
When Tiff McGinnis was living in San Francisco at the beginning of the new millennium, she struck me as an endearing and art-damaged party girl – or party-damaged art girl. A New Orleans-spawned musician and designer dabbling in electronica and DJ-ing, she was a ball of fun, but she was also in danger of being swallowed up by the black hole of demimonde dementia. You’d see her with palling around with a flamboyant crew of nightcrawlers at warehouse raves and Tenderloin jo...
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