Si no te gusta Peshubois....

...no te gusta amore!

Ci sei, Fabri? Leggi e immagina.
Really, where to begin?
Me. Radio City Music Hall. Pet Shop Boys.
Front row.
Wait, did you hear? Front Row at Radio City, meaning cordoned off VIP section and a stage that is lower than 3 feet.
Meaning that when I was standing up and dancing I was onstage.
Meaning the entire concert seen about ten inches away from Mr. Tennant.

Meaning a giddy itchy feeling all night, tapping my hands on the very stage.
Sicuro, una sciocchezza, ma che ganzata. Allegra. Leggera. Ce ne fosse.
A few posts back I was expressing an appreciation for (Read: cursing the karma gods for depriving me of) a potential opportunity to the concert, and Keith (totes BFF!) is sneaky that way. It was his birthday and I've heard before that some weird people like to celebrate vicariously. Thank karma gods for weird people.
So we limo'd up to 50th street, got a (beautiful, Farrow designed) program, and walked past all rows of chairs, up to the F.R.O.N.T. R.O.W.
There's more to the story and to the night, that had a luscious cake interlude followed by a trip to the Virgin Megastore at 1am. I can only say that it was an unusually breezy evening that reminded me of what it feels like to be young and excitable.




E sí. La Tshirt dice: Peshubois