Anthony Bourdain’s death hit me pretty hard, and I wasn’t really sure why.  I’d read and loved “Kitchen Confidential,” and I’d watch “Parts Unknown” when I happened to catch it.  I honestly thought he was hot as hell – older, salty men are pretty much my jam.

In fact, despite my best efforts, I’ve always loved men.  Men-men.  Masculine men, The Rugged Man, and if not in actuality, then in spirit.  I don’t think this is unique.  I think it stems from my young mind seeing Indiana Jones a bit too early; an absolute specimen of a man, in looks and charm, adventuring all over the world, turned my taste permanently in a direction that has no final destination.  Cocky, a bit protective – most likely because I never felt I needed protection.  Always wanted it, sure, but didn’t need it; didn’t seek it out.  I can take care of myself.

So the sly-grinned manly man who’s going to yank you out from the path of a speeding car who also gets that you’d have everything under control without him. Gets it, and respects it.  Indiana Jones is a character and doesn’t exist, and if he did, he’d probably be in prison for some sort of theft of culture.  And then again, when I read this phenomenal book, “The Lady and the Panda,” I felt this deep resonance in my soul for Ruth Harkness’ . . . husband.  (No, that’s probably not how that was supposed to go.)  A white male adventurer in the 30s/40s, when wealthy white men went on these excursions to bring back exotic animals and God knows what else.

So when I was thinking about why I was so devastated about Anthony Bourdain’s death, that was something that came up: He was the modern-day adventurer, going to “parts unknown.”  He was cocky and sly and combative and salty and hilarious and, above all else, unbelievably smart.  He was all of the things of a WWII era comic book hero, with a grand, fabulous twist: He had a 21st century wokeness.  You couldn’t have written him any better.  He’s detailed the contribution of Mexican immigrants to kitchens large and small across this country, unacknowledged and underpaid.  He frequently discussed the underrepresentation of people of color in the context of “fine” dining.  He was fiercely protective of women.

He was the most manly of men in that he evolved.  In that he was self-aware.  He admitted when he was wrong, he adjusted, adapted.

There is this quote from bell hooks that has always stuck with me, and gives me goosebumps when I reread it:

“The first act of violence that patriarchy demands of males is not violence toward women. Instead patriarchy demands of all males that they engage in acts of psychic self-mutilation, that they kill off the emotional parts of themselves. If an individual is not successful in emotionally crippling himself, he can count on patriarchal men to enact rituals of power that will assault his self-esteem.”

To be so masculine in appearance, in performance, and yet to not commit the great act of violence of refusing to allow room for sympathy, empathy and engagement?  Not only that, but to weave such a relationship to humanity into your masculinity, making them one in the same and inseparable?  This is rare.  It’s rare, and it’s exceptional, and it is shattering.

“The miracle of humanity.”

So I thought of that, too – that I was sad about Anthony Bourdain’s death because he was hot as hell AND masculine BUT ALSO woke, but I think I didn’t give myself – or him – enough credit.  Because then I came across this tweet, and it ended me.

That was it.  Right there.  That was why thinking about someone I never met, and didn’t even follow all that intensely, was affecting me so much.  It was because this was a person who had, on some level, the same alchemy that I was consistently trying to balance in myself.  That contempt.  That kindness.  The outrage at the unfairness of the world, that outrage arising in fits of temper or snide comments or just taking it too far – but also that deep well inside that wants to do the absolute most for everyone you love, carry them to the ends of the earth, defeat their enemies and carry them with you to peace.

Sometimes the unfairness wins.  And sometimes the unfairness is that someone who should be here no longer is, and dumb fucks who shouldn’t ever breathe again walk the earth instead.  And that’s how it goes.  But then turn the record over, and see the sly grin, the raising of wine glass, a shrug of the shoulders.  It was fun while it lasted.

Really, really fun.

And . . .

A lot of people are saying that a good way to honor Anthony Bourdain is to travel somewhere new, try a new kind of food.  I would say instead: Maintain your tender alchemy, whatever it may be.  Take the worst parts of yourself and sift them through the best, so they become useful.  And you become whole.

I’m gonna miss this guy.