Warholian Machinehood II:
Text as External Time Consciousness 
Michael Angelo Tata
 Of all the machines that Andy Warhol emulates and ultimately becomes—for example, a productive machine generating paintings according to the assembly line methods of the modern factory, a self-regulating machine holding its own amongst a sea of junkies and other dissipative types, a bachelor machine whose only marital partner is his tape recorder—he is, mechanistically speaking, best classified as a recording machine, an observation I make based upon the activities and functions preferred and performed by the Warhol-machine over an expanse of decades. Wishing to capture Merleau-Ponty's "prose of the world" on tape, on film, in print, and in action, he lives out one of the most important functions of Deleuze's and Guattari's corps sans organes (le CSO): the registering of everything on his surface.  Consequently, their work is indispensable as a theoretical framework the contours of which facilitate arrival at a deeper comprehension of Warhol's desire to find himself totally subsumed by the endless work of echo and mimesis.
 Given that one of Anti-Oedipus' critical projects is an excoriating analysis of capitalism's psychological ramifications upon the self caught up in its networks of production and consumption, I can imagine no better place to aim their quiver of arrows than at Warhol's emblematic capitalist practice; recording capitalism as lived experience, Warhol presents himself as an ideal target for my CSO-turned-missile. Of all capitalists, Andy Warhol is the most exemplary CSO, as it is through his highly mediated self-reports that the schizo achieves aesthetic expression. Warhol's endless and nauseating oscillation between desire and anhedonia, his separateness from and openness to intersubjective experience, his dual drives to hoard and evacuate: these propulsions mark him as profoundly divided, consummately schizoid (and, hence, healthy, as it is only the schizo who "gets it"). For Deleuze and Guattari, the CSO starts out its life as a counterflow: it knows only itself, and makes no provision for the existence of others. This autistic CSO finally achieves the manic illusion of its plenitude primarily through the act of recording—the central feat Warhol uses to define his existence as human being, artist and automaton. In Deleuze and Guattari's schema, the antiproductive, nuclear, self-enclosed CSO finds itself repulsed by desire ("desiring-production"), making itself impermeable to its machinations for the sole purpose of survival ("eyes closed tight, nostrils pinched shut, ears stopped up," 37-38). Since desire presupposes an openness which would destroy the CSO's insularity, the CSO resists desire with all its might, plugging its orifices against any intrusion.
Self Portrait No. 9, 1986
 Finally giving way to desire, the CSO with its "production of production" (defined here as an antiproduction—for example, the creation of an unconscious or an id) morphs into a miraculating machine on whose skin the "production of recording" is effected (the autistic CSO now gravitates toward the desiring-machine, which adheres to its surface as an appended body of organs likened by Deleuze and Guatarri to a fencer's padded suit). In Deleuze's and Guattari's words, "[t]he body without organs, the unproductive, the unconsumable, serves as a surface for the recording of the entire process of production of desire, so that the desiring-machines seem to emanate from it in the apparent objective movement that establishes a relationship between the machines and the body without organs" (11). Through the process of recording, a recursive subject inadvertently materializes—a subject which will undertake the endless work of consumption without respite:
Conforming to the meaning of the word "process," recording falls back on (se rebat sur) production, but the production of recording itself is produced by the production of production. Similarly, recording is followed by consumption, but the production of consumption is produced in and through the production of recording. This is because something on the order of a subject can be discerned on the recording surface. It is a strange subject, however, with no fixed identity, wandering about over the body without organs, but always remaining peripheral to the desiring-machines, being defined by the share of the product it takes for itself, garnering here, there, and everywhere a reward in the form of a becoming or an avatar, being born of the states that it consumes and being reborn with each new state. (16)
In this morphological plan, a portion of the energy of recording, or "Numen," is transformed into an energy of consummation/consumption, or "Voluptas."  Replacing self-enclosure with solar expansion, the CSO now becomes the whole of the world (its narcissism moves from primary to secondary). 
