Croc Hunter Steve Irwin as a Selfish, Irresponsible Ass

This today from AP:
"Crocodile Hunter" Steve Irwin always felt he would die early but that it would be a car wreck, not an animal, that killed him, the widow of the daredevil TV star and conservationist said Wednesday.
In her first interview since Irwin died from the jab of a stingray Sept. 4, Terri Irwin said her husband had an uncanny way with animals that both of them believed would keep him safe as he caught crocodiles, snatched up snakes and played with other dangerous beasts.
"I never thought it would be an animal, he never thought it would be an animal," Terri Irwin said in the interview with Australia's Nine Network, aired Wednesday. "I thought he would fall out of a tree, he thought it would be a car accident."
Asked by interviewer Ray Martin if Irwin believed he would die early, Terri said, "he had a very strong conviction that he would. To the point where I'm grateful in a way, because we're prepared."
Irwin, 44, died minutes after a stingray's barb pierced his chest while he filmed a TV show on the Great Barrier Reef. His death prompted an unprecedented outpouring of grief in Australia and among millions of fans of his televisions show "Crocodile Hunter."
A memorial service held for him last week at the family-owned wildlife park where he lived in Queensland state was broadcast on three television networks in Australia and picked up by international networks. Prime Minister John Howard attended, and Hollywood stars Russell Crowe, Cameron Diaz and others sent video condolences.
Terri Irwin, originally from Eugene, Oregon, has spoken publicly only twice since her husband's death, once to Martin and in a second interview with ABC television's Barbara Walters. The Walters interview is due to air Wednesday in the United States.
Terri Irwin said she has not seen the film of her husband's deadly encounter with a stingray and that it will never be shown on television.
"What purpose would that serve?" Terri Irwin said in the Walters interview, according to excerpts released in advance by ABC.
State Premier Peter Beattie announced on Wednesday the road that runs past the park in the hamlet of Beerwah would be renamed after the television star and conservationist.
"Steve Irwin and his family have put Beerwah on the map and I can think of no more fitting tribute," Beattie said.
Irwin's friend and business partner, John Stainton, has seen the film of his death. He told Walters he never wants to see it again and does not want anyone else to see it. "It's just a horrible piece of film tape," he said.
Terri Irwin was on a trip in Australia's southern Tasmania state with the couple's two children, 8-year-old daughter Bindi and 2-year-old son Bob, when her brother-in-law reached her with the news.
"I remember thinking, 'Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't say it,'" she said. "I looked out the window, and Bindi was skipping, skipping along outside the window. And I thought, `Oh, my children. He wouldn't have wanted to leave the children.' And I knew it was an accident. It was an accident so stupid. It was like running with a pencil."
She said it is important for her family to continue the work her husband did in teaching the world about wildlife.
Irwin told Walters she is getting through her grief "one minute at a time."

Over and over, Steve Irwin himselv was convinced as were others that he'd die early. His wife seems to have gone along with it, either actually believing it, or giving in to him by simply acknowledging it (thereby helping facilitate it? Discuss.). Friends and colleagues and business partners did the same, either buying into it, believing it truly, or just generally going with the flow. Why mess with the gravy train that was STeve Irwin, Inc., Crocodile Hunter and international commercial and conservation icon?

So is this some sort of romantic notion of predestination? Religious belief in divine fate? Well, none of that is borne out in this short description. Where's the mentin of God, Jesus, the Great Spirit, any form of Something Bigger Than Us? NOpe, not one word of that, either in all of his shows and public persona, or in all of his post-death pronunciations from family, colleagues, and fans.

What is recorded here is a self-rationalizing construct of mortality based on sheer selfishness. Steve Irwin was an entertainer and a wildlife specialist, one or the other taking center stage depending on who was paying the bills. He did unbelievably wild things with any manner of incredibly dangerous and unpredictable creatures, over and over. The I'll-die-early toss-off is just another way of saying, "Yeah, I do dangerous stuff, and I'm going to keep on doing it because I enjoy it and so do all of the fans. But I know, one day the odds will catch up with me." And that's exactly what happened.

More than anything, it was absolutely, crytal-clear, painfully obvious that he enjoyed every single bit of doing it. Whether it was being in a pond with a crocodile or getting bitten by a snake, he was into it all the way, a true adrenaline junkie addicted to the thrill of the confronation, the dance with danger and the threat of death, and likely also the thrill of the unwavering attention that so many accorded him when he pulled his stunts (and one has to admit, many of the things he did with dangerous animals were stunts).

Did he like animals and want to protect them? Sure he did, but that isn't what drove him. That much is clear. What drove him was the thrill of the hunt, the rush of the confrontation, touching danger and walking away smiling.

