Anthony Bourdain: Junk, Romance, and a Lust for Life (REWIND)

three and became an overnight success. He parlayed success as a writer into success as a TV host, traveling all over the world, dining with rock stars, presidents, and everyone in between. He dodged bullets, the real and figurative kind, the figurative kind from the tabloids having the most impact, and through it all, Anthony Bourdain made great art. Nothing like that cheesy loop I played for you at the

top of the show. That was not great art. That was a preset loop for my Melotron called high Steak Steakout MK two. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Maria Maria by Santana featuring the product GMB And why would I play you that specific slice of nylon stringed Spanish Harlem Cheese. Could I

afford it? Because that was the number one song in America On May twenty second, two thousand and that was the day Anthony Bourdain published Kitchen Confidential, forever changing his life and enriching hours. On this episode, Chase Heroin through Lower Manhattan, an overnight's success beers with the President, an insatiable lust for life in Anthony Bourdain, I'm Jake Brennan, and this this Disgraceland, Chapter one, the Not So Blushing Bride, Provincetown, Massachusetts.

The edge of the world, some might say, the beginning of my world. At least that's what they'll say when I'm dead, when all the dust is settled, when the tabs have lost interest, and when the truly curious are still hanging around to pick through the remains of what once was, if not a perfect life, a damn interesting one in Peetown, as they call it. The point isn't to lose oneself on the edge of nowhere, but to find yourself, or perhaps to find who you might one

day become. Wait a minute, hold up, hold up, this is not this. This is something else. This is this. Bobby was giving it to the bride from behind like a drunken pirate. She panted in delight. She was bent over a fifty five gallon drummer cooking grease, and Bobby's apron was pulled up over his belly. His pants were down around his ankles. Her white wedding gown somehow still

looked pure under the provincetown moonlight. Myself and the other dishwasher and the cooks howled up the moon from the back door of the kitchen, egging on Bobby, our head chef here at the dreadnought inside the dining room at the bride's wedding reception, neither her, her assembled family nor her newly wet husband had any idea what was happening out back with the kitchen staff. That was Anthony Bourdain's secret weapon. Most of the world had no idea what

was happening out back with the kitchen staff. He used that secret knowledge to carve out a writing career unlike any other, beginning with his debut work of nonfiction Kitchen Confidential, published in two thousand, which became an instant smash hit

and transformed Anthony's life overnight. From Capable Chef in a good not great Manhattan restaurant to a New York Times bestseller and in demand media Darling anecdotes like the aforementioned not So Blushing Bride, of course, an anecdote that Anthony Bourdain claims made him want to be a chef, had

a lot to do with the book's success. Anthony, or Tony as his friends called him, approached his subject food and the culture of chefs and the people who made kitchens run like his hero Iggy pop godfather of punk, approached his own subject, rock and roll, with a potent mix of danger, truth and charisma. At times, it seemed like danger was the point. Danger was where the action was. Give me danger, a little stranger, food or making. It wasn't merely a job or a profession. It was just

like rock and roll, a lifestyle. And for guys like Tony boardin The Journeyman, the back of house pirates, the guys who steered ships of twenty or more staff, many of them alcoholics, drug addicts, ex cons, immigrants, both legal and illegal, it was a romantic lifestyle. Ask any writer and they'll tell you that romance can be a great tool for storytelling. That goes for works of nonfiction and for three coord punk. Was Tony's story about the pe

Town bride who was defiled on our wedding night? True? Or was it just a way of romanticizing his backstory? Who cares? There's a great story? Was I Want to be Your Dog? True? Who cares? It's a great song? Truth? Isn't the point? Storytelling is the point. Creating is the point, and to create is to love, to bring love into the world, which Anthony Bourdin most certainly did with his writing.

The love he inspired brought him unimaginable success, success that eventually led him to standing on a beach with his hero, Iggy Pop. In twenty fifteen, more than a decade after that story about the bride was published, Tony asks Iggy Pop what his definition of a perfect day is, and Iggy goes on to describe his perfect day. It involves a beach, the big Florida sun sparkling on the ocean.

