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ever the asshole...
The first thing Lou Reed does when he walks into the Steven Kasher gallery, which will open one-half of his first major New York photography exhibit, "Lou Reed: New York," on Friday, is make fun of my name (too punny). The second thing he does is make fun of my tape recorder (too low-tech). Then, after he scolds the genial gallery owner about the font of some signage that displeases him, he settles in across a table from me, arms arranged protectively before him, fixes me with that cold stare that's oft been called reptilian and takes my questions.
Well, he doesn't exactly take my questions, but he does talk to me, and over the course of the next 45 minutes -- longer, much to the surprise and confusion of the trio of press handlers eavesdropping on our conversation from behind a half-wall, than our scheduled time -- the rock icon reveals himself to be a man of opposites, as high-contrast as the Warhol-era photography that first seriously inspired him to pick up a camera nearly three decades ago.