Things I Miss That No Longer Exist.

Over the weekend, I stumbled across an online post that felt like a recovered artifact from a more honest internet. It contained several long lost lists created and posted by Anthony Bourdain, resurrected with the help of the Internet Archive and the kind of digital archaeology usually reserved for forgotten blogs and MySpace pages. A few devoted fans did their best to piece these lists back together, and in true Bourdain fashion, they were gloriously unfiltered. Favorite hotels. Favorite go to meals. Favorite porn. No hedging. No irony quotes. Just truth, served straight up.

The man was, as always, unapologetically honest. And maybe that is exactly why so many of us were drawn to him, and still are. There was no performance. No carefully managed persona. No mask. He simply was who he was and lived accordingly. Loudly. Imperfectly. Curiously. In a world obsessed with polishing its edges, Bourdain showed up chipped and smoking and completely uninterested in pretending otherwise.

Reading those lists got under my skin in the best possible way. They were intimate without trying to be profound. Personal without being precious. They made me realize how rarely we inventory the things that actually shaped us, the small cultural artifacts and experiences that quietly defined who we became. So I decided to follow Anthony’s example and start making a few lists of my own.

Not lists of achievements. Not lists designed to impress. Just honest ones.

Things I Miss That No Longer Exist.

Halloween

Yes, Halloween technically still exists, but not in the way it used to. Growing up, Halloween was an event. The whole neighborhood was involved. Houses were decorated. Porches glowed. People sat outside with bowls of candy and actually talked to each other. I remember pulling the pillowcase off my bed, putting on a costume that barely survived the night, and going door to door with hundreds of other kids, the streets buzzing with excitement and sugar fueled chaos. I would come home with an absurd amount of candy and feel like I had conquered something.

As I got older, Halloween evolved. I loved hiding out in front of my house, wearing a mask, waiting patiently for unsuspecting kids and adults to pass by so I could scare the absolute life out of them. It was mischievous and theatrical and deeply satisfying. Halloween was an aesthetic unto itself. A mood. A season.

While many of us still try to keep Halloween alive each year, something fundamental has changed. It has been over ten years since anyone knocked on my door on Halloween night looking for candy. Trick or treating barely happens anymore. It has been replaced by small local trunk or treat events in parking lots, or sometimes nothing at all. Safer, maybe. But undeniably quieter. Something wild and communal slipped away without much of a goodbye.

No Cell Phones

I will be the first to admit that I love technology. Phones today are impressive little slabs of sorcery. But there was something undeniably special about being unreachable. Going to the store, the mall, or the movies and simply disappearing for a while. No notifications. No pings. No expectation of immediate response.

There are people alive today who never knew a world like that existed. But I remember it vividly. I remember being kicked out of the house during the summer and not being allowed back inside until the street lights came on. I remember going places and having no choice but to pay attention and be present because scrolling was not an option and social media did not exist. You were where you were. Mentally and physically.

Some days I miss that deeply. And as technology becomes more persistent and invasive, I find myself deliberately consuming less of it. Putting my phone away. Letting it sit untouched. Pretending, even if only for a few minutes, that no one can reach me. It feels almost rebellious now. Like slipping out the back door without telling anyone.

Paper Tickets

I used to collect tickets. Movie tickets. Concert tickets. Anything that proved I had been somewhere and experienced something. I kept them in my wallet and loved pulling out a thick stack when I was bored, flipping through them like a personal highlight reel. Each ticket carried a memory. A night out. A song played live. A movie that hit harder than expected.

Eventually the stack got too big, so I moved them into a small box. I still have it. Most of the tickets are faded now. Some are barely legible, the ink slowly surrendering to time. But in today’s world of QR codes and digital wallets, I miss paper tickets. I miss having something physical to hold onto. Proof that I was there. That it happened.

I will probably continue making lists in the coming days and weeks. There are plenty more rattling around in my head, waiting their turn. But for now, this feels like a good start. Honest. A little nostalgic. Slightly chaotic. Just the way Bourdain would probably approve of, if he were leaning against a wall nearby, cigarette in hand, quietly judging us all.