August 25, 2018
Iconoclast Jason Dill Is Returning Skateboarding to Its Obscenely Awesome Roots
Playboy October 2016
Words: Rob Brink
In 2009, pro skateboarder Jason Dill had to call 911 on himself. He was throwing up blood all over his New York City apartment and suffering from a gastric hemorrhage. The Jameson, Vicodin and Percocet cocktails had finally taken their toll.
“I didn’t think I’d even survive,” says Dill, who now stars on the Netflix series Love. “When I’m on the set, I’m quiet as a mouse. I’m just so blown away and thankful I’m there. And the last thing I ever wanted was the responsibility of owning a company that people expect more from—because owning a company is a pain in the ass.”
In 2013, after kicking the pills and spending more time on his board, Dill ditched his longtime sponsor, Alien Workshop—one of the most popular skateboarding companies ever—and walked away from a partial-ownership offer to co-found board brand Fucking Awesome, an extension of his self-funded apparel side project.
In doing so, Dill dumped a bucket of ice on the once-countercultural world of skateboarding, which in the previous 17 years had devolved into a G-rated parody of itself to appease moms and malls, and woke it the fuck up. The exodus of Alien’s riders to Fucking Awesome was swift. It’s now one of the top-selling and most knocked-off companies in boards and streetwear, despite its provocative graphics, null social media presence and label that prevents mass retail saturation.
When Fucking Awesome launched as a skateboard brand in 2013, it wasn’t uncommon to hear industry folk say, “They’re never going to make it. They’ll never get into mall shops with that name.”
You see where their brains went immediately? That’s what’s wrong with the industry—all this bullshit people talk. I’m sorry because some of them are my friends, but with their two-and-a-half car garage and two and a half kids in their suburb of Portland, of course they’re not going to be like, “Let’s go nuts!” They’d lose their fucking jobs. Luckily, I’m not fighting to keep my two and a half kids in the latest expensive daycare. I don’t give a fuck. No family, no car and no mortgage payments means I just shoot this shit out of my fucking soul.
Die-hards have criticized the skateboarding industry for pandering to the mainstream so much and becoming so non-offensive that a word like “fucking” seems shocking. That’s what’s so scary. If it were 1993, no one would bat an eye. You disrupted the entire industry.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t pleased that things were disrupted, because I am. I most certainly wasn’t aiming for Alien Workshop to almost go out of business, because after being with them for 15 years, quitting was emotionally insane. But going into skate shops these days, looking at the wall and seeing other board brands trying really hard is great, because none of them were trying this hard before and I know that’s a direct result of FA. Anyone who thinks that statement is over the top, go ahead and think that but you can also eat my butt, because it’s the truth. I see people bite us over and over again and it’s ridiculous because they don’t even realize everything they bite. That forces me to go make something else that’s out of their realm because I know they won’t think of it. And then they bite that, too.
When I visit skate shops like Uprise in Chicago, Seasons in Albany, Orchard in Boston or Exit in Philadelphia, owners tell me that I helped bring skate shops back. They feel FA brought the kids and excitement back because new kids started coming in only asking for FA. Shit like that is such a big compliment that I feel funny saying it back to you.
After you were hospitalized in 2009, you kind of disappeared from skateboarding. In your own mind, did you ever imagine owning a respected company like FA?
No. It’s totally fucking insane. That’s why when I’m on the set of Love I take it all in. I’m just so fucking blown away. I didn’t think I’d survive. I really didn’t. I never wanted my own company. Wanna know why? Because it’s a fucking pain in the ass! When people expect more, they expect it fucking tomorrow. If you came out with some shit yesterday, they wanna see the new shit next week. It’s just ridiculous day in and day out, but I suppose it’s like having a kid. I take care of it. I love it. I can’t let it go to a community college, you know? I gotta raise it right. [laughs]
Skateboarding is a trend-oriented sport. Things are hot for a year or three and then they’re not. We’ve all seen the shelf life some skate brands have.
