Let’s start where we agree.  On Oct. 25, 1979, around the time the Pittsburgh Pirates won the World Series, Randall Bowers, father of the man who shot up Tree of Life Synagogue, raped a woman by overpowering her at the wheel of her car, on Beacon Street in Squirrel Hill.   This is very similar behavior to the way I was brutally attacked and tortured, held hostage, kidnapped and mauled, by murderers exonerated without trial and with a loud snarl of public mockery by Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and Robert Fripp of King Crimson, all while claiming to be defending the honor of Leslie Sanetta Katz.  So, one of those types, apparently not aware he was supposed to be defending her honor, too, shot up a bunch of my elementary school friends and brought me to tears. Meanwhile, as they fanned the murderers who tortured me over a woman I never touched, they sought to associate me with the killer at Tree of Life, for trying to get help.   There we have one of the imponderable paradoxes of acid rock on high. Although very like Bowers in many ways, the killers who tortured me were in fact made public heroes for vilifying me and destroying my life at the behest of Warhol Museum. Now we come to a dead standstill because Bowers and his possible gang haven’t shot me up yet, so they must be heroes at least for that, or wait a minute, I mean, it seems they missed the bus on hero worship, what am I talking about.  One of the ways that Pittsburgh makes free speech go away is by making any content it could contain if true so deadly that no one dares move the strongest muscle in their body. Somehow that doesn’t line up. It must be rhetoric, not the nature of reality, no, that’s too sublime at Pitt, it must be, hmm, a contradiction, that by egging on men like Bowers, myuh, King Crimson protected Leslie Katz, the godmother, so to speak of Tree of Life. Well, those paranormal ways just never tire.

     Now let’s look at an imaginary gang who saw an opportune moment for a scene in an ongoing play, courtesy the Warhol Machine, how valid can we get?  Maybe Brian Richmond of CMU Urban Studies has some movies of the kill from hidden cameras made with East End Presbyterian Cooperative Ministry and Harold T. Lewis for Desmond Tutu, but that seems illogical, protecting Jews by killing them?  Making lewd snuff movies to prove you would never make lewd snuff movies? Defending Leslie Katz’s virginity by raping a deaf Korean orphan, as they in fact did, for helping me, for crossing the Union by teaching me sign? Just can’t get enough of those esoteric ways.  Maybe it is just goodness mercy to fall together so plastically as though a magnet has drawn it all together nice and British in form, believing they’re free. Ironically the mastermind of the lisping showdown of play was where I had hitchhiked out in St. Louis, to gain audience, just that summer of 1979, an act I never lived down, an act that raped my loved one, left me castrated for respecting a Jewish woman’s virginity, and presto chango, all my tears were leading somewhere new, and as they loudly crowed in Pitt News, they are just so fond of trying new things.  Is this crime one of their new things? If so, what does it mean, and maybe more sadistically, what do they want us to feel, feeeeeeeel it means, to pout in the ruminating manner of say Wilkinsburg Food Coop.

      You doubt me?  You devotees of Vince Eirene: You haven’t heard my testimony about other acts before?  You don’t think these spine tingling neon prophets are putting on a play? You don’t think their goal is highway robbery and murder some more.  Well, neat. So what am I saying at the crossroads where we part ways? That something more organized could be happening? Right in plain daylight.   Worth considering. What would it be? Based on the evidence. We know that the Warhols, as a practice, have been expunging demons, as Gail Burstyn said, demons that come from within.   The coward Fripp, in all klukestry, observes these expungements by the holy force by which he never drops his pick, to be as unto a barometer shall we say, for readings of the collective, the agreements that Eirene solicits and secures, back in those days anyway, over the telephone while giving me the finger.   They wouldn’t do that to prove they would never do that, what sort of world do you think Pittsburgh is? One you lived in, where you were born? How dare you say such a thing. Mel Gibson’s father lives here. A place where they never talk because with a smile they hold things and have by those things which shall never be revealed, lest they be revealed by them, the upper hand, the clap of the collective.  For the nature of reality has been proven, queerbait.

      We know from this that Bowers was not vindicating queerbait, maybe he was acting out a monster from the Id.   But that is too uncanny, perilously similar to the profound justifications from Warhol for their movies on Mt. Desert Island and with Lisa Ann Miles of Pittsburgh Film-Makers and WQED and the rape of deaf Jeannie which they filmed and made no bones about it.  What could be a simpler explanation? Surely there’s a simpler explanation that doesn’t ask us to consider brainy brainiacs working with chin stroking Ph.D.’s in klukestry ruminating over why deaf Jimmy cries so much, what is his real problem? Could it be a demon from within?  Seattle had a thing or two to say for Warhol as well, why just go ask Shannon ole Harps, I mean through one of Yoko Ono’s sybils of course since the law laid down the might and right of Aaron Dixon and Warners Brothers claim on a penny by her death at the hand of ripper hatter avenging angels of commerce, I mean karma.  Oh, no, that didn’t happen, no heavens, no. Why, I was banned from Seattle Central for trying to get help for her when I didn’t even know who she was, that proves I deserved it. She brought it on herself in order to learn from it, just ask Mary Buck.

       No, and if Warhol did that it was to prove they would never do that, every single guttersnipe on the Police Department agrees, it was just a joke, one that one should learn to laugh at, like one so easily laughs as Jimmuh quee, who even the Seattle queers disdain.   So hold your nose and tiptoe through the bloodbath, but don’t you go questioning Warhol, that’s doesn’t pay like crime does.