I know it’s screwed up to want to mourn a TV bumbler and beatnik when so many thousands of people died in such horrible ways last week, but I can’t help but link to these two Slate articles:

Like Maynard G. Krebs, Gilligan was an endearing if hopelessly inept dreamer—in fact, 11 of the show’s episodes were structured around Gilligan’s dreams, in which he imagined himself, Walter Mitty-style, as a prince, a vampire, a caveman, or a secret agent. In episode after episode, the castaways’ elaborate escape plans were foiled by Gilligan’s clumsiness and sloth—when the crucial moment came, he always seemed to be off napping in a hammock somewhere. Did Gilligan even want to be rescued?


there’s something sweet about this story: the image of the then 59-year-old Mary Ann acting as Gilligan’s [marijuana] supplier; his loyalty in refusing to name her in court; and most of all, the image of an aging Gilligan/Maynard G. Krebs, still dreaming away in his hammock or jamming on his bongo drums, smiling, a little high, and not quite ready to leave the island yet.