So Steve wraps it all together by constructing an elaborate albeit transparent fantasy of death, a way of saying nonchalantly, "I know what I'm doing, and it's dangerous, but I'm a professional. Sure, sometimes what I do could be considered irresponsible, but hey, that's just me, so that's what'll happen. Okay, mate?"


And who's left? It's heart-wrenching to read the above account of a mother taking the phone call giving her the news she's always expected but never really thought would come, that her two children--the ones she is watching playing witout a care in the world right outside the window--are now fatherless. That's the tragedy here. It's not the world's loss of a vocal and influential world conservation spokesman, although that is something to consider. The tragedy here is that the selfishness of one man for his own personal pursuits. Remember when he so unbelievably stupidly took his baby child in his arms into a crocodile pit? One misstep, one misguided hornet down the front of his shirt, one stiff breeze, and the world would've been treated to a father accidentally feeding a human baby to a crocodile. That was absolutely obscene, and this is a term I use very sparingly, as obscene as that unthinking, similarly narcissistic circus freak Michael Jackson dangling a helpless baby three stories above a Paris street. But I digress.

Who's left? A widow and her two children are left. No more Dad. Consolation, I guess, is that Irwin's media presence has provided them with a significant cushion so they are not looking at a major change in the way they live. But who will teach the kids to ride bikes? Who will be there for the first date and the high school graduation, college graduation, to preside at the wedding of his daughter? Not Stever, because he had things that were more important to him.

I'd love to have a motorcycle, or skydive, or even go bungee jumping. But I don't, and I won't. And I won't swim with sharks or sea snakes. No paragliding or mountain climbing either. Too much risk in those any number of pursuits which would be incredibly enjoyable for me personally, but in which the slightest miscalculation on my part or others', the slightest whiff of a breeze, the slightest imperceptible animal signal, could take me right on out of the picture for my wife and two children. I guess that's the ultimate definition of parenthood and parental responsiblity: I'm living for them, and for what I can and will do in the future, instead of living for me in the now.

Steve made his own choices, and the consequences put him where he is. I make my choices, every single day in things as banal as choosing one road over another to take to work. As bland, lame and mushy and self-constrained as these choices may seem to many people, I know they will take me to where I want to go, and to where my wife and my children want me to be, for as long as possible.

The New n' Improved Superdome

So the Saints came marchin' in to their house, to the renovated, rejuvenated, repainted, and hopefully seriously disinfected Superdome this evening. All of the press, all of the man/woman-on-the-street interviews were full of pride, a sense of victory and defiance and all of that we're-not-beaten-down bullshit. I heard idiots half-heartedly (drunkely) yapping some lame football cheers as they tailgated seven hours early for the evening game. Even NPR had some Times-Picayune flack this morning giving a meandering, overall defiant rant about his city and his Dome, talking all about how they're dirty but who cares and how the city has only got half its population but who cares, and the Saints and the Superdome somehow preposterously represent some sense of return to normalcy, the old ways, the life that was gone when time and Nature caught up with NOLA. Sure, friend, whatever level of denial floats your flat-bottomed boat (for use in the next flood).

And the kicker, the thing that actually got me to sit down and write this evening? That was a simple figure I heard in one report, the sum of $144 million dollars in federal funds that was spent to hook up the Superdome.

Let's put that in perspective. Before taxes, it would take me 1,252 years and a couple of months to earn the money to do that. At minimum wage (the lofty sum of $5.15/hour, which Congress recently voted to keep just that way), it would take 13,442 years for some poor working schmuck to make the money that it took to rebuild New Orleans' House of Shame.

Make no mistake, this is no return to normalcy, no pure bleach on the stain of shame. In every report that will ever again be aired about the Superdome, there will be more than a fleeting reference to Katrina and the tens of thousands who were stranded there and left to fend for themselves by the city, state, and federal governments. There will be the reports of the dead bodies inside and outside the building. There will be the reports of the open sewers, the violence, the myths of the bathroom rape and murder, the shoot-to-kill orders (which were carried out), the immediate descent into every-man-for-himself, with the Superdome, its sanctuary roof torn right on off by the storm in the ultimate physical symbol of what it meant for the structure to have been designated an evacuation/collection point in the firs place, right in the very center.

All of the full-of-themselves politicians spun this as some sort of victory, some sort of symbolic return of the old ways, the old days, like nothing had ever happened. How is that realistically possible? How, Kathleen Blanco, can you look yourself in the mirror and smile and tell yourself that you really think that the repair of the Superdome was a victory? You're a politician; of course you can do it. Ray Nagin, I admire the way you tell it like it is, but you were a failure then, and by letting them rebuild this venue you're a failure now. Again, I wonder how you can look yourself in the eye as you shave. Why didn't you stand up and tell the truth that the city would have been better off to tear the thing down and start anew, to spend the money where it was immediately needed? You had your chance, and you let your constituents down.

