How Anthony Bourdain Taught Me When to Stop Being Snarky

I am writing about Anthony Bourdain while on the road in Maine, nestled near an oceanside cove of beach, plucking words out of a vineyard of sorrow while staving off the shakes from a lack of television. This is one of two acceptable conditions under which one may write about Anthony Bourdain, the other being next to a plate of food; nothing pretentious, something comfortable and with a bit of the finger lick, a salty thing if it can be managed.