Tomorrow marks the one-year anniversary of Steve Irwin's death. For whatever reason, I totally loved that guy and I'd like to post a little something I wrote upon hearing of his death... it's called "mourning and Australian love".
Yes, I woke up this morning and crawled out of my metal loft only to check my e mail and alas, the disturbing news was presented ... The Crocodile Hunter has died.
Cue the immediate disbelief.
Without a second to lose I hopped on to google, but the rumors were confirmed by every major news source in the country. Mr. Crikey had croaked. Ironically while filming a documentary called "Ocean's Deadliest," Steve Irwin was stabbed in the chest by the poisonous barb of a stingray. The barb punctured the bloke's thrill-seeing heart and the paramedics pronounced him dead at the scene.
Cue the slow acceptance and the waterfall of tears.
Not Steve-o!! He's indestructible. He's immortal. He's impervious to eighteen kinds of venom. I adore the khaki-clad superhero in all of his Australian zaniness. His adventures brought him within an inch of death whether it was the poisonous fangs of a cobra or the unrelenting jaw of a crocodile. Unfortunately, this adventure brought him too close.
To me, Steve Irwin was Australia, just as he was Animal Planet and the Discovery Channel. And I don't think that this unique and devastating loss merits black at all. In true Croc Hunter style, I'm wearing khaki.
Peace, Steve-o ... go wrestle the great crocs in the sky ...
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