The Rise and Fall of Bill Cosby, Once America’s Most Trusted Spokesperson and Dad

Shame on you, Bill Cosby, for destroying the memories of any good thing you ever once did in the name of entertaining your audiences over the years. Just when we’d all been able to put you in our virtual rearview mirrors, here you come again, this time yapping about how you were a victim. Oh, give us all a break.

Out of the blue on June 30th, American television audiences were shocked to see the actor back on their TV screens, getting out of a car and portraying a victim no less. Wasn’t he the same fellow who fell from pillars in extreme disgrace after being proved in a court of law that he was guilty of (at least) three counts of aggravated indecent assault in 2018?

Same fella whose more than 50 female accusers have stated he did the same thing to them? And you’re a victim now? When exactly did you lose your mind, Bill? Drugging women, then raping them, one by one by one by one. That’s what a jury of your peers convicted you of doing.

And yet, on June 30, 2021, “the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania overturned Cosby’s conviction, finding that the comedian should not have been charged or sentenced due to his agreement with a prosecutor. He was released from jail yesterday afternoon. And he jumped right back into character, portraying the victim.

The predicate for the case before the state Supreme Court is, at best, convoluted, and the reporting all combines to try and understand how Cosby theoretically didn’t have a fair trial. That would be where there were not even the full number of victims testifying against him.

Legal strategy is best left to lawyers, but the bottom line is that after almost three years of incarceration, Cosby is a free man, and his PR flacks are busy showing how he was rushing home to see his loving wife, Camille. If he had just kept his mouth shut and thanked everyone for seeing to his release, offered an apology to all victims, promised restitution to them one by one out of his major assets, and then gone quietly into oblivion, perhaps I might have been persuaded to look the other way and just ignore him permanently.

And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to do the right thing. Here’s your tweet yesterday;

I have never changed my stance nor my story. I have always maintained my innocence. Thank you to all my fans, supporters and friends who stood by me through this ordeal. Special thanks to the Pennsylvania Supreme Court for upholding the rule of law. #BillCosby

Cosby’s Twitter profile cleverly notes he’s “Far From Finished”: My first TV concert special in 30 years, Far From Finished debuted on @ComedyCentral on Nov. 23rd. Buy the DVD today:”(and then he gives the link).

Hallmark Channel: Are you paying attention?

By the way, one of his Twitter followers is the Hallmark Channel. Hopefully someone will nudge Wonya Lucas, named last year as the President and CEO of Crown Media Family Networks to pull the corporation’s following from this freed convict.

After all, they were quick as a flash to jettison their former movie staple Lori Laughlin over the college admissions scandal, and not one person in the media group noticed you were following Cosby on Twitter? Then again, maybe they sympathize with Coz, same as Phylicia Rashad, who is now scrambling and running like thunder to apologize for praising his release yesterday. I hope not.

Backlash was so quick against Rashad, the “newly minted” Dean of Fine Arts at Howard University (without a full semester under her belt) that she spent most of the day trying to apologize to victims of sexual abuse and it would have been just disgusting.

Except it’s about as much as you can expect from someone who can parlay a BFA degree into a career position as a Dean of Fine Arts, without as much as a real master’s or doctoral degree. She does have a bunch of honorary degrees though.

Howard U officials today, though, noted that her statement: “lacked sensitivity towards survivors of sexual assault.” A credentialed, experienced member academia would have known that.

Back to Bill, the incorrigible. You were once a “clean comedian” when you first appeared on my TV screen, a welcome figure as some at the time weren’t more child friendly. You were hysterical as you did routines about how you feared the wrath of your father (“I brought you into this world and I can take you out!”) and just growing up.

People bought tickets to see you and they bought your comedy albums to memorize all the lines that were part of the hysterical aspects of car repairs (mechanic named Bob) on the album “200 MPH.” I look at that album today and want to smash and stomp on it.

I was very young, but still a fan, when I watched him with Robert Culp on “I Spy” in 1965, as he portrayed an undercover intelligence agent for our government on that show. That was an important teaching lesson for children, too, to show friendship, regard, and respect to those who worked for our government and to respect persons of color.

That same year, you’d find Ivan Dixon on “Hogan’s Heroes,” and in 1966, Greg Morris was a secret agent on “Mission Impossible,” so strong roles for intelligent Black men were emerging. It was starting to become a good time in our country at last. You, Cosby, were one of three in the 60s who had a weekly permanently continuing presence on our TV screens. Dixon and Morris continued in the business, even beyond acting, into directing before passing away far too young.