In the positivity one can derive from such an experience, particularly when it's spent with a loved one, that's a far cry from what one would expect from a man who once proclaimed to the world that he was a street walking cheetah with a heart full of napalon and Anthony Bourdain looks bewildered by his hero's answer, because Iggy Pop gave Anthony Bourdin the truth, and the truth is

hard for a romantic to come to terms with. Throughout twentieth century American culture, the concept of the junkie has been thoroughly romanticized, from Miles Davis to William S Burrows to Iggy Pop and Kurt Cobaine for a certain type of subversive leaning, literary minded, rock and roll bent, transgressive dudes who may be paid a little too much attention

to Lou Reed's lyrics. Dudes who were always first in line to do whatever new drugs showed up to the party last, who were always taking more, doing less, aspiring to little. To these dudes, Heroin wasn't something to be avoided. Heroin or junk was something to aspire to. Nineteen eighty, young Tony Vordain didn't know who exactly he was looking for, but he knew what he wanted. He and a friend slowly cruised Second Avenue and a beat up Volkswagen Rabbit.

The Manhattan street was dark, near dead at this hour, and the two white boys were hunting for dope, or more specifically, hunting for a dope dealer, actually a dope dealership. In those days, dealers didn't text you on a Friday to see if you were set for the weekend and then run the small baggie of brown up to your

apartment via bike messenger. No, and in those days, in the batt old days, you had to swipe your sh sharpest, stealthiest knife from the kitchen, concealed it in an item of clothing that wouldn't result in you stabbing yourself, and head into the part of town that took no prisoners and produced only casualties, New York's Lower East Side, looking for a fix, just like Iggy Pop, just like Lou Reed,

and just like Johnny Thunders. And you weren't on the lookout for some pimp and a big straw hat standing on the corner either. You were looking for a hole in the wall the size of a Dodge Challenger, A hole in the wall that looked about as inviting as a den of hungry wolves. A hole in the wall that served up one thing heroin. Even cops didn't fuck with places like these, but you did because you were different.

You weren't like those other guys, those pajama boys back at Vassa, or the snobs back at CIA, the Culinary Institute of America upstate, where you learned a lot, but nothing as important as how to keep your knife sharp and your witch sharper. The snobs and the pajama boys had a lot in common. For one, there were fucking philistines, and they couldn't tell you the difference between George Orwell or Orville Redenbacher. And they had no fucking heart either.

You had heart. The Vassar boys, your classmates at CIA, they'd never know the thrill of scoring in a seedy Lower east Side drug den like you did. And they'd never know the complication of having to score a heroine between staff meal and the first rush, either unnecessary challenge your junkie ass now to solve every night to keep from puking all over the entrees as they flew off

the line. Yet you figured it out because it was the early eighties, and yeah, other than a new heroin habit and a shitty job, you took an outsized amount of pride in you had little, but you were Anthony fucking Bourdaine. And the one thing you did have was a lust for life. Chapter two, Nancy with the laughing face.

The heart of Manhattan beats from the working class bus drivers and bus boys, working stiffs and waitresses, bartenders pouring punch out cold ones to stiff up her lips, Taxi drivers and doormen with more information than you need daily rag scribes and night watchmen, cops, construction workers, dealers too.

And if you're not careful, you'll get caught up in the grind and miss the beauty of the sweat and the hustle, lose it all to the bustling sound of the lone in some streets, wake up in a midtown high rise with a mortgage and a wife and a

kid in a separate apartment. But if you keep your ears open each night, you'll hear the sound of the mission bell, that universal sign that it's time to blow off steam, quitting time that when you're too tired to think and too wired to go home, this is the time when you're reminded of your station in life, reminded of where you're supposed to be, Bellied up to the bar with the rest of your kind, cursing your boss's greed and your customer's stupidity toasting your coworkers on a

job well done, fairly ready for a four hour crash and inevitable hangover, and unspoken gratitude for the fact that you get to get up too early, too sore, and too smart to know any better, so that you, my friend, can go back to work and do it all over again. To an outsider, the kitchen during the nightly rush looked

and sounded like chaos, But you've got it all under control. Sure, the slips are firing in mouie rapido signor, and the floor staff looks haggard and scared, and the dishwasher's gone on one of his midshift sabbaticals in the back alley, and the sioux chef may have just quit, or he may just be in the can with explosive diarrhea, and no one will acknowledge that the phone has been ringing unanswered for what you swear to God, has been all frigging night long, and the owner just decided that right

fucking now, of all times is the time to pop in to bust your balls in front of his investors. Yes, that all may be happening at the moment, and it might spell chaos for the uninitiated civilian looking in on

your kitchen. But you're no civilian. You're a professional chef, or at least a very capable cook, And this is your kitchen, even if you don't want a piece, even if you're fighting a daily heroin jones, even if you're a functioning alcoholic, even if you haven't seen your new wife in the daylight in six weeks, and even if you can't speak Spanish yet that's all that most of your employees speak. Even if your fish guy went on the lamb and your meat guy is at returning your calls.

