When was the last time you made a pitcher of orange juice from a tube of frozen mush?

If that sounds strange to you, consider this: Around the time I was born, there were generally two ways people were able to drink orange juice in the morning. 

One was to use a manual squeezer and extract the juice from an actual orange. Some people loved it, but a lot of people were turned off by the pulp that inevitably got into the juice.

The other way was to go to the freezer aisle of a store – there was only one back then – and buy a tubular can of orange juice concentrate. You would dump the frozen juice into a pitcher, fill the can with water from the sink three or four times, then stir it. You’d put the pitcher in the refrigerator and it would last as long as you needed it.

Frozen orange juice was relatively new when I was born. It came into grocery stores just after the end of World War II (which only ended nine years before I was born) and soared in popularity after Bing Crosby promoted the most prominent brand, Minute Maid, on his nationwide radio program.

So if you told my parents that their grandkids would have no idea what frozen orange juice is, they’d be surprised. I wouldn’t say shocked – again, frozen OJ wasn’t that old.

What did in the idea of frozen orange juice concentrate is, well, actual orange juice.

At about the time I was born, the idea of keeping fresh orange juice cold was just taking hold. The biggest company involved was Tropicana, which produced juice in Florida and shipped it to lucrative markets in the Northeast. 

As easy as it was to make a pitcher from frozen mush, it was a lot easier to pour something from a carton.

And Tropicana had one other advantage: No pulp. They added it relatively recently for those people (Ed: nuts) who really want it.

It’s my understanding that there was great joy in my family when I was born.

But with that joy – as you know if you’ve experienced parenthood – comes anxiety. How will I keep my baby safe?

In 1954, one of the biggest fears was that your child might contract polio – the disease that killed more children than any other. Those people it didn’t kill suffered paralysis, among them President Franklin D. Roosevelt, who contracted it as an adult. 

Polio fostered one of the biggest medical charities, the March of Dimes, which was much more prominent in the 1950s than it is now.

But to tell my parents on the day I was born that they needn’t worry would have been a gross understatement. Not only was polio neutralized, it was practically obliterated from the planet.

The reason first became known to the world a year after my birth. In April 1955, Dr. Jonas Salk, a researcher at the University of Pittsburgh, announced a vaccine to prevent polio. Six years later, Dr. Albert Sabin developed an oral vaccine that is still in use today.

Much to my discomfort, my parents weren’t waiting around for an oral vaccine. I got the needles. Three of them. And I was not a particularly good shot taker. 

In the second grade, my entire class got the oral vaccine. Except me. I already had the shots, so I didn’t need the sugar cube that carried the vaccine. I apparently complained about this and was given a subsequent dose that may or may not have been a placebo.

Today’s infants get their polio “shot” as part of a combination vaccination to combat diphtheria, tetanus, whooping cough or pertussis, and hepatitis B. 

All diseases most parents don’t even think about in 2024.

Unless they’re idiots who’ve decided vaccines are a hoax.

In the first months after he was born in 1994, my son wouldn’t sleep at night. He would bawl until you held him and then cry again if you dared try to put him down.

When I was on sit-up-with-the-baby duty, I took for granted that I could occupy myself sitting there by watching TV – in particular, the rebroadcast of that night’s installment of Ken Burns’ “Baseball” series on the local PBS station.

Here’s the thing: My son inherited his inability to rest at night from his father. And unlike me, my Mom had nothing to keep her company.

That’s because TV stations – and there were only seven of them on the VHS band in New York in 1954 – signed off the air at or soon after midnight.

They played a filmed recording of the National Anthem, and then put on patterns of bars and circles called a test pattern with a ringing sound in the background. The patterns were crafted by individual stations – some of them used a template with a Native American in a headdress. 

At 5:30 or 6 a.m., the stations would take off the pattern, play the National Anthem again, mention that they carried the Seal of Good Practice from the National Association of Broadcasters, show some local minister delivering a sermon, and then do some kind of start-of-day programming.

