As a nod to my two previous foray's into blogdom, I've decided to post a previous entry from both. This one I wrote almost 3 years ago when I  started reading all of Anthony Bourdain's books. I'm still a huge fan. I watch "No Reservations" whenever I can remember it's on and I've recently reread two of his books. I must have had some spare time on my hands for that one. Probably back when I wasn't training for that marathon. Interestingly, two people have told me they see why I fell for Marty as he has that certain jeu ne sais Bourdain: Tall, slender, curly dark hair, prominent bone structure, earrings, penchant for Levis. I guess I see what they're talking about. But Martin doesn't smoke nearly enough for me to truly love him. (I kid).

Ah yes. Annie Wilkes. The crazy chick in 'Misery'. The one who found James Caan in his car in the snow and kept him hopped up on goofballs so he'd keep writing his fancy books. She fed him tomato soup and bought him a typewriter and then hobbled him something good during an especially brutal bout of the "don't-ever-leave-me's". But she was his #1 FAN!!! I loved that line. I still use it sometimes. That and 'dirty birdy'. But Dirty Birdies aren't the point of my post today. What has brought me out of my blog retirement, you ask? What has prompted the return to my famous 4-entry wonder journal? Wasn't 4 enough? I figured 6 months had passed; it's time to give it another whirl. And I have a very important announcement to make. I am the new (and improved!) #1 fan of Anthony Bourdain. How did this happen? What about my infatuation with Bobby Flay? Why do I even give a shit in the first place? I need to break it down for ya. First of all, Bobby. Oh Bobby. We had a good run. I stumbled upon you in the very beginning. On your first show. I made your caesar salad dressing AND your roasted jalapeno salsa. We had a thing. But then I realized I really only loved you for your red hair and fair complexion. I liked the IDEA of you but your personality sucks. And like, the southwestern schtick is getting old. Branch out, dude. Everyone says you're an asshole but I don't agree. Plus, as we'll see with Tony B, being an asshole doesn't necessarily preclude you from being the object of my #1 Fan-Fare. The spell was broken when I couldn't find any of your cookbooks for less than $40. When I saw you sweating the pits out of your too-tight, purple, Tommy Bahama shirt, grillin' & chillin' on the deck of your pseudo-rooftop, Manhattan celebrity chef pad and when you went and married that bleached blond Harpie I spied in your 'studio audience' one too many times on Boy Meets Grill. That's another thing. You have too many shows. BBQ with Bobby Flay? Iron Chef America? Food Nation? Celebrity Kitchen Makeover or whatever it's called? Stop. Who is running your restaurant? Better yet, who is picking out those hideodorous tight button-ups that clash with your wonderful skin tone? Magenta? Think twice, Apple Spice. I still feel a little glowing ember of love for you, Brother that will glow on but as of today, if you plowed your car over a snowy embankment whilst trying to light your one celebratory Lucky Strike after putting the finishing touches on your new $50 cookbook that I can't afford and I happened upon your buried wreckage, I wouldn't steal you away to my doiley-lined, knick-knack infested, guest room so you could grill me meats forevermore. I think I would just call a tow truck.

But for Anthony? I would lump his 98lb carcass over the river and through the woods. It's not the cigarettes, former heroin addiction, bad taste in leather and tight pants, cheesy one-liners & potty mouth, the sad torch he still carries for 70's punk, the hatred of vegetarians. It's the nutty fact that these attributes don't make me want to kill him. I can stomach his painful posturing (with Samurai Swords!!) on the cover of Kitchen Confidential because he writes so well. If you can read his piece about eating his first oyster in France and not giggle or get misty, you're a rock. An island even. And a moron.

Anyone who can write like a champ, cook food I would never eat, be married to the same woman for 16 years* and drink like a fish is a-ok in my book.

That settles it, I'm making a t-shirt.

* Update: Bourdain has since divorced his wife and married some Italian chick and popped out a kid.