None of this, Matt, because you thrive in this chaos. In fact, this isn't chaos at all. This to you, for some unexplained reason, makes sense. It's organized, at least to you, it is. You know your way around these challenges. You and you alone know how to solve these problems. But these are the only problems you know how to solve. Kitchen problems. Outside the kitchen, that's chaos. You haven't paid your rent on time. Well ever, you're perpetually three months

behind and dodging your landlord. The creditors are after you, and the taxman looms you haven't been to a doctor for a preemptive checkout for what seems to be your entire adult life, and you're barreling toward middle aged with a needle hanging out of your arm during a time in history when intravenous drug use can spell instant death. It's July in your Christmas tree is still standing in the corner of your apartment, deader than Vince Geralde and

twice as pathetic as Charlie Brown. You and your wife if Nancy, are too ashamed to even bring it down to the corner for the trash man to pick up, for fear of what your neighbors might think. You have next to no social life. You subsist on Deli sandwiches and Simpson's reruns. Life as you live it is barely any life at all. But work is where you thrived,

and after work is when you come alive. The sun ruled, the sun came on the beach, crashed out, tanning away, the heroin power asleep in the sand in the late morning. Hours before that, it was the train out to Rockaway, nodding out, having finished the last of your smack, freaking out. The civilians on their early morning rush hour Commute Club fifty seven, the Mud Club CBGB, wherever junkie guitar players

reigned supreme on stage. You were there, passed the line of pedestrians to the sympathetic door man who'd been bribed with steak sandwiches from your kitchen, the kitchen you'd closed hours ago. You hit the bar after closing with a couple employees. Someone thought ninety six tiers by question Mark and the Mysterious was a good idea, and they were right. It blasted from the jukebox, A fat line of coke was laid out on said bar along the length of

the entire bar. The adult portion of the evening was now in full effect, commenced by you mounting the bar, getting down on all fours, and hoovering as much of that long line of blow as your aching heart would allow. You needed the bump, something to come back from the weakness brought on by the illicit rendezvous in the dry goods area with the cute waitress. Hey, it happened, so what. You don't know how it got started. It just did sort of like this night. It just got started, sort

of like all the nights you scammed. You sprinted You ran hard and fast, hard and fast, away from yourself, until finally you ended up right back where you started in the kitchen, unless, of course, it was a day off. Then you couldn't run away. You couldn't hide from yourself or from what you'd become a junkie. When there was nowhere left to go, and no more drugs left to do, no shifts to pick up, you found yourself where you feared you would inevitably end up alone. Not even your

junkie wife could help. She was nodding off on her own trip. So it was just you, just you in the deep, dark, dirty mirror, alone at rock bottom. Fuck this cold turkey. You kicked no twelve steps, no self help goers, no meetings, hardcore like the man said, except in the other direction. You used methodone to wean off. But your biggest weapon was your lust for life. You turned that junkie appetite around and gobbled up whatever life had left to give you. You were still a young man

and there was still a life to be had. You went from lime cook to chef layout like you. It wasn't great, it was good, good enough. You worked that restaurant hard and fed that yearning to be something else, something more, something better. After hours under your typewriter, you wrote two crime novels, Bone and Throat and Gone Bamboo. The critics pretty much said the same thing, that both books were like the restaurant, you ran good, not great.

You kept going because what else were you going to do? Moving forward was all you'd ever done in this life. You worked even harder, kept that kitchen humming, and you continued to write. Writing replaced junk. You couldn't not write. It was the first thing you did every morning. Well it was the second thing. Actually, the first thing you did was smoke a cigarette. Then you wrote, before even brushing your teeth, before kissing your wife Nancy, before taking

a shit, you wrote what you knew now. Sally the Wig and chef Tommy were fond and all, but who are you kidding? You weren't Don DeLillo. You were Raoul Duke Chef's whites. And this new writing was fresh because it was desperate. It was all you had left. It was a junkie move all in. No bullshit, Okay, a little bullshit like the bit about fish on Monday and perhaps the Provincetown Bride over the Barrel. But I digress you sent a couple thousand words into The New Yorker.

