Gumby, dammit
Sorry for the delay with this. No excuse other than that I just didn’t get to it yesterday. Sue me. No, seriously, sue me. I’m getting bored ’round here. But enough about me. Onto the stories I noteworthied this week, excerpted and linked …
Another hit-and-run driver bites the dust:
A 63-year-old cabdriver was sentenced to three to six years in prison yesterday for a 2008 hit-and-run accident that killed a 5-year-old Philadelphia boy and left the child’s mother seriously injured.
Oh nooooooooo-bit:
Art Clokey, 88, an animator whose bendable creation Gumby became a pop-culture phenomenon through decades of toys, revivals, and satires, died Friday in his sleep at his home in Los Osos on California’s Central Coast. … He said he based Gumby’s swooping head on the cowlick hairdo of his father, who died in a car accident when Mr. Clokey was 9. And Mr. Clokey’s wife suggested he give Gumby the body of a gingerbread man.
From Russia with (g)love(s dropped):
You have to go back to the finale of the movie “Slap Shot” to find a scene as ludicrous as the one in Chekhov, Russia, on Saturday. But there it was, starring Jaromir Jagr and a cast of players and referees from the Kontinental Hockey League.
A series of brawls in the first four minutes of a game between Vityaz Chekhov and Avangard Omsk resulted in the assessment of 691 penalty minutes against Jagr and 30 other players — so many that the game had to be suspended because neither team had enough players to continue.
And Tiger wishes he had Daly’s cache:
“Being John Daly,” a reality television series focusing on his latest attempt to put his life and his game back on track, will have its premiere on the Golf Channel on March 2. A fan favorite, Daly has five PGA Tour victories, including two major championships, but drinking, gambling and marriage problems have plagued his career.
A Kiss, Not Just a Kiss:
The threats started coming just hours after happily ever after. First they came to members of Chrissy’s family. Ugly voices. Hideous letters. (“I can’t believe that you’d support this kind of wedding.”) No one wanted to tell Ian and Chrissy about them—nobody wanted to intrude on their dream. But the letters and phone calls kept coming. The message was always the same: Ian was black, Chrissy was white.