 Voluptuous, consumption takes place when the paranoid CSO has converted itself into a megalomaniacal CSO. Virtual, the wandering subject produced as an after-effect of the CSO's curious attraction to desiring-production now experiences an intense enjoyment. Thunderstruck at the miracle of its existence, the full CSO revels in its own magic: "Desiring-production forms a binary-linear system. The full body is introduced as a third term in the series, without destroying, however, the essential binary-linear nature of this series: 2, 1, 2, 1" (14). Never closing up into the charmed space of the polygon, the CSO and its requisite series refuse the triangulation which defines Oedipalization: "The series is completely refractory to a transcription that would transform and mold it into a specifically ternary and triangular schema such as Oedipus. The full body without organs is produced as antiproduction, that is to say it intervenes within the process as such for the sole purpose of rejecting any attempt to impose on it any sort of triangulation, implying that it was produced by parents" (15). The full body—really a CSO which has forgotten that it is a CSO—entertains the fantasy that it has engendered itself, emerging into history as a "glorious organism" in which the subject narcissistically loses itself. Deleuze and Guattari theorize this third machine, the full body, as being fundamentally celibate: "A genuine consummation is achieved by the new machine, a pleasure that can rightly be called autoerotic, or rather automatic: the nuptial celebration of a new alliance, a new birth, a radiant ecstasy, as though the eroticism of the machine liberated other unlimited forces" (18). Lost in the "solar force" of its sudden density, the full body sensually devours the "intensive qualities" unleashed by the act of energy-transformation (Numen → Voluptas) (18).  In this system, the activity of recording counts as an act of prélèvement by which a quantity is extracted from a whole and a partial object—for example, Cornelius Castoriadis' "Bad Breast"—is introduced.  Sampling a portion of a material flow, or hylè, prélèvement slices into various ontological streams: "It functions like a ham-slicing machine, removing portions from the associative flow: the anus and the flow of shit it cuts off, for instance; the mouth that cuts off not only the flow of milk but also the flow of air and sound; the penis that interrupts not only the flow of urine but also the flow of sperm" (36). All in all, three respective detachments define subjectivity: (1) the CSO's libidinal slicing-off of associative flows (prélèvement), (2) the recording device's manipulation of Numen (détachement), and (3) the full body's voluptuous residual break, or coupure-reste, with desire in the production of its virtual existence.
 For Deleuze and Guattari, the act of recording produces delirium. In their layout for a "materialist psychiatry" (a psychiatry of the schizoid and florid complement to Sartre's Existential Psychoanalysis), they ground their new praxis in the fact of sensual excess: "Delirium is in fact characteristic of the recording that is made of the process of production of the desiring-machines; and though there are syntheses and disorders (affections) that are peculiar to this recording process, as we see in paranoia and even in the paranoid forms of schizophrenia, it does not constitute an autonomous sphere, for it depends on the functioning and the breakdowns of desiring-machines" (22). Intoxicated by its joyous mimesis, the CSO brings its being into concreteness through the act of inscription. Queer species that this writing is, it makes the CSO's undifferentiated surface a screen on which the world is not passively represented, but actively reproduced. Oddly enough, the work of recording does not produce memory. Radically "decoded," the capitalist system institutes an axiomatic approach to organizing and regulating difference; this decoding causes amnesia to corrode the human mind.  Through this axiomatic approach, recording culminates in an intoxicating effulgence so immediate that there is no possibility of a past: "There results, finally, a fourth characteristic that places the axiomatic in opposition to codes. The axiomatic does not need to write in bare flesh, to mark bodies and organs, nor does it need to fashion a memory for man. In contrast to codes, the axiomatic finds in its different aspects its own organs of execution, perception, and memorization. Memory has become a bad thing" (250).
Edmund Husserl's ITC
 Along with the disappearance of memory comes the eradication of belief; no longer signifying something credible, language becomes radically pragmatic, indicating only "what is going to be done" (250) or what has been done. Substituting the Internal Time Consciousness, or ITC, of Edmund Husserl for an ETC, or External Time Consciousness, of my own positing, language performs the work of memory through the recording of transpired actions.  Not able to recall anything itself, the CSO as total body locates memory in the world text it inscribes on its undifferentiated surface. No longer personal and internal, memory radiates outward, finding itself fetishized in the ETC. The illuminating rays of Husserl's "Diagram of Time"—EE', or the continuity of the present moment with the horizon of the past, PP', or the continuity of the presented immanent Object with its recollective trace, OE', the sinking down (Herabsinken) of a presentified phenomenon into a mnemonic residue of its physical features —find their brilliance stifled by this bizarre organism who situates memory not in the pulsating fibers of its cerebral matter nor in the associated phantasms of a vibrant mind, but in the impersonal and inexpressive language of the instruction manual, the fiscal report, or the public archive. Obviating the entire mind/body problem which has plagued modern philosophy since Descartes first made thinking the substrate of existence, the CSO, in possession of neither mind nor body, and living only in virtuality, makes it belated, if not impolite, to draw topographies differentiating corporeal from incorporeal structures.
