VIEWING PICTURES of beatnik William Burroughs paired with other faces of popular culture is like uncovering a who’s-who in the spook world. I figure it’s probably how spooks knew to identify other spooks back in the day, by paying attention to the latest up and comer standing reverently next to the author of Naked Lunch. I was sorting through floating images as they kind of just meandered through The Matrix when I stumbled upon a picture of William Burroughs with Andy Warhol, aka Andy Warhola, and it occurred to me, who else has Andy Warhol taken his picture with—aside from Burroughs? As it turns out, much of the same people. Commit yourself to enough window shopping and you’ll find these same guys swimming in identical circles. David Bowie. Debbie Harry. Madonna. Mick Jagger. Jimmy Page. Bob Dylan. Allen Ginsberg. OJ Simpson. Donald Trump. Arnold Schwarzenegger. Sting. I’m willing to bet they’re all spooks.

Some things are self-evident. I exist and you exist. But also, Warhol is a spook. Oh, believe me, I can sniff out a spook like a dog can smell a hidden sausage in the pocket of a sausage smugglers pants. Look, I don’t care how talented you are. You don’t get to become the next Andy Warhol. And you don’t get to stand next to him in a picture either. That’s not how the world actually works. It’s not a decision you get to make. Unless you’re reading this and you’re some sort of hoity-toity serpent seed lineage and the doorman can read your name on his secret society clipboard of fun. Then you might get a slice of Daddy Warhol’s homemade pie. Nowadays, you would think Intel would try harder to conceal members of their team—but no. It just goes to show how little they think of us. Or perhaps it simply goes to show how easily Corporate slaves are bought and paid for. Open up your wallet and you too can chance to discover Camelot. How many, I wonder, have the slightest clue that The Government has infiltrated every single compartment of our fabricated reality so as to influence even the most primal aspects of cognition? From beginning to end, The Sixties were a psyop.

I wasn’t planning to write on Andy Warhol, but a friend encouraged me to take the plunge. He had read my paper on Pollock and suggested an immediate follow-up, which I suppose is this. If you haven’t done so, I suggest you give it a read, or else this may make little sense to you. It involves the CIA’s total control and financing of modern art for the purposes of breaking down our moral acumen. While you’re at it, consider the following, as they will prove complimentary to the topic at hand. Shel Silverstein. Ray Bradbury. Hippies. Jim Morrison. Marilyn Monroe. Roman Polanski. Sharon Tate. Grace Slick. Woodstock. Good? Moving on.

Everyone that I had started out mentioning are loved and adored by millions. Not so, Andy Warhol. That’s because Andy Warhol’s entire purpose was to dismember art and the role of its artist. Oh sure, Intel attempted to sell us on the foreman of their wrecking crew, and for the most part, his purposes captured the collective consciousness. Actually, come to think of it, Andy Warhol was a complete success. Artists however hate Andy Warhol. Seriously, go ahead. Ask an artist. Any artist. I dare you to do it. Mm-hmm, they seethed their teeth, didn’t they?

And I know what you’re already thinking. If Andy Warhol isn’t beloved by millions in the art world, then why do they sell his Marilyn Monroe prints from the poster stand at your local Topeka, Kansas shopping mall? First, because spooks put that poster stand there, right next to the corn dog stand. And secondly because, some three decades after his death in 1987, it just goes to show that the CIA still has their work cut out for them, as they are not willing to let his artificial flame fizzle out naturally on its own. That tells you how important he is to the present agenda. And need I remind you, had it not been for the Intel Community, there would be no Andy Warhol. As we shall come to find, nothing natural can be found in him. The media will no doubt spin his story dozens of times over if need be, just to keep it fresh, but it is Andy Warhol’s legend in the forefront of our mind which remains important.