David Remnick wouldn't give you the time of day until your mom. Your mom used a connection to get him to read it. How uncool is that, having to get your mom to help you get published? But what did you care? Lou Reid moved back in with his parents after he was in the Velvet Underground and went to work for his dad's accounting firm again. After he was in the Velvet Underground. Things weren't yet that bad for you, so fire away, mom. It worked. David Remnick loved what

you wrote, of course he did. The piece you wrote that Remnick published in the New Yorker don't eat before reading this was the type of magazine phenomenon that is hard to imagine in this day and age, the modern era of the Internet. There you were walking down Park Avenue on your way to work like you did every day, except perhaps today you were walking with a little bit more swagger than usual. The New Yorker article was the shit that you knew it. Nancy knew it, Everyone fucking

knew it. There was only one problem. Did your boss, the owner of lay All, did he know it? Or was he pissed. Did all the behind the scenes kitchen exploits rub him the wrong way? Shit? Were you going to peacock into work today and get fired? You rounded the corner and there they were news trucks outside your

restaurant waiting for you. Your article prompted a mini media sensation right there on Park Avenue, And oh, how delighted the news crews were when they jammed their microphones in your face and blasted their sun guns, only to realize that you were naturally camera ready and they weren't the only one to notice. The article led to a full on book deal Kitchen Confidential, And this, my friend, was

no mini sensation. This was the real deal, a phenomenon, a New York Times bestseller, Oprah Letterman, high fives from construction workers as you walk down the street. Kind of famous. You ate it all up. You took every opportunity your newfound publishing fame brought you, and you knew all too well what it was like to not be famous, and now you had life by the throat and you weren't going to let go. So when they showed up looking to talk to you about a TV show idea, you

were skeptical, but you listened. Then you got on a plane. Then you got divorced. Then you ventured out into truly uncharted waters towards something you'd never fully experienced before, happiness and self contentment. We'll be right back this were were where Chapter three a tavia. Love, as they say, is a many splendid thing. They also say love is a burning flame, and that love will tear us apart. I've found all three of these quotes to be true at

various parts of my life. But perhaps the most truthful quote about love comes from my hero uncle lou lou Reid, who said, you do what you love, or you get arrested. Anthony Bourdain made it out of the kitchen. Anthony Bourdain was freed from the grind. Anthony Bourdain was a best selling author. Suddenly, to the surprise of everyone, including himself, Anthony Bourdain was now a television star, and Anthony Bourdaine

was in love. Two thousand and five, five years after Kitchen Confidential was published, Anthony Bourdain's television series No Reservations debuted for the Travel Channel. It was not your normal food or travel show. It was almost entirely subjective. More Gonzo journalism presented through a different medium and for a different millennium. This wasn't early two thousands reality TV, and it wasn't some cuddly roly poly chef molded for Middle America.

This was a street walking chia ready to get his eat on. The show's concept was simple. Best selling food author Anthony Bourdain would travel to different locales around the world, sampled the local fare, and comment on it. But the show was different because of well Anthony Bourdain. Tony was a totally unique character. Tall, lanky, dark, strangely handsome, and armed with a lifetime of blue collar kitchen experience, hard working experience that was relatable and that softened his cutting

wit and obvious intelligence. Tony displayed an encyclopedic understanding of culture, of books, movies, music, the things that bind people together that don't come out of a kitchen. All of this constituted a totally unique point of view that Tony delivered with humor and curiosity, and the dude could write. His narrations for episodic TV remained some of the best examples of subjective journalism that I've ever heard. Hunter S. Thompson,

Joan Diddion, Dominic Dunn, Anthony Bourdain. His writing was that good. Almost instantly, Tony elevated himself to the level of some of the greatest to ever do it. He was fearless when it came to his point of view, and he was nothing if not curious and empathetic. Part of the show's appeal was Tony's ability to break bread with people from all walks of life, from completely different so social and economic backgrounds Montana ranchers, Sardinian pig farmers, Muslims, Jews,

ted fucking nugent, didn't matter politics, religion, whatever. If you liked to eat, if you had ears and could open them up and listen, then Tony Bourdin could find common ground around the dinner table. Hunger was at Tony's core. He went at his job and his newfound success with an insatiable energy. You could sense that he had life by the balls finally, and that he wasn't going to let go ever, But we didn't want him to. We, like him, were hungry for more. But Tony's hunger was

a junkies hunger, all consuming. There are no part time heroin addicts, and though Tony kicked his addiction years before becoming successful, the addiction never kicked him. Tony just shifted his addiction from heroin to work and then to a top Anthony Bourdain's television career was responsible for the end of his first marriage, and it was also responsible for