Everything Is Everything
The WS in Spacetime
 Warhol's complicated compulsiveness to record the World Text on the ancillary surfaces of his jammed pages—a veritable second skin which, like his mottled skin in the 1986 camouflaged self portraits, becomes the site of projection — embodies the schizoid-amnesiac's invention of a time consciousness located exterior to itself: here, in a diaristic epidermis generated by both Warhol and his amanuenses (primarily Brigid Berlin and Bob Colacello). I define the "World Text" as all that transpires within intercorporeal space: the motions of bodies as they navigate social and biological gradients, the miniscule movements, stases and eruptions of the globe's inhabitants as they trace out what physicists refer to as a "world-sheet."  Through books like a, POPism, Andy Warhol's Party Book and the Diaries, and through almost all products of his cinema and painting, Warhol pushes the act of recording to its ultimate limit (total ennui). De-slicing the proverbial ham, he reverses prélèvement to the effect that an impossible whole is (nearly) returned to. The ambivalence of the CSO, which engages desire at the same time that it flees it, pops up continually in Warhol's work—as demonstrated by his alternating paranoia and rapture with regard to matter. 
 Even beyond the foundational flip-flopping between acquisition and evisceration, hoarding and dispersing, there is another key contradiction: the anxieties surrounding the amassing of material things do not surround his accumulation of recorded things. The massiveness of the Diaries, for example, causes Warhol no discomfort, while the merciless flows of a bother only sidekick Ondine, and exclusively in the rare intrusion of a biological urge: "O—(indistinct) D—Huh? Ding ding ding O—I thought I was being stuck in the can...um spah/hah-uh um rrr Oh, Yeah, knocked out...I hadta go to the bathroom so much, dropped out on this side an go??? D—Nooo, don't go O—But I have to D—Nooo: you can wait a little while O—Owh, but I have to P—Bring your tape recorder CRASH (glass breaking)" (425). For Deleuze and Guattari, production is distinct from acquisition, the former inspiring creative rapture, the latter causing only privation:
The deliberate creation of lack as a function of market economy is the art of a dominant class. This involves deliberately organizing wants and needs (manque) amid an abundance of production; making all of desire teeter and fall victim to the great fear of not having one's needs satisfied; and making the object dependent upon a real production that is supposedly exterior to desire (the demands of rationality), while at the same time the production of desire is categorized as fantasy and nothing but fantasy. (28)
Falsely substituting acquisition for production, capitalism fabricates as its least usable commodity the schizophrenic: "Our society produces schizos the same way it produces Prell shampoo or Ford cars, the only difference being that the schizos are not salable" (245). Making these schizos salable, and perhaps even becoming one himself, Warhol records their world-sheets with precision, accumulating the reports of their trajectories without any qualm whatsoever as to excessiveness of materiality. Making his own schizoid experience a hot commodity, he packages and distributes his weirdness, too. Experiencing the anxiety of parataxis in the sphere of economics but not aesthetics, Warhol shamelessly compiles an exhaustive record of the 1960s, '70s and '80s through the process of taping-and-transcription (even in the case of ghostwritten materials, like Philosophy). Perpetual voyeur, he gazes robotically at all that transpires in the vortices around him.
 Fearful of missing out on even the most banal moments of other people's lives, Warhol sets in motion a perpetual motion machine designed to get everything down on paper, canvas or celluloid. Even the return of figuration brought about by his version of Pop can be read in this way: namely, as a strategy for recording the existence and behavior of bodies, most, but not all, of them human (the lives of aluminum cans and cows must also be recorded). Things fill Warhol's imagination, compelling him to dedicate so much of his life to representing their oscillations. Although the world text is not meant to be consumed, Warhol's supreme text tempts his audience with the prospect of doing so. Offering an "All You Can Eat" buffet deal at casino of the soul, they lure the young and brave to undertake obscene and inhuman acts of consumption. Getting people to watch the entirety of an unwieldy film like **** (1966-1967), Warhol sets a new limit on human perception:
**** was shown in its twenty-five-hour-long version only once, at the New Cinema Playhouse on West 41st Street on December 15, 1967. The screening started at 8:30 p.m. and ended at 9:30 p.m. the following evening. Some spectators drifted in and out, took naps in the lobby, or fell asleep in their seats. The theaters manager claimed that about one-third of the patrons who had shown up for the start of the film were present by midafternoon on the second day. About twenty people stuck it out to the very end. (Bourdon 265).
