Andy Warhol died 25 years ago today. I remember it like it was yesterday -- I was dancing with Chantal at Graffiti's in Tempe, Sundays were "new wave" night, when the news trickled in. (My memories HERE.) My dreams of moving to New York seemed shattered at that moment as everything I loved about the city and its scene seemed to revolve around him. Andy was just 58 and terrified of hospitals when pain forced him to finally seek medical attention, for what was supposed be routine gall bladder surgery. (He was right to be afraid.) By all accounts, things were never the same after he died. Yet like with all people's deaths, life eventually did move on. My pal Kevin Sessums was executive editor of INTERVIEW magazine at the time, and recalls that fateful day HERE.
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