The Psychology of Selling Out

Kicking back midday and watching Anthony Bourdain is something that immediately makes me feel better about being me. For all the mistakes and missed opportunities in my life I've never found myself addicted to heroin or crack. Bourdain once was and it’s heartening to see someone who not only took a meandering road toward success but also relished the journey; or at least would not trade the lessons learned for all the pork in China.

He should be dead or in a gutter. Not in Singapore or Hawaii or Ecuador sampling local delicacies, getting drunk on the local hooch, or making interesting friends in the process. In Northern China he decided to bring together all of the local guides who led him through the minutiae that makes their hometown home. They drank and laughed and Bourdain led them down the boozy philosophical path he loves to steer conversation down. At the end of the meal in a magnanimous gesture he, or perhaps more accurately The Travel Channel, offers to pay for the meal. Bourdain digs into his pocket and produces a Discover card which he awkwardly hands to the waiter in a way that would display the front of the card and the logo perfectly. Watching the exchange, and the annoyed look on the host’s face, you could tell they probably did more than one take.

Could it be that Bourdain has sold out? Has the cantankerous cook turned corporate shill? Bourdain is endearing because he never tries to sell us anything. He doesn’t drop the names of swank hotels and gets visibly nauseous when near a resort of any kind. In fact, if Bourdain ever turned into a bounty hunter you could be confident living on the lam in any tourist trap that he would sooner die than be found in. His personal version of hell would probably be a Jamaican Club Med filled with Americanized food, umbrella drinks and reddish rotund tourists in Tommy Bahama shirts belting out The Pina Colada Song.

Yet, here he is turning his counter culture vibe into corporate currency. A few years ago I would have written him off audibly to anyone within earshot. I would have decried his eagerness to turn his back on his biggest fans who probably have credit scores lower than their weight. The only piece of plastic most of them have any chance of seeing their name on is the nametag of the restaurant in which they work. And a younger Anthony Bourdain might have agreed with me.

The difference now? Bourdain did something that I desperately need to: he grew the fuck up. He realized that life is not all about happiness, nor is it completely about sacrifice. It is about a million tiny compromises; a delicate push and pull of want and need. Compromise has had a negative connotation ever since Hollywood decided to usher in the Age of the Antihero. For too long we have been sold that steadfast refusal to change is a virtue that will eventually pay off in a glorious way. In reality, being an immovable object does nothing but make you stationary. Turns out, stagnant is a far dirtier word than compromise.

The younger version of myself could never imagine setting an alarm in the morning in exchange for health insurance, let alone Tony Bourdain flashing a credit card to help pay the bills. Now, I realize it’s a small price to pay for living the dream. The only reason I don’t conspicuously use a certain companies credit card? Because they haven’t asked me to. If it keeps you traveling, go ahead and flash that plastic, Tony. And if you ever need a travel companion, I’m in. I’ll even pay my own way. In cash though.