Recording the world text, Warhol recasts the visual arts, cinema and literature as phenomenological challenge. Who are these twenty people who have such stamina that they can consume a 25-hour film?  As Stephen Koch has pointed out in Stargazer with respect to Empire, perhaps these products are made only for the machine's (or automaton's) gaze. 
 The totalities which interest Warhol are entirely fictive, yet offer up an approximate whole tailor-made for the hard-core consuming machine. Basing his own subjectivity on the act of recording, Warhol makes technical prostheses his own battery of appended organs. Little can escape their machinations. Rare Diary moments when Warhol's devices are turned off by other authority figures produce sporadic holes in his world-textuality, as when, in an interview with Rudolph Nureyev, things go haywire:
In the long taxi ride from the Factory to Lincoln Center, Andy didn't say a single word because he was furious that Robert [Mapplethorpe] was carrying a Polaroid Big Shot camera, just as he was. Robert fought silence with silence, while I chattered on brightly like a Washington socialite seated between the ambassadors of Iran and Iraq. When Nureyev entered the fray it was more than I could handle; I just stood in the wings taking notes for Interview and my diary. The battle royal started like this:
WARHOL: What color are your eyes?
NUREYEV: The interview is canceled.
To make sure that his edict was obeyed, Nureyev pressed the off switch of Andy's Sony (Colacello 108).
Warhol isn't turned off so often; his anger and pain at being refused the right to record mark loaded moments when a different Andy emerges. While attending an International Center of Photography benefit for Jackie Onassis, Warhol suffers the humiliation of not being permitted to photograph his icon: "So here we were in this room where we didn't even recognize anybody except each other and this girl comes over to me and says, 'I know you have a camera, and you can take pictures of everyone here except Mrs. Onassis'...When we walked into this room there were 4,000 photographers taking pictures of Jackie. And that horrible girl had come over to tell me I couldn't!" (Diaries, Wednesday, November 9, 1977). When separated from his prostheses, Warhol falls back into autism, for without them his very subjectivity dissolves.
 The world text is Warhol's most substantial contribution to the history of art.  Technically speaking, it should not exist. A and the Diaries are obscene entities. Filled to saturation with the residues of lives, they arrest a social flow only minimally. Promiscuous, they offer a bloated, engorged and unconsumable textual (and social) body. Part documentary, part anthropological travelogue ("This is how people are doing things in New York City, in Monaco, in Kuwait..." these books whisper), Warhol's unmanageable books frustrate both reading and interpretation. Their lexicality taunts the human sensorium with the prospect of giving the attention span a rough working over. Through their overlap, one machine multiplies geometrically. For example, it takes POPism to inform us that the sleeping machine we encounter in Sleep is really a hibernating poem-machine:
At the beginning of the year you could pick up your phone and Dial-A-Poem, and by June you'd be able to even Dial-A-Demonstration—you called a number and a recording actually told you where the public protests around town were that day. The star of my movie Sleep, John Giorno, the stockbroker-turned-poet, was the Dial-A-Poem organizer, and the Architectural League was the sponsor. John told me that it was the porno poems that got the most calls. ("1968-1969," 255)
Becoming automatized ourselves, we feel our eyelids turn to titanium; as machines, we visually consume John Giorno turned Dial-A-Poem turned Dial-A-Delta-Wave.
