If you're expecting soup cans and canned supertars, you may be in for a shock. This is the squalid, squirming flip side of the swinging sixties, and Warhol is little more than an intermittent background hum. False advertising? not really, for Woronov-star of Chelsea Girls and other Warhol films-serves up a memoir tthat's both seedier, sleazier, and more sophisticated than the standard celebrity tell-all.
Woronov is icily seductive, coaxing the reader into a tar pit of sex and death, of drugs and drag queens, of the twilight zone between real life and hallucination. All-night speed binges, Velvet Underground gigs, the woman without a vagina-this freakshow is closer to David Lynch or Hieronymous Bosch than any of Warhol's dry-cleaned imagery. The book reads like a flashback; one moment you'll feel there's nothing going on, and the next you'll be sent spinning by a cunning metaphor or appalling image. A sleeper of a book, but full of strange and affecting dreams.