the beginning of his second. A tavia beautiful, strong, smart, take no shit, Italian, wholesome from a big, loving family on the other side of the world, the type of woman that a guy like Tony Bourdain looks at and goes, oh, yeah, this is who I've been waiting for. He went all in and so did she. They shared secrets. Tony's were

darker than she expected. The Caribbean island of Saint Martin's a few years after Tony's success, just after the split from his first wife, a dark time that no amount of accolades or money or opportunity was going to fix. This was the type of pain and hurt that was not going anywhere. You were going to have to go

through it, it, over it, or collapse under it. If you're like me and raised on rock and roll and have spent the better part of your life socializing with degenerate rock and roll animals who view life through a dusty lens of romance, cynicism, and hyperbole. Then you've no doubt heard one of your friends along the way say these words that song saved my life, or that album or band saved me. Perhaps you said it yourself. If so, congratulations, you're as equally full of shit as I am. Music

cannot literally save any of us. Only we have the power to save our own lives. Saving your life is a dramatic move. It requires action agency music Specifically, listening to music is a passive experience, and as such, is incapable of saving your life. It might make you feel better, it might help shape your identity, but it isn't pulling you out of a fiery car wreck before you burn up into a crispy black piece of toast. But music did save Anthony Bourdain's life, or so the story goes.

The Island DJ played whatever the hell he wanted in this suited Anthony Bourdain just fine after stumbling drunken stone out of the Saint Martin whorehouse and shoving a dirty schwarma down his throat. House of the Rising Sun by the Animals or Iggy Pops lust for Life or hell, even Louis Armstrong's what a wonderful world. These songs would make the wobbly island you were about to drive blind

ass drunk across seem a whole lot more tolerable. On the other hand, if the DJ was to play say Jimmy Buffett or Billy Joel or God Forbid the Grateful Dead, then it could spell the end. Bedtime for Bomzo. Lights out at the no Reservations hotel, all permanent, like you'd take your final drive, crash into the wall, or perhaps you drive off the road over one of those big island cliffs. Suicide via fifty thousand watts. That's what you told Atavia. Anyway, That's how thin the line had gotten

for you. It was am radio roulette. You started the engine to you rented four by four lit what was likely your tenth joint of the day, choked down the urge to vomit up the day's countless beers and greasy food, gave the accelerator your full foot, and took off into the dark night, back to your hotel or perhaps iahoa silver rodeo to deliver yourself from nowhere. It depended on the song that DJ played. Life or death in the hands of an unknown islander were erratic, sometimes great, and

sometimes highly questionable taste in music. The island roads were dark, unpaved, poorly grated, and populated with drivers who were likely as pissed drunk as you were. The air whipping pie felt good, and that was about all that felt good. The pain was thick, you could barely think straight, but still you had it all figured out. You'd done that four by four as fast as it would go. Throw all caution to the wind, and if you crashed and burned, so

be it. If you made it out of town and out onto the remote road that brought you up to the cliffs, over the pass and down toward your hotel. If you made it up onto the cliff road, then you'd kick things up a notch and put your fate in the DJ's hands. You hit the cliff road and the music blared from the truck speakers. The better the song, the more aggressive you'd drive until you hit that big

bend up high, right up high on the cliff. At that point you had to slow down and cut the wheel to the left to avoid careening off of the road into the air and soaring down the side of the cliff to a certain fiery death. Slowing down and making the turn was no problem unless the DJ played a shitty song. If the song sucked, then you'd let go of the wheel and fly away. But if the song was good, you'd slow your role and turn with the road and down the hill safely to your hotel.

That was the deal you made with yourself, and you did this every night. The music gods were on your side. But tonight felt different. The DJ had a heater going MC five, James Gang Stone, fucking Roses. It was too good to be true. There was a turd of a tune coming sooner or later, and at the pace you were driving, it was starting to feel like Neil Young was onto something. Tonight was the night, as the Stone Roses is. I want to be a door wound down, You wound your way toward the bend up on the

cliff road. This was it. Put up or shut up. Fucking Dave Matthews or the BG's or Loggins and Messina were bound to burst through those speakers at any moment and you'd get the answer. You were looking for a reason to let go, a suicide solution. I want to be adored faded to an end. Here it was the moment of truth and silence. Wind the fucking Chambers brothers. Fuck time has come today. Time you love this fucking song.

