I woke the other day and was informed by my local newspaper that it is the twenty-fifth anniversary of Thriller

When I was a small boy living with my parents in Gary, Indiana, long before I came under the care and feeding of Miss Diana Ross, I remember an old man who wore sup-hose and dusty shoes that should have been shiny, and who used to go up and down the streets of our neighborhood with the help of a stick. It wasn’t in his hand, though. It was down the back of his pants. I believe the sharp end of it came to rest in his chocolate factory, if you know what I mean, and the stick thereby propelled him forward by stimulating several thousand nerve endings. Hee-eee! He must have been getting on for eighty in the year 1966, earlier than which I am sure I would not remember him, for I was born in 1958. A few stray locks of hair hung out from beneath his hat, which was a bright yellow, and though he was clearly insane, he was much respected. His name was Andy, and from my first acquaintance with him I resolved to be his miniature.

His wife was rumored (by him) to exist, but I never saw her. From the way he described her, she was a creature some twenty feet tall, with branches and leaves, rooted into the ground on the northeast corner of Main and Brindle Streets. He had spent several days speaking to her, felt that she understood him better than any other living thing, and fell to one knee to propose. Jam on! Jam on! I hoped that one day I would find someone to love me as much as Andy’s wife loved him.

Andy’s wife