An Open Letter To Anthony Bourdain
Fuck you.
It’s posthumous and I understand this will only fire up all of your fervent fans who, so enamored with your character, the person you portrayed for the world to see as something more than mere mortal, will not accept a betrayal to your legacy.
On a personal note, you’re one of the coolest fucking people I’ve ever known. Only I didn’t know you. I knew what you provided me to see. Your battles were my battles…were my battles. Your love of food became my love of food. Your amazing travels to far off lands, exploring the humanity of cultures beyond our comprehension and, their love of gastronomic feasts that most of us could only fantasize about, inspired.
It wasn’t enough. I understand this. As an artist, albeit on a much smaller scale, I understand that your life is not always yours. The expectations of those who hold you to a higher place is difficult, if not impossible, to ignore.
We were allowed to peer through a lens at the life of a man who lived freely, expressed openly and loved greatly. What we weren’t privy to was your prison. Whether self-imposed or sentenced — those lonely, foreboding nights, alone with your own thoughts were, yours alone.
I never read your book. You know, the one that everyone who is anyone swears by and proclaims their intimate knowledge of who you were as a person by the words on the page…
Fuck them, too.
You were an addict. The level of despair that comes from living in a world where you’re an alien is not lost on me. Those that prop you up, believing they understand, only make the wounds hurt more. The connections, fleeting as time moves away from you and the answers never in your grasp. The only escape — is, the escape.
I only write to you today because there are times I wish the courage was in me to just check out. I think about the defining moments, as an artist, where you think life can’t get any better and then, it doesn’t. Your identity lies in what your last best accomplishment was and anything less than, disappoints.
Propped up by false idolatry…those looking to live vicariously through the person, the image they feel some connection to. In turn, they’re also ready to pounce when you fail. And we all fail, eventually.
Anthony. I’m just a small cog in this giant, confusing and bewildering world we inhabit. My visions of grandeur limited to a small audience that on occasion acknowledges my bright light. I can’t help feeling that you’re my brethren and while my successes pale in light of yours — the struggle feels painstakingly similar.
The answers will probably not be in your book but I am going to partake. Perhaps it will help me understand why my self-loathing, even in my wins, consumes my waking moments and curtails my ability to enjoy true happiness at times.
My suicidal tendencies have long passed. I have since embraced the idea that living is far more important to me than not existing. My quest now is to understand why those closest put more value in the truth of a stranger who has celebrity than exhibiting the same understanding and compassion of one they call neighbor, brother — friend.
Fuck you Anthony Bourdain, fuck you.
