Lou Reed walks down Ludlow Street, shuffling a deck of 51 cards. Here he comes, dressed all in black. Black jeans tucked into high black leather boots. Black leather jacket. Black sunglasses. Thin lips pressed against the fist of the Lower east Side gusts and exhaust. He is on his way to the Factory. To rehearse Venus in Furs. Exploding. Plastic. Inevitable.
45 years later, on an iron door, somewhere on Ludlow Street, a conversation is scrawled in permanent marker.
I want to be a singer like Lou Reed
I like Lou Reed
Lou Reed is dead.
No he's not!
If I had a sharpie on me, I would have loved to enter this dialogue. Instead, I just smiled at the types of personal graffiti to be found in the LES.
