I have made a new friend in town. We get together a couple times each week and enjoy each other's company. He's around fifty. He has lead a curiously interesting life, just for being your typical person.
In 1983 he called all the galleries in New York and gave them some story that he was in the biz and he needed to get ahold of Andy Warhol. So someone gave him his number. All these long distance calls to galleries were expensive, my friend says, costing around $100. (Calling long distance back then was expensive, for all you young kids. Long distance: All the way from Cootersville to New York.)
Well my friend manages to get Andy Warhol on the phone. My friend says, "Hi. This is Jim from Vermont. I just wanted to call and say hello." Andy talks to him for a while and then asks how did he get his number. My friend explained that he spent a hundred dollars and some considerable time and effort to get it. Andy, thinking this an impressive and reward-worthy feat, answers that my friend seems to warrant talking to. Andy invites him to call periodically. And my friend did.
I believe this friend of mine, because his life is too weird to have to lie about.