Unfortunately, my Mom is no longer around to tell me what she actually did while trying to get me to sleep the first two years of my life. But as the broadcasting day lengthened over time, she spent quite a bit of time staying up and watching old movies.

The CBS station in New York pushed the limits, at one point only being off the air for about a half-hour a day. By the late 1970s, local TV stations were on all night. 

Now, of course, it’s not just the local stations that are on all night. So is every cable channel – although many of them run infomercials to fill those late hours. And you can stream stuff.

My mother could only dream of that as her son refused to go to Dreamland. 

I returned to the hospital nearly seven and a-half years after my birth to have surgery.

My parents wouldn’t have been surprised about that. They actually would have wondered why it happened so late in my life.

What would have surprised them is that their grandchildren have no idea what a tonsillectomy is.

But a majority of children when I qualified as such underwent the procedure. It was usually performed when kids were around 4 or 5, although it wasn’t unheard of for toddlers to have it.

The rationale was that the tonsils becoming inflamed caused kids to get way too many sore throats. And even though most mothers didn’t go to jobs and were already home, taking care of a sick child isn’t usually fun.

So doctors were quick to order the tonsils removed.

I got upset because most of my classmates already had the operation, usually in kindergarten or first grade. I was already in second grade and the tonsils were still there. 

Why upset? There were two things about tonsillectomies that recommended them to 7-1/2-year-olds.

One was that I was going to miss at least a week of school. By the last week of September, any desire to get back to school fades into the drudgery of day-to-day classwork. 

The other was the understanding that having the operation would entitle the victim, er, patient to all the ice cream he or she wanted. 

What they didn’t tell kids was how godawful they felt after the operation. Who the hell wants ice cream when your throat hurts like it never has or will again?

Eventually, doctors realized that maybe removing the tonsils wasn’t a great idea. Surgery is always a risk. And, for little kids, the pain of the procedure coupled with not having your parents around is pretty traumatic; I think the horrible memory of that sleepless night in the hospital – and being a 7-1/2-year-old in a ward with 4 year olds and an infant – stayed with me a long time.

Today, tonsillectomies are performed rarely and only if there’s a really good medical reason. Given the hellish week my operation provided them, my parents would probably wish that doctors came to their senses about 20 years earlier.

I went home from the hospital six days after I was born.

No, parents of 2024, there was nothing wrong with me or my mother.

In 1954, mother and child spent something approaching a week in the hospital. The idea was to make sure the baby was fine and that the mother had recovered sufficiently to care for her newborn.

So I can only imagine the look on my parents’ face when I told them…

— Their grandson went home less than 48 hours after he was born. We didn’t think anything of it, mainly because the hospital considered it staying an extra day.

— When I taught journalism at a state university a few years ago, one of my students showed up at class two days after she delivered her son. Yes, she was a really good student. But, two days?

— A woman who worked in my office came in the day after delivery in order to finish up some stuff she was doing before starting maternity leave.

It’s pretty standard that mothers and children go home as soon as they can. Part of it is the exorbitant cost of hospitalization. Part of it might be that doctors believe women recover better in their own home.

I don’t know how those of you who have delivered children feel about the amount of time you and the kid(s) spent in the hospital. I only know my Mom would have shuttered if she knew she was going home on day two or three.

I’m 70 days from the 70th anniversary of my arrival.

As I reach the milestone, the thing that strikes me is how much different life is now. Of course, things are going to change over the course of any 70-year span. But it’s still wondrous – things and concepts we accepted as never-ending end, and things and concepts we never imagined show up.

So in the 70 days leading up to my birthday, I’m going to offer some thoughts on this idea: What things would have shocked my parents, sitting in a room at Flushing Hospital after my birth, about the world in which their soon-to-be septuagenerian son lives.

—

Let’s not leave the guiding image of this endeavor: a multibed hospital room on an upper floor of Flushing Hospital. It’s an April afternoon and my parents are sitting there with who would turn out to be the first of their four children.

