The writer also could pull a volte-face, taking a diametrically opposed view, not simultaneously, but from the same perspective.
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I was over at my girlfriend Andy's today listening to my new William Burroughs album for the first time it just came in the mail when suddenly they shouted for me from the bedroom. When I went in Andy's mother told me the news. Somehow I got the feeling they were expecting me to get distraught or something, so I faked this bunch of guffaws. Actually the news had no effect on me, at least no kind that could be measured positively or negatively, except that kind of vibration that sudden real-life surrealism sets off in you.
It blew my mind is what I meant to say. Andy's mother went on to say blandly: "Some New York woman art critic shot him.
Blew his whole head right off. Is he dead then? Her mother corrected her own surrealism Burroughs had just been saying on the phonograph, "Trak news service. We don't report the news we write it" : "No, he's just in the hospital in critical condition. Warhol used to be one of my heroes. Of course, I didn't know a damn thing about him, hadn't seen any of his movies or very many of his paintings, but I'd seen a TV show on him with the Velvet Underground playing that blew my mind, and I read what I could here and there in the magazines. Somewhere along in there I bought a giant poster with his face and sunglasses on it, and kept the thing up for months.
It's not much to look at, or rather it wasn't, it's dead now. I mean it wasn't one of these psychedelic-rococo things you can stare at for hours. As a matter of fact it was ugly, downright, and after a while the only reason I kept it up was that I wanted pictures on my wall and it was big.
Back when I first got it I kept it right across from my bed and at night in the darkness I would stare at the face, trying to simulate perceptual drug experience, until it changed. But the changes never had much definition, not much showed in that face, it was just a famous face, incredibly blank and perhaps that was its claim to fame.
MAINLINES, BLOOD FEASTS, AND BAD TASTE by Lester Bangs , John Morthland | Kirkus Reviews
Without the sunglasses he looked like a typical fey faggot, but with shades he achieved this rubbery cement look, a cement wall. Gradually over the months I began to find out that Warhol had little or nothing to do with the movies under his name. Roger met Warhol or an imposter, as has been rumored since and Paul Morrissey, who seems to be the real man responsible for the films, when they came to lecture at San Diego State.
I wasn't there, but again Warhol came across as a catatonic if anything. When I moved to Broadway the poster went up in the living room there, and one night when they were all on acid and all equally bum-tripped, Jerry Luck fastened his paranoia on the Warhol poster: "I can't stand that guy, he's always looking at me! Ugh, that face! I'd like to rip that fucker into a million pieces! All the time I feel him staring at me, every motherfucking time I look around I see him staring at me like that, an' I hate the fucker, I hate 'im!
The poster belongs to me and I don't mind. Go ahead. I can? For a brief moment there was an odd suspenseful lull, and then he sprang at the poster and ripped it off the wall with a gurgling cry. Flopping about on the floor like a beached octopus, he tore it into a scattered litter of small pieces, snarling. Then he sat up, scratching his head, and looked around the room dazedly. How to write a great review. The review must be at least 50 characters long. The title should be at least 4 characters long.
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Related Main Lines, Blood Feasts, and Bad Taste: A Lester Bangs Reader
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