Through Beet-Colored Glasses, more on Just Kids

by Llalan

Robert and Patti

Last night Ben and I played the High Fidelity game — you know, the one where you list your Top 5 of something and then debate over certain choices that you think prove the other player to be uninformed or possibly Communist. We were both padding around the kitchen in our “comfy pants,” which is what I call track pants when I use them for non-athletic endeavors, which is always. Ben vaguely resembles John Cusack, making it even more satisfying to yell, “The Blue Album!” and interrupt him mid-sentence to add another title to my list of Most Influential Albums of Our Generation. Ben has a certain way of pausing what he’s doing to consider something, head angled skyward, and then nod a nod that says, okay I concede, but here’s one better.  To every R.E.M. album I pronounced, he had an Incubus or a Nine Inch Nails. It quickly became obvious that we grew up on different planets.

We were cooking dinner together. We do this often and move easily around the kitchen together. Mostly Ben cooks and I clean; good teamwork. Yesterday Ben stood over our white ceramic sink peeling beets, juice like blood cycloning around the drain. The most endearing parts of Patti Smith’s Just Kids are moments like this — moments that existed between her and Robert Mapplethorpe alone. Sharing a thermos of coffee over an afternoon of people-watching in Washington Square. Sharing their art with each other first. Sharing secrets. This is the whole reason for the book, it seems: to humanize her Robert. It is rare that someone says, “No really, he’s different; you don’t know him,” and the other is convinced. But here I believe. And I think it’s the fact that she assigns equal weight to their achievements and to the special times they spend together. They’re perhaps more precious than a roomful of applause.

Robert and Patti moved around with Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, and many other artists who fame lives through today, whether they live or not. They were creating the influential albums of their time. I know that I move in a circle of highly talented writers, musicians, and artists. I feel this is irrefutable; the 419 area code is irrelevant. I’m sure Patti Smith knew at the time that the life she was living was something special, but I give her credit for writing Just Kids as a memoir of relationships, and not of the time.

Ben and Llalan

Ben was leaning against the counter, gesturing with a spatula when I blurted, “OK Computer!” He is not a Radiohead fan, but I knew he would give me this one, or at least The Bends. And then I blurted, “the beets!” and yanked the oven open, getting a face full of smoke. Every last one was charcoal. Ben bit one and spit it out. We considered playing a morbid game of Tiddleywinks, but threw them away, instead making an extra grilled cheese to share. I imagine this evening will someday go in my memoir.