I Want to be a Tango Dancer When I’m 64, Bald, and Fat

Monday, May 6th, 2002 | Performance

Last night I attended a performance of a dance troupe from Argentina. The performance contained elements culled from the gaucho dance tradition malambo (originating in the 17th Century grasslands of Argentina as a tournament of gaucho skills, danced solely by men), the tango, and flamenco. There was the alpha male dancer–potbelly, shellacked thinning hair, mounds of chest hair sprouting from beneath the tuxedo collar–seducing all the foxy younger babes. The older dude in Argentina seems to have it made. Oh my God, and then there was the bandoneon player with his sad droopy eyes and floppy jowls–watching him relate to his instrument brought more than one blush to my cheek. The tango has to be one of the most histrionic, if not sexiest, of art forms. My favorite piece involved a dance between two men that bordered on the erotic, but of course was presented as a fight over two (or was it several?) women. Everything came to an abrupt end when a wife-like (big tits) woman appeared in the background and Mr. Potbelly Stud scampered off the stage, tail between his legs.

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