Free Money
When Patti Smith was 20 years old she took the train to New York using money she lifted from a lost purse in a phone booth. She was so broke she slept in parks and cemeteries and ate from dumpsters. She did this in the hopes of one day becoming a great artist.
I think about this as I turn over the couch cushions hoping desperately to find another quarter so I can do laundry and wear clean underwear tomorrow. Sadly, I find two nickels, some lint, and a couple of peanuts. Looks like I’m going commando again.
I’ve been broke before. I’ve been so broke that I slept on an air mattress in an ant-infested apartment, using a cardboard box as a nightstand. But, like Patti Smith, I was 20 years old, and I had escaped Denver for a summer to live on the beach. That, and drink tequila, accidentally watch gay porn in Tijuana, and like-totally-find-myself. Now it’s ehem… years later and I’m just as broke as I was then, but my beach adventure is long over. Now I’m just broke in real life, and that blows.
Wasn’t I supposed to have a house and a mini van and an expense account by this age? Turns out those Mastercard commercials are liars. What they meant to say was: There are some things money can’t buy, for everything else—go fuck yourself you broke bastard with shitty credit. You didn’t seriously think we’d lend you money, did you?
On the upside though, I have become extremely popular recently. Both Wells Fargo and T-Mobil call me 4-5 times a day. They have just been showering me with attention; I had no idea I was so admired. Not that it’s not flattering, but those guys really can’t take a hint. If a girl doesn’t answer her phone after a month of messages, she’s just not that into you guys.
Patti Smith once had to scrounge change to buy a sandwich from a vending machine (her only meal of the day), only to find out the price had gone up and she couldn’t afford it. Who just happened to be standing behind her to come to her rescue? Allen fucking Ginsberg. Seriously? Hi Mr. Ginsberg, thanks for the sandwich. Sure I’d love to sit and talk about poetry with you.
Let me tell you, I’ve been eating saltines and peanut butter for weeks and I haven’t seen any sign of Thom Yorke popping by to buy me a steak. At this point I’d settle for cheese fries with Brandon Flowers (as long as he promises not to talk). So far, the closest I’ve come to a gift from a stranger was the “number 2” a homeless man left near my car last week (by the way, I’m pretty sure that guy makes more money with his cardboard sign than I do at my job).
Patti Smith lived in a studio with no heat or plumbing for over a year. She peed in bottles rather than stop writing to go across the street to a bathroom. I, on the other hand, can’t handle it when we run out of toilet paper (incidentally, if you can’t afford more toilet paper, I recommend using recent issues of Rolling Stone).
Patti Smith had serious dedication to her art. She was willing to starve, freeze, and contract lice to become the “godmother of punk”. But I am weak and whiney and I miss eating in restaurants. At this point I might be willing to settle for “step-niece of polka” if it meant having HBO and clean underwear for tomorrow. Also, could someone bum me a cigarette, or possibly some shampoo?
~Kitty Vincent
Eyeliner: music, hipsters, and other bullsh*t 