I’m now past my third year of FA. I’m proud of what we’ve done. If you are a company making stuff, you need to have it in the back of your head that, hey, I might have to kill this thing one day for the greater good so it doesn’t look like a bunch of bullshit. Imagine if Mark Gonzales got to end his skate company, Blind. How would we look at it today? Imagine if Mark had made some deal with Steve Rocco, the owner of his distributor early on, like, “I’ll totally do this, but when I think it’s time that this is done, I get to put out an ad that says, ‘It’s done. We killed it. It’s over. Thank you.’” I feel a lot of people think when you start a company, you just ride it until someone comes along and buys you. That’s not the fucking case here. I’d rather it die than look bad.
Killed at the peak.
Yeah, like Michael Jordan did, until he played baseball and came back and played for the fucking Wizards. It was like, c’mon, dude! I know I didn’t invent this way of thinking, but I feel it serves me best.
You also star on Judd Apatow’s hit Netflix series, Love. How did that come about?
About a year and a half ago I was in Los Angeles and saw my friend [TV writer] Lesley Arfin on the street. She was like, “Hey, I’m making this television show with my boyfriend and we think you’d be good in it.” I was at point when I really needed everything to be completely spot-on with FA—production and all that bullshit—so I was like, “I’m not really into it. That sounds crazy. I don’t think I have time.” She told me, “I knew you’d say that, but it’s Judd Apatow and it’s guaranteed two seasons for Netflix. Will you audition?”
And I fucking did. Before I knew it they were asking me to come to Sony Pictures and do a reading in front of Judd. I was so fucking nervous. It was wild because I’m not an actor.
The second season’s done now and I’m happy to be on it. Everyone was really nice. All of them knowing I wasn’t an actor coming into it was just super cool because I’d do a scene with a stand-up comedian and they’d be like, “Dude you’re doing good.” I’m like, “Really? All right. Good.”
August 25, 2018
Meet Austyn Gillette: Risk-taker With Style—On and Off the Board
Playboy.com April 22, 2018
Words: Rob Brink
Photography: Curtis Buchanan
Despite being at the helm of one of the only apparel brands of note in skateboarding and surfing at the moment—a brand called Former—where everything, from pants to thermals to tees to board-shorts are all custom (there's even safety pins and nail polish), 26-year-old professional skateboarder Austyn Gillette wouldn't dare consider himself a designer or fashion aficionado.
Interviewing him about related intangibles like "style" and "inspiration" and "process" usually derails into ponderous banter and a roasting of the current state of affairs, which, I'd like to imagine, puts us somewhere in between the great writers and philosophers sipping coffee at Paris' Cafe de Flore in the 1920s and Beavis and Butthead. "Do you think boot cut is going to come back?" Austyn pontificates. "Isn't that just a nicer way of saying 'bell bottoms'?" I say.
"What about capris or something?" He continues. "I'm ready for it. I just want to see it. When is the landline phone going to be hot again? It's just inconvenient enough to be really fucking cool and retro." To know Austyn is to love his uncanny ability to observe the circus that is life happening all around him. Amused; never triggered; notoriously deadpan, Austyn is the constructively berating older brother that everyone (including the world of skateboarding) needs. He's what Ryan Gosling is to Steve Carell and his beloved New Balances in Crazy, Stupid, Love. "Everything's just going backwards right now. Like full-on '90s. I don't even know what people are doing out there," he continues.
"They're suffering for the trend," I reply. "Oh boy. That's exactly what they're doing. There's a lot of fucking bullshit and some half-assed skating going on. It hurts the fucking eyes and soul. Everybody's a fucking celebrity; everybody's trying to get some with their internet personas. Everybody's just blindly throwing shit out there—putting a little milk down on the stairs and seeing if any cats come lick it up. And just because Rihanna wore their dumb ass shirt, people are successful financially. All that matters is putting your shirt on a fucking rapper. I can't wait until the modern rap is fucking done. I really can’t.”
