Pukingly hot.

So my dj night got cancelled but I got a gig writing about the songs I dj with. Both happened on the same day, within like an hour of each other. It's like a cosmic, "Huh? Okayyyy..."
Do you need a new diet plan? Here's one: Get so fucking hot because it's so fucking goddamn hot out, so hot that you can't even think about eating, so you don't eat. After not eating all day, you hit this point where your body threatens to shut down dead-laptop-battery-stylee if you don't put food into it; instead of eating, walk around until you're just unbearably hot and sweaty. Then watch someone else eat a hot tamale. You'll never want to eat again. The flashbacks alone make me want to puke.

Updated Critical, Darling FAQ 06/27/05

Aren't you hot?
Jesus, yeah. We're working on feasability tests on putting A/C up in our apartment. I'm praying for a good outcome.

I heard you were working on a new summer look called "The Conga Player From Santana". How's that going?
I don't know, man. My feelings on it change from day to day. While I truly am into TCPFS in theory and as an occasional look, and even though my dirttee (a dirtstache crossed with a goatee) is coming in nicely, I don't know if I'm dedicated enough to rock one full-time. I am, you know, trying to be attractive to the ladies, and if there's one thing less attractive than someone rocking ironic dirt-style facial hair it's someone who's serious about it.

Um, okay. So what are you listening to?
I was really hoping that the chilly atmospherics of Portishead's Roseland NYC Live could maybe funtion as an ersatz air conditioning, but it turns out while Beth Gibbons really does deliver the vocal iciness, it doesn't actually translate to a physical cooling effect. Otherwise, the Nedelle record, the new Weird War, the new Dance Disaster Movement, My Chemical Romance.

My Chemical Romance?
Next question.

I heard you had a new dj gig.
Yeah. Right now it's called LeROC'D, but I might change the name. I'm doing one the 29th, and probably more after that if it goes well. You should come. It's at Celebrity in Wicker Park.

Celebrity? Isn't that kind of yuppified?
Actually the place is pretty sweet. You can get fancy drinks or you can get cheap-ass cans of beer for like two bucks. Plus dude, isn't errything in Wicker Park yuppified these days? Jesus, it's like, I don't know, hordes of them up there. And I'm going to try to bring in my own dvds to play on the plasma tvs. And I'm just happy to be hanging out in air-con. But seriously, you should come.

Aren't you afraid that you may have just given yourself food poisoning with the mayo you just put on your sandwich?
Yeah, I was just thinking the same thing.

Is it possible to combat food poisoning by eating ice cream sandwiches?
That's what we're hoping.

The allergic reaction vs. the cheeky midget.

I guess it's hot in London. It's definitely hot here. I'm running some sort of allergy thing right now, a less-than-perfect state to be in when it's this hot out, all sweating and aching and wondering distractedly about the total volume of snot in my head cavities, idly theroizing about rates of snot production, charting it out volume against time. I'm pretty sure there's an equation or function that can describe it.
Speaking of distractedness, I'm sorry, Lady Sov, that I was eating tortilla chips while I was interviewing you. I kind of didn't realize I was eating them, and though Jessica says that it sounded like I was trying to be discreet about it, you can hear it on the tape of our conversations, which means I'm pretty sure you could hear it too. This may be mark the first time that I've grossed out/offended a person via international phone call, though maybe not.

Off the chain (gang).

The retail train slowed down for a bend in the tracks and that's when I jumped off. I ran into Dave Lewis this morning at just the right time for him to tell me that I should quit my job. So I did, sending my resignation via hand-markered note packed in a box of straw, delivered to my former place of employment by a bike messenger in Hell's Angels drag. "Take this job and, I don't know; 'Shove it' sounds kind of harsh. Whatevs," the note said. "Give whatever's in my locker to Lieutenant Leprechaun. Holla." I can only imagine them looking speechless into the messenger's WWII pilot goggles before he turned and wheelied out of there. Must have been priceless. Badracula!
I'm sitting my new workplace; work that doesn't pay, but whatever. We're listening to the old Fugazi stuff and everything feels just fucking right, except that the Hit It Or Quit It office could use a more ergonomic floor for me to work on. But evs, dude.

How Hip Hop Has Affected The Way I Live My Life

What I Did Today:
- Spent the evening writing bizarre, overly-personal record reviews for a magazine I help put out.
- Talked over liquor sponsorship ideas.
- Booked a DJ gig at a cheesy club where known professional football players and women with tit jobs hang out. (The negotiation began and ended with a thug hug.)
- Was informed that a company which produces and distributes pornographic material on the internet is interested in featuring my band's music on its website.
- Talked over clothing line sponsorship ideas.

Jesus, is this what EVERY DAY of Benzino's life is like?

Note: I just went to link to www.benzino.com and there's a holding page there. Dude doesn't even own his own .com? That's basically the equivalent of showing up at the Source awards wearing the bling that they sell at the Clark Station on Augusta.

These modern times.

"I think I Craigslisted one of your Friendsters this week."
[pause]
"Oh, God."