He slowed down, turned the wheel, made the curve of the road successfully, and rolled down to your hotels safely. Eventually you'd make it off the island, back to Manhattan, into the arms in bed of a Tavia, the woman you thought was the love of your life. You knew she loved you too when she heard you tell this story and didn't run. She made you swear off the horrors, but otherwise accepted you as you were. You got back into your work making great television. Your crew almost ended

up casualties of war in Beirut. It was the type of experience that alters your point of view, that changes you from the inside out, that makes you focus on what really matters in life, love, family, acceptance. Atavia was pregnant, life was short. You two were standing inside city hall saying I do Your child was beautiful. Her and Atavia were everything, and for a minute there you had it all.

And then that junkie jones hit again, and the road pulled you back into the work, traveling two hundred and fifty days a year, and filling the days you weren't on the road, capitalizing on endless opportunities TV appearances, awards shows, writing more books, starting your own publishing company, attempting to launch your own Italy inspired multi concept restaurant emporium, and eventually a new TV show. More reach, more resources, grander

creative aspirations. The big time CNN, where you and your crack production team at zero points zero Productions, pledged to push yourselves to make every episode bigger and better than the last. Sneaking into Hanoi for dinner with the sitting President of the United States kind of bigger and better. That kind of rush is tough to follow. You have to chase it constantly. Happiness is no match for addiction. Anthony Bordain's blissful family life was short lived. Tony and

Aatavia split up in twenty sixteen. Strange things happen in the desert. It can bring out the outlaw in you. Having grown up and lived in and around Palm Desert in California, Josh Hami from the band Queens of the Stone Age understood this better than most, which is why Josh was playing it cool inside the dusty Joshua Tree Saloon and across the table from the drunk golf bro giving him and his good friend Anthony Bourdain shit. At

the moment, the fucking guy wouldn't let up. He came on all starstruck to Tony looking for an autograph, but then got ugly with Josh. Josh Hamie isn't a small man. He stood and carefully grabbed the dude and started to escort him to the bar sponsor, and the dude flipped. Then Josh's loyal friend Tony flipped, screaming to the drunk asshole, that's my friend, that's my friend, referencing Josh, of course,

who the drunk dude was unsuccessfully lashing out at. Tony was now at Josh's back trying to get the drunk dude Josh was trying to subdue. It was one of those flash in the pan shit shows that are there and then gone with an equal amount of quickness and drama. But when the dust settled and the drunk dude was taken away, Josh Hammie knew one thing for certain about Anthony Bourdain when it came to their friendship. Like most things in Tony's life, Tony was all in chapter four

the Italian actress. When you go hard and fast and give yourself fully, when your crew and collaborators do the same, When every piece of television you make has to outdo the last, When the distance between the destination and the truth gets harder and harder to traverse, when the shine from the spotlight blinds instead of illuminates, Well, my friends, it might be time for the band to break up.

All good bands do, even the great ones. Ted Nugent, the Motor City mad Man, the seventies rock guitarist known for his meat and Potatoes rifts and his hits like cat Scratch Fever and the most excellent Stranglehold, is about as far away politically from Anthony Boardaine as Florida is from me. Yet there Anthony Boardaine was on camera on Ted Nugent's ranch, firing away gleefully with a missault weapon and enjoying beer and barbecue with Ted and his boys

like he was among long lost friends. I think the Barack Hussein Obama should be put in jail. It is clear that Barack Hussein Obama is a communist, mount say to lives, and his name is Barack Hussein Obama. This country should be ashamed. I want to throw up. That's

Ted NuGen quote. Fast forward a couple of years to Anthony Bourdain interviewing the Leader of the Free World, Barack Obama and Hanoi over a cold beer in Hot Noodles, where Bordain asked Obama somewhat playfully if it was okay that he got along with Ted NuGen, who had said many, many deeply offensive and hateful things about him personally. Obama responded, of course, and that that was exactly the sort of

person we should be talking to. And Ted NuGen knew who Anthony Bourdain was and that he was a classic liberal, the opposite of Ted, a libertarian bent conservative. Yet Ted,

of course allowed Tony into his home for barbecue. Ted NuGen said of Tony, He's Machila and grill at blood brother, and Tony said, I'm proud of the fact that I've had as dining companions over the years, everybody from Hesbala supporters, communist functionaries, Anti Putin activists, cowboys, stoners, Christian militia leaders, feminists, Palestinians and Israeli settlers to Ted NuGen, you like food and are reasonably nice at the table. You show me hospitality,