At the heart of this ranting, though, lies the desire to see people try harder and contribute to creating great, timeless things—to filter out the nonsense and elevate the whole. Austyn is a quality control person, and you can count on two hands the professional skateboarders and brands from the last 30 years known and respected for that. "I think all that really matters is being good at what you do and putting out good content. If people like your style and you influence them, and they influence you, then you're doing something right and it's honest and pure. I don't think people are delivering right now. They aren't pushing the envelope and I hope that that changes.”
Currently living in Los Angeles, the Orange County, California (Whittier, to be exact) native has been skateboarding since he was 8 years old, securing sponsorships and magazine coverage by age 9. As his career progressed and his skating matured, alongside his friends Dylan Rieder and Alex Olson (half-jokingly dubbed "Team Handsome" by the skate community), Gillette eventually came to be known as one of the most stylish and respected skaters of his generation, both on and off the board.
He's shunned blatant money grabs, flavor-of-the-month trends, NASCAR-esque logos and a wardrobe that looks like an Easter egg coloring kit exploded all over the cast of Seinfeld's closets. Instead, he prefers black or white basics—slim fit pants, tucked-in tees or wife beaters, dress shoes off the board and signature skate shoes that replicate them while on it. In essence, a man's man approach to dress over that of say, a mall skate shop employee or Odd Future festival-goer. "These days I love a '40s or '50s style, or even something like Peaky Blinders—that kind of early 1900s thing," Austyn explains. "Straight leg, wider pants and a clean shirt, stuff like that."
Far more important than the appeal and influence of Austyn's clothes, though, is that his natural ability on a skateboard rivals some of the top pros on the planet. These days, for most, opting out of chucking yourself down gargantuan rails or gaps and steering clear of the contest circuit is career suicide. But Austyn's technically proficient, yet surf-like approach to street skating embraces speed and finesse, with a trick selection that has always showcased skill and refined taste beyond his years. He skates fast; his push looks great; his flick is quick; his power understated. His landings possess just enough sketchiness to make them cooler than if they were perfect—carving from side to side or sometimes hopping his feet into the "correct" position after the fact. His arms and upper body continue spinning long after his legs are locked in place. His motions are fluid even though at first, they might seem like exaggerated flair.
Simply stated, Austyn is amazing to watch on a skateboard. He knows what looks good and has the talent, sophistication and restraint to execute it, alongside a keen sense of style to accentuate it. "I've always hung out with older people who have good taste," Austyn explains, "because of that, I wasn't so inspired by my contemporaries or skateboarders my age. I was always looking outward and I guess that's how FORMER is too.”
Conceptually born from the friendships forged on the "Team Average" surf trip to Australia for Monster Children back in 2012—with pro surfers Craig Anderson and Dane Reynolds (two of the most stylish and respected surfers out there today), and legendary professional skateboarder Dylan Rieder (who passed away in October 2016)—FORMER officially launched in March 2017 and is an anomaly in the sense that, as obvious as it seems, pro skaters and surfers rarely start brands together.
When I ask Austyn what he would like to see more of, he responds, "To tell you the truth. I would just like to see less. I would love somebody to say, 'No. There are too many of those out there. We actually can't make that.' You know how you have to go through the city for a liquor license or something like that? Where there's a cap and you've got to wait a year until they auction off somebody else's license? It should be like that." He continues, "but at the same time, I like that people are getting away with whatever, because I've always dealt with that—manipulating an article of clothing I find at a vintage shop and cutting the sleeves off or something like that, and people will ask me where I got it."
He notes that many of Former's pieces are "based off pieces purchased from vintage shops—things from back in the day—and then we put our little twist on it. And we'll ask men and women for feedback on what they like and don't like about it." Above all, there is an authenticity and passion behind each functional, timeless piece that he believes people can recognize. He continues, "Rather than doing what everybody else is doing, we're just doing what we want. It's a marriage of two completely different lifestyles filtered by experiences and friends who have good taste."
