If you’re like me, you’re highly organized and keep a list of daily tasks you intend to accomplish.
Oh, wait a sec. That’s not me — that’s my wife.
On Saturday mornings, she likes us to read out our weekend job lists. Hers would be something like: do finances, shop, water garden, make dinner. Usually, I cannot find my job list. Mostly because it doesn’t exist.
But when I do have one, I try to make it impressive. Expansive even. Entries might include: “Brainstorm future home-improvement projects” or “ponder why lawn so patchy — soil acidic?”
During my summer vacation, my job list fell into a sorry state. One day, there was just a single item on it: “Buy medium-brown shoe polish.”
My wife, who found this list (more of a memo really), was not impressed.
“This reminds me of Wallace Shawn in My Dinner with Andre,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Well, at the beginning of the movie, Wallace Shawn talks about everything he has to do that day. His only errand is going to the store to buy some envelopes.”
“You want me to buy envelopes?”
“No,” said my wife. “I’d like you to get more serious with your job lists.”
I would have forgotten about this conversation, except for one thing. You see, a few nights later, I found myself sleeping in Lou Reed’s bed!
Do you know Lou Reed? He was only the guiding light behind The Velvet Underground, one of rock’s most influential combos.
It’s said everyone who heard The Velvet Underground started their own band. (Which, in a way, might not be such a good thing.) Lou is also famous for writing Walk on the Wild Side, a stirring anthem about transsexuality, prostitution and drugs.
Here are the circumstances surrounding Lou Reed and I sharing the same bed: Each summer, we (my wife and I, not Lou) stay at a seaside resort on Gabriola Island. It’s the sort of place that offers self-improvement programs in which one explores one’s inner self.
There is, for instance, a course called ChiRunning, in which you learn to open up your flow of chi. Another is Couples 911 for “couples in crisis.” And then there’s For Play: Sex, Eros. Spirit and Intimacy.
Because our chi is already overflowing like crazy, we don’t take part in these programs. But we did buy tickets for a public concert at the resort.
The best part of the concert was the drumming. Everyone in the audience was invited to take part. Dozens of hand-drums were dispensed.
At first, it seemed there weren’t enough hand-drums to go around. Instead, I got a shaker. My spirits plummeted, like the protagonist in Lou Reed’s I’m Waiting for the Man who waits dejectedly at Lexington 125 on New York’s subway line with $26 in his hand. But then, a drum was found for me. As you might imagine, I pummelled my instrument with gusto.
Upon returning to our cabin, my wife read a pamphlet. It said Lou Reed had once stayed in our very cabin, along with his wife, Laurie Anderson, the celebrated performance artist.
“Imagine us lying in Lou’s bed,” I said to my wife as we lay in what was presumably Lou’s bed.
“I’m not entirely sure who Lou Reed is,” said my wife.
That night, I had an incredible dream. I dreamt I met Lou Reed. He visited the bedroom of our cabin. It was like encountering Marley’s ghost. Only it was Lou Reed, holding a pencil and paper instead of chains.
“Hi Lou,” I said. “I’m in your bed. What are you up to?”
“I’m writing out my job list, actually,” said Lou, waving his pencil stub.
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s the only way a rock star such as myself can function. By being totally organized. That’s how I managed such masterworks as Femme Fatale, Venus in Furs and Metal Machine Music.”
Then I awoke to my wife jogging my elbow.
“You were having a nightmare. You kept saying ‘Lou, Lou, Lou,’ ” she said.
Now, thanks to Lou Reed, I’m a born-again list-maker. On my current job list: buy Velvet Underground box set, purchase hand drum. Oh, and pick up some medium-brown shoe polish.