Then, you started selling Jell-O in the 1960s. Not only were you the individual who had the distinction of being “longest-serving celebrity spokesperson for a product” for Jell-O, but you did commercial endorsements for 40 years, amassing a fortune independent from your other income streams. You made more money selling products on your name and reputation than all of your acting endeavors combined, your comedy tours, your radio program, your record albums. America trusted you. I trusted you.

Your reputation was so sterling that accolades flowed your way just because of how your word was received across this country. Specifically, of you, Texas Instruments said you came “across as a father figure, a teacher, and a friend” in your ads. You even propelled around the country, playing college campuses wearing the sweatshirt emblazoned with “Hello Friend” on it. America’s friend.

You were considered “America’s Dad” as you portrayed Dr. Cliff Huxtable on your “Cosby” show. You were a pediatrician and your wife’s character was an attorney. Both of you were successful role models for all to see. When Rudy’s (your youngest daughter’s character) fish, Lamont, died, you gave an unforgettable funeral for the fish. That one episode has stayed with me for years as one of the things a head of household does when there is faith and a teaching opportunity for children.

You even were seen as a familial figure to Oprah Winfrey, advising her on one of the best assets to place her money—in art. She told people frequently that you called her up out of the blue one day and told her she should be investing her major wealth in assets that only grew in value. She told “The Grio” that your call was a career-defining moment for her.

“Bill Cosby called me up one day, actually he sent me, two pieces of sculpture by Elizabeth Catlett, and he said, ‘Sis’ this is where you should be putting some of your money because you’re going to grow tired of buying shoes, and that is the truth. After a while you get tired of buying shoes.”

He called her “Sis”—how sweet, caring, kind, and thoughtful. Aww.

And yet, Bill Cosby, you were far from any of those things, weren’t you? Your long-suffering wife of over 50 years has stood by you despite your multiple episodes of cheating on her. She almost divorced you, but she didn’t. For the most part she has remained silent. Who knows what she thinks of you? You do.

Do you think your children might not be aware of the double standard you were setting outside your home? You have four daughters and you had one son. How did you justify to them how America’s dad and trusted advertising pitchman just had to humiliate their mom every now and then because you are…well…you?

As you created and worked the “Fat Albert” character cartoon series, you took a detour to spend some time “around” education. Your mileage may vary, but you never finished your undergraduate degree at Temple. Yet, you were “gifted” with a final degree with consideration assigned you for “life experience.”

And, if you read between the lines, you got an M.A. and Ed.D. degree for “life experience” and a dissertation at the benevolence of a dean at UMass Amherst who generously granted you much leeway for “attending” classes. And you were fast to apply your newly minted Ed.D. title to your TV show as “The Cosby Show” was beginning to take off. Each and every week, we saw your Ed.D. title and you just loved being called “Dr. Cosby,” didn’t you? Never mind one of your doctoral committee members spilled the beans:

“A professor who served on Cosby’s dissertation committee, Reginald Damerell, said that Cosby hardly took a class — and that he got course credit for appearing on Sesame Street and The Electric Company, “and wrote a dissertation that analyzed the impact of his show.”

As an individual who had to work hard for my M.S. in Educational Administration and as someone who was in classes with those who did “real” work to earn their Ed.D. degrees, I must say that I didn’t shed a tear when you lost many of your honorary degrees from over 20 universities. And oh, that school you gave $20,000,000? Spelman College? The historically Black women’s college? They had a named professorship for you and Camille, until 2015 when Spelman undid the professorship and gave the money back to a foundation that your wife established. Yet, two of your daughters graduated from there. Weren’t thinking, were you? One of America’s most trusted spokesmen anywhere. All about you, wasn’t it?

And then your final legal waterloo. It was a retrial that you’d successfully dragged out since you were arrested and charged in 2004. All that takes is some money and using it to file so many appeals that you wear out the people following the charges. Oh, we saw the pictures of the reportedly almost blind actor on crutches and sad looking after the conviction and sentencing.

Fifty+ women can’t be wrong, Cos.

Ironically, what do such heinous acts of cruelty say about the cowardice of the man? If a guy is, say, a serial cheater, he just dates around on his spouse; same can be said of women who would theoretically behave similarly, to be fair. And yet, in this case, he has to purchase and obtain drugs in advance, the kind you can’t find over the counter, quaaludes, it was stated in some cases.

Then there’s the pattern of making the drink for his victims. This is serial drugging of women and making them his victims. Intent.

One is given to understand that there are enough women who are so caught up in the celebrity of bright lights and Hollywood that all you’d have to say is “How you doin’?” and they’re all yours, ala Warren Beatty. Further, if one isn’t a dreamboat, to use an old word from the 1960s, you could simply contract out the plan for company with 1-800-I’mFamousSoComeOverandParty.

