I've been asked to talk about my theory of San Francisco being a city full of Hangers-On.
Because it is. Hardcore.
When Andy Warhol died, someone shook out The Factory--carpets and all, clear down to the bare-boned rafters--depositing whatever remnants of human garbage remained there right smack onto the scurvy-loving streets of San Francisco.
Now they just keep regenerating, replicating and replacing themselves.
No artists here, buddy. Only the fashionable, unfashionable and fashionably late.
Je suis en Tard.
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