29 January 2009

I, Robot


I never liked Star Trek, any generation.

I never watched Battlestar Gallatica.

Dr. Who? My question exactly.

I've only seen the first and third Stars Wars movies (when originally released) and so have yet to actually see the movie, or even the scene, in which Darth tells Luke, "I am your father," although I laughed heartily at the allusion to it in Toy Story II. Heck, I don't even remember when that Hamill guy messed up his face.

But Lost in Space? Now we're talking! Slimy Dr. Smith. Spunky Will Robinson. Cute-as-a-button Angela Cartwright, fresh from escaping the Nazis in Sound of Music, rocketing her way into my house every week. Sweet!

But let's face it, the Robot was the star. "Danger! Danger! Will Robinson! Danger!" I had a battery-operated Robot when I was young. Like Will, a boy and his Robot.

And now he is gone.

As Thomas Gray wrote:

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.

I see him now as he was whenever Dr. Smith got tired of his chattering and pulled out his energy pack -- slumped over with arms dangling down.

Requiescas in pacem, Robot.

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