rassling crocs in the great beyond

Steve Erwin, the “Crocodile Hunter”, was killed by a stingray earlier today. Love him or hate him (my wife thought he was great; I thought he was too over the top for my tastes), he brought a infectious enthusiasm to his work that contrasted sharply with the narcoleptic narrative style of old school wildlife programs, as well as a sense of empathy for his subjects lacking in the animal snuff porn that passes for nature documentaries today. (”This young gazelle has strayed from his herd. Watch as he is ripped to shreds by a pack of wild dogs.”) His legacy lives on in a host of imitators.

My deepest condolences go out to his wife and young children.

Rest in peace, Mr. Irwin. I’ll forgive you for the child endangerment thing and the Crocodile Hunter movie, if you’ll forgive me for using “What a steamer!” in a scatological context.