And that true place is the heart and soul of cultures like skateboarding and surfing. The desire to manifest a feeling inside of you into something tangible outside of you. To counter the inanity of popular culture and create what doesn't yet exist, if for no other reason than to have fun or inspire oneself and circle of friends—an ethos often appropriated but never duplicated, by mainstream fashion—the subject of decades-old animosity between the two worlds that only seems to be intensifying as more and more of skateboarding's influence, including plenty of stolen designs, seem to be popping up on runways, in advertising and on the racks of department stores all over the world—Thrasher's logo being the primary source of "inspiration" for many at the moment. "Skateboarding's always been pretty noisy," says Austyn.
"It's just a noisy, rebellious sport. I hate calling it a sport, though, but there's just something about it—you hear it, then you see the person doing it, and you don't know why it's so cool, but it just is. Everybody knows that. Skateboarding has a big presence and has been cool ever since it started. Bigger brands outside of skateboarding are drawn to it because it's rebellious. They're just buying into this thing we built now that it's already cool and accepted. There's nothing behind it other than that.
Never lacking in self awareness, Austyn jokingly concludes: "But it's just clothes at the end of the day and it's all pretty silly. We're not humanitarians. We're not doing anything special. Most people are so fucking oblivious to all the shit we are talking about anyway."
August 25, 2018
My Way: Bobby Hundreds
Playboy December, 2016
Words: Rob Brink
My parents are Korean immigrants, and I was one of maybe 30 Asians in a high school of 2,000 kids in Riverside, California. I was keenly aware that I was different—that I wasn’t white—and felt like the world was stacked against me.
During that time, skateboarding shaped my life. Through skateboarding I found music, and through music and skateboarding I discovered fashion. From as early as I can remember, I was an artist, but I was told there wasn’t a future in that. My parents told me I needed to concentrate on math and subjects I was horrible at. Because my creativity was squelched, it manifested in strange ways. Most kids were under their blankets reading Playboy; I was drawing in secret because I wasn’t allowed to in public.
All of my Asian American role models were doctors or the karate guy in movies. As an Asian American, you were either the consumer or the kid in the factory making the product. You weren’t the guy running the company. White men ran the clothing brands. Skateboarding helped me realize I could move beyond those invisible borders and be whoever I wanted—an Asian who dates white girls or is loud, outspoken and can fight.
For the last 14 years I’ve been dedicated to building the Hundreds, the streetwear brand I started in 2003 while I was in law school. As a result, I’ve had to say no to a lot of things. The Hundreds has never been the hottest brand. The times we’ve done well, I was miserable and felt the worst about the company. Other years, we were told that we suck and I was like, “I couldn’t be prouder of what we’re doing right now!” But if you keep going, nobody remembers the losses.
I have so much I want to do and not enough time to do it. I’ve felt this way my whole life. I’ll watch an Apple keynote and be like, “How do I be more like Apple?” I read a lot, so I want to write a book. Every time I enjoy a movie, I’m like, “I want to make a movie!” It’s this total narcissistic, egomaniacal thing—“Let’s see how much I can do before I leave the planet.”
I started my new women’s apparel line, Jennifer, because there isn’t a women’s brand guys are dying to wear. That hypocrisy bothers me. As a minority, I’ve always been sensitive to inequality and injustice. I’ve had great friendships and relationships with strong, intelligent women who’ve helped me understand their situations. Designers always look for imperfections and try to flatten the wrinkles. If something’s straight, you want to make it crooked. If something’s crooked, you want to make it straight. Let’s give women something their boyfriends will covet. It’s the wrinkle I want to flatten out. Of course I got pushback. “What do you know about women?” they said. Why can’t I do this? I didn’t know how to do streetwear 13 years ago, and I figured it out.
I want people to think differently. I want to disrupt things. I recently opened TikiFish in west L.A.; just because I’m a streetwear guy doesn’t mean I can’t open a poke restaurant. And just because I opened a poke restaurant doesn’t mean I can’t direct a film, like my streetwear documentary Built to Fail. Successes and failures are relative; I really don’t know how to judge them. I’m 36 years old and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. I have a higher calling to work. As long as I do that, my family will be proud of me, and I’ll never be ashamed of what I do.