The Time Capsules: An Infinity of Junk
Time Capsule #44
 Offering himself up as consummate social mirror, Warhol founds his own "frail" body upon the robust textual body of his literary and cinematic monoliths. Full beyond any standard of decorum or decency, they are vitally profane, and push sensuality to the limit of utter indifference and banality. Like Hanoi Hannah's crowded room at the Chelsea Hotel in the film Chelsea Girls, they are too populous. Also like Hannah's boudoir, they are too demanding, and require the birth of cyborg subjectivity in order to be consumed and interpreted/"processed" (even in The Chelsea Girls, Ingrid Superstar can only meet Hannah's demands through servo-mechanicity).  Externalizing all memory, they recast the world as one giant time capsule into which all the day's residues are coldly tossed: "I hope Allen Ginsberg doesn't call me about it," Warhol remarks as he jettisons Ginsberg's petition against Iran's Princess Ashraf into a monthly time capsule "along with the fan mail, the hate mail, the nut mail, and the record-company press releases" (Colacello 364). All sewage flows into one stream: like it or not, even matter doesn't matter. Unable to remember anything, Warhol situates memory in the monstrous corpus of his compiled works, which function as a petrified cerebral cortex. Husserl's ITC, a phenomenon toyed with in Warhol's experiments with junkies, finds itself scandalously involuted: it lives on as an inert, and, from the standpoint of a Zeitgeist, representative monument or memorial (full of names, full of history). An ETC which is also an "etc.," or "et cetera," becomes hideously erected as a testament to nothingness. Eye- and ear-sore, it floods and bursts axon and dendrite alike, breaking up into fractured identities and disarticulated causalities. Perhaps Warhol's body isn't so weak after all—perhaps he's not so swish.
 This essay serves as the companion piece to "Warholian Machinehood: Automatic Emptiness and Autonomic Self-Regulation" (Nebula, Spring/Summer 2006). In this piece, I examine Warholian automatism in terms of autopoiesis and homeostasis as a prelude to analyzing the particular "mimetic" nature of his machinehood (i.e., his identity as recording device).
 For Merleau-Ponty, the world text is written in a neural prosody whose perpetual hum and flux become the proper objects of phenomenology. See Maurice Merleau-Ponty's The Prose of the World (Illinois: Northwestern University Press, 1973), as well as his The Visible and the Invisible (Chicago: Northwestern University Press, 1990) and Phenomenology of Perception (London: Routledge Classics, 2002).
 In terms of my earlier discussion of entropy, I am tempted to ask Anti-Oedipus what happens to the quanta of energy lost as the CSO passes from recording to consumption. As Numen is converted into Voluptas, some quantity drops out of the equation, dissipated into the environment as an unuseful, wasted, entropic by-product. Where this energy goes remains to be theorized. For Stephen Hawking, even black holes possess entropy, permitting small quanta of energy to escape their gravitational havoc: perhaps he can locate the missing energy lost to voluptuousness. See his "Black holes Ain't So Black" (103) in A Brief History of Time (New York: Bantam Books, 1988).
 For the distinction between primary and secondary narcissism, see Freud's On Narcissism: An Introduction (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1991). For Freud, the type of narcissism emerging later in life stems back to the self's primal inversion. Not to be confused with autoeroticism, according to which the self experiences the pleasure of its contours and orifices without constituting itself as love object, primary narcissism results when an individual averts its gaze from objects in the world and lavishes its tenderness upon itself. My contention is that while the closed-off, stopped-up, originary CSO experiences a primary investment in itself as pleasurable object, only the king-sized, expanded final CSO takes its own self-pleasure as a form of love.
 In Deleuze's and Guattari's estimation, the autoeroticism of the celibate machine ties to the self-love of the literary machine. Citing Maurice Blanchot, they identify a plan for literacy celibacy: "Maurice Blanchot has found a way to pose the problem in the most rigorous terms, as the level of the literary machine: how to produce, how to think about fragments whose sole relationship is sheer difference—fragments that are related to one another only in that each of them is different—without having recourse either to any sort of original totality (not even one that has been lost), or to a subsequent totality that may not yet have come about?" (42).
 Castoriadis puts forth his theory of the Good and Bad Breasts as competing partial objects in his Imaginary Institution of Society (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1998). For Castoriadis, the fact that a breast can function as source of nourishment and starvation works to destabilize the infant's commitment to a reality which seems at times to exclude it.
 While codes are fundamentally "indirect, qualitative, and limited," axioms are direct, quantitative and unlimited. Axiomatic, capitalism makes money "a general equivalent" that is "indifferent to the nature of the flows" (248). Through it, one flow subordinates another. Never exhausted, the axiomatic continually generates an immanent more. Deleuze and Guattari's model for their axiomatics is the work of mathematics' Bourbaki group: "Nicolas Bourbaki is the pseudonym of a group of French mathematicians who are known for their work in the theory of sets and for their advocacy of an 'axiomatic method' which 'allows us, when we are concerned with complex mathematical objects, to separate their properties and regroup them around a small number of concepts: that is to say, using a word which will receive a precise definition later, to classify them according to the structures to which they belong'...In this way they propose to elaborate a language of mathematical formalization capable of integrating the different branches of mathematics" (251). Their reference is to Bourbaki's Elements of Mathematics, Vol. 3: Theory of Sets (Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley, 1968).