None of those things did Cosby choose. He didn’t seem to have a wingman to party with either. That way he didn’t appear footloose and fancy free and no one else to talk of his deeds.

No, he took the coward’s way out, the guy who couldn’t get a girl unless he drugged them and the didn’t know what was happening to them until their memories returned to them, they were traumatized, horrified, left with a permanent sense of violation, and then at the end of all that, they were called liars and lumped into a cast-out group of women who might dare even speak ill of “America’s Dad.”

Even the least bright of the women (what did you think was going up there to talk and have coffee with the big star in his hotel room would actually lead to)—pity to them, too. No one deserves to be cruelly and unconscionably a victim of another person.

And now, he’s out walking free and you have women around the country, including the victims, horrified to see how frankly easy it was for him to weasel his way out of jail. Those in charge of those decisions will have to answer to another judge one day.

Even though we know that the karma bus can pull up when you least expect it, there’s no joy in any of this, only disgust. The most finishing punishment of all is that the world very quickly forget this man exists. No press time, photo time, reporting time, or any other coverage of the man without a conscience.

The Unique Life and Times of Craig Davis —Old-School Rocker and Southern Gentleman (1950-2021)

To look at a recent photograph, Craig Davis might seem to be a traditional rocker, complete with tattoos, angst, and a dream to finally be appreciated in his own time. Nothing could be further from the truth. Fact is, the real Craig Davis might be slightly camouflaged beneath the ink of his choice covering up his skin, but inside was the beating heart of an old soul, a true Southern Gentleman in the grandest sense of the word. He followed his own path to provide maximum soothing of his soul that could only heal when writing and playing his music.

I’ve had the privilege of knowing many musicians away from their usual home base onstage. I was happily into my new career as a writer and editor when I first met Craig’s Mom, Mary Louise Davis, through dear friends. She was a brilliant senior, fun, witty, and she knew everything about old Bryan and Texas politics. Her stories were fascinating, and I loved each visit.

One day she treated me to lunch at the Headliners Club in Austin, founded by the former Executive Editor of the Austin American-Statesman “for those who make the Headlines and those who write the Headlines.” She wanted to inspire me to keep writing and asking questions about Texas politics. It worked.

A month or so later, she told me her son was a musician, and she spoke of his work as “tremendous” and “amazing,” even if she didn’t quite understand the relevance of his original compositions. She felt the groove and lauded it proudly as something truly grand he had achieved. God bless mothers, who believe in us even when we might falter a bit along the way. Typically, fathers are more about “Get a job, pay the bills, support yourself, and then play when there’s time left over.”

Craig (third from the left, front row above) was a few years older than I, she said, but instantly I could name eight local musicians, each of whom are legends, whom I was certain he had played with in garage bands growing up. She knew everyone I named. I always said Bryan, Texas was the start of music careers for so many professionals whose first stages were here. It would be a year or more before I met Craig, in 2002. He had just released a new CD called “Revolution Road.”

The 6’2” lanky man who came by his Mom’s home seemed a little shy and yet, with his mere appearance, her eyes lit up to see him, renewed by his presence. He’d finished up at the gym, his daily routine for about a year at that point. Mary Louise also frequented the gym. Often, she was on the golf course, beating anyone younger than her by a clear margin.

She kept her mind sharp by continuing to teach a weekly Bible study at Lakeway Church in Austin, and she was one of three women who I consider true Bible scholars that were easier for me to ask for a verse than Google.

Craig handed me a copy of “Revolution Road” his 2002 release and said, “Just got these back; I signed and numbered them all and then had them sealed. Hope you like it.” I promised to give it a listen. Mine was number 631 of 1000 and the cover featured him with trademark sunglasses on, hiding his blue eyes that were as piercing as his mother’s.

When I stood up to exit the room for a moment, he stood as well; there are some hallmarks of being brought up properly to know to stand when a woman stands…it’s old-school cool and I appreciated it.

“Revolution Road” featured 17 of Craig’s originals and Austin’s Spencer Starnes coproduced the disc with him. It was the first album I’d enjoy of his; when Christmas came around, I got his holiday single, “Christmas Time is Here Again; What Was Santa Thinkin’?"

It was clever and recorded in Austin in Spencer Starnes’ studio, with Spencer on bass and Dexter Walker on drums. The collective opinion was that his lyrics were brilliant, and he was a superb guitarist, and with all his songs, it seemed to me that he was holding back slightly his larger-than-life creativity that propelled him to want to make music.

