My back pages: Morning and the man who made me
Originally posted 25th June 2005 on my old v-2 site. Thank you, Lou.
Celebrity sightings — you’ve gotta get over them if you’re a Manhattanite. It’s a simple, actuarial fact of everyday life here that you’re going to bump into fame, such an unremarkable consequence of residence in the self-proclaimed Center of the World that I’m amazed Gawker and its ilk even bother to keep track of them.
Beyond the fact that it’s a hackneyed situation, speaking personally, there are three reasons why I generally don’t bat an eyelash if I should happen to encounter a boldface name in the street. These reasons have to do with the nature of celebrity, the nature of privacy, and the nature of self-respect.
First, I simply couldn’t care less about ninety-five percent of celebrities – the sports stars, pop singers and debutantes who are celebrated for reasons that have nothing to do with me, whose fame exists in a dimension orthogonal to my interests.
I’m just squeakingly enough of a public person my ownself to understand how weird it can be to have someone come up to you out of nowhere and strike up a conversation when all you’ve set out to do is sit down for coffee with your friends, even to offer sincere praise.
Finally, I’ve still got a little bit of that punk-rock antipathy to the very notion of fame. In its best aspect, this is a much-needed leveling, and an assertion that nobody’s voice is necessarily any more (or less) important than my own, but it can also manifest as a snotty defensiveness. And I’ve been known to swing either way.
For all of these reasons, then, I tend to react to the presence of notoriety not at all. This morning was different, for me.
We had biked over to the shadow-dappled streets of the West Village, where the continental-style bistros are so thick on the ground that you can pick one more or less at random and be assured of getting the experience you’re looking for, whether it’s müsli frühstück or café au lait in bowls the size of Cleveland. And that’s exactly what we did.
We had just locked our bikes up and sat down to breakfast, when who should shamble in but a shabby-genteel Lou Reed, walking a poky-looking beagle. And it took everything I had in me not to flinch or violate his space or in any other way give myself away. About all I could think, for a good five minutes, was how glad I was that I hadn’t, after all, worn my White Light/White Heat t-shirt. There’s no doubt about it: I was well flustered.
See, Lou Reed invented me.
I am, at root, nothing but a skinny Jewish kid from the suburbs. And if I’m sitting here with my shaved head, and my sunglasses and tattoos, and twenty solid years of cherished sensual, chemical and experiential escapades under my belt, it’s because this man gave me permission to try all that on for size. If Lewis Allen Reed had not existed, had not written and sung about the things that he did, I’d probably be a flabby, thwarted associate at some Philadelphia litigation firm, bitterly serving time and wondering when life was going to kick into gear. Or — far more likely, really, given how much those songs meant to me at some very difficult inflection points in my life — I’d be dead.
Never mind that, to all accounts, he’s been lost in his own assholity for decades now, unwilling or unable to forge human connections with anyone who dares to express so much as a grunt of admiration for him. Hearing that voice a meter behind my head, muttering about utter banalities in the same monotone that once nullified my life and told me it was OK to make it anew, well, let me tell you it sent a thrill through me. And despite all the reasons I’ve enumerated above, I let it.
And then – because this is, after all, New York, and because I find my wife still more fascinating than the proximity of any number of teenage heroes – I turned my attention back to our own table, our own food and drink, the buzz of our own conversation. We finished up our meal, we retrieved our bikes, and we rode away, into the ongoing rush and joy of a life given to me in large measure by the unhappy-looking man at the table behind us.
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