April 1st, 2011
They’ve recently put up an Andy Warhol statue nearby where his Factory used to be. I thought tonight we’d stop by and take a few pictures and check it out.
It is one miserable motherfucking night out here. It's cold, rainy and just plain rotten. I'm starting to wonder if spring will ever be sprung.
Here's the statue. It's made out of silver metal and hard to get a good shot of, especially when it's raining and freezing out here. The statue is right across from Union Square and faces one of the buildings where Andy Warhol had his Factory. It's now a Petco. Sad.
Here's the bottom of the statue, "The Andy Monument."
I met Jesse and Jason while taking pictures there and they agreed to pose by the statue. I tried to fix this photo up in Photoshop, but it still sucks. I took another photo of the two of them with Jesse's camera and it turned out much better. She said she'd send it to me before noon tomorrow. Let's see if she was playing an early April Fool's joke on me. Jason is a talented artist, illustrator and muralist. Check out his work at his website here: Jason Das Disambiguation Page. (So far it's 11:55am, I'm getting ready to post this and I've received no photo. It looks like I've been April Fooled! Sob!) UPDATE: Jesse just sent the photo in! It's below.
From left, Jesse, Andy and Jason. Jesse has a fun and informative blog and you can check it out here: jesse.anne.o. Thanks for sending the picture!
Here's the artist's statement about the project. I'm freezing and I need to go home and write a short story tonight. It should be right below this if I finish it. If not...April Fool's!
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Six Degrees of Andy Warhol
If you live in New York you constantly run into assholes claiming they knew Andy Warhol, they worked for Andy Warhol, they knew someone who knew someone who knew Andy Warhol, blah, blah, blah. Well, I’m happy to say that I’m one of those assholes. Here’s my Andy Warhol story.
Back in the late ‘90’s, I was at work. I don’t like to blog about where I work at, although this was a different place than where I'm at now, but I still don’t want to get into it. Let’s just say it was a place that produced the equivalent of garbage and I helped mold things to throw on to the giant pile of trash that they would then sell to another asshole business, who would spread this bullshit all over town, ruining walls, sides of kiosks and tops of taxi cabs wherever they plastered these pieces of culture-crap. But anyway, that’s neither here, there nor everywhere, so let’s move on to the next paragraph.
So there I was in a room working on a computer with about six of my co-workers, all working away as well. We sat at two tables that formed an L shape and they were lined with computers. Somebody started talking about the Rolling Stones for some reason and Rich Caposino, who was the manager of the department said, “Those fucking guys trashed my uncle’s house out in Montauk.”
This gave me cause me to glance over in Rich’s direction and ask, “Who the fuck is your uncle?”
“Well, it’s not really my uncle, it’s my wife’s uncle,” Rich replied.
“Well, okay, who’s your wife’s uncle?” I asked again. I was bound to get to the bottom of this, plus it sure beat the shit out of talking about work, a subject I try and avoid at all costs.
“His name’s Paul Morrissey,” Rich said nonchalantly.
I immediately spun around in my chair, squinted in Rich’s direction and excitedly spat out, “You don’t mean the Andy Warhol guy do you?”
Rich chuckled at how excited I was and said, “Yeah, that’s him.”
“Holy shitballs,” I cried out, “I’ve read that without him, Andy Warhol never would’ve made it as big as he did.”
Rich and I then talked about Paul Morrissey, his films he did with Andy Warhol—Rich told me his wife was in a couple of them, which I thought was really cool—and how Morrissey had discovered the Velvet Underground. Rich explained to me it was Morrissey’s idea to put Nico in the group because Morrissey had said, “Lou Reed can’t fucking sing!” He then said that Paul could be a little cranky.
I was publishing my magazine fishwrap at the time and I asked Rich if he knew how much Morrissey was involved with Interview magazine.
“From what I know, it was pretty much his idea,” Rich replied.
I asked him if he’d give him a copy of fishwrap the next time he saw him and Rich said he would. I was always looking for someone to back the magazine in those days. Paul Morrissey surely could get someone to get behind it. Interview was a big success, I had a hunch that if he saw fishwrap, he’d love it. Maybe he’d be the guy to spring me out of my night job and land me in the world of magazine publishing, where I felt I truly belonged.
“Maybe I’ll be the next Andy Warhol,” I thought to myself. I made a mental note to get a white wig.
Just then we were interrupted by a slithery penguin-like creature who wanted to know what the “status of the level of the queue was.” That last line may sound like utter nonsense to most of you, but I guarantee you that if Rich and/or Frank Scott (another co-worker from back then) are reading this, they are having a nice little chuckle after reading that line.
So anyway, about a month went by and it became a running joke with me to ask Rich how Uncle Paul was doing. I also kept reminding him that the next time he saw him, he needed to show Uncle Paul a copy of fishwrap so he could turn it into the next Interview and I could quit my job.
