The Coyote Chases the Roadrunner
There's a greasy black crosshatch decorating the toe of my right suede boot from where I dropped a hot grill mesh on it, leaving the permanent traces of salsiccia and cevapi. My boots are splotched and stained from rain puddles, from dusty gravel, from incessant travel. I'm not going to clean them. That gaunt, salt-and-pepper haired spectre with the crooked smile tells me not to. "What are you going to do, clean them up for the ball? Fuck that, those are memories." And he's right. I'm going to wear these boots into the fucking ground. Last summer, Roadrunner: A Film About Anthony Bourdain came out. I finally watched it and felt salty tears welling up and figured I'd do something semi-productive and write something about it. Tony always makes me want to start writing again. The movie documents the life of the self-proclaimed culinary bad boy who, after a lifetime of slaving away in a hot kitchen, wrote a book and became famous at the age of 44. A goal I so...