June 12, 2018
Pro Skateboarder Brian Anderson Opens Up to Playboy About His Groundbreaking Coming Out
Playboy.com October 4, 2016
Words: Rob Brink
In 1999, professional skateboarder Brian Anderson won the World Championship, followed by the most coveted accolade in skateboarding, Thrasher’s “Skater of the Year” award. Just a year prior, in 1998, Tim Von Werne’s soon-to-be professional skate career came to a screeching halt after his sponsor, Birdhouse Skateboards, killed an interview with Skateboarder magazine in which Von Werne revealed he’s gay.
The world of sports hasn’t traditionally been kind to gay athletes; skateboarding is no different. Anyone relying on a heterosexual, male-dominated, youth-driven activity for their livelihood has always had to carefully consider the impact that coming out could have on their career and personal life. In skateboarding specifically, nobody wanted to become the next Von Werne.
Anderson is big for a professional skateboarder, towering at six-foot-three. He’s covered in tattoos and skates with the eyes of an axe murderer and the elegance of a zenned-out surfer. You don’t want to get in Anderson’s way during a session, but you do want him at your side in a bar in case there’s a brawl. Throughout his career, Anderson has designed his own shoe for Nike and collaborated on boards with some of the most respected skate brands in history. He’s been an icon in the skate world for more than a decade. Last week, Anderson upended that world when he came out publicly in a Vice Sports documentary directed by Giovanni Reda.
Anderson knew he was gay since he was four years old, when he found himself attracted to Popeye’s enemy, Bluto. His friends in the skate industry didn’t know until he told them in the early 2000s and, although word spread through inner-circles, a tightknit group of insiders protected Brian’s secret, speaking about it only amongst themselves and behind closed doors.
When the news hit in late September, Anderson did more than break the internet. He transcended skateboarding and harnessed the web’s power to bring people together in support of someone who pulled off a career move greater than any trophy and gnarlier than any trick. With little to no backlash, you’d be hard-pressed to find another example of a time when there was so much compassion and unity in the skate community.
Anderson might not be the first pro to come out, but he is the first A-list World Champion and “Skater of the Year” winner to. It marks yet another watershed moment in the recent wave of mainstream sport athletes coming out, from Michael Sam to Jason Collins to David Denson. But unlike what Von Werne experienced, this time around the skate community is grown-up enough to embrace it. To celebrate this pivotal moment in socio-sexual progress, Playboy asked sports journalist Rob Brink to meet up with Anderson to talk about the aftermath of his important public announcement. One thing becomes clear during their conversation: if you are going to hate on Anderson for being gay, you are hating on one of the most beloved, talented and influential figures in the history of skate culture. You’re also an asshole.
In the documentary, you say that you originally hadn’t plan to come out until after retirement. What changed?
I’d already told so many people in the industry over the last 15 years. It was irritating being halfway out. To be honest, I just want to be able to post a picture of my boyfriend and me on the beach on Instagram. But it’s not just about social media—that’s not real life. I simply wanted to be able to walk down the street and give my boyfriend a kiss in public before he got on the subway and I went skateboarding. I want simple things like that.
Just for my soul, I had to get this out. When you hold it in for so long it really messes with your head. I would hate to leave this planet and not tell my story. I wanted to tell everyone so that some little kid in the middle of nowhere who is wondering what’s going on with his life gets to hear all these fantastic people say, “Screw it, we love Brian!” Now, anybody who wants to come talk to me can. If there’s some kid that wants to pull me aside and go, “I’m gay and I’m freaked out” and I will be like, “I’m here for you. Want to go talk about this?”
What reaction were you expecting prior to the release of the documentary?
