Tin Men

"What if God was one of us?"-- Joan Osborne

My first thought, as the allegations against Cosby gathered steam last month, was: Why did these women never prosecute and file formal charges? My fear, 14 years ago, wasn't about going after my supervisor so much as it was how those on Philadelphia's Human Relations Commission would regard my depressive episode that followed in its wake. Then I think of my stepfather, Stuart, plying me with Jack Daniels. I too never prosecuted my mother's lovers for sexual assault. I too, never contacted the police about Miss Eddie from Unlimited Staffing.

It becomes increasing difficult to bear, with age, and yet no one wins here. People older than I too look on Cosby as a beloved figure. As a child, his projection of authority was a solidifying force, and perhaps date rape is more difficult to prove than a forensic examination of my email thread with Linda C Richman prior to her divorce: If I did go after Eddie legally, also, it is my word against hers, despite the prevalence of nursing aide abuse.

To protest that nothing is sacred doesn't mean I think Cosby's fractured image should be glued back together. It is an outcry, our faith always foundering on the shoals. In Helen Gurley Brown mode, with a middle of the road sentiment about men, their virility, and hands on slap and tickle, I had hoped this was about a grandee engaging in overly forceful groping, but the use of drugs screams out rape crime, loud and clear.

During my unexpected vacation, I had to re assess my physical ability to hold down traditional employment, and the axis is wobbly. As a lead in to what I've been turning round in my mind, Cold Case was never quite my cup of tea as a procedural, neither realistic nor fantastic enough to break its televisionish  stodginess, but it had poignant sound tracks.