Waters - Crackpot: the Obsessions of

Its been over fifteen years since Crackpot was first published, and Im proud to say its never gone out of print. But after rereading it, I realize a lot has changed since I first wrote it. Divine and Edith Massey are dead, Pia Zadoras retired, Patricia Hearst is free and pardoned, and her nightmare is finally over (the Feds owe her an apology, tooshe was always telling the truth). And, of course, I hadnt made Hairspray (the movie) yet, so it wasnt safe to like me. Even the thought of Hairspray, the hit Broadway musical, would have been heresy.

Fredericks of Hollywood has now spread to Middle America, Mrs. McMartin and her schoolteacher pals didnt molest anybody, and Lana Turners hairdresser turned against her and wrote a tell-all book immediately after she died. In newly released transcripts of the Nixon White House tapes its revealed that Diane Linkletter was not on LSD when she jumped out of her window it was all antidrug, Republican, Timothy Leary-bashing hype. And I guess its finally OK to reveal that the adviser of political affairs for Ronald Reagan who invited me to the White House to discuss exploitation movies was the now deceased but still controversial Lee Atwater.

Ive been lucky; some things I wished for in Crackpot have come true. Hubert Selby, Jr., did write another book, and a magazine (Artforum) does call me every year and ask for my list of Ten Best Films. William Castles autobiography Step Right Up! Im Gonna Scare the Pants Off America was rereleased , and I got to write the introduction and meet his lovely family.

When my favorite Baltimore lesbian stripper, Zorro, died recently and I read her obituary in the local paper, I finally had a lead to her past. Like a private detective I located Zorros daughter in Oregon, and imagine my surprise when she told me she had read what I had written about her mother in Crackpot and had already wrapped up a package of vintage publicity stills of her mom to send me in remembrance. Zorros daughter and I have become friends, and I keep encouraging her to write her own book about her upbringing. Ive heard some of these stories, and God, my life seems tame.

Sometimes things I hoped for didnt come true. Even though I predicted that after I turned fifty Id start drawing my mustache on in blue , I still dont have the nerve. Ive tried it. It looks good. Maybe Im just a chicken in the Indian summer of my years.

My 101 Things I Love and Hate (Chapters 6 and 3) arent always the same anymore, either. I now love brussels sprouts (as long as theyre not so overcooked that every vitamin is dead on arrival), yogurt (if its scarily plain like spackle and no-fat), and Ive switched from Vintage Seltzer Water to Evian because Valentino, the fashion designer, told me (with a straight face) that bubbles make you fat. I do wear a seat belt now, because a talented photographer friend of mine was killed in a minor car accident because he wasnt wearing one. And after reading journalist Oriana Fallacis new book (The Rage and the Pride), I think I hate her now rather than love her.

The warden of the prison where I taught (see Chapter 5) got canned because her parole board released a murderer who did it again (nobody griped about all the killers released who didnt). She later ran a bed-and-breakfast and even wanted me to read a movie script she had written. I guess I got fired along with her, although I still visit my teachers pet who is serving a life sentence or two.

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