Mournful, menacing, sinister: the score of a horror film, even. A camera leads us into an English parish church - Anglo-Saxon most probably with Norman add-ons (experts please advise) - as Duncan Fallowell asks Andy Warhol whether he believes in God. The eye lingers on the interiors, dark wood carvings - one resembling a pagan voodoo doll - before it is drawn to a pair of legs encased in light tan or cream drainpipes whose crotch folds set off a pronounced and artful scrotal bulge. The fly is open. In the man's leather gloved hands is a book. A book which bears Andy Warhol's name but which his Factory serfs wrote: the signature and the $ sign are at least Andy's: the sleb stamp. Church, fame. money, cock. Does Andy Warhol believe in an afterlife? The na-na-na-na-na repeat in his answer reminded me irrelevantly of this, the na-na-na-19. Now watch the flick, you hell-grazers. (Click image once to play)
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