John Waters is the best. His killer movies like Pink Flamingos, Hairspray, and Cecil B. Demented will teach you all the things you could find out about art, American insanity, and the special joy that comes with revelling in your individual freakishness. He shares yet more wisdom as a filth elder in his latest book, Mr. Know-It-All, which might be the best of all his literary works (sorry, Art: A Sex Book), and never simply because it includes his ode to the long-shuttered NYC sex club, Night Shift (a fake park overrun with zonked-out tramps), that photo of him with Justin Bieber, or the story of how he tripped on LSD last summer, aged seventy-two, together with his old pal...
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