My father’s first serious girlfriend after he and my mother broke-up was a dream for my twin sister, younger brother, and me. Kaye lived just down the block from my grandparents on the Upper West Side, a genial, welcoming woman, and possessor of that enviable 1983 daily double: a VHS machine and cable TV (we didn’t get either at my mom’s house for at least three more years). My sister Sam and I turned twelve the summer Dad lived with Kaye, a cushy, temporary stop for him. Their relationship didn’t survive the year, yet was full of pleasure for us kids: Eddie Murphy’s Delirious (HBO); Young Frankenstein (VHS); and a Marilyn Monroe documentary (VHS) that launched Sam’s abiding fascination with the actress. It’s also where we first encountered George Carlin. The one-two punch of seeing his HBO special, Carlin at Carnegie (filmed in ’82, aired in ’83), and listening to his 1972 Grammy-winning album, FM & AM, arrived at a crucial moment. Staying up late to hear cursing was more than a titillating novelty. It was passage into a secret society. As the co-eldest, I didn’t have the benefit of an older sibling or cousin or friend to introduce me to cool bands, movies, magazines, attitudes, and ideas. With one step into an adult world I didn’t understand, hungry to develop my bullshit detector, Carlin provided a reassuring, avuncular presence. He was the bridge between Bill Cosby and Richard Pryor (never mind Lenny Bruce and Lord Buckley)—the known and the… Click below to read the full story from Esquire
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