I've been reading like an old person with spare time lately, pushing myself up the hill of two books a month. I joined another book club, as a I often require a "spotter." Typically book-clubbing has me dragging my heels because 1). No one ever likes what I read and 2). I hate being "assigned" work, but this is a group of hardcore readers; smart and funny, and a few writers, in fact. My last book club had a couple of worms in it, but when one woman--the one who always cried when she told a story about her kids--chose a chick-lit book about friends who made it through breast cancer, raising kids and cheating husbands, I was so "out of there." I mean, I have real friends for all of that, so why would I waste my time stuck in idle?
Our first book was The Book Thief. A clever, sad tale about the holocaust, but the poetic prose began to wear thin, and the author was no Jonathan Safran Foer.
Our second book was Just Kids, by Patti Smith. I devoured this book daily, then regurgitated it each night to feed my husband, saying, "You must read this!" I relived every single chapter (almost acted them out), which means it's a dust collector in our house from here...I couldn't help but give away the punchline. Patti Smith is the Godmother of punk rock, and for those who are thinking, "irreverent behavior and slashed wrists" right now, well, you have it all wrong.
Patti's book won the National Book Award with its historic, raw, honest (well, whoever really knows about that), and poignant account of NYC in the 60s and 70s. My favorite poem of hers is titled Piss Factory, about getting out of South Jersey and the factory-girl life. (My personal Piss Factory comes from walking my bloodhound every day, watching him take a leak on every plant, and wondering where in the hell he stores it.)
Patti's complete devotion to Robert Mapplethorpe, coupled with her endearing muse tendencies, made me love her: great devotion thinks alike. But the utterly engrossing segment of the book was when she and Robert lived at the Chelsea Hotel, amid the getting-there hopefuls, now posthumously famous, and others whose mamas tried to raise them better:
Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungeon
Dee Dee Ramone
Bob Dylan
Janis Joplin
Jimi Hendrix
Arthur Clarke
Allen Ginsberg
William S. Burroughs
Dylan Thomas
Edie Sedgwick
...even Ryan Adams stayed there, for Christ's sake!
The last time I visited New York, I sprinted to the Chelsea (actually, I walked...I was very close). I took photos with all the other bloody touristas, soaked in the culture, and--ever-so-seriously--feared for my life.
And now, the Chelsea is closed to guests. Handfuls of pained residents remain, awaiting their fate, but can anyone relive the past? Just ask Worsdworth, just ask anyone who ever broke up: we cannot.
The Chelsea closing is likely the best thing that will ever happen to the Chelsea, because a more horrible fate would be for my son to read a book someday about the time Justin Bieber and Taylor Swift coexisted there for a while...
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