Whenever I find myself in a conversational lull–say, in an elevator, at a distant cousin’s wedding, or perhaps even admist the strum und drang of my chosen work environment–I bring up Lou Reed. He never fails me. People start finger popping, mumbling about walking on wild sides, or alternatively searching for a vein in their arm to puncture. The astute ones will make Laurie Anderson references, and others will try to pick apart Reed’s greater cultural impact. Sure, they’ll say, the Velvet Underground has attained deification, and rightfully so. But what about Reed’s solo work? Is “Sex With Your Parents (Motherfucker) Part II” really Guggenheim material?

I suppose what makes Reed such a wonderful conversational topic is the fact that he can be inserted into virtually any environment. Reed in the coffee shop; completely natural. Reed in the Pentagon; weird, but compelling. And you know, should Reed appear in the Pentagon, he would undoubtedly be wearing shades that would reflect the overhead flourescent banks of lights in an entirely new hip take on Dr. Strangelove. You see? Endless conversational possibilities.

On occasion, Lou Reed will appear in a film. He does not need to act like anyone except himself. He is ubiquitous without being overbearing, wise without being pedantic, understanding without being overly accessible. He does not possess the star power of, say, Robert Mitchum, or the slitty-eyed cool of Jack White. Lou Reed is simply himself, and he keeps on happening, just the way he should.

Illustrations by Jeff Nau