My mother has seen me since Dr. Joseph Micelotta of Corona held me up to her moments after my birth.

My father, on the other hand, was not in the room. He didn’t see me until well after I had been examined, cleaned up and dressed (in a blanket) for the first time.

In 1954, that was the norm. Fathers didn’t attend the birth of their children. They were either in a waiting room, pacing as they awaited news about their growing family, or off the premises all together, awaiting a phone call to tell them to come on over and see their son or daughter.

Sometime between 1954 and 1991, when my daughter was born, the norm changed.

Women, pretty much alone in the final hours of the worst pain humans normally endure, began pushing to have their spouses or other partners in the delivery room. They wanted to either share the experience with someone they loved or, in some cases I’ve heard, curse out the guy responsible for the suffering.

Men wanted to support their partners. The way I looked at it, the one – soon to be two – I loved most in the world were in pain and peril. And even though I wasn’t sure what I could possibly do to help, I wanted to be there to try.

I took the Lamaze classes with the intensity of studying for a final exam in college. We practiced at home. And then, when I was in the room, I held my wife as she kicked against an elderly nurse in a final successful effort to push out the baby and avoid a C-section to get her.

I saw our daughter the second she arrived. I held her with my wife within a minute. I choked up as I realized how much someone must love me to endure what she did to produce our baby.

The next day, my father and mother came up to see the baby. At dinner, I told him how wonderful it was to be in the delivery room. He had a hard time grasping it, saying he could never do it and flinching as if I had wanted him to see something gross.

I said to him that it was surprising he felt that way. He was so protective of the people he loved, I would think he’d want to do what he could for them at such a critical moment.

For the most part, things have changed for the better since 1954. That’s definitely true in this case. Not only can fathers watch their children be born, but so can women who are married to the childbearer, or any partner mutually involved in the baby’s life. 

Not that it changes the feeling. In my office is a note my father wrote to my mother to go with the flowers he gave her when he came to the hospital: “I am a lucky man today. Because I have a wife like you and a baby boy.”

It’s Thursday, January 20, 2023. 

— The midway point of Joe Biden’s term isn’t noon today. It’s noon tomorrow. Everybody conveniently forgets the leap year thing. 

Of course, there’s a chance it’ll only be the one-quarter point. As someone averse to risk, I’d take that over what looms if he doesn’t run for a second term and some Republican gets in.

— I haven’t written a blog post in a long time. I’d say I’ve been busy, but I’m retired. So anything I’ve been doing is just keeping occupied in another form. 

I want to write more in 2023, so this is me trying to do that. Let’s see how long this lasts.

— I won’t share this post on Twitter because I’m through providing content for Musk’s Folly.

I will share it on Post (@mmmraisin@post.news) and Mastodon (@MMMRaisin), both of which I’m finding far more rewarding that having to block the right-wing posts that keep cropping up on my feed.

What I really wish would happen is that some other information sources – particularly those that  inform me about how the Mets are doing – would either abandon Twitter or sign on to the two worthy alternatives. Then I could get rid of Twitter once and for all.

— Given everything that’s come out about George Santos – I’ll talk more about him in my next post in coming days – does it make you wonder why he hasn’t fled the country?

At some point, he’s going to become grist for this country’s legal works – the criminal system, the civil system or both. Wouldn’t it be better if he were on, say, some Caribbean island or any country that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States?

Yeah, he’d abandon his seat in the 118th Congress. But if he doesn’t resign, the seat won’t be up for grabs – there’s no chance Kevin McCarthy and his lemmings will expel Santos. The people of New York’s 3rd District won’t get the chance to reconsider until November 2024 – they’d just have no actual vote in Congress for nearly two years.

I would think the disappearance would be a better look for him and the Republicans than a perp walk or the scrum up some courthouse steps.

And given the money that somebody must have put up to fund this fraud, there must be more that wants to help avoid revealing who that somebody is.

Fleeing seems to make some sense. I won’t be surprised.

