His voice is a sinusy rumble, a head cold caught from Dustin Hoffman, with a backspin of wiseguy how'syamutha Brooklynese, which is charming but also incongruous coming from a Canadian. Gosling's Tshirt is torn at the neck and faded to the point of translucence his black boots are battered and pale with white dust, like he's been kicking drywall. Maybe they thought some drunk monkey got loose with a spray can."
"Not one of them ever messed with me, man," he says. And when I thought I was ready, I started tagging over some specific guys'. I'd heard if you tag over someone else's tag, you declare war. An island of community amid L.A.'s lonely sprawl. Back then, downtown was another city, Gosling says.
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