I used to have a recurring nightmare as a child that I was trapped in the opening credits of Scooby Doo. It was kind of an erotic nightmare: the rainbow-cartoon swamps, the undulating haunted mansions, the moaning ghosts with their morphenomenal yaws. The dream would go on for hours and I'd wake in the rough heat of my hermetic, carpeted bedroom, the gray footsie-bottoms of my PJs scraping against the cotton sheets. Now, alas, Scooby Doo is dead.
Or at least his creator is. Animation legend Iwao Takamoto died last week at age 82. This incredibly thoughtful "recycled" piece in Slate by Chris Suellentrop lays out all the influence that Scooby's had on the world of animation and pop culture. It's an odd, sad moment. I'll have to light one up for Shaggy. And pick up a dyke for Velma. But will Scooby haunt my dreams again?