— China’s revelation that deaths exceeded births in 2022 also shouldn’t be a surprise. This is part of a demographic trend that has affected other advanced world economies – northeast Asia, western Europe and North America.

What came as a surprise was that it happened so soon. 

It boils down to a simple fact: We’ve raised a generation of kids that doesn’t want kids of their own.

After discussing this with one of my two representatives among the millennials, the one who’s living in South Korea, I gleaned some of the rationale for this attitude.

There is economic insecurity. It costs a lot of money to raise children. And millennials generally don’t have a lot of money – they haven’t found the career opportunities that they expected and, if they did, they have incredible financial burdens. 

Rents are high, housing prices are ridiculous and the credit they need is zapped by the ridiculous student loan burdens they carry.

That’s not just an American problem. It carries to all these other places – now even to China. Until millennials sort that out, they’re wise to avoid the crazy expenses of children -day care health care, education, and whatever the hell toys and video games cost.

Then there’s a bigger issue: Why would you want to subject a child you love to a world like this one.

There are two facets to this problem. 

One is climate change. There’s a reason a younger generation takes this issue to heart – these people are going to have to live with whatever climate they have, supposedly for a long time. In just the past month, we’ve had the craziness of wave upon wave of storms in California and the polar vortex that squeezed in around Christmas between periods of unseasonably warm winter weather in the East.

This is not just here. It’s too hot in a lot of places – a lot hotter than it used to be – and it’s not going better. Why would you subject a kid to a problem you seem unable to solve yourself?

The second problem is the seeming abundance of horrible people occupying the planet in 2023.

Vladimir Putin. Elon Musk, Donald Trump. Xi Jinping. Mohammed Bin Salman. Ron DeSantis. Tucker Carlson. And so many others.

It’s like my favorite line from the movie “The Great Santini,” when Robert Duvall’s character, reading the paper, screams “God, why did you have to put so many stupid people in the world — at the same time?”

It’s a freakin’ rogues’ gallery. And these idiots have power in one way or another.

Take Russia. Why would a young adult want to bring kids into a society that’s rigged toward oligarchs, that drags people off the street when they object to policy, that’s at risk to being sent off to commit genocide against people with whom they have no quarrel.

In all of these countries, the problem is this:  If there are fewer kids, they are not going to grow into the working adults needed to support elderly people too addled to contribute their labor to society.

So millennials are using the one weapon they hold. Their bodies. They’re not using them to procreate – in both male ways and female ways. 

It’s why you’re starting to see a fight, particularly among the right wing in the United States, about birth control. Conservatives gained the upper hand in the battle over abortion with the horrendous Dobbs decision from the Supreme Court – now there are efforts to curtail methods of contraception. 

And this is not something that will stay in the United States. 

Young Chinese adults, accustomed to living in a one-party state, know this. Many of them grew up hearing stories about baby girls screaming as they were thrown into rivers by parents who wanted boys under the draconian one-child policy.

They understand that a government that forces limits on parenting can also try to force women to bear children.

After generations of fearing a world of overpopulation – which can still be a problem because these issues are not as prevalent in less developed countries – advanced industrial states now worry that their populations will be unbalanced toward the elderly.

What will it take to solve this problem?

Probably something kids say to parents all the time: Get off our back.

The effort to restrict access to books, the constant harping on the culture, is only going to backfire. Why would I want to raise a kid who isn’t encouraged to be curious?

I taught for a few years at a university in New Jersey. What my peers told me to expect was an entitled generation that did things when it felt like. 

What I found was a bunch of young people of incredibly diverse backgrounds who were willing to work two jobs and still attend school because they thought it would help them succeed.

That’s the generation that’s out there. It’s a shame they don’t want kids, because they’d make fantastic parents. That they’re not is a problem we really should think about solving.

It’s Friday, June 24, 2022.

It’s one of the darker days in American history.

It’s the 18th anniversary of the state supreme court ruling that the death penalty was unconstitutional in New York.

The ruling came about nine years after the Republican governor, George Pataki, signed a bill reinstating capital punishment.

