KHAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNN!

Ricardo Montalbán is dead.

I believe that everyone, everywhere, should observe his passing by walking out into the street and shouting, "KHAAAAAAAAAAANNNN!" at the sky, for somewhere above, Khan Noonien Singh is hovering in the stolen Enterprise, his pecs pumped beyond mortal proportions and clearly beyond the capacity of a man his age. Perhaps then, and only then, a Grumman Widgeon seaplane will be seen streaking across the blue vault of heaven, on its way to ferry the soul of Mr. Roarke back to Fantasy Island. I'm sure as he flies that one hand will rest sensually on the rich, Corinthian leather of the custom seats, another will gently pat the head of the ever-faithful-though-clearly-deranged Hervé Villechaize, a third will powerfully throttle the aging neck of William Shatner, while the fourth will steadfastly guide the plane along its appointed route.

Fly swift and true Ricardo Gonzalo Pedro Montalbán Merino! You make up a disproportionate number of my memories for someone I never had the pleasure to have met.