* Wright Thompson following a prep star.
* Dan Barry.
* Chris Goffard with Father, son and holy rift (read this).
* And the first thing I thought when I read of 'Crocodile Hunter' Steve Irwin's unfortunate encourter with a sting ray? I can't wait to read Hank Stuever's essay.
** UPDATE: Well, it wasn't Stuever. Paul Fahri handles the so-long, Steve duties: Steve Irwin spent much of his life not just tempting fate but petting it, riding its back and swinging it by the tail. In the end, fate snapped back.
Irwin, television's "Crocodile Hunter," died yesterday at the age of 44 in his native Australia after being stung by a stingray while shooting a new TV series along the Great Barrier Reef. It was a freaky way to go -- stingrays are rarely lethal -- but perhaps morbidly fitting, since imminent death was the unbilled co-star of Irwin's fascinating and entertaining career.
You watched Irwin as you watched a high-wire performer, never hoping for a slip but fully aware of how awful (and interesting) one would be. In his showman's heart, Irwin knew that "Crocodile Hunter" would never be captivating television if the animals he touched, held and occasionally provoked couldn't take him out with one snap of the jaws.
So, in his trademark safari shirt, khaki shorts and hiking boots (did the man ever wear anything else?), Irwin bounded gleefully into the viper's pit and the scorpion's den. He traveled the world to show off new nasties -- pythons, Komodo dragons, monitor lizards, tarantulas and, of course, massive crocs -- all without a doctor or rescue team anywhere in sight, the herpetologist's equivalent of working without a net.
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