Crocodile Tears

There is nothig remotely amusing or even satiric that I can say about the passing of Steve Irwin, world-renowned Austrailian naturalist/showman, who succumbed to a poorly (or perfectly, from the ray's point of view) aimed sting. That he actually pulled out the poisonsus barb from his wounded chest before abruptly collapsing will certainly add to the legend. It will provide an iconic end to a movie that I'm sure is already in the works, with Russell Crowe as its putative lead (which is really good casting).

Irwin's death is a blow to nature lovers, Australia and the Animal Channel, but certainly could have been predicted. This man made a living boldly wrestling dangerous beasts, of which Australia is extremely well-endowed. Well, as somebody might have added to the epitaph of Timothy Treadwell, "Sometimes you get the bear, and sometimes the bear gets you." In this case Irwin did not exactly invite the killer into his cabin and treat it like a puppy dog. But he was swimming in hazardous waters, filming a special about dangerous marine creatures, and did not think of donning a rubber wet suit during the process. This is also the guy who pulled a Michael Jackson last year by dangling his baby in one hand while wrestling a gator with the other. I doubt that this behavior was recommended in the Scout's Manual.

The freakishness of Irwin's accicental death reminded me of some of the bizarre historic demises that could not have been planned except by the most brutishly random circumstance. For instance, Isadora Duncan, who jumped into a flivver for a hot tryst with her Italian mechanic, flung her long dangling scarf into the air singing "Je vais a la gloire," and having it stick in the spokes of the back wheel so that when the car accelerated it snapped her neck in two. Another freakish auto accident sadly ended the life of director Alan Pakula while motoring idly on the Long Island Expressway, when a piece of metal from some road flotsam bounced into his windshield and smashed his face in. And Jayne Mansfield, who was decpaitated when a truck stopped short in front of her in the middle of a fog bank. And don't get me started with Catherine the Great. A horse is a horse, of course, of course.

A friend of mine summarized it all with the boring bromide, "When your time is up, your time is up," but that would hardly be solace to any relative of a 9/11 victim who decided not to stay home from work that morning because of a head cold. Another famous aphorism, this from John Donne, states, "Every man's death diminishes me." A nice thought, but I hardly think my life is less valuable because Saddam's kids were gunned down. Still, lest I bring some sort of curse on myself, it does give one pause to muse about anyone's passing--so long as it doesn't depress one deeply enough to turn to religious fanaticism to make some meaning of mortality.

Recently in my condo building, three gentlemen met their ends. One, an elderly man named Ed, shot himself after learning that he had metastatic prostate cancer. He was meticulous about the event, leaving a note and trying his best not to make a mess. He was a nice man and I hope he died painlessly. Everyone who knew him understood his motivations and believed that the neighborhood would, indeed, miss his genial presence. The second death was of a Russian actor who apparently was killed in an auto accident in his homeland. This individual, the scion of a great Russian acting family, was somewhat charming but also very self-involved (what, in Los Angeles?), engging in unusual business deals, and in truth, some neighbors suspect he is not really dead but on the lam from the Russian mafia.

The third death, though, is rather sad and fascinating. Edgar, a 65-year-old electrician, was found dead in his bathroom, either from a heart attack or an accident. The water in the bathtup was still running, giving the scenario a film noir eeriness. But when this man's demise was discussed, there was not a tear to be shed anywhere. This man was purportedly a wife-beater, and was as obnoxious a presence as could be imagined in a law-abiding citizen. For my part, when I saw him outdoors, I would hustle across the street to avoid the dark brooding arrogance with which he strutted around. When several neighbors gathered to discuss his passing, not a single nice thing could be said about him. I only recalled contentious arguments he had with me when I was on the condo board. Anothe neighbor recalled how she went to ask him to turn down the noise from his stereo and all he could say was how fat she had suddenly become. The kindest words of all came from our building's assistant manager, the one who had actually discovered his body. "He did not have a very good personality," she mused, aware of the understatement.

It was like the eulogy from Hell, or Bizzarroland. And given the other lame axiom that "Only the good die young," well there's the exception that proves the rule.