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| Farewell, Tony (1956 - 2018) |
Life strikes again.
This time, it took out Anthony Bourdain, so it’s hit closer to my heart than
more recent celebrity deaths.
Ter saw it first,
via Google news. She called to me from the Ocean Room, and though I didn’t hear
what she said, something in her tone alarmed me. I got up to go see her,
saying, “What?’ as I went.
Her voice was
closer, coming down the hall. “Anthony Bourdain is dead …”
My own mind immediately
interrupted: A heart attack finally dropped him in his tracks.
Ter appeared in the
doorway, her face stricken. “… by apparent suicide.”
That’s when the
tree jumped in front of me. I took the blow right in the chest and for an instant
couldn’t breathe or think or speak. Everything froze. Then, in the next frame, “What??”
It will always
be a “Where were you when?” moment. As usual with such moments, the death
itself isn’t the issue. It’s the manner of death. Without getting into morbid
details—most of which I neither know nor care to know – I am gutted that a man
who lived life so fiercely, who had faced and survived his demons, who braved the
streets and back alleys to discover magic in the world’s most dangerous places,
who seemed, in short, indefatigable, chose
to end it.
There was nothing
false about Tony Bourdain. He wrote honestly about his tumultuous,
drug-addicted youth and spoke his truth at every opportunity. He was cynical,
pessimistic, abrasive and hilarious, but he was also warm, generous, respectful
and genuinely grateful for (if not somewhat perplexed by) the life he embraced
with such incredible passion. He was so interesting,
yet his gift was to make other people in other cultures in other countries
interesting as well. He had no fear of the dark, that’s for sure. He did his
best to shed light in the shadows, to bring attention, not to the differences
that divide us, but to the similarities that bind us together, whether he was
in Iran, Russia, Lebanon, or Pittsburgh.
Ter followed him
as a foodie. I followed him as a writer. We both adored him for his unvarnished
sincerity onscreen and in writing; we’ve collected his books and TV series, and
even had our photos taken with him when he stopped in Victoria on two different
book tours.
Of course I know
nothing about his personal life beyond what he revealed as he went along—and that’s
fine because the details are not my business. What he brought to the world, to
my life, is all that’s important. My loss is the world’s loss; hardly the same
as the black hole he’s left in the hearts of his family and close friends. And while
some people are now calling him out for the selfishness of his leaving, I will
not judge him. Only he knows what pushed him to end it now (before it got worse?).
I must reconcile myself by myself.
And I will … but I’ll miss him.
His caustic New
York attitude and sometimes harsh opinions inspired me to view his light as more
of a dark, but he was definitely a light being, and like most light beings, he
was a powerful spirit locked in ongoing battle with equally powerful contrast.
In the end, contrast won. My invincible tough guy road warrior swashbuckling hero
has surrendered. Another light gone out.
The sun rose this
morning. It always does, after all. So the world is as bright the day after as
it was the day before—but one thing is notably different without him.
It feels colder.
