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Hey, dead and gone fans, Jake Brennan here to

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tell you about the new season of my

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other show, Disgraceland, where we are now telling

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insane stories not just about musicians, but also

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about artists, authors, actors, athletes, and our Icons

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series. These are icons who possess dangerously

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compelling rock and roll hearts. I'm talking

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about Andy Warhol, Anthony Bourdain,

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Kobe Bryant, Hunter S. Thompson. Okay,

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we get the rock and roll

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side covered as well. Van Halen,

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Chris Cornell. You can check

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out episodes on all these icons and more

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by searching up Disgraceland wherever you get

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your podcasts and giving us a follow. Until

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then, here's a clip from our recent episode

0:35

on the late, great Anthony Bourdain. Check it

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out. Let me know what you think. Rock-a-rolla.

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The heart of Manhattan beats from the

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working class. Bus

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drivers and busboys, working stiffs

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and waitresses, bartenders pouring

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punch-out cold ones to stiff up

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her lips, taxi drivers

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and doorman with more information than you

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need, daily rag

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scribes and night watchmen, cops,

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construction workers, dealers too.

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And if you're not careful, you'll get caught up

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in the grind and miss the beauty of the

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sweat and the hustle. Lose

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it all to the bustling sound of the lonesome

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streets. Wake up in a midtown

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high rise with a mortgage and a wife and a

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kid in a separate apartment. But

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if you keep your ears open, each

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night you'll hear the sound of the mission

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bell, that universal sign

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that it's time to blow off steam,

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quitting time. But

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when you're too tired to think and too wired

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to go home, this is the

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time when you're reminded of your station in life,

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reminded of where you're supposed to be, bellied

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up to the bar with the rest of your kind, cursing

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your bosses' greed and your customers'

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stupidity, and acting your coworkers

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on a job well done. Barely

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ready for a four-hour crash, an inevitable

1:55

hangover, an unspoken gratitude for the fact

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that you get to get up too

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early. too sore and too smart

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to know any better so that you

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my friend can go back to work

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and do it all over again. To

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an outsider, the kitchen during the night

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we rush looked and sounded like chaos,

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but you've got it all under control.

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Sure, the slips of firing in will be

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Rapido's in your and the floor staff looks

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haggard and scared and the dishwasher has gone

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on one of his mid-shift sabbaticals in the

2:26

back alley and the sous chef manages quitter.

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He may just be in the can with

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explosive diarrhea and no one will acknowledge that

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the phone has been ringing unanswered for what

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you swear to God has been all frigging

2:37

night long and the owner just decided that

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right fucking now of all times is the

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time to pop in to bust your balls

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in front of his investors. Yes, that all

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may be happening at the moment and it

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might spell chaos for the uninitiated civilian looking

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in on your kitchen, but you're no civilian.

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You're a professional chef or at least a

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very capable cook. And this is your kitchen.

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Even if you don't own a piece, even

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if you're fighting a daily heroin jones, even

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if you're a functioning alcoholic, even if you

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haven't seen your new wife in the daylight

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in six weeks and even if you can't

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speak Spanish shit, that's all that most of

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your employees speak. Even if your fish guy

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went on the lamb and your meat

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guy is returning your calls, none of

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this matters because you thrive in this

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chaos. In fact, this

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isn't chaos at all. This

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to you, for some unexplained

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reason, makes sense. It's

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organized. At least to you it

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is. You know your way

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around these challenges. You and you

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alone know how to solve these problems. But

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these are the only problems you know how to solve.

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Kitchen problems. Outside

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the kitchen. That's

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chaos. You haven't paid

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your rent on time. Well, ever.

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You're perpetually three months behind and dodging

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your landlord. The creditors are after you

3:51

in the tax man looms. You

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haven't been to a doctor for a preemptive checkup

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for what seems to be your entire adult life

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and your barreling toward middle age with a needle.

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hanging out of your room during a time

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in history when intravenous drug use can spell

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instant death. It's July and

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your Christmas tree is still standing in the

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corner of your apartment, better than Vince Durali

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and twice as pathetic as Charlie Brown. You

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and your wife, Nancy, are too ashamed to even bring

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it down to the corner for the trash man to

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pick up for fear of what your neighbors might think.

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You have next to no social life.

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You subsist on deli sandwiches and Simpson's

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rewinds. Because you live it

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is barely any life at all. But

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work is where you thrive. And

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after work is when you come alive.

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The sun ruled. The

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sun came. On the beach

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crashed out, tanning away the heroin collar,

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asleep in the sand in the late morning hours.

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Before that, it was the train out to Rockaway,

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nodding out having finished the last of your work,

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freaking out the civilians on their early morning

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rush hour commute. Club 57,

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the mud club, CBGB, wherever

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junky guitar players reigned supreme

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on stage, you were there.

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Pass the line of pedestrians to the sympathetic

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doorman who can bribe the steak sandwiches

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from your kitchen. The

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kitchen you'd closed hours ago. You

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hit the bar after closing with a couple employees. Someone

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thought 96 tears by question mark in the mysterious

5:20

was a good idea. And they

5:22

were right. It blasted from the jukebox. A

5:25

fat line of coke was laid out

5:27

on said bar along the length of

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the entire bar. The adult

5:31

portion of the evening was now in

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full effect, commenced by you mounting the

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bar getting down on all fours and

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hoovering as much of that long line of

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blow as your aching heart would allow. You

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needed to bump something to come back from

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the weakness brought on by the illicit rendezvous

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in the dry goods area with the cute

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waitress. Hey, it happened. So what? You

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don't know how it gets started. You just did it. Sort of

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like this night. It just got started. Sort

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of like all the nights. You scammed. You

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ran hard and hard and fast away

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from yourself until finally you add it

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up right back where you started. In

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the kitchen. Unless

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of course it was a day off.

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Then you can run away. he couldn't hide

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from you. sell for from what you become.

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A jinx. When

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it was nowhere left to go the

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no more drugs listed do know, sister,

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pick up You find yourself we seared.

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He would inevitably end up alone. Not

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even you junkie wife could help. She

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was nodding off on her own trip.

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The So was just you. Just

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you in the deep dark,

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Dirty. mere. Alone.

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At rock bottom.