I was, of course, a close personal friend of both Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett, who also died in LA this week, almost in lockstep with Ed McMahon. (Ed at the Pearly Gates: “Heeeeere’s Jacko!”)

Michael and Farrah and I all remained good friends even after I told them both in the early ’80s that I couldn’t stand their work. I think they came to trust in my honesty.

In Michael’s case, he followed my advice. Unfortunately, it was possibly the worst advice I ever gave anyone: I told him to hook up with Paul McCartney and cut a record. The best they could come up with was that stupid “Ebony and Ivory” thing.

I suppose I should have recommended David Bowie instead, but Bowie didn’t do much better collaborating with John Lennon, so who knows?

I advised Farrah to go back to “Charlie’s Angels”. Even though she wasn’t the best-looking Angel, she was the most popular, I said. She ignored me and drifted off into dorm-room-poster oblivion. I could have at least got her on “Dukes of Hazzard”, I think.

The 1980s were awful anyway, for everyone. Surviving that decade was an accomplishment in itself. Christ, I even had a mullet.