A Bit of Obit

I know, I know-- Corey Haim is dead. Those of us who are my age and were suckled on the teat of cinematic masterpieces like "License to Drive" are very broken up about it.

Oftentimes when a celebrity, or a long-ago celebrity, perishes, the internet is flooded with tributes-- people flock to their obsessively-updated Wikipedia and IMDB pages. They tweet about the great loss suffered by the untimely passing and they wax rhapsodic about some of the deceased most quotable moments.

It's kind of a bandwagon thing, except, instead of a bandwagon that everybody's clamoring to get on, it's a hearse.

We all know that I'm a pretty morbid sonofabitch, so, when a celebrity dies, I often turn to the New York Times obituaries-- not to read the celebrity's obit, but to see who else joined them in exiting life's stage at or around the same time.

Folks, say hello-- and goodbye, to John Thorbjarnarson.

I admit that I had no idea who this guy was before I clicked on his obituary. And I'll even go further to admit (because, if I can't be honest with you, then you might as well pull out all my teeth and replace them with peanut M&Ms) that I only clicked on his obituary because of his superawesomeballs last name: Thorbjarnarson.

Thorb

jar

nar

son.

And the "jar" is really pronounced "yar." You know, just because it wasn't cool enough already.

Seriously? That's fucking intense.

His first name bites the boredom brownie, but he more than makes up for it.

Of course, his whacked-out last name isn't the only reason I clicked on his obituary-- I was also kind of interested in the career that he chose:

Crocodile and Alligator Expert.

Can you picture this guy, when he was alive, obviously-- walking into a nice restaurant with white linen tablecloths and blush wine-colored candlesticks gently flickering as he introduces himself to a coquettish, wispy-haired blind date?

"Hi, I'm John Thorbjarnarson, Crocodile and Alligator Expert. Gosh-- traffic was just awful, wasn't it?"

Thorbjarnarson was employed by the Wildlife Consevation Society and his actual professional title was herpetologist, which doesn't even require a follow-up joke so I'll just let it sit. Not only did he make it his life's work to study crocodiles and alligators, but made the preservation of their lives one of his foremost goals.

Not for nothing-- but I would love the opportunity to go back in time to the Thorbjarnarson house, maybe when John was five or six, and just observe him. Was he the kid who was constantly playing around in the local creek, attempting to rouse gigantic, saber-toothed creatures with crusts of bread? Did he dress his little sister up as a crocodile and then chase her around the house with a butterfly net before wrastlin' her to the ground like an overzealous Secret Service Agent?

What the fuck did his standardized career prediction test say? Mine said I would be either an actor or a forest ranger. Apparently, he didn't become "obsessed with reptiles" until he was about 13 or 14, about the same age that normal boys become obsessed with cars or breasts. While he may have been made fun of by his peers, I suppose it's a good thing that there are, were, and will continue to be guys like John Thorbjarnarson who are obsessed with crocodiles and alligators, and are not only obsessed with them, but are willing to bust out the swimming trunks and go rolling around in the muddy swamps with them to get a better understanding of just what the hell they are.

Because you won't catch 99.8% of the population doing that shit. We're far too busy with cars and breasts.

I wonder if John Thorbjarnarson ever thought about his own death-- I suspect that someone who spent such an inordinate amount of time dealing with reptiles as big as a White House dining room table probably did-- and if he ever thought that he would have a normal, quiet death-- like a stroke or an aneurysm or plain old fashioned very very boring cardiac arrest. Did he ever think that he would die not inside the dark, wet, hot mouth of a crocodile or an alligator? Obviously, he had long ago made peace with the very real probability that he would wind up a reptilian squeak-toy.

He died of malaria-- decidedly less violent than being ripped to shreds by a carniverous animal-- but he died of malaria contracted whilst studying carniverous animals, and so they and the unhealthy, unhospitable conditions in which they live did John Thorbjarnarson in in the end-- though it wasn't very dramatic.

Hopefully, none of his colleagues will say something trite or stupid about him like, "He died doing what he loved" or "This is how he would have wanted to go." or "He was a herpetologist's herpetologist."

Because I just hate that shit.

Doing What He Loved

As an avid and active supporter of law enforcement officers, I know all the rhetoric that gets automatically spewed from the uniformed talking heads that have the misfortune to be stuck behind microphones and newscameras.

"He was a cop's cop."

"He always wanted to be a police officer."

"He will never be forgotten."

"He knew the risks."

And, inevitably, "He died doing what he loved."

That one comes up a lot when a first responder dies while on-duty. "He died doing what he loved." Nobody ever questions these slogans, because, really, in the moment, you'd be looked at as kind of an asshole if you did-- but what does that really mean?

He died doing what he loved? The cop died chasing some shitbag through a slum apartment complex at 2:30 in the morning, all because the dumb prick was a wanted, armed felon and he wouldn't pull over to accept a ticket for a broken turn signal light? That was what he loved? The firefighter died falling through two stories of a house that caught fire because some stupid asshole kid was growing marijuana in the basement and didn't put the right wattage bulbs in the heat lamps? Who the hell loves that?

Even if you do die doing what you supposedly "love," does that really matter? Does that somehow take away the paralyzing fear and undeniable, irreversable dread you felt the instant you saw the guy in the oversized wifebeater turn towards you with a Tech-9 and pull the trigger? No, of course it doesn't. Platitudes like that are for the living anyway-- they're supposed to make the ones dressed in black the next day somehow feel better.

But I wonder if it really does.

I tried to think about the things that I do in my life that I love doing, and I couldn't really come up with much. I love being held by my wife, but I sure as hell wouldn't want to die like that-- that'd be kind of awkward for her, I think. I like writing, but I don't really love it, and I don't think it would sound quite right if I stroked out at the computerdfgjkdjhg;idgi;erag;agenk;sjdfnkxdg;dafkgnadskngdsa;kngfa;ksdjngkasdjlngfjkdabneg;

like that, and some numb-numb wrote an obiturary for me saying that I "died doing what I loved-- writing." Just doesn't sound right, does it?

I love trolling around ebaymotors fantasizing about purchasing old cars, but, again, would dying during that particular activity spur someone to report that I had died "doing what I loved?"

Weird.

I read an obituary today about a "semiretired financier" who died while surfing last weekend. Last weekend, you might remember, the east coast was visited by a rather unwelcomed friend named Hurricane Bill. The deceased surfer was a newbie, receiving a lesson. Obviously, this is a tragic event for his family, but the extremely long obituary made the claim that the family is "finding some solace in the fact that he died doing something he loved."

What was that, exactly? Taking insane risks? Ignoring dangerous surf warnings? Putting his life at risk and callously disregarding the family he would soon leave without its husband and father? Being a completely thoughtless schmuck?

His children, according to the article, had enough sense to pack it in early on that day. I guess they weren't prepared to die doing what they loved, or maybe they just didn't love frollicking in the Atlantic Ocean during a hurricane.

I'm sorry, but it's exceedingly difficult for me to find sympathy for this reckless individual, regardless of whether he died "doing what he loved" or not. If you have a wife and children, what you love should be them, not pursuing your own interests in a thoroughly dangerous environment for no reason at all other than your own selfish enjoyment. Granted, police officers and firefighters put themselves in harm's way every day and night, but they're doing it for the greater social good-- there is no social good in surfing during a hurricane, whether you're a beginner or an expert.

So go ahead and die doing what you love, but don't expect a nodding affirmation or a funeral wreath from me.