I will sit down with you and break bread. Anthony Bourdain or his television show, at least, was political in the best way, which is to say that it was subjective first and foremost, and seem to be almost completely detached from whatever popular political narrative of the day was being algorithmically force fed to both the left and the right. The show, Like the Man, seemed to project an empathy that was entirely real and unconcerned with virtue signaling. That is,

until a Ja Argento. There are women men consume themselves with, and there are women that consume By the time Anthony Bourdain moved on from his second wife, Atavia and became romantically involved with Aja Argento in twenty sixteen, his relationship with his work life had run face first into a wall. The grind of making television had become more intense than the grind of running a kitchen. Anthony Bourdain was burnt

out physically and creatively entered the Italian actress. Like Atavia, Aja was beautiful, strong, smart Italian, But unlike Atavia, Aja set herself in her own interests ahead of any relationship with Tony. The fact that she was less interested in the famous badass chef and the best selling author than she was herself. Made her unattainable, which made her more attractive to Tony, which made Tony's old familiar junkie instinct kick in, and then made Tony pour all of himself

into his relationship with her. He put her above family, he put her above work, and he put her above friends, which without context doesn't sound that bad, but when you get down to the details in the end result, it was, of course disastrous. There are many juicy, bullshit, gossipy personal anecdotes about Tony and Ash's relationship that we could go into to give you this context, but it feels icky and frankly, you can get that stuff with three clicks

in a search bar. Nonetheless, if we're going to continue this story, we need to mention to fully understand how Anthony Bourdain was changed by his relationship with Ajia Argento. I'll do my best to list them as quickly as possible. Fact number one. Despite his split from Atavia, the pair remained close as friends and co parents of their daughter. By all accounts, Tony remained, if sometimes absent, an attentive

and proud dad. Ajia Argento could not accept this. It was threatened by Tony's relationship not only with a Tavia, but with his daughter, going as far as demanding that Tony not share photos of his family on Instagram. Fact number two Tony Bourdain was keen on helping Aji's career as a director by involving her in the production of

his CNN show Parts Unknown. Now you have to understand that by the time Tony and his production team were making Parts Unknown, they were running a finely tuned production machine. You've seen these episodes. They're expertly made. They didn't happen by accident. Again, enter the Italian actress, but this time behind the camera, directing Tony in his seasoned crew. She was woefully incapable a disaster, and she relied on a relationship with Tony to win pissy little creative battles on set.

It got so bad that she insisted Tony fire his longtime award winning cinematographer Zax Samboni, whom Tony had worked with and had a friendship with for a decade, and Tony fired him on the spot. Fact number three human growth hormones. I'm not even going to get into this because it's gross. You can look it up yourself. Fact number four hashtag me too. This was the big one. Blenagi Argento found herself at the center of the me

too storm. She pulled Anthony Bourdain in fast and without an Umbrella, and Toni, who up to this point seemed to tow the old Groucho Marx line when it came to causes, the one that said quote, I refused to join any club that would have me as a member, unquote, and had lived his life as someone who proudly was not a joiner, but instead an independent minded liberal with a unique superpower that allowed him to both view and

articulate this messy world with deaf nuance. Suddenly that dude was at the vanguard of a political movement, on the front lines with his girlfriend who had gone public about her rape at the pudgy hands of Harvey Weinstein. I get it, I do. Who's to say how any of us would act if we were in the same situation, But again, context, supporting your girlfriend and subverting your character

to support your girlfriend are two different things. Suddenly Anthony Bourdain was in Twitter beast with Matt Damon and turning

his back on friends. At the end of twenty seventeen, Anthony Bourdain's good friend Josh Hamie of Queens of the Stone Age, the same friend Anthony had been quick to defend a few years back in a potential barfight, was on stage when, overcome with the energy and emotion of a rock and roll performance, he inexcusably kicked a female pool photographer's camera as she held it up in front of her face, injuring the photographer, who then posted her

injuries online with the hashtag me too. Given the moment, America was in controversy, ensued Josh Hami. He was quick to unequivocally apologize for his actions. In later statements, Josh provided context referencing the violent inadvertent stage actions of Johnny Cash and Iggy Pop, but at the moment, none of that was relevant. All that mattered was that a man

kicked a woman. The pitchforks were out, and Josh's friend, Anthony Bourdain grabbed one and headed to Twitter, saying, waking up in Bhutan to the Josh Hamie shit and still in the WTF phase, senseless and a weak ass apology. Say what you will about Tony's comment and or Josh's actions or apology but if a good friend of mine finds himself in an international media firestorm, I'm calling him first to get his side of the story before publicly piling on. That's who I am, and I'm sure that's

who you are, because that's how most people are. Most people are reasonable people. Anthony Bourdain was, up until this moment in time, an excessive reasonable person. That changed then inevitably, As is the case with most cause focus Charlatan's the rot of hypocrisy cracked through the thin veneer of virtue.

