Paul Constant

Fri Dec 9



We're in a small house with dozens of people to celebrate the Cosby Sweater, that aesthetically, texturally, and culturally baffling fashion icon from the 1980s. But this party is about more than easily pilled poly/acrylic blends: It's also celebrating Mr. Cosby's contributions to the worlds of comedy (embodied here by the not-so-classic standup record Why Is There Air?) and celebrity endorsement (a tray of ferociously strong Jell-O and Jell-O Pudding shots.)

Thinking ahead, we brought a Plus One who has a personal Cosby story (delivering breakfast, with a coworker, to Mr. Cosby's suite in a local hotel, finding the former sitcom dad topless, save for a giant gold chain, and receiving a $5 tip to "share with your friend"). Soon enough, though, all the Cosby talk washes away into an '80s dance party, which, perhaps, is not the best-smelling alternative for the theme ("I haven't washed this thing since I bought it," someone says, crinkling his nose at his own sweaty sweater).

We join an argument in the kitchen about the definitions of "donkey punch" and "Dirty Sanchez." The joyous dancing, especially Hammer-style to "U Can't Touch This," is causing the floor to bounce treacherously. Some beers are spilt, and as we help clean up—remembering how Theo received a stern Huxtable talking-to that time that he threw a party—somebody shouts at us: "Who's crashing this party now, fucker?" But we continue cleaning: It's the right thing to do, and somewhere, surely, Mr. Cosby is smiling down at us. Or rolling around naked in all his money. Whatever.

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