Today comedian Bill Cosby turns 71. On the forty-second page of his book “Cosbyology: Essays and Observations from the Doctor of Comedy” we read (emphasis added):
except playing. In fact, I didn't even really think—at least not words and sentences. All that kept running through my little eight-year old head was a Brazilian song—one of those melodies that only they can write. And though you don't speak a word of the language, you understand the meaning of the lyrics. They say: Play! La, da, da, de, da, play!
And I just loved to play. That was it. Play. I went to school, watched the clock all day until the bell rang, and then I played. I moved on in age and grade after grade with this theory. After school: Play.
So, one day when my brother Russell was two, my mother told me she had to go to work.
"I want you to watch Russell," my mother said.
"Okay," I said.
What else could I say? When you're eight you just have to do what everybody tells you or you get into all kinds of trouble. Old people yelling in your face makes your eyelids blink fast.
The problem was that because Russell was two years old he had to stay in the house, which meant I had to stay in the house. Ergo, I couldn't go out and play. But I had to go out and play, especially that day.
So the minute my mother left, I started trying to figure out how to get Russell to stay put in the house so I could go play. Then I got an idea. Maybe this will work, I thought. It has to because I need to play.
"Russ," I said. "You're going to be a man someday."