A Conversation with Andy Warhol, King of Pop

I am in Pittsburgh with my wife. We came here to visit her friend, who is also a triathlete, and I have been able to get in some good training with her. Yesterday we swam at a local pool, then we went for about a 16 mile ride through some of the “decorative” north hills. After our ride we went to dinner at the Church Brew Works, an old Catholic church that has been converted into a micro-brewery! Awesome food, beer, and service! (Their napkins say “On the 8th day, man created beer.” I told them that on the 9th day, God created the hangover!)

After our dinner we went to the Andy Warhol Museum. I wrote the following poem in one of the galleries:

I spoke with Andy, using words of Pop
He said to use Pop words to write my verse
I started writing, then I couldn’t stop
He told me not to stop; it could be worse
What’s worse than writing shit, incessantly?
I wondered with the next words that I spoke
He said, That’s great; you’re flowing musically!
Like opera, when the tenor starts to choke!
I wished that he would come and share a beer
I bought a Stella, drank a toast to him
The man was dead, and yet I felt him near
Like Stella’s foam, he lingered on the brim
I said Adieu; he laughed and flipped me off
It’s only Pop, he said, if critics scoff.

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