Wednesday, April 23, 2008
I hate phones. Andy Warhol loved them- he used to ring me up at 5 AM and just breath into the mouthpiece. This would go on for hours, and eventually I would just put the phone down on my table and let him continue. Eventually he would fall asleep and a coked out assistant would hang up.
Sometimes he'd pretend to be a salesman and say "would you like to buy my vacuum cleaner". That's all he said. Then I might indulge him and say "why yes, I would like to buy a vacuum cleaner. How much do they cost?".
But he wouldn't say anymore as if he was an actor with stagefright who couldn't remember his next line. Then I would say "Andy, I am tired of this nonsense, I am hanging up". He just continued breathing.
He's dead now.
Occasionally when I am in New York I get rung up on my telephone by salesmen who have somehow found out my number (this never happens in Paris because I cut the phone line). I say to them: "my vacuum is in disarray over my bird, hmm?". They say "we can offer you great life insurance, for only..." (I thought this opening move would confuse them, now I am convinced that they don't actually speak English; only know how to say a few lines and recognise the word "yes"). At this point I cut them off: "my house is trapped in a tree, chic, non?"
They continue: "for only 995 per year! This is a really great offer ma'm*".
I then will put the phone down and let them continue talking. The longest someone talked for was 3 hours. I pity the man who wrote the script they read off.
Anyway, these phones affect my work. One cannot sketch when a phone is ringing. I presume those that use phones as their main form of communication are too ugly to speak to me in person. So it is a blessing in disguise, hmmm?
*I fear this "insurance" script is targeted towards vulnerable old ladies. Which I am not, hm?