SMITH
Patti Smith’s not my bag, baby; never has been — she was all about collecting scraps and being the ultimate womp-womp groupie and hanging around the door frame of the back room of Max’s watching and waiting to be invited in and living for the cool people that I’m actually into, after all, right?
And following them around and worshipping them and such, right?
I mean, if you’re going to be a groupie be a groupie; be Sable Starr or something; don’t mope around the Chelsea Hotel lobby dressed like a chimney sweeper and making necklaces out of lobster claws and eucalyptus pods, for Christ’s sake!
That’s why I’ve never been into her.
And she’s such a style icon in her cloaks and B.O. — I didn’t make that up; it’s in “The Warhol Diaries”; OK? If I was gonna use hyperbole and make up something about Patti Smith I’d go with “barnacles and a smock.”
From xojane.com, in which the marvellous Cat Marnell nails what we should all think about Patti Smith in a column about LIP LINER.
