And Then Gumby Died

De mortui nil nisi bonum.


I think it was first reported in the L.A. Times:

Dallas McKennon, an exuberant character actor and voice actor who helped enliven Gumby, Archie Andrews, Buzz Buzzard and many other animated characters, has died. He was 89.

It should mean something, but No! It won’t. No national day of mourning. No flags at half-staff, message from the Pope or weeping in the trailer-park. No solemn-voiced Katie Couric; no earnest Matt Lauer setting up a special fourth hour of the Today show; and no personal remembrance of “that very first interview I had with a much younger Gumby so many years ago” from Barbara Walters.

Mylar balloons? Candles and flowers placed at the feet of Sculpy replicas on make-shift shrines? No, none of it.

Not a peep from Eddie Murphy or the California Raisins.

Truth is I never much cared for his brand of claymation – it was crude, primitive, even inane. He had that annoying way of “skating” instead of running – he’d just strike a pose and kinda slide along the set. And his walk was too contrived – just as unconvincing as his facial expressions.

To sum it up, I guess I never really got the point of Gumby.

Still he was Gumby. Sad.

Don’t it always seem to go . . . .

The Day the Music Died?

My my . . . .
I certainly didn’t notice it.

And you could probably convince me that I am wrong. There used to be music in elevators and now there isn’t any. I know I’m right about the “once upon a time” part of that, but is all the elevator music really gone?

I ignored it, and held it up to ridicule and now they have done away with it. It seems little video screens now take the place of the Muzak -- filling us in on the vital news of the day.

That’s how I know: Scientists have discovered a tiny, blind ant whose species appears to “the sole surviving representative” of some of the first ants. Ever.

They (the scientists) reckon that they (the ants) evolved from wasp ancestors 120 million years ago.

The new ant (well, old ant actually), has been named Martialis heureka, or the ant from Mars. It is referred to by the National Academy of Sciences as a “cryptic predator from the soils of the Amazon rainforest”.

It is wise always to be mindful or at least aware of “cryptic predators”, blind or otherwise. I suppose that if our little Martian arthropod gropes its way out of the rainforest and ominously confronts me with a Greek epigram and a wry expression I should either dive for cover or expect to be eaten. But can’t I commute to my board meeting without a hint of this frightening prospect?

Enough information already. I want easy listening -- a pleasant ride to the 32nd floor with The Girl from Ipanema. Now that’s the way to travel.

Deliverance

Ah the sweet worries of the past!

Remember getting all worked up about putting lipstick on a pig?

Folks arguing in earnest about whether it’s an offense to the moose-shooting hockey mom to use a cliché after she laid claim to the word “lipstick”. Like it was Don Imus’s latest pronouncement on the Rutgers University women's basketball team. (Putting lipstick on a nappy-headed pig?)

So it goes with the news of the day. Just before Katrina, the eyes of the nation were on the Florida coast, where, believe it or not sharks were biting people! In fact I think that’s what really messed up Terry Schiavo. But my memory is not great.

Anyway, however you slice it, it’s going to take more than lipstick to pretty up the Wall Street bulls and bears alike.

Speaking of bears; despite all her vigilance, our alert northern governor didn’t see the great Russian beast pull this one off. It was right there in the Chess section of the paper of record: Alexandra Kosteniuk, a 23 year old Russian bikini model has become the World Women’s Chess champion.

A Russian bikini model! Chess champion of the world! The best ours can do is play lingerie football and whine about Darfur like they could find it on a map!

A short history lesson from the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum:

On October 4, 1957, the Soviet Union sent into orbit Sputnik 1, the first artificial satellite in history. Then a month later, an even larger and heavier
satellite, Sputnik 2, carried the dog Laika into orbit.

Sputnik’s launch came as an unnerving surprise to the United States. The space age had dawned and America’s Cold War rival suddenly appeared technologically superior.

So here’s to Alexandra – I fully expect her to defend her crown next time with a dog under her arm – and it won’t be a Chihuahua. Maybe they'll stuff Laika just to rub our noses in it. Or clone her.

I think my real problem is that I can only think of one reason to put lipstick on a pig and it scares me that our political leaders can speak so blithely about it. What’s next, fishnets and heels? At least Eliot Spitzer kept it within the species.

My Medical Proxy

Instructions to my loved ones:


Was it Old Yeller where they had to shoot the dog because he was acting tetched and foaming at the mouth? Even though it was the good old dog and they loved him very much, they realized that he was miserable and doomed and needed them to do what must be done?

Anyway, I may have left you instructions about the fanny pack (or belly-band, depending on its orientation). It may be fine for other people or for specific purposes, but if you see me wearing one, aim and fire. I am not a photographer or an avid hiker, so I have no honest business wearing one. Think of them the way you would think of those miner's headlamps. If I look like I am spelunking or working under the kitchen sink (the suburbanite's equivalent) hold your fire and look for signs of a climbing harness, ropes or a plumber's wrench. In their absence; proceed.

So it is for fanny packs.

Well same goes for jargon. I have been looking at job descriptions for PR positions and whoever writes them should be ashamed. After an hour or so, the devil in me spoke up and said:

"Seeking a position where my demonstrated capabilities at utilizing state-of-the art communications technologies and strong interpersonal and writing skills to strategically dialogue with key influencers on time-sensitive mission-critical challenges in a highly-competitive environment enable me to efficiently and effectively produce profitable outcomes across departments that are consistent with the company brand and its mission and that promote/reinforce its active involvement as a good corporate citizen.”

That is hydrophobia. Do not hesitate: Do what must be done. Just as exposure to underground bats can occasion the infection of the careful spelunker, so, even casual contact with the language of recruitment can doom the careful job-seeker.

As Old Yeller might have said, Just shoot me.

I will know that you love me.

Jaime®
Now with Intel Centrino Duo Mobile Technology.

You Can't Be Twenty

No dear brethren, you can't be twenty on Sugar Mountain.



Ask my good friend Neil, here. Despite what has been said, he does not look like my burnout uncle who always used to offer to take the children fishing, "just like your grampa use to take me and your dad, back when your dad had a pair - course that was before he married your mom!" (Why you need "a pair" to go fishing we could never figure out. And we were too scared to ask him. The one time we asked him about his chest hair, he ended up starting a small fire in the dining room showing us a trick he learned back in the day.)


But the point is, Iam sure there are reasons aplenty to be wary of anybody addressing his brethren. Collegues, I can handle. Even fellows. I am pretty sure that my friend Neil says folks, and that's OK with me too. He's green and Canadian and likes dogs and sings about old men and pretty girls and dead junkies and stuff, so he's cool. But who exactly thinks they have brethren? Children, maybe, but brethren?

Not me, buddy!