In twenty eighteen, The New York Times reported it had obtained evidence supporting the claim that in twenty thirteen, while she was thirty seven years old, Agire Argento sexually assaulted a fellow actor, a boy two days passed his seventeenth birthday, plying him with alcohol. Agia Argento denied the incident, but I encourage you to search online for photos of the two, as well as text messages between them, and come to your own conclusion. In any event, Anthony Bourdain swooped into

defense mode. The mob mentality might have been good for Josh Hami, but now the shoe was on the other foot, and it just wouldn't do for his Italian actress girlfriend, to whom he had given nearly every ounce of his energy over the last few months. She was at the vanguard of the me too movement, and Tony wasn't going to let the movement eat its own. Aggie's alleged victim was threatening a three point five million dollar lawsuit rather

than let the courts adjudicate the matter. Tony, as Charles Leerson in his book Down and Out in Paradise reported, Tony reportedly hired a private investigator to dig up dirt on the kid, dirt that could be used to blackmail. In the end, Tony just paid the kid off three hundred and eighty grand to shut up and not pursue further legal action. The move was like something a character from one of Tony's unsuccessful novels would have done. A

junkie move, an all in move, absolute without nuance. That's what Tony was all in on agi Argento, come hell or high water, the feeling. Despite all that he did for her, despite the financial help, rear help, the public support, despite putting her above his family, his colleagues, his friends, his career. Despite all of this, aggi Argento was not all in on Anthony boardin agi Argento had it bad for someone else, and that, as they say, ladies and gentlemen,

ain't good. June twenty eighteen, Anthony Bourdain and his zero point zero crew, along with Tony's friend, chef Eric Repair, were in France filming an episode of Parts Unknown. Agi Argento was in Italy with a handsome journalist and the tabloids in the internet let Tony know all about it, and it broke him. What happens to you when you give every bit of yourself to something and get nothing back. Thankfully, I've never experienced this specific type of heartbreak like all

of you. I've loved and lost, but I've never lost like this. I've never bet the farm, the dog, my first born, and the horse and buggy. I rode in on and lost it all. That kind of pain is unimaginable. Add worldwide humiliation to that reality, and suicide a romantic concept Anthony Bourdain had entertained in both a literal and literary sense, going as far back as his first published works. That type of big ending, given the context anyway, starts

to become objectively understandable. I say this as someone who has lost many close relatives and friends to suicide. But the truth is that no one understands why someone else kills himself, no one. It is the most personal action an individual can make. I believe, though, that Anthony Bourdain died long before that night. He hanged himself in a luxury hotel in France, broken stewing over being betrayed and publicly humiliated by the one person in the world had

given himself over to entirely. Somewhere down the line, he stopped being Anthony Bourdain. Let me say that again. He stopped being Anthony Bourdaine, which is shocking because Anthony Bourdain seemed to continuously feed the character of Anthony Bourdain, and we loved him for it. We found him endlessly entertaining, compelling, even lovable. We were more than comfortable looking into corners of the world we'd never visit with his eyes, tasting

things we'd never taste with his acerbic tongue. I'm not sure when the real Anthony Bourdain died, but I'm pretty sure the wheels were coming off by the time he turned up in Miami to film that episode of Parts Unknown with his hero Achey Pop. Tony asked his rock star hero, given that he'd been the template for nearly every rock and roll front man that came after him, from David Johansson to Julian Casablancis, and that Iggy had experienced millions of adventures at this point late in life,

what now thrilled him? Iggy answers from the heart with being loved and appreciating the people that are giving that to me. Tony looks like a deer in headlights when Iggy says this, because, like Iggy Pop Anthony Bourdain was a romantic, but I believe by this point love for him was a fleeting proposition. Anthony Bourdain's friend, the filmmaker Amos Poe, said, it's great to be romantic, but never be romantic about romance, because it'll take you down like

a junkie. A romantic goes all in, all in on love, all in on indulgence, all in on traveling to the end of the fucking world and back, and most admirably, all in on empathy. When Anthony Bourdin went all in, his lust for life rewarded him with a career, a family, fame, but when he went all in on the wrong romance, he got nothing back and it killed him. That is a disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by Yours Truly.