I wasn’t expecting it to be this huge at all. I should make the point that this thing was supposed to come out a week earlier, but due to some technical difficulties, it was delayed. I was upset because I had watched and combed through the edit so many times and was finally not afraid anymore. I was texting Reda, “Just put it out!“ That being said, it was a magical blessing because the night before it came out, Donald Trump and Hilary Clinton debated. I got so many messages from people saying, “Last night was the worst, but to have something great come out in the world the morning after that madness was so refreshing.”
How has life been since your public coming out a week ago?
My phone is like a volcano. I wake up at five in the morning and look at Instagram, which I never used to do. It’s all been positive; the support from all different kinds of people is amazing. I’m very happy and just busy trying to be a gangster and embrace it all with the little sleep I’m getting.
What was it like for you to watch footage of your friends talking about you?
I shed tears watching it. Having that kind of support is incredible because not everybody does. I’m fortunate in that I’m a six-foot-three tattooed, hairy guy with a masculine voice, so I haven’t experienced anything too crazy. I was able to slip under the radar and my heart goes out to the people who it is more difficult for. What I went through was awful, but if you live in a small town in middle America and you are effeminate, I can’t imagine what that must be like.
I’ve been in my fair share of skate tour vans and have heard the way people say “faggot!” and “that’s gay!” How difficult was it to keep your mouth shut when that happened?
At times it was tough. I was scared. I couldn’t call someone out so I just had to deal with it. The people around me who might have used those words, they weren’t mean people. They weren’t racist; they weren’t homophobic. I was always careful to surround myself with good people and they never hurt me too much in that way.
Early in my career, being with [skateboarder and owner of skate brand Toy Machine] Ed Templeton helped a lot. To be on his team you have to be open-minded because you’re dealing with him. As an artist, he has a lot of provocative photos of he and his wife having sex and stuff. The people he let into our world were pretty darn open-minded folks. I never really felt a lot of homophobia with them. I would hear it around me in other venues, at contests and stuff, and I was like, “Thank God I’m not in the van with them.”
It’s amazing how respectful and protective the skate industry was of you all these years. I once saw a Vice UK article outing you, which is scary. Did that create any urgency for you to come out?
That disgusted me. I don’t know who had the audacity to think it’s their right to publicly post something like that. Like, who are you? Do you understand what it’s like to be gay? Screw you. I’m a public figure to a degree, so of course people are going to talk, but for someone to tell your story before you’re ready to, that’s disrespectful. That person should be ashamed of him or herself.
There have also been incidents where people’s careers were damaged as the result of coming out, such as Tim Von Werne’s. Mark Nickels, a friend of mine, was a videographer for Osiris and allegedly lost his job because they found out he was gay.
I don’t want to name names, but I heard how Tim was, what you’d call “fired.” That totally disturbed me. It made me angry about whoever was involved in doing that to him. And fuck Osiris for doing that to [Nickels]. Put that in print. That’s disgusting. They should be ashamed of themselves.
Based on percentages, one has to assume there are more gay pro skaters. Do you think you’ve encouraged them to come out?
I only know one and I think he’s basically retired. In the future, I hope so, just so they can be themselves. After all this stuff is over, we need to not even talk about the fact that we’re gay. It’s a great point to make right now and I’m thrilled, but I’m looking forward to just being a skateboarder again. It’s going to be cool when this is over so we can say, “Okay, we all puked this up and shit it out of our systems. Now we can just live.”
What would you say to other people out there, especially skateboarders, who are scared to come out?
Be careful. We are fortunate that we live in a time where things are becoming more accepted, but somebody can still throw a fucking bottle at your head. There are a lot of close-minded people and if you’re on a bus holding your partner’s hand, there might be someone who’s going to freak out and want to hurt you. If you feel like your family has old-fashioned values that may result in negativity, or if you think your parents are going to freak out and disown you, then don’t come out. It sucks to say, but we all have to wait for the right time in our life. But then guess what? There are going to be a lot of new people you’ll meet that will become your new family. They are going to hold your hand and walk you through the rest of your life. They’re going to love and embrace you and help you go further and be happier. There are millions of people out there ready to help you.