The moral of this story for those of us who were crestfallen when the penalty came back comes from the late, great Lawrence Peter Berra: It ain’t over ’til it’s over.

So the first thing I did this morning when I saw that six morons in black robes had stripped away freedom from millions of American women was vote. 

There’s a Democratic primary in New York for governor and lieutenant governor. And while there’s little chance my candidates – incumbents Kathy Hochul and Antonio Delgado – will lose, I’m not taking any chances. 

Let that be lesson No. 1 from this day: Voting matters. It always has. It sure as hell did on that dark November day in 2016 when people who sat on the sidelines allowed a criminal to occupy the Oval Office.

The second thing I did was buy blueberries.

OK, that might seem trivial in the wake of the cataclysm. But hear me out.

The blueberries were on sale at Stop & Shop, and I really like blueberries. So it seemed a no-brainer to pick up a container and put it in my shopping bag (Stop & Shop has while-you-shop checkout).

But before I did I checked something about the blueberries. Where they were from.

The answer was a good one: New Jersey. I put them in the bag.

Had the answer been Florida or Texas, I would have thrown them – literally – back.

I’m not – if I can help it – buying produce from Florida or Texas. I’m not buying anything – again if I can help it – associated with either of those states. I am not supporting the economies of places that believe they can infringe on my and my fellow Americans’ freedom.

Why should you?

Voting is nice, but the people in those states vote too.

And this Supreme Court has made it so Floridians and Texans, Wyomingites and Kansans, North Dakotans and South Dakotans can force their gun craziness on New York, Chicago and San Francisco, And can force their religious beliefs on any woman in their states, whether or not they share them. 

If you’re lit-charcoal angry about what the Roberts court has done the past few days, you can’t try to outviolent these people. The next real chance to affect them at the ballot box is November – and if you vote for ANY Republican for ANY office at ANY level, you’re not really that mad.

So the solution might come from what my best friend calls your “dollar vote.” Use your money to effect change.

It starts simply.

Farmers in many ruby red states need to sell their products everywhere in the country. They can’t make up that revenue by selling more in Republican strongholds.

So when you have a choice, buy from farmers and farm companies in your state – if it’s Democratic – or one of the other states that are not committed to curtailing individual rights. California has lots of nice fruit. Washington State cherries are almost in season. There’s nothing like a Hawaiian pineapple.

Secondly, why is anybody from a blue state visiting the Orlando theme parks? Or San Antonio? Or St. Louis?

Tourism dollars count. They especially count in Florida. One way to shove a stick up Ron DeSantis’ ass is to make sure tourism revenue in the state plunges. It will cost the state thousands of jobs and billions in cash. 

There’s a Disneyland in California – and a Universal Studios, too. Hell, there are Disneylands in Paris and Tokyo if you really want to see Mickey and Minnie.

And there is nothing that DeSantis, Greg Abbott and other reactionary pillbugs can do about this. Their tame Supreme Court can’t force you to buy stuff from their states, It can’t make you fly to Miami or Houston.

Third, financially support your allies.

Shares of Dick’s Sporting Goods rose about 9% Friday morning. Here’s the reason why: The CEO – who is not Dick, but actually a woman named Lauren Hobart – announced that the retailer will provide up to $4,000 to cover expenses of employees “if a state one of our teammates lives in restricts access to abortion.”

I have more running stuff than I need, but I’m going to be damn certain to buy something at Dick’s sometime soon. Whod’a thunk my 97th T-shirt would directly help some cashier get the health care Samuel Alito is trying to deny her?

On the other hand, I am dumbstruck by the idea that there are lines to get into Chick-Fil-A – with its noted history of homophobia – in places where LGBTQ people are respected members of the community. No sandwich is that good.

And that there’s a single woman buying knitting yarn from Hobby Lobby, which won the right from many of these justices to deny birth control to its employees.

There are probably lots of other ways you can use the power of your wallet to express your disgust with what the Supreme Court, with its three Trump appointees and other detritus, has excreted. 

