The old grey Jack Kerouac sweatshirt that dated back to my college years in the early ’80s was nowhere to be found. But today it’s in good hands.
Chuck D looked at me quizzically, his furrowed brow barely showing beneath the bill of his black Raiders cap. “Sure,” the rapper said as I handed him a yellowed copy of Allen Ginsberg’s Howl. “I’ll read it. Sounds interesting.”