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Brooks Peterson
Brooks Peterson's column is published Mondays. Brooks also sits on the Caller-Times editorial board and can be contacted at petersonb@caller.com
Monday, June 26, 2000
Crocodile guy's secret? He lives his zany dream
Today we're going to try something a little different. Different is good. (Why? Because I say so.) We're going to begin with a pop quiz.
All you have to do is write down what you know about the following:
Steve Irwin.
Eh? What's that? Glassy-eyed stares of incomprehension?
OK, try this on:
The Crocodile Hunter.
Crikey, we all know who he is, don't we? He's the Aussie wot rassles with crocs and rhinos and hippos and snakes and such on the telly. Fair keeps us (and himself) in stitches, 'e does.
In what seems the twinkling of an eye, this berserk character has erupted from Down Under and made himself a zany but essential presence in our dens and rumpus rooms and taverns. So strong a claim has he staked on our affections that the Animal Planet cable channel devoted a big slug of last week to a Crocodile Hunter marathon. You want a madman in khaki shorts and mud-crusted boots plunging headlong through fever swamps, malarial bogs and murky inland waterways in pursuit of seriously dangerous life forms? Steve's your guy.
So all of us - or at least all of us who have access to the blessings of cable television - know Steve. No doubt some sniffish viewers out there utter a little cry of distaste and change channels instantly when they happen to come across him on the tube, but these bloodless types are definitely in the minority. Phooey to 'em.
It's simple as this, mate: America has fallen in love with the Crocodile Hunter. Doesn't matter if we're yupsters or ropers, aesthetes or cold-eyed captains of industry: The whole country has gone stark staring bonkers about this guy.
And that of course raises The Question: Why?
I hesitate to offer an answer. We Americans are well known, and justifiably scorned, for our lamentable propensity to analyze things to death.
But . . . here goes:
To begin with, there's what we might call the WWF Factor: Having had our sensibilities bruised and battered to near-nullity by the overkill that is an integral part of our pop culture, we lust for . . . more! More outrageous! More bizarre! More outre!
And of course, the Crocodile Hunter delivers: How many people have you ever seen blithely stick an arm into a den of rattlers to extract a specimen for the amusement of the populace? How many guys do you know who like nothing better than to get up close and personal with crocs and other potential man-eaters (or at least man-maimers)? Crank in, too, the fact that, unlike the meticulously choreographed mayhem of pro rassling, Steve Irwin's adventures are free-form, unscripted and, well . . . real. This little guy makes the steroid-enhanced monsters of the squared circle look a bunch of stiffs.
Another powerful factor working in the Crocodile Hunter's favor is what we might call the Naughty Kid syndrome: At one time or another, all of us - from childhood to adulthood to irrelevance - have yearned to kick over the traces: to run with scissors, to neglect to set the emergency brake, to double-clutch into first sans benefit of synchromesh, to try out Grandpa's chain saw without consulting him (or the instructions).
Ol' Steve does that, and more. While he insists that he knows what he's about - and obviously he does, or he wouldn't still be here to entertain us - the Crocodile Hunter is the anarchist lurking in the nooks and crannies of our psyche, softly but urgently egging us on to do senseless but wildly entertaining things.
And, finally, there's another powerful element in the mix: The fact that Steve Irwin is living his life on his terms, not ours - and having a high old time doing it. That's the thing that hits home with the great, the obscure, the cloistered and the jaded - even with a jaded NewsWretch. The Crocodile Hunter probably won't make it to the moon, but this cat's definitely got the Right Stuff.
Brooks Peterson
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