Craig was, to me, a latter-day Michael Des Barres, if you will, with music on his own terms and his life lived loud in Panavision. I wasn’t too far off. In recent years, they have both followed each other on Instagram and complimented various songs being performed. He also greatly respected the music of Van Wilks.

In 2003, Mary Louise and I dropped by his house so I could get my copy of his newest release, “Amplifier.” As expected of a multimedia artist, the walls facing his second-floor stairway were covered with thousands of images, lacquered on.

I was dumbfounded with the litany of decoupaged photographs of musicians of so many great generations. Hundreds of vinyl 45s were thumbtacked to a corkboard surface for display and easy removal to play on a whim. His majestic collection wasn’t hermetically sealed somewhere in a safe vault. No sir, not Craig. It was just a fingertip away and in pristine, if not unconventional, condition. Not long after listening to “Amplifier,” having been impressed with “Bungalow 9,” “…and a little dog shall lead us…” and “Her Universe,” I e-mailed Craig and suggested that Kay Conlee and Old Bryan Marketplace had funded, at my request, funds sufficient for four shows for the Palace Theatre in Downtown Bryan. My goal was to draw crowds there for free, fun live music. I asked whether he’d consider playing music from his new albums in one of those slots.

This new hat I was wearing—do-good music booker—I was doing for free because I wanted to share the fun of live music and showcase our local powerhouses simply for the joy of music. He called me and we debated for 10 minutes how important it was to get his music out there, and how cool it would be to bring him back home. “He didn’t have a band,” he said. Undaunted, I said, “I know just the guys” and a quick call to The Rockafellas turned a “maybe” into a “yes.” Objections overcome, he agreed.

The night came and Craig was a bit shy as it had been at least 20 years, he said, since he was on stage. The number could have been 10 or 20 years, but still I was surprised to hear his shyness about the excitement coming his way. He'd entered some of his songs in songwriter competitions before and seemed truly shocked when they won acclaim there. Didn't phase him.

That night Craig experienced a level of happiness that alternate substances could never match—coming home one last time and showing your latest in art to the people who knew you when, many of whom were many cousins he had in his family tree who’d made Bryan their homes.

In terms of art, not only was Craig’s home wall a “work of art,” but he was a prolific artist with oils on canvas. Mostly abstract work occupied the majority of his interests, but he seemed to have at least two or three focal points per painting. You could study them for hours and see something unique in each one.

Naturally, he designed his own album covers for his CD releases, and he numbered each of the pressings along with his autographs. I cherish those albums today, even more with the knowledge of his passing.

Craig’s life as a kid growing up in Bryan was like any other whose father was a local legend and his mother a revered civic leader. You can either follow in their footsteps or take a new path of your own. Most of my musician friends among his contemporaries, I’d met as the sons of my professors in science and engineering. Equations and slide rules were not for them. Music theory and music facts were their PhDs and they were good at them.

The Guiding Spirits, 1960s.

The Beatles invaded the U.S. when Craig was 14, so his early local bands would find him playing the same high school sock hops, Battle of the Band contests and other competitions with the privilege of “ruling the town” until the next competition. He eventually kept choosing music over adulthood as time went by. Ultimately, he had tried marriage a couple of times and had two beautiful sons and a daughter as three of the best decisions he’d ever made. They are all brilliant and beautiful people of whom he can be most proud.

At a career crossroads and a new father, during mid-adulthood, he of the free will his parents had afforded him decided to join in on those being looked after by Mary Louise and Bill, for as long as he lived. Their home was home base for Craig, Jeff, and Amanda, after he divorced his first wife, Jennifer. His second wife, Pam, raised his youngest son, Dean.

Craig painted, pursued music, and worked on his art, and was in his children’s lives, more like a big brother but he was there. He didn’t have a Peter Pan complex. Far from it, Craig had a need to stay focused and true to his artistic muse, just as a sports athlete spends 24/7 focused on their careers. No one pointed fingers or grumbled. Mary Louise facilitated family with love. Craig’s children understood and loved him unconditionally.

When the final few years of Mary Louise’s life were underway, it was harder on Craig than usual. He basically gave up, midway in, knowing her life would soon end. Amanda and Jeff were her rocks of support. Craig stopped really taking good care of himself and a few old ways seemed easier to adapt than the alternative.

When his cancer was discovered in the last 10 days, his girlfriend found a comforting Hospice site for him, and he was surrounded by beautiful gardens, peaceful Austin breezes, and family who loved him. It wasn’t as long as he’d liked to have been here, but he would have pronounced his 70 years, “A good ride, all things considered.”

