We’ve written about this before. Back in October, Rustin pondered what exactly it meant to wear Chuck Taylor. Beyond the contents of that post, I don’t really know much about the history of the iconic sneaker. What I do know is that my Chuck Taylors are dying.
The phone rang late Sunday afternoon. My mom’s voice sounded worried, concerned, like some uncomfortable question was coming. I knew this tone, knew it usually meant something was wrong. Nothing tragic or anything like that. But something. Still, I had no idea what it could be, no idea what was coming.
“Rustin,” my mom said. “Do you have any need for the PlayStation downstairs in the basement? Your dad just threw it in the trash.” Continue reading
Because sometimes you just want friends to tell you about cool things… the Brew House team offers up its weekly mix of author-supported goodness.
Many a soul reserve a particularly contemptible place in their heart for “The Christmas Shoes.” I suspect some may even call it the worst Christmas song ever, worse than even “Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer” or “All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth.” I say this because Jezebel held a contest for readers to decided the worst Christmas song ever, and it won, beating out, in the semifinal and then final, “All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth” and “Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer.” Continue reading
That afternoon, as the sun began to descend over the colorful mélange of San Francisco hills, we took our seats in the garden, a backyard with strange looking flora, life surrounding everything.
Our hosts looked at us with a hint of friendly suspicion. How could you blame them? We were intruders, strangers, locusts looking for answers.
But… we did sit quietly. Mostly because we didn’t know what to say.
We had traveled thousands of miles, thrown into a journey that was one-part contest, one-part investigation, and one-part discovery.
And now we were here, sitting in the backyard of an old, white-haired man named Peter Berg, trying in vein to explain ourselves.
At last, the old man spoke:
“I wanna know two things,” he said, “One is why Peter Coyote? And why me?”
The Brew House 