diegotorresc
Diego Torres
Hola soy Diego Alejandro Torres.
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Los adultos siempre quieren que nosotros los jóvenes pensemos en nuestro futuro, sin darnos opciones para el presente…
Bienvenida Realidad (via the-queendarkness)
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Nearly every time they raised the floortable, another small stowaway emerged.
(Photo: Ben Anders; Dwell)
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It wasn’t so much that he didn’t see the messages from The Internet; it was that he didn’t know how to respond.
(Photo: Frederik Vercruysse; Dwell)
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Another lonely Friday night? S’more or less.
(Photo: Andrea Wyner; Dwell)
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FLASHBACK: When You Ask The DJ For Requests
The FLASHBACK is being deployed for a very specific reason, namely to let you know that we will be DJing on Friday, March 30, at Glasslands Gallery in Brooklyn at the so-called “Brass Magic Party.” Other DJs will include French Horn Rebellion, Golden Pony, Tiny Victories and Rx. See the flyer above for all the details and, remember, should you try to request ANY songs from us, the following scenario will likely unfold:
Jenny: Hey! Do you think you could play some Madonna or Michael Jackson or something?
DJ Infinite Heaviness of Beans: What? I can’t hear you.
Jenny: [shimmies into the DJ booth] Oh, I was just wondering if you could play some ’80s music or something.
DJ (totally not gonna repeat that name every time): Uh. I’m working.
Jenny: That’s cool. Sorry. Just wondering if you take requests.
DJ: I have my playlist. It’s all set up.
Jenny: Yeah, man. But you just played “Horse with No Name”…
DJ: [withering glare]
Jenny: I mean, that’s an awesome song… If you like quirky funeral dirges, but, you can’t dance to that.
DJ: Fucking person from Porlock…
Jenny: Excuse me?
DJ: You know “Kubla Khan”?
Jenny: Was that the song you played after all those weird Caribbean gospel jams?
DJ: No, asshole, it’s a poem, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. An epic poem that he composed while in an opium-induced haze. It was like his fucking masterpiece. About Xanadu. And a pleasure palace. And polo. Or something. Anyway, the point is, Coleridge was, like, all fucking tripping out on opium and his creative juices where just bursting from his body like fucking beaujolias nouveau wine grapes bursting under the stately feet of French maidens… when some asshole, some dude from some place called Porlock, just burst in and killed his flow. Then, when he came back to his poem, he had lost it. Lost it fucking all. That’s what you are, lady, a fucking person from Porlock. Killing my ever-loving flow.
Jenny: But… you’re not even spinning vinyl… You’ve just got a fucking iTunes playlist open on your desktop…
DJ: Get out of my area.
Jenny: And… what’s the title there? “John’s Chill-Out” music?
DJ: Get the fuck out of my area.
Jenny: Dude, did you even make a playlist for tonight? Or is this just what you listen to when you’re high?
DJ: Fuck you. Get the fuck out my fucking pleasure palace.
Jenny: Look! No one’s dancing! Everyone’s leaving!
DJ: Whatever. Classless masses. Music isn’t for everyone. Obviously they lack my poetic sensibilities. Imma just turn the speakers off and jam here with my headphones. Y’all can go straight to hell. Or Porlock. Wherever the fuck that is.
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