bits).
He would become my constant living room companion for all of my formative years, as I spent hundreds of lazy Saturday mornings hanging out on the corner with Fat Albert and the gang, quiet afternoons doing Picture Pages, and giddy evenings at the dinner table with Dr Huxtable and family.
And the thread through all of it was Bill Cosby; his persona…
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