Voila! Viola!

You’ll never guess who I just saw on the street? Broadway, just south of 18th, on the east side?
Him! What’s his name! That … that … that … guy!
I couldn’t believe my eyes! I’d seen him on stage recently, with my fabulous and gorgeous new sidekick, where we both ogled his leather-encased thighs and his general Latinosity, and swooned at the way he manipulated his electric violin, but here he was, not two feet away from me — yes, in leather pants, and yes, it was he because I could identify him even with his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, just by his strangely sexy slightly gap-toothed smile — arm in arm with some chick also clad in leather pants … yet I said nothing!
I have spoken to him in the past, I have exchanged grins with him, and I think even hugged him, but for the life of me all I could think was, It’s Juan de Jesus Lickmyviola! Oh my god, it’s Juan de Jesus, yes, Lickmyviola! That Juan de Jesus! Lick … my …
… viola
.
But of course that’s not his real name, it’s the name we gave him that makes me giggle like a 12-year-old, and by the time I remembered his real name, he was more than half a block away, completely unaware that my head was host to a feverish struggle to remember what the hell his real name was so I could act all cool about running into him on the street.
Instead, the whole way home, I hummed to myself, Juan de Je-su-u-uuuss … lick … my … vi-i-i-o-o-o-laaaa….
Reeeeal smooth.