transfixed, Mojitos in hand. The all-girl band was killing it. The
music came at us heavy --- like hot bricks, like a bonfire, like great drugs.
The singers were dancing and nearly every one of us, men and women, stared,
mouths agape at what appeared to be an alien life form: El Culo
Cubano. The Cuban
Ass. It moved with precision and certitude, independent of all other body
parts. It had its own area code, spoke its own language and made grown men cry
like babies. The Earth and all of its creatures stood still to pay respects.
All the singers had it. In all of our exhaustion and musical elation, we could
only marvel along with the Mother of Invention, at one of Her finest works.