Andy Warhol: Warholics Anonymous
Was Andy Warhol A Hipster?
Andy the hipster painted icons, pop cans, soup cans, all the while camping it up with Campbells, and mincing gaily as he worked on marvellous Marilyn and gorged on fame. Enjoying more than the allotted 15 minutes of fame, he proclaimed as 8 Elvises escaped from the velvet painting on the Warhol wall to blast and blaze a trail to the Velvet Underground. Leaving in it’s wake a pile of Joe Delassandro’s Trash to be devoured by hungry Chelsea girls who take their own Warholic walk on the wild side…do do do do do do do… Surrounded by Sugar Punk Faries and Little Joe from Miami, F.L.A. and never once gave it away to Lou hiding in the reeds.
Warhol of the avant garde, devoted by Devo, devotees who deified this, their own Colonel Kurtz on rye. All while Brit Bowie glittered, and teetered high above in his platform shoe pulpit singing the praises of this atheistic prophylactic prophet of profit. Narcotic Nico sang like a nightingale while Cale regrouped and recuperated, while Lou laid his head on Andy’s Chest and dreamed of Valerie Solanas with a loaded sex pistol in hand firing wildly in the Factory at anything that moved. Annie Oakley on meth looking to blast a hole in the canvas of pop culture.
Andy never pandered to the piper, but marched to the beat with the beats of his own dervish drummer with an up-beat, off-beat hipster swagger. He was the fastest draw at the OK sketch corral and a painter of promise examining our fascination with the conflagration of consumerism bred by the mad hatters of Mad Ave. That son-of-a-bitch jumped ahead of the curvaceous techno art curve in the Year of Our Lord Orwell, and he was using computers to generate or degenerate art as the case may be, with boxes of wires and lights and keyboards made by Amiga, amigo.
His kingdom was a fairyland of sorts, no macho Henry Ford assembly line. A place called the Factory ruled by a gay man who did ask and did tell before it was retro-fashionable. The Factory was a repository of talent from John Lennon to David Bowie, Lou Reed to Mick Jagger along with an assortment of Glen or transgendered Glendas, dykes who arrived by bike, intellectual drag queens, street people, the wealthy from the world of art and Hollywood, writers, drunks, junkies, who wandered in and out of lucidity among the collective mass of society’s sub strata of masturbation and creativity, and creative masturbation. You need to have your card punched to gain entry to this world of Alice. It was Schindlers A-List without the Nazis, but was a real gas nonetheless.
Jesus did standup before Seinfeld, gigging at gatherings doing a magic act with parlor tricks and sanctimonious schtick, like that of the whole loaves of bread and fishes thing, which led to a string of bookings and spoken word performances throughout the Roman Empire. (I heard he stole the Bread and Fishes routine from Rodneyious Dangerous Fieldious, who first wowed the crowd while touring Mesopotamia with Moses and Abraham. The first of the Marx Brothers who played to packed coliseums in their prime.)
Warhol’s sermon on the mount was preceded by his forty days and forty nights in the Fifties with a fetish for shoes and shoe drawings for advertising accounts for Mad Mad Mad Ave., which was followed by creating album covers for RCA Records. Vinyl and Velvet were yet to merge and weave into the fabulous fabric of the Warhol myth. Warhol ate consumerism for breakfast and the meal came up in a Karen Carpenter cascade of popsterism in the Sixties…soup cans, coca cola bottles, Marilyn, Elvis, Marlon, and even Troy Donahue! What the fuck was that all about? I found this quote by Warhol about his subject matter and why it mattered and still matters more so than Jerry Mathers:
” What’s great about this country is that America started the tradition where the richest consumers buy essentially the same things as the poorest. You can be watching TV and see Coca-Cola, and you know that the President drinks Coca-Cola, Liz Taylor drinks Coca-Cola, and just think, you can drink Coca-Cola, too. A Coke is a Coke and no amount of money can get you a better Coke than the one the bum on the corner is drinking. All the Cokes are the same and all the Cokes are good. Liz Taylor knows it, the President knows it, the bum knows it, and you know it.”
He leveled the playing field, the bum and the president were now the same. One and the same, one and the insane!
Action films without action and carnal reaction fell from the Warhol pinata from the Six Hour long “Sleep” of a man… sleeping, what else? Honesty in the title begets no surprises as eyebrows rises, then to all of our delight a 30 minute “Blowjob” made it’s way to celluloid Lloyd. Hold up churchgoers, the blowjob is given by the invisible man and you only see the joy on the receiver’s face, not the excitement of the blower, lower by the loin and groin.Proving the old adage of old age… don’t talk with your mouthful. Cocksuckers and Bloodsuckers make not-so-strange bedfellows as Batman Dracula flew from the mind of Andy Warhol who never wanted to be, nor ever heard of being John Malkovich anyway. Warhol was eroticized by Batman’s black leather and Robin’s leather bulge, so he did a film based on the DC comics character, most notably the crime fighter was now AC/DC, and was as camp as camp can get, without getting arrested in a men’s public bathroom in Grand Central Station.
Black leather to black vinyl; it was the film Vinyl that was Andy’s adaptation of Burgess’s “Clockwork Orange”, and it was “Chelsea Girls” that opened the sexual doors of perception to such cinematic fare as “Lonesome Cowboy”, “Trash” (which I own), “Flesh”, “Heat”, and Warhol’s “Dracula” and “Frankenstein” before the vamp-camp rage of today “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”.
There are no Warhols anymore and Andy has since left us, and left us with battalions of addicted Warholics…once a Warholic, always a Warholic. Today his star shines bright as ever in the skies at night, pick one out for yourself… it’s him in the heavens… probably smiling down on us as he enjoys, not only 15 more minutes of fame, but one hell of an eternal blowjob! Now that’s heaven… Warhol Style!
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