One day while I was staring out the window day-dreaming about being the next Andy Warhol working dilligently as I always do, Rich came running up to me with some papers and a big grin on his face.
“You want to meet Uncle Paul?” Rich said while breaking out into a bigger smile.
“Huh?” I shot back.
“He’s out in the reception area, I just printed some stuff out for him. Come on, I’ll introduce you to him,” Rich said while turning towards the door.
Sweet mother of fuck! The timing couldn’t have been better. Rolling Stone magazine had just had their 30th year anniversary and I had just published an issue of fishwrap devoted to Rolling Stone. I felt it was really a strong issue and the cover was a black and white parody cover of the first issue of Rolling Stone. I had gotten some press on it too. In addition to being the editor of New York Press at the time, John Strausbaugh also wrote a media column in the paper and he wrote about that issue of fishwrap and gave it high praise. I told Rich to wait and I dug in my bag and grabbed a copy of fishwrap and the clipping from the New York Press. Soon I was following Rich through the company’s office towards the reception area.
Within minutes we had made our destination and Rich opened the door to the reception area. There was a man standing there, medium build, white hair and a touch of a scowl colored his face. He said hi to Rich and I realized it was Paul Morrissey. He looked older and a little more haggard than the pictures I had seen of him, but then those pictures were twenty to thirty years old. Of course he was going to look older, what was I thinking?
Rich introduced me to him and his scowl got even worse. He kind of had an expression on his face like someone was putting a cigarette out on the left cheek of his face.
I stuck out my hand and said, “It’s really a pleasure to meet you, your films, your work with Andy Warhol and The Velvet Underground were genius.”
He halfheartedly shook my hand and the scowl turned into a grimace. Almost like now someone was putting out a Cuban cigar on the right cheek of his face.
I figured that I should make my move.
“I publish a magazine called fishwrap,” I said while shoving the magazine into his hand that I had just shook, “and I’d really appreciate you taking a look at it. It’s been a cult and critical success and I’ve gotten a fair amount of press for...”
“What the fuck! The cover’s black and white! What’s wrong with you?” He shouted at me while staring at the magazine like he was holding a bucket of steaming elephant dung.
At first I was stunned and then I tried explaining it to him. “The reason it’s black and white is that it’s a parody of the first cover of Rolling Stone, we...”
“Fuck Rolling Stone, they get everything wrong and they always have,” he shouted waving my own magazine at me.
“Yeah, yeah fuck them,” I said trying to back pedal, “there’s color inside and I think you’ll like the layout. I do most of the writing and I make fun of...”
“Look at the size of the photos in here,” he barked at me while staring wild-eyed at the magazine and turning pages, “they’re the size of postage stamps. You need big photos, this stinks!” he barked while continuing to flip through pages.
“We’re going to have big photos, in fact the next issue is going to be nothing but big photos,” I lied. I felt like a drowning man trying to reach a life saver that’s inches out of reach. Desperate is the word for what I was.
“Aw fuck, here’s another black and white photo, this is just terrible!” He said while handing the issue back to me. He grabbed the papers from Rich and I can’t remember if he even said goodbye. It was kind of like all of a sudden he just vanished.
I took a deep breath, cocked my right eyebrow up and said to Rich, “I think it went fairly well, what do you think?”
We both started laughing and Rich told me he didn’t mean any harm, it’s just the way he is. He said he talks that way with everyone. We laughed some more about the whole situation and went back to work.
That evening I called about a half a dozen people and the conversations all started out with me saying, “You’re not going to believe who yelled at me today!”
And that is how I was indoctrinated into the Royal Order of Assholes Who Tell Stories About Knowing Someone Who Knew Andy Warhol. In fact, I have to run now, I’m late for a meeting with them...fuck...I keep forgetting to buy that white wig!
Further reading: Paul Morrissey, IMDb, WarholStars and tumblr Photos by Paul Morrissey.
Six Films By Paul Morrissey
The Chelsea Girls (Director)
Andy Warhol’s Frankenstein (Director, Writer)
Forty Deuce (Director)
Andy Warhol's Dracula (Director, Writer)
Spike of Bensonhurst (Director, Writer)
Trash (Director, Writer)
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Bonus Photos From Biff!
Biff promised to send in some photos from Grand Central Terminal that she took on her last visit and she stayed true to her word. Here they are!
A nice shot of the main concourse in the daytime. Hustle and bustle!
Here's a cool shot of the ceiling shot that I wasn't able to capture the other night.
And here's a non-GCT shot of Paul, myself flipping birdly and Aaron enjoying ourselves at the Cubbyhole Bar. Thanks for the pictures, Bifferoonie!
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