Patti Smith: A parody. A loving parody.

 

I just finished reading Just Kids by Patti Smith. I loved it, which I wasn't expecting. I've never been a fan or a non-fan of hers. The only thoughts I've had about her for the past 45 years or so involved the one song of hers I know well, Because the Night, that she wrote with Bruce Springsteen, and a brief encounter Doug and a friend had with her many years ago. They were in a coffee shop/sandwich shop in Georgetown in the early(?) 70s and she was there too. Our friend feels he stared her down. Maybe yes, maybe no. For some odd reason, that meaningless little anecdote has always stayed in my brain.

I think my admiration for this memoir is related to my age -- Patti is 3 months older than me -- and also because my very first New York City experiences were in the late 60s and early 70s, exactly the years she covers in the book. I spent many weekends in the city and those brief trips made a permanent mark on me. Even back then, when the city wasn't at its peak -- higher crime rate, near bankruptcy, frequent strikes by sanitation workers, I fell in love with the place. I liked (and still do) the hustle, the attitude, the grit, the eccentricity of the people and architecture, the sense of optimism.

Another person who liked the book posted this parody on Goodreads.com. I thought it was hilarious, right on the mark, and I hope Patti reads it too because I think it will make her laugh.

"I was crossing Tompkins Square Park when I ran into a young man wearing a gabardine vest. He smiled at me and called me "Sister." It was a young George Carlin. Robert hated him because he frequently had flakes of rye bread in his beard, but I loved how he could make me laugh with his impressions of Mick Jagger. On this morning, though, we wept together at the news that Paul McCartney would have to sell his house in Cannes. It was a sort of paradise for us, even though we'd never been. George gave me a feather to put in my hair, and I took it home and pressed it between two pieces of crepe de chine, where it left a ghostly impression. Robert insisted on using it in a construction, and finally I relented, though I knew I'd never get it back. It was a sacrifice to art, the sort of thing Rimbaud would've done."

Full review here.