John Waters was safely ensconced in his Greenwich Village apartment, which is unexpectedly tasteful — Oriental rugs, carefully arranged books — for the filmmaker known as the “Pope of Trash,” thanks to movies like “Hairspray” and “Pink Flamingos” that traffic in camp, gore and, ahem, bodily functions.
He had survived his eight-day hitchhiking trip across America two years ago, the subject of his new book, “Carsick,” and he didn’t seem worse for the wear. Sitting in his living room, he looked refreshed in a black and gray suit jacket, a pressed white collared shirt and his signature pencil mustache. He swore, though, that by the end he was so weather-beaten he looked “like a Walker Evans character.”
Although he’d hitchhiked along America’s coasts decades ago, he never did a cross-country trip. A man now in his 60s could have respectably counted that as a regret, not a dare, but that’s not Mr. Waters’s style. >>> continue reading at nytimes.com >>>