Fifteen Minutes With Warhol
Reflections while on a plane over some God-forsaken Mid-western cow town.
Seated in front of me is Andy Warhol, dead. I suppose the reports that he
died some time ago give him the right to keep his seat in a reclined
position during take-off. We are flying coach, and the plastic tray on
the back of Mr. Warhol's seat is crushing my larynx.
The beverage tray goes by, supplying us with plastic cups full of round
ice cubes. How do they make the holes in the center? The stewardess'
make-up frightens me, so I do not eat the Chicken Florentine, which is
bad, but not as bad as the filet of dead cow from that same Mid-western
Everyone is wearing Walkmen (Walkmans?), and it sounds like thousands of
tiny insects are dancing on sheets of tin. I hope the engine catches fire
so I can find out what the flight engineer can do about it.
We are over Detroit now, and I know each light is someone's home, and that
in every one of those homes, there are people who don't even know that
microscopic animals live on their eyelashes. The sleeping fat man next to
Andy's corpse is trying to make tone poetry, no doubt to impress Mr. Warhol,
who is, as we have definitely established, dead.
The captain assures us that the film is a comedy well worth the two dollars
for the plastic stethoscopes, and that in case of an accident, oxygen masks
will drop out of somewhere. I have already forgotten the captain's name,
and I know that in case of an emergency, everyone will panic, and I will be
trampled to death for sitting by the exit.
The airplane radio station is playing a continuous loop of Duran Duran. I
would give my left leg - which is asleep and may have been taken already -
for the tape to get beyond "A View to a Kill."
The smoky haze filling the non-smoking section is due to the recirculated
air which take all the unhealthy parts of the cigarette smoke from the front
of the plane and gives it to the 50-year-old man across the aisle, shortening
his life by some fifteen minutes, during which he probably would have been
And so this must end. For the movie has started. It is "A View to a Kill,"
and everyone is rushing for the oxygen masks, which did indeed fall from
Everyone except Mr. Warhol, that is.