Author Archives: Paul Florez

Advanced Sneakerology

I’m sure all this sounds silly. I’ve had guys tell me that they own one pair of sneakers, wear them every day, and buy a new pair only when the shoes become un-wearable. (I have no clue what un-wearable means because I keep all my sneakers in Sistine-Chapel-clean condition, but I’ll get there later).

Boyhood Review

By Kyle Lucia Wu

What Linklater has done with his decision to film the same actors over a stretch of a dozen years is remove that suspension of disbelief that any movie portraying a stretch of time has – that the tiny toddler in the flashback is actually the grown man with a beard in the present.

parenthetical

parenthetical
by Mara Miller

it’s the kinda night that leaves you alone, in the tv room, smoking a bowl with a grill lighter.
yea. that kind of night.
and as you sit there, trying to coordinate the push down with the click, you realize, this is all you will ever have. and just as you are about to fall down a rabbit hole of depression and whoa-is-mes, it hits you.
like a ton of bricks, it hits you.

Throwback Thursday Article #1: The ABCs of Joss Whedon

The TBT hashtag rules with an ironfist on Instagram every Thursday. It’s impossible not to look at your feed and see awkward photos of years past, undoubtedly originally taken on a disposable camera (we hate the dreaded picture of a picture post…not that we’re not guilty of it ourselves). We had a thought here at

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Burial Options

Burial Options
by Kyle Lucia Wu

Sometimes I do climb to the roof, out of my fire escape and up the rickety black ladder that does not look supportive. I stare at the skyline from my perch in Queens. New York is so elusive. You can only see its beauty once you leave.

Pumping Gas

A short story by Bill Vernon

He filled the car’s gasoline tank, spoke with the lady, took money from her, came inside, rang up the sale, put a dozen square plastic packages from one of the boxes into a brown paper sack, and held the sack up. “She wanted Trojan regulars.”

Upstate by Brian Fender

I caught the train in Harlem. I stood on the platform and looked down the length of 125th street cluttered in garbage and people going about their business. An older man stood on the corner yelling incoherently and waving his index finger. He had a lot to say, but no one was listening.