The fact is you’ve got to inflict some sort of pain on the people who inflicted the pain on you. There will be celebrations tonight and this weekend – today is the Catholic League’s wet dream.

By all means, use the ballot box. Keep this anger in mind everyday from now until the midterms on Nov. 8 and the 2024 presidential election on Nov. 5. Don’t forget it – especially when Republicans try to distract you by blaming inflation on Biden and the Democrats. 

The freedom to control your body is worth far more than a gallon of gas at any price.

But be prepared to use all the weapons at your disposal. The bastards in the churches and the diners and everywhere else responsible for today’s travesty of justice – make them pay.

It’s Wednesday, May 25, 2022.

Two years ago today, George Floyd died. While being arrested for allegedly passing a fake $20 at a convenience store, Floyd – an unarmed 52-year-old African American – was brutally choked to death by a Minneapolis police officer. 

When the world saw a brave teenager’s video of the murder, it united briefly in disgust. Some societal changes – many superficial, but some of them consequential – occurred.

I could rant on this subject. But maybe another day – I just wanted to make sure I and anyone else reading this didn’t forget. There’s another matter about which I have some thoughts.

There are some things you can count on in the United States of America:

— Somebody’s going to get shot today. There’s a chance it’s happening right this second. 

A man shooting his estranged partner. Kids playing with Dad’s rifle. Two teenagers fighting over a girl, or a t-shirt, or a can of soda. 

Those are the times when the shooter knows who he or she is shooting.

Then, of course, there are times when these people don’t know each other. 

Sometimes, like the other day on the New York City subway system, somebody shoots and kills somebody they don’t know for whatever reason.

And sometimes, like in Buffalo a week and a-half ago, and in Uvalde, Texas, yesterday, somebody shoots and kills lots of people. The sheer numbers and the nature of the people – Black shoppers at a supermarket, Hispanic elementary school kids ready to celebrate the start of summer vacation – horrify people and draw the attention of the world.

— You can also count on that attention to fade. It invariably does. 

It was already happening for the people killed in Buffalo – some of whom have yet to be buried. If I were betting money on such a vulgar thing, I would bet on attention fading from what happened in Uvalde by the first weekend of June.

Unless, of course, there’s another mass killing sometime between now and then. 

Which, come to think of it, you can count on.

— You can also count on the people who have promoted and celebrated the gun cult that is a lot of the United States to offer their thoughts and prayers for the victims of what they’ve wrought.

Their hearts go out for this multitude of dead and wounded – and their families and communities. It’s so touching how deeply they feel.

Also, count on them to double down. They’ll say:

We need more guns in schools. We need more guns in supermarkets. We need more guns everywhere we go.

We need more trained officers. We need teachers to learn how to fire weapons. We need kids to know how to arm themselves. We need doctors and custodians and movie theater ticket takers and rabbis and deacons and the stockers at Lululemon to all pack a rod.

Not that having the NRA’s obscenely described “good guys with guns” did any good in Buffalo this month or Uvalde yesterday.

— One other thing you can count on: It’s going to get worse.

Sometime before the Fourth of July, the Donald Trump-bastardized Supreme Court will issue a ruling that will likely strike down New York’s prohibition on just walking around one of the world’s biggest cities carrying heat.

Imagine how much fun the place called “Fun City” in the ’60s will be when the tourists from Texas and the drunk teens from Staten Island can carry an instrument of death in their cargo shorts without impunity.

So we’ll think and pray, and say angry words like the 600 above this one, and cry and watch CNN and go on to the next slaughter.

Because few people in this supposedly great country have the will to do what must be done. 

Take away people’s guns.

Guns make no one safe. They just bring death and heartache. They’re unnecessary to our survival, despite what the people who stockpile them like baseball cards and bottled water believe.

I’m beginning to think that not even cops should have them. I’ve walked the streets of South Korea in the middle of the night. The police carry batons. Mainly because very few civilians are allowed to have guns.

