A Clean Red Mad Wave

I first met Dreama in 1997 when she was going through her Andy Warhol phase at 248 East Hudson Street. She had produced several pieces inspired by the works he did at the first Factory and spent most of her time studying him.

I was passing through the alley way on the way home from a late party one night when, as I bent down to get a quarter out of my shoe, I noticed these paintings lining the walls of a basement. There were several portraits of Andy, some experimental prints - and her, working diligently in the corner. I decided to stay awhile and got comfortable.

After about an hour I forgot about my cab ride home. I was mesmerized. And sleepy. I caught myself dozing a couple of times against the steam on her basement window before I woke a third time to her pounding on my head.

She apparently loved my suit because she said, “You simply must come inside and let me shoot you!”

Oh, alright. It was more like, “What the fuck are you doing you little creep?! Get out of here before I shoot you!!”

I begged for my life then tried to explain that I w

as not a creep. Well, mostly. I was in love with

Andy Warhol and admired the work she had done of him. I told her all about my clothes and my love for shoes. After a few weeks, she finally let me in the house. She told me about her dreams to start a magazine and showed me more of her work.

Then, suddenly one day, she looked at me and said, “Sit down, Joel. I’m going to shoot you.”

I could not stop myself from crying. “Damn,” I said. “I can’t run in these shoes. I knew I should have worn my other suit. Do you mind if I take my shirt off first? I would hate to get a stain on my new French cuffs. Blood doesn’t really come out as easily as they say, no matter what you use.”

“Joel!” she said. “I want to take your picture. You have great hair!”

“Oh!” I said. I sat down without another word.

And the rest is history...

Me, 1997, Dreama's Basement