I'm not going to treat my body like a temple. I'm going to treat it like a fun house.
Anthony Bourdain
Yes, but eventually the fun turns stale, the exotic becomes routine, and the act, goes strangely mechanical, performed only by soul numbing rote.
I'm just guessing of course, since I have no idea what went through Anthony Bourdain's mind right before he hung himself in a French hotel room last Friday. I do know, that by killing himself he joined an ever expanding circle of people I've admired, known, or was related to who have committed suicide.
Right now the count includes one grandfather, one uncle, and four high school classmates.
Two of those among the admired are Ernest Hemingway and Hunter S. Thompson. During his adventures, Bourdain made a crude speculation about the size of Hemingway's genitals and ripped off--rather poorly--Thompson's book, "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," on an episode of his Travel Channel show, "No Reservations." So if I can claim any sort of connection to the man, it would be an extremely tenuous one. Apparently we, along with millions of others, read some of the same authors.
That and I had a tendency to binge watch, "No Reservations," whenever I could, like I did yesterday afternoon, less than 48 hours after learning of his death.
There was much to like about Anthony Bourdain, who in 2013 moved to CNN with a show called, "Parts Unknown." He went to places I've dreamed of and others I've never given a thought to. He was absolutely fearless when it came to trying local cuisine, sometimes stepping over a line I wouldn't even go near--like that moment in western Africa when he consumed an Ostrich egg baked in dirt, as an appetizer, then for the entree ate a Wart Hog's rectum.
His snarky wit was entertaining and usually spot on and even though he was obviously well read and intelligent, he traveled completely without pretense. He might have been the smartest guy in the room, but he never talked down to anyone. At least not on any of his shows. And, even though he became a star, he was always acutely aware he was a guest in some one's country, or home and behaved accordingly. He was never the boorish American tourist.
That being said, he didn't mind telling the camera that sometimes a meal sucked: The Wart Hog's ass? "The worst meal I've ever had." Or that a particular spot was uninspiring. Like the time he visited a place in Italy which packaged sea salt--the process involved watching pools of sea water evaporate.
On the dark side when he spoke of the grueling work in the world's kitchens, he tended to romanticize the outlaw drugs and alcohol abuse which he led us to believe is rampant among workers in the industry. I suspect it isn't a coincidence, Hemingway did the same with heavy drinking and Thompson did it with narcotics both real and fictional.
Well, shit happens when you live on the edge and sometimes it doesn't take much to tip you over into the abyss. Bourdain's death came on the heels of designer Kate Spade's suicide. It seems like nearly every piece I've seen regarding both of them on the net has ended with a generic plea to get help coupled with a phone number to a crisis center.
Unfortunately, those who have truly heard the reaper's whisper know it always includes the admonishment to ignore such entreaties. Listen you hopeless fuck, there's no reason to involve strangers. Just get on with it!
Some heed the words, others step back. However, whichever ends up being the resolution, most of the time, as illustrated in both Spade's and Bourdain's cases, loved ones and friends rarely have a clue just how close the void has really come.
Indeed, sometimes the urge to go is so overwhelming that logic, reason, and the knowledge you will cause pain to those who love you by doing it exit the building and you're left standing in a gigantic hollowed out structure with gun, rope, or pills in hand. The shadows and echoes close in and the dive into nothingness seems, not only completely inevitable, but intensely preferable.
In one episode of, "No Reservations," filmed in Stockholm, Anthony Bourdain railed about the Swedish pop group ABBA through out the show. At the end of it--in one of those stabs at Thompson-esque gonzo humor--he was convicted of disrespecting the singers and sentenced to a jail cell where he was constantly subjected to ABBA tunes. As the credits rolled, rather than have to listen to the music for years on end, he fashioned a noose from his bedding and hung himself.
Then, as we watched his life supposedly ebb away, the screen faded to black and the show ended. Little did we know we were watching what amounted to a deeply twisted and ironic rehearsal of what was to come.
Forsan Miseros Meliora Sequentur
Virgil
6-11-18
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