at random times to offer up inflammatory comments on how younger generations basically suck—but with love.
The legacy of The Cosby Show started in the little apartment I grew up in and continues in the one I’m sharing with my daughter, who is 13 and at that age where nothing created before the year 2000 could possibly be relevant or remotely cool. But she loves the show too, even knows episodes by heart—the Gordon Gatrell shirt debacle and the anniversary songs performed for Cliff’s parents are our favorites—and watches it like she was with me back in the days of the original airings, when I was living vicariously through the Huxtables, 30 minutes at a time every Thursday evening. Other Black TV families have come and gone: the Kyles in My Wife and Kids, the Paynes in the aforementioned House of Payne. But no one has come close to Heathcliff, Claire and their clan. And I’m pretty sure the bar has been set so high, no one ever will.