The vehicle rolled along and Warhol studied the page intently. I looked ahead, my camera just above my waist, then looked down. The Mamiya's viewfinder was at the top, and if you folded down the magnifying lens inside you could look at the ground glass and focus. Facing forward, I rotated my camera to the right, focused, and snapped a picture.

We dropped Warhol and company at a hotel and I returned to campus. By 8 p.m. the ranks of folding chairs in the university's Union Building Ballroom were filled. Warhol and an assistant, a man wearing silver shoes with turned-up toes, were fiddling with a movie projector. I sat nearby.

My wife-to-be — a fellow student named Cory Wilcox — arrived with her mother, and they made their way through the crowd. Cory and I weren't dating yet, but I admired her, and I kept my eyes on them as they crossed the room. Suddenly the sound system and projector died, just as I saw Cory trip across the power cord. Minutes of confusion and exclamations followed until the problem was solved and the plug back in.

Warhol showed some excruciating snippets of one or two of his movies — black and white images, grainy film jerking, faces sliding across the screen, streaks and bright splotches, horrible sound quality. The Q-and-A that followed was as bad. Warhol gave brief, pointless answers.

Next stop for Warhol and his student entourage was a dinner in his honor. I believe it was thrown by the art faculty. My recollection is that it was in the Panorama Room in the Union Building. A group of students, including me, trooped in after Warhol and were invited to join in.

The food was delicious, but the conversation was distasteful, even hostile. A professor questioned Warhol closely as he was trying to dine. One question concerned the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. Where in that edifice was a certain famous work of Warhol's? Wasn't it on the (say) eighth floor in a nook between this work and that work?

Warhol agreed that it was.

"Ha! The museum only has (not as many as the question indicated) floors!"

Warhol jumped from his chair and stalked out. Affronted on behalf of our idol, disgusted with these faculty dinosaurs who could not appreciate a modern master, we sycophants jumped up and followed him.

We careened through the night in someone's car, picking up friends as we went, and ended up at a party on the west side of town. I seem to remember it was near Capitol Hill. The house was almost devoid of furnishings. A portable record player on the floor hammered away and we partied '60s-style. (Never mind the details.)