Tales fom the Cryptic

Okay, now that you've had your evening glass of wine, and that hot bath, you're maybe ready for a bedtime story, so what comes to mind is the time I saw Andy Warhol walking down Madison Avenue (Mad, for short).

Yes, that's right, it was, I'm guessing, somewhere around 1980, and I was somewhere around Madison and 33rd, in mid-afternoon, half-in, half-out of reverie---pushing my way through the late lunch crowd to make it back to some desk job for which one finds oneself perenially late. And, there he was---subdued, if saturnine, walking bruised yet awake through the maddening (Mad) crowd. My first thought---to be honest---this isn't Andy, it's an apparition--it's a mirage, but he was light athin-complected and our eyeballs met as if in discernible sea, or acknowledgment as if...

sometime before when I would hang with Roger and Ondine during a weekend jaunt to upstate New York where we'd hunt images....

in between, there was the ineffable, anachronistic Hotel Chelsea, a haunt, I think, that housed us both one time or another as well as more vicious sorts like one named
Sid
Vicous

high viscosity ...

So, now that you're watching the light refracting through the crystal in the wine glass you've left by the side of the bathtub, think about this...

we were all Andy Warhol once.