Are they less free than we are? Because, of course, we’re going to hear a lot about freedom when we talk about guns. We’re going to hear cries of “the Second Amendment,” about which the so-called 2A warriors conveniently forget “the well-regulated militia” part.

I’d rather be free to live. I’d rather be free to let 8-year-olds grow up to be whatever their imaginations conjure. I’d rather let an 86-year-old woman shopping for her ailing brother bring the groceries home.

Yeah, I know how hard it would be. It’s a dream to think that 400 million guns – more guns than people – can get anywhere near zero. Depleting the inventory of carnage creation requires some sort of imaginative solution that might be a stretch for 21st century lawmakers.

But change?  Even incremental, minute change that makes it 1% more difficult to get an AR-15 at a strip mall if you’re brought to the gunsmith in a strait jacket?

Don’t count on it.

Or prove me wrong.

— It’s Tuesday, February 8, 2022.

— It’s the 54th anniversary of the Orangeburg massacre when Highway Patrol officers killed three South Carolina State University students and injured 28 others protesting a local bowling alley’s refusal to integrate.

The on-campus shooting doesn’t leave the same historic impression as the one that took place two years later at Kent State University in Ohio. There are several reasons why. But, unfortunately, one is that Black students were killed in Orangeburg and white ones died in Kent.

The protesters were decried as agitators in the moment. Today, the school holds a memorial for the slain and injured students – and the bowling alley is integrated.

— In what I call a duh move, I thought W. Kamau Bell’s four-part “We Need to Talk About Cosby” documentary was being released one week at a time on Showtime.

But, if you get Showtime, you can stream all of it without waiting for the final parts over the next two Sundays.

So I’ve only seen the first two of what I think, so far, is a remarkable work of exploration by Bell, who still identifies himself first as a comedian. It’s compelling to watch and burnishes Bell’s credentials as one of the sharpest minds in documentary television and film.

Because he is an African American, Bell’s focus is on how he and other Black people – particularly those, like him, who are in their 40s and 50s – reconcile the heroic image of Bill Cosby they had growing up with the evidence that he is a horrific sexual predator. 

Keeping the focus on how Black people view Cosby sharpens the documentary. It might be a journalistic choice on Bell’s part, but it’s also a smart artistic choice.

But, as a result, he doesn’t confront the questions that others face – and, since I’m an Italian-American white male, that means me.

— I thought Bill Cosby was an American hero.

While Black people saw him as standing up for and advancing their image in society, I saw him as a genuinely funny man and a societal healer.

When I was in my tween and teen years, I got many of his albums. I watched the TV specials he did for NBC. I occasionally watched “I Spy,” which I remember as one of the first real dramedys that have become so popular in the 21st century.

Just before his downfall, my wife and I saw him do a two-hour, non-stop show in Morristown, N.J., that was entertaining and funny throughout.

All the while, I thought he was a Jackie Robinson of sorts – someone who, using the funny things shared by groups of us without taking race into account, was de-otherizing people of color and reminding us what we have in common.

But, as Bell points out, the same hints that Cosby dropped throughout his career – the whole obsession with supposed aphrodisiacs that people just laughed off – affect those of us fans of his who aren’t Black in a similar way to those of us who are.

I think that’s why the Cosby downfall seems, to me, the beginning of the Trump era. Someone we believed in turned out to be as rotten as anyone we despised. 

That threw us for a loop. We’re wary of anyone who seems to act heroically or behave in a civilized manner because we fear there’s something that will disillusion us about him or her.

— And the question comes again: Do we reconcile Cosby’s genuine artistry with his horrific off-screen conduct?

For me, right now, the answer is “No.” The Bell documentary presents the women making accusations and I just can’t go back to thinking about Old Weird Harold and Noah’s Ark.

Is there a revision of this? Well, there’s certainly one for what happened in Orangeburg, S.C., on this day 54 years ago. 

But my sense is that Bill Cosby is about to be obliterated in the timeline of American entertainment and civil rights. And as good as he was as a comedian being as bad a person as he is makes that the right call.