Just Kids

I just finished the Patti Smith's National Book Award winning memoir based on her relationship with photographer Robert Mapplethorpe. Compared to Keith Richards, Smith is a saint. Not so much Mapplethorpe who died of AIDS in 1989. He used drugs freely and loved the seedy side of town. Reading this book right after the Richards autobiography made rethink my dream of becoming a rock star. It's amazing Richards is still alive. Smith offers a healthier model for stardom.

Smith writes beautifully if humorlessly about her life. She's so serious. Even the photos in the book show a glum woman. Maybe she has bad teeth. I've always identified with Smith because her name is Patti and she's a rock and roll icon in NYC. Once, we went to CBGB's on the Lower East Side. We were standing on line waiting to get in and the person behind me mentioned he'd seen Patti Smith there last week. I said she was named after me. He was so stoned he believed me. Smith is actually older than I am. CBGB's is closed now; it was quite the dive. The music was so loud on the night we went, Marty had to leave. I found him outside clutching his ears claiming he couldn't hear. Maybe that's why he can never hear what I'm saying.

In the late 80's, Patti Smith married a rock star and had two children. Mapplethorpe died in 1989. The book is an homage to him. It's also filled with Smith's poetry and lyrics, which make the book even richer. If she ever gives a concert in New York, I plan to go.