RESIST
Two Native American Atsina (Gros Ventre) men pose wearing leggings - Capt Badger - 1872
11
24
9 turning 10 in November
Carrie Fisher, New York, 1980
Indie cinema icon John Waters is the patron saint of smirking, winking degeneracy - a skipping fever dream who turned trash into high art and made suburbia vomit its lunch money. The Baltimore native weird-kid didn’t just make indie films; he detonated cultural pipe bombs in the face of American decency, armed with a Super 8 camera and the twisted gospel of Divine, his three-hundred-pound drag queen muse who could eat dog feces and make it look like communion.
Waters understood what the squares never grasped: that true rebellion wasn’t leather jackets and switchblades, but pink flamingos and pencil-thin mustaches. He weaponized camp, turned kitsch into a righteous crusade against good taste. Pink Flamingos wasn’t just cinema; it was a middle finger dipped in glitter and shoved down the throat of every PTA meeting in America.
Waters carved out his own twisted corner of Hollywood, where freaks ruled and normal was the real perversion. He proved that you could build an empire on pure, concentrated weirdness, that the gutter could produce its own strange royalty. He didn’t just break taboos; he slow-danced with them at midnight, whispering sweet obscenities in their ears until they begged for more.
I'd like to turn back the time to when I didn't have to doubt every other picture; AI or not AI 🙄
I wanna reblog without hesitation again.
Yup - I fucking despise AI and if I figure out I have it on my blog - I delete it. I support as many artists on here that I can find. Fuck a.i.
Andrés Cañal
