Brigid Berlin became famous as a socialite surrogate for Andy Warhol, a position held before her by blue blood glamour girls like Baby Jane Holzer and Edie Sedgwick. But while Brigid attended the best schools and vacationed at the best chateaus, the togs she charged at the best boutiques and the portions she consumed at the best restaurants were larger than the earlier socialites she replaced on Warhol's arm. Brigid didn't stifle her appetite nor her attitude. She was obnoxious. She was often nude. She was addicted to both speed and key lime pie. She wielded her mouth and the implied imposition of her size as a weapon. Nowadays, badly behaved heiresses are a dime a dozen, but in the 1960s to openly disdain and go out of your way to embarrass your Hearst magnate father took courage, gall, and a healthy dose of recklessness. Brigid left the sterile pre-packaged existence of the uptown socialite to "slum" with the downtown demimonde. Butch and in your face, John Waters felt fearful seeing her walk down St. Mark's Place, while Warhol felt protected by the toughness she emanated (as well as envious of the stock she came from and rejected). Warhol constantly poached ideas from his circle, and he swiped his incessant polaroiding and tape recording from Brigid. Though she refused the "artist" label, Brigid Berlin was an artist and a revelation. In a 2000 documentary about her life, Brigid said that in death, she hoped to enjoy her beloved key lime pie “in the sky." She died yesterday at 80 years old. I hope she's enjoying it now.