This was 1984. Michael Jackson was still black then.

I’ll admit, I used to love both Bill Cosby and Louis C. K. I truly thought they were good guys who were simply commenting on life’s foibles and the shortcomings of the human male.

How does one acknowledge the horrors of the Crusades and the push for Catholic dominance in the world under a rigid papacy which provided the funding of the build with the building we mourned on Monday?

Katie came with a record player. I had planned on buying one for myself just about the time we got serious, so when we moved in together, hers became mine, and I was Don Hall-excited about it. I could finally dust off my vinyl collection and give the old discs a spin. The first one I chose was my original pressing of Michael Jackson’s Thriller. At about the third track, the Paul McCartney duet “The Girl is Mine,” Katie asked, “Who is this?”

“Who is this!?” I responded, astounded and slightly confused. “It’s Michael Jackson. It’s Thriller — the second best-selling album of all time.”

“Oh, I don’t like Michael Jackson.”

I immediately questioned our entire relationship and my taste in women. “What!? How can you not like Michael Jackson?

• There’s nothing scarier than having your mom show up to your Halloween party dressed as a slutty caterpillar.