A Friday morning seems so much like others until it’s not. Breezing through my Twitter timeline I became disturbed when a post that came across contained a headline that I never thought I would read, “Anthony Bourdain, 61, dead.” I was taken aback. This was not what I expected at 7:40 am.
“This can’t be real.” I thought. I looked at the source, CNN. “Fuck, this is real.”
It has become hard for the death of celebrity to bring pain to me in today’s world. In 2016 we saw a myriad of deaths including many great artists who’s influence will probably see no end. But death, especially of those that we admire, comes at some point. Whether we like it or not. It’s with that that I found the sting of reading of Anthony Bourdain’s death more painful than others.
When I first came across Bourdain’s No Reservations many years ago he immediately struck me as a larger than life character that I could grasp onto every word of his ethos. He inspired me. I of course became a fan of his many other TV shows along with his writing.