What could the people of New Orleans have done with that $144 million in federal funds? At a very modest sum of $150,000 per home, they could have built brand-new single-family homes for 960 families. Or they could have spent $20 million to finally dispose of the debris still piled in the streets, with over $120 million left over for a neighborhoodfish-fry. Or they could have given one-time grants of $50,000 apiece to worthy recipients, to 2880 people. They could have rebuilt the demolished churches, schools, libraries, fire stations, police stations, water treatment plants, local government offices, community centers, post offices, something useful like that.

But no, it was about the Superdome, the giant beacon defining the NOLA skyline and now defining a pivotal event in modern American history, when it was proven that our local, municipal, state and federal governments have neither the will nor the capability to assist us in time of true crisis (a specific crisis that has been consistently predicted and known and considered and modeled, by the way, for over 200 years). And Idiot America in New Orleans bought it. I heard not a word of complaint in all of the coverage this morning, this afternoon, or this evening. Where was the outrage at the sum spent on a sports and convention venue? Where was the outrage at spending one hundred and forty-four million dollars on a site that benefits private business interests (sports and associations) and the local government? Where was the angry mob to disrupt the game and demand that the same $144 million be spent on their homes, their places of business and living? Nope, everyone was all about their home team, all finally come home, the 'Aints returned gloriously after a 2005 season of home games on the road, for another losing season, but this time a real homey, welcoming losing season with their stadium all sold out (again, more money for the private business venture that is the ownership of the Saints, more money that the morons in the city should be spending on putting their lives back together).

People are ignorant, self-delusioinal, lazy, self-rationalizing sheep, and the residents of New Orleans are our best current example of that. They built and lived in a city beneath sea level, built it up and kept it going for over two hundred years, and then stayed in the city as a monster hurricane bore down on them, wallowing in their own filth for weeks (even still, really). And now they think that all is well because they've got an NFL team to root for right in their own midst, on Monday Night Football (TM), no less. Absolute fucking morons; they deserve everything that does not come to them.

Baby Dies in Bucket of Mother's Vomit

What a delightful thing to read on a fall Saturday morning:

A baby died after rolling off a bed and falling into a bucket of her teenage mother's vomit at a homeless shelter, police said. The mother, Savarin DeJesus, 18, was charged with criminally negligent homicide and endangering the welfare of a child, and could get five years behind bars. The young woman trembled and wept as she faced a judge Friday. "I loved my baby. I want you to know that," she said. Authorities said DeJesus spent the evening of Sept. 15 downing gin and smoking cigarettes and then returned before dawn to the shelter where she lived with the 4-month old girl, Niah. DeJesus threw up into a bucket of cleaning solution next to her bed, then passed out on the bed, clutching Niah's legs, authorities said. When she awoke about 10 hours later, she found the baby with her head in the bucket, which contained about six inches of liquid, according to court papers. The cause of death was either asphyxiation or drowning, the medical examiner's office said.
DeJesus "loved her baby and would never hurt her," said her lawyer, Kenneth Gilbert.
The city's Department of Homeless Services said it was trying to determine if the East Harlem shelter had a crib.

Yeah, yeah, being homeless is hard and it's not fun and all of that other standard shit. So where was the baby while Mom was out getting tanked? Who was watching the baby then? Anyone?

And when she got back, what shelter representative assigned someone to take care of the child because the mother clearly was too intoxicated to do anything but pass out? Did Mom even attempt to find someone to look after her and the child?

Yes, these are the questions for the authorities to answer, and Mom probably will get off with a light punishment of community service and alcohol treatment, etc. She professes how she loved her baby, but her actions belie that load of crap. If she loved her baby, she'd have been back at the shelter with the child, making sure she was doing everything in her power to keep the child safe and healthy. If she really loved her child, she'd have a goddamn job so she could work toward getting out of the shelter to ensure a decent future for the baby she says she loved so much. But no, getting smashed was more important.

When I become Philosopher-King, I will have a way of dealing with this: the courts will do their thing and she will get what punishment she gets, no interference from me. But after that's all through, when it's determined for sure that she is at fault in the child's death, my Solomonic decision will be immediate surgical removal of her ability to conceive a child, and a lifetime ban on any form of caring for or serving as a caregiver for a child. She has demonstrated, as a legal adult, that she has no concept whatsoever what it means to be responsible for the health, welfare, and life of a child, so her opportunity to enjoy this trust will be immediately and irrevocably revoked. If this is how she treats children, then her performance here stands as her public statement of her capability and will. Yes, everyoen makes mistakes, but this was not a mistake, this was a death caused by willful ommission, and she's used up her grace period. She will never, ever again have the responsibility to care for, conceive, or be the parent of any child, anywhere.

That's what she deserves, in addition to any emotional pain this worthless, selfish idiot may or may not suffer.