 See Husserl's Phenomenology of Internal Time Consciousness (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1969) for a discussion of the unifying work performed by the human being's interior mechanism for processing phenomenal flux as phenomenal flux. For Husserl, the ITC functions as an ontological glue not merely producing temporal continuity, but through its production of an apparently seamless time reflecting a prior phenomenological seamlessness which comes to be a salient feature of the world.
 Brian Greene describes a world-sheet in his Elegant Universe: "...[I]magine that we view the interaction between two strings with a camera whose shutter is kept open so that the whole history of the process is captured on one piece of film. We show the result—known as a string world-sheet—in Figure 6.7c. By 'slicing' the world-sheet into parallel pieces—much as one slices a loaf of bread—the moment-by-moment history of the string interaction can be recorded" (161). Furthermore, the world-sheet prevents tears from interrupting the continuity of spacetime. In catastrophe theory, the world-sheet insulates the universe from such dangers: using the technique of Feynman sums (adding up all possible trajectories a string may undertake), Greene proves that the world-sheet's movements, actual and possible, produce "a shield that cancels the potentially cataclysmic effects associated with a tear in the fabric of space" (279).
 According to Deleuze and Guattari, the antiproductive CSO never disappears; rather, the closed and open CSO generate an alternating current. "The genesis of the machine lies precisely here: in the opposition of the process of production of the desiring-machines and the nonproductive stasis of the body without organs" (9). From this gradient of flows emerges the schizoid: "What we are really trying to say is that capitalism, through its process of production, produces an awesome schizophrenic accumulation of energy or charge, against which it brings all its vast powers of repression to bear, but which nonetheless continues to act as capitalism's limit" (34).
 The only queer analogue which rivals Warhol's films for their challenges to stamina and longevity is the circuit party. Though I cannot flesh out this argument here, my idea is that, like Warhol's monster films, the circuit party places strange demands on attention; like those 20 "kids" who survived ****, the few brave souls who make it to the end of the circuit event also achieve a sort of celebrity based purely on their ability to consume the unconsumable. On this count, see Michelangelo Signorile's Life Outside: The Signorile Report on Gay Men: Sex, Drugs, Muscles, and the Passages of Life (New York: HarperCollins, 1997)—specifically the chapter "The Evangelical Church of the Circuit" (75-132).
 For Koch, a film such as Empire is not made for human consumption, but is best suited to the unimpassioned consumptive voraciousness of the mechanical lens. Only an automaton can endure Warhol's excesses. See his Stargazer: The Life, World and Films of Andy Warhol (New York: Marion Boyars, 1991).
 Another candidate for the producer of a world text would be de Sade, for whom even the raunchiest sex act eventually turns into precise narrative. For this reason, Roland Barthes, in Sade/Fourier/Loyola (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997), dubs him a logothete, or founder of a language. Through (1) self-isolation, (2) articulation, (3) ordering, and (4) theatricalization, the Sadean logothete turns the sexual tableau into a scene of excessive pleasuring. Repeating crime in language, de Sade multiplies enjoyment through a narrative doubling; his world text echoes the world for the purpose of maximizing sensual and intellectual rapture: "Thus the Sadean theater (and precisely because it is a theater) is not that ordinary place where we prosaically pass from speech to fact (in line with the empirical design of application), but the stage of the primal text, that of the Storyteller (herself the product of how many anterior codes), which traverses a transformational space and engenders a second text, whose primary auditors become its secondary utterers: an unending movement (are we not in turn the readers of both texts?) which is the attribute of writing" ("The Language Space," 148).
 In the Hanoi Hannah segments of The Chelsea Girls, Mary Woronov, playing the part of Hannah, torments and terrorizes a captive Ingrid Superstar for an audience of fellow sadists (International Velvet) and masochists ("Pepper"). Chock full of freaks, the room becomes the pervert's inertial frame of reference.
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