Needless to say, my favorite chanteur of the moment looked even better on niceto's stage while being hailed by thousands of adoring fans than he did standing in the middle of our friend's cocktail party last week. His hair was wild, his tattoos were hot, his t-shirt was lacoste, and his band was wicked.
But the peak moment for me came while discussing le punk rock etcetera with the guitarist backstage after the show, when for mysterious reasons our tragic-romantic crooner's sweaty t-shirt landed on my lap. Far from questioning this unexpected gift, I fetishistically inhaled the soulful idol's testosterone-laden essence, humming:
qu'es-ce que ça peut foutre
qu'es ce que ça peut faire
puisqu'au bout de la route
il n'y a q'un grand désert...
However, all good things must end was Magali's tactful reminder as she gently but firmly detached me from this fabled object and guided me back onto the dance floor, where fabián dellamonica and the kid who preceded him on the decks aka juanmagrillo held us under their spell for several hours. Which is when I experienced the local equivalent of what we call a boytoy and the argies call a chongo, first-hand.
He manifested as a Racing football fan sprung from the depths of a remote neighborhood with an undecipherable name, his Italian heritage translated into the guise of a contemporary Joe D'Allessandro and his delightful candy-flavored tongue triggering primitive fantasies of being barefoot and pregnant, cooking him spaghetti while he cheats on me over and over but returns every time like a sexual boomerang to scream my name on his knees in perfect streetcar named desire marlon brando style so of course I forgive him and then he voluptuously knocks me up with yet another equally brutish, handsome and sensual future Racing fan. And this is where I can finally say it with gonad-driven sincerity: long live perón goddammit...except Roma beats Racing, now and forever.