See, the CIA doesn’t care if you approve of art. They don’t care if you like art. They simply want to tell you what art is. The people who print the money keep driving up the cost of Andy Warhol’s art and then dumping money into his name because they desperately want you to walk out of their well-funded Andy Warhol museums or their Andy Warhol Foundation or any one of their Andy Warhol art exhibits believing that Andy Warhol established himself as an authority on art—a Wizard of those entitled to his own opinion.  They want you believing the proof that he is an artist is not in the quality nor consistency of his ideas, but in the strength of his marketing performance, because at present, there is no other functioning definition of art. And also, because those who disagree don’t get art.

Andy Warhol made sure of that.

UNLIKE BURROUGHS, very few of Andy Warhol’s photos with other people feel unprocessed. He can often be seen lurking behind some corner with a cleverly placed skull nearby, or popping up from behind the couch taking pictures of houseguests like a perv. Even his attempt to stand around eating noodles from a bowl feels fabricated. That is because Andy Warhol is drawing you into an illusion. It’s part of the magic act. Naturally, I decided to turn to The Wikipedia for answers, hoping to glean new information on the man—and wasn’t disappointed.

In a section titled “Sexuality,” Wiki confirms what we already know. Andy Warhol was a homosexual. We are given a laundry list of his lovers, and they include: John Giorno, Billy Name, Charles Lisanby, Jon Gould, and somebody called BillyBoy*. I didn’t recognize any of them. One boyfriend is listed as lasting 12 years. His name was Jed Johnson. Still unfamiliar. I decided to select a random name from the Scrabble bag and drew Jon Gould. Gould was a 27-year-old executive at Paramount Pictures in Los Angeles when they met. Sigh. This is just too easy. What you are now reading is the story of a gay spook who dates other gay spooks. Or is he—gay, that is? Andy Warhol told an interviewer in 1980 that he was still a virgin. If this is true, despite reportedly being treated for condylomata in 1960, that would have made him a 48-year-old virgin. Wait, correction. A 48-year-old gay virgin.

The Wikipedia adds:

“Biographer Bob Colacello, who was present at the interview, felt it was probably true and that what little sex he had was probably ‘a mixture of voyeurism and masturbation.’”

Pause.

Why would The Wikipedia throw a monkey wrench like that into the conversation? It’s a phenomenal claim for a guy who threw orgies and then hung around in Studio 54, hawk-eyeing the tight pants. Despite ten-thousand potential one-night stands in New York City alone, the claim has not been removed. Andy Warhol, the virgin. And that is because spook literature is selling Truth in plane/plain sight as a matter of “suspended belief.” You’d never suspect that a dozen Corporate gay lovers might actually be covering for him, or that the very person embodying homosexuality might in turn be a snake oil salesman.

I decided to look up a second gay lover, Charles Lisanby, and this is what I found. Lisanby was a production designer who helped define scenery in early color television, and is apparently fingered for Carol Burnett’s debut. Story goes that Lisanby was at a party and saw Andy Warhol sitting by his lonesome. Pause. For the record, that’s generally how all these stories begin. Another account has Warhol being thrown out of his own orgy for sitting there like a perv in the shadows—watching. The explanations given to us is that he was simply a shy but inquisitive individual, sometimes insecure about his own brilliant mind, often swallowed up by guilt. But that is all smoke and mirrors.

Dig a little further and you’ll find that Warhol considered himself a Byzantine Ruthenian Catholic. The Wikipedia has a section titled: “Religious beliefs,” but they managed yet against to leave out the important details. We shall turn to those shortly, because it is here where we learn that Warhol attended Liturgy at Saint Vincent Ferrer almost daily—telling us who the wrecking foreman was ultimately working for. The local priest affirms his alibi, adding however that he was never once observed taking communion or participating in confession, but rather was content rather in sitting or kneeling in the back pews—lurking. Oh, Andy. To further boost this claim, Warhol’s brother described him as privately religious. He even funded his nephew’s priesthood, so there you go.

Another picture that I stumbled upon was that of Andy Warhol sitting in the back seat of a car with Jack Nicholson. Uh-huh, Jack “the spook of Laurel Canyon” Nicholson. Tim Burton’s Batman would not be released for two years after Warhol’s death, and Nicholson’s already practicing his best Cesar Romero impression. It’s like they know something. And worse, they want us to know that they know something. Probably has something to do with the fact that I pulled a background check, and the two are related.