Epilogue…5 years ago…David Ernstmeyer, one of Craig’s friends posed a question on his Facebook page: “How did the best generation get old? I thought we were going to live forever." Craig’s poignant response: “it ain’t over til it’s over, lad.”

Well, Craig, life as it once was, is now over. Where you are now, the air is clear, as are your lungs, and beauty surrounds you wherever you go. You left us with a grand compendium of your music. You left your children with many memories of times growing up together. Wherever you were, love surrounded you. You did things on your own terms to be sure, but you remain forever an eternal creative, skilled in sharing messages nested in other messages. To discover them, one must go far beneath the surface to see the gifts and talents you freely shared. They’re there for those who seek them. And the band played on…

RIP William Craig Davis, 9/4/50–6/1/21

Cher at 75 — When You Only Need One Name

In the past 75 years, Cherilyn Sarkisian LaPiere Bono Allman has had a longer-lasting career than most of her contemporaries. One would have to go back as far as Buddy Ebsen to find a versatile entertainer of the same longevity and versatility across TV, film, stage, and music. Then, there’s Dolly Parton, whose endless talent makes for an enduring career in music and film, not to mention substantial philanthropy in her hometown.

Anyone born in the 1950s has likely heard of Cher, the singer/actress/entertainer whose impact on the music, stage, and movie worlds spans at least one major radio hit for every decade in which she was been a working entertainer.

There are just a handful of performers who are identifiable by just their first name alone—Cher, Dolly, and Oprah to name a few.

Cher is in an illustrious group of performers who have won all but one of the EGOT quadfecta (Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, and Tony). All she needs is the Tony to join the 16 people who have won all four awards. This group includes: Julie Andrews, Mel Brooks, Common, Viola Davis, Dick Van Dyke, Audrey Hepburn, Helen Mirren, Lin-Manuel Miranda, Rita Moreno, Lily Tomlin, and Kate Winslet.

The singer whom people have enjoyed mocking at times yet whose fan base carries greater longevity than some of those mockers have been alive has been nominated for seven Grammys and the winner of one. Who’s laughing now?

Her first Grammy nomination was in 1965 for best new artist. Six years later, she was nominated for Female Pop Vocal Performance for “Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves” and best Pop Vocal Performance by a duo, group, or chorus for the single, “All I Ever Need is You” in 1971, and the Record “Believe” was nominated for Record of the Year, Pop Vocal Album of the Year, and Dance Recording of the Year in 1999, winning for Dance Recording. In 2003 she was nominated again for Best Dance Recording for “Love One Another.”

With just the single “Believe,” Cher set records that were listed compiled in a 2020 article by Rhino Records:

“Oldest Female Artist to Achieve #1 hit on Billboard Hot 100

Solo Artist with longest time span between #1 hits (1974’s “Dark Lady”)

Longest gap between first #1 song (“I Got You Babe”) and 1999’s “Believe”

#1 on both 1999 Billboard Hot 100 and Hot Dance Club Play charts

#1 for seven weeks in the UK (won three Ivor Novello Awards—Best Selling UK Single, Best Song Musically and Lyrically, and International Hit of the Year)

First female solo single to be certified Triple Platinum in the UK (2014).

Now we’re in the new 2020 decade, surely Cher has one more Billboard charting hit awaiting her. No matter, Happy 75th birthday, Cher! You continue to set the bar higher for those who are on their journey now. Keep rocking, girl!

Then there is the entirely noncompetitive yet valid competition she won hands down every time—most unique style in the room, any room. Over the years she was on television and at awards shows, it was designed brilliantly by Bob Mackie.

Every key photographer in the country, Richard Avedon, Annie Liebowitz, Helmut Newton, Peter Lindbergh, and so many others captured her essence for just a moment through their lenses to last through seven decades of people discovering her talent.

For a young girl who grew up disconnected from others thanks to dyslexia, she managed to complete tenth grade before busting out of the doors. She found herself dealing with the fears and pleadings of her somewhat jealous mother, whose ego and beauty once reigned prominently under the same cameras her daughter would be destined for. Cher loved her through it all–eventually as she understood what it was like for women to prevail in a field that finds few friends when you look left and right.

At the end of the day, on this 75th anniversary of her birth, Cher still doesn’t take herself too seriously. The forthright, blunt, surprising, creative, stubborn, kind performer has left at least one legacy as a given long before she is past her age of entertaining audiences.

Personally, I’ll just wait for the next Farewell Concert Tour— I always love attending those. You can’t keep a good girl down. Happy Birthday, Cher, and thank you for all the entertainment that made life just a bit better for your gifts and talents.

A favorite painting of Cher: (Artist M. Fitzgerald)