Writing Through It: Some Scribbles On Anthony Bourdain
Celebrity deaths rarely stop me cold. There’s been a few, though. Kurt Cobain, Michael Jackson, George Michael, and Prince all affected me. David Bowie got me good.
But none of those hit me like Anthony Bourdain today. I’m surprised by my reaction to this. Surprised how paralyzed and unable to focus I am today. Surprised how I’m devouring all the articles I can about this, how I’m keeping CNN on, how I’m just… just… so damn bummed out. Over the death of someone I never met. I need to write through this to clear my head.
I guess the difference between Bourdain and the others is that Bourdain was a regular guy, whatever that means. Bourdain worked in kitchens most of his life, only finding success in his mid-40s. He had wonky teeth and dodgy tattoos and he was an ex-junkie. He was someone you could aspire to be if you were smarter and funnier and cooler than you are.
But then perhaps he thought the same thing while washing dishes or sitting in rented accommodations reading and mastering the art of writing. Maybe he figured if only he was smarter or funnier or cooler, he might make it one day, too.
Bourdain was a hero to me, proof you can make a real career out of your opinions and your passions and your honesty. Proof you’re never too old to make it and success can be sweeter when it comes late. I’m sure he was a hero to me for those reasons, although I never thought about it like that until now.
I remember the first episode of this current season of Parts Unknown when he went to Uruguay.
So far, the Uruguay episode is my favorite this season; I always love the Latin America ones because I live here. But now it takes on a whole new meaning for me.
In it, he’s talking about happiness. He notes how melancholy Uruguay seems— a country where no-one’s bouncing around with the joys of spring, despite the progress it’s made and despite it being a great place to live. This is a good thing to Bourdain.
“Happiness is fascism,” he says in the show, over something delicious and meaty and Uruguayan.
He says he couldn’t live in one of these countries — like Denmark, for example — that ranks high in those happiest-country-in-the-world surveys you see all the time.
“Who wants to live in a country where everyone’s always happy?”
To Bourdain, happiness was a rarity — something that will creep up on you here and there for a minute, an hour, a day, a week — and you will grin and realize “shit, I’m happy!” and bask in it until it passes.
Happiness was better for its rarity, something appreciated like a vintage wine or a good cheese. Happiness was a treat.
At least, that’s what I picked up from the Uruguay show.
And I knew what he meant. I’d say my personality veers towards the opposite of whatever happiness is. I prefer stoicism, realism, and gritty truth to unbounded, unfettered joy. It makes the joyful moments, when they come, so much better.
When I say my personality veers towards the opposite of whatever happiness is, I don’t mean sadness. I’m a melancholy person but not an unhappy one. I have a good life. What I mean is I spend most of my life in neutral, neither happy nor sad. Happiness comes and goes and so does sadness. Both are events.
Is that normal? Some might say living in neutral is a sign of depression. But the Uruguay episode of Parts Unknown resonated because it felt like Bourdain was talking about me when he was talking about himself.
It’s those periods between the happy patches you need to worry about. You needn’t be “happy” all the time. But be careful what you fill those stretches of neutral with.
I don’t know what entered Anthony Bourdain’s head in that hotel room in Strasbourg. I don’t if things were building up for a while or if it was a moment of madness. The guy had a young daughter, friends, the best job in the world, a new girlfriend. He experienced hardship and struggle and had prevailed into better times.
His “shit, I’m happy!” moments should have come more often. At least often enough to negate the darkness that also creeps into the neutral vacuum if left neglected.
But I shouldn’t know what was going on with him. It’s none of my business. I don’t even know if he lived in neutral most of the time like I do. I’m projecting my own life onto him because I can only talk about myself.
I do know I’ve never thought of suicide. If anyone ever asks me if I’ve had suicidal thoughts, the answer is an honest no. No matter how dark things get, it’s never been an option for me. I’m thankful for that. I also have no direct experience of suicide. No-one I know has killed themselves, which is surprising now I think of it, but I’m thankful for that too.
I can’t imagine the agony a person would go through to take that step. I can’t help but imagine Bourdain alone in his hotel room in the moments before he did what he did. How long was he there for? Did he make any calls? Leave a note? Had he been out to dinner the night before? How do these things happen? And his friend finding him. How must he be feeling? Man, this is consuming me right now. Too much. Write through it.
So if a guy who’s a hero to me can kill himself, a guy whose career I’ve watched for years from afar and admired in the way one admires a mentor, then I can kill myself too. So can you.
And that’s the scary part. The fact that the darkness can come from nowhere. Well, I guess it always comes from somewhere. Some corner of your past, some unresolved issue, some demon you’re suppressing or fighting. But we all have those, don’t we?
So yeah, if my neutral patches fill up with a darkness I can’t escape from I hope I know what to do. I have people who love me I know I can talk to. I can always find great therapy in writing through it, in my dogs, in going out for a beer, music, whatever.
A CNN interviewer once asked Bourdain whether it was worth it. The hard work, the constant travel, the fame. Yes, it was, he said.
But there’s a price to be paid when your dreams come true, he also said. I guess he paid it and then some.