Both Warhol and Nicholson have genealogical ties to prominent European royal blood, but that’s to be expected. Specifically, the Farnese families. Alessandro Farnese was an Italian cardinal and an art aficionado, but also the grandson of Pope Paul III. His nephew, also named Alessandro Farnese, was the great-grandson of Pope Paul III but also grandson of Emperor Charles V, and ruled as governor of the Spanish Netherlands. If you recall, Pope Paul III initiated the Counter Reformation with the Council of Trent in 1545, as well as the Wars of religion, employing Emperor Charles V’s military against the Protestants. It was Pope Paul III who created the Jesuits. Michelangelo’s David or Warhol’s Campbell’s Soup. All we are ever given is the illusion of choice and the Roman Catholic Church plays ever side.

Just look at Andy Warhol meeting Pope John Paul II.

Andy Warhol: out-and-about gay slash virgin slash closeted Catholic slash Corporate wrecker of modern art, shaking hands with his boss.

THE SECRET to Andy Warhol’s art is that Andy Warhol is the art. He didn’t even make most of the images he calls his own. He had others do it for him. It wasn’t called The Factory for nothing. I dare you to find pictures of Andy Warhol taking a paintbrush to his own work. The man didn’t like getting paint on his hands. We are furthermore told that Andy Warhol manipulated everyone and everything, even beyond the reaches of his personal life, but that is misdirection in the mythos when in fact Intel was running the show from the get-go.

Everything about Andy Warhol is carefully engineered in order to promote sexual and gender chaos. If you’re curious what I’m getting at, then I might as well go right out and say it. Agent Andy was probably a fake gay. Our Slave Masters promote homosexuality as a means to deconstruct Society, and who was being promoted—endlessly and painfully promoted—but Warhol? Intel had their work cut out for them, always having to hide the fact that Warhol would have been a talentless hack without their stage and spotlight. Who’s printed on the Andy Warhol Playbill tonight? Cue another Mick Jagger dinner invite.

By the late Sixties, Warhol was already churning out recreated print runs of his Campbell’s soup paintings, which tells us that he was outing himself as a “has been” and needed Intel to prop him up. Their glossy production value didn’t go unnoticed, and that’s the other thing. Corporations needed Agent Andy. Andy Warhol’s desire to exploit Andy Warhol is not even concealed, and that is because Andy Warhol is a hoax.

Are you still holding out hope that you too might have stood in a picture with Andy Warhol—laughing it up with Phyllis Diller, Muhammad Ali, Liza Minnelli, Ted Kennedy, and Twiggy? It’s always the same people. Same actors. Same spooks. And however much you wish it were so, it’s not you. You are either a son of Seth or a child of Cain. And the most likely scenario is that you’re not from the gene pool. Thank Yah. Therefore, you haven’t been selected. Don’t hold your breath. Nobody’s arriving at your front door and taking you on a limo ride to a secret building where a six-fingered giant and a dwarf step out of a wardrobe as part of your initiation rites. You have little other choice but to read about it.

You have not been financed for the alchemical processing of humanity. You have not been raised a Wizard, nor are you creating the illusion. Or in the case of Andy Warhol, a terrible Wizard.

You are the product.

The next time you stand in an Andy Warhol art exhibit, gazing up at cans of soup, know that Intel wants you to think about the art that is Andy Warhol. There is no other art. Just Warhol. But the good news is, you can choose not to believe any of it.

Noel

Kamholz, Roger, Sotheby’s: “Andy Warhol and His Process”

The Guardian: “Andy Warhol: the case against”

Art Sheep: “Polaroid Portraits of Celebrities Taken by Andy Warhol”

Mathis, Miles: “From Theosophy to the Beat Generation: Or How Even the Occult was Disguised”

Wiki: “Andy Warhol“