Russ decided to put his most recent mid-life crisis on display for us all and start dating a young, rather plain-looking model-y Caucasoid type (sorry Julie, your waist-to-hip ratio is the business:
but that’s the only thing you’re bringing to the Sexy Table, mama.) I hear she loves his lisp, and they talk about the Dalai Lama and meditate together before they hop in the towncar and go to dinner at Cipriani. Ah, Buddhism.
She has this unfortunate little habit of talking about racial-y kinds of stuff in public forums and not sounding particularly bright. That is not cute. I have a lot of opinions and I think I’m semi-bright, but even I know not to pull that move. OH JULIE.
The fact that he seems to find her alluring is great news for me, since evidently he likes the long-haired, skinny, not-all-that-beautiful, bikini-wearin’ type; it’s a little thing we call the power of the WHR. Listen, the point is, Russ is totally about to fall in LUV with me (as soon as we meet) and you all are going to bear witness.
Russ and I will hang out, we’ll discuss important music history matters, I’ll meet THE BAWSS Rick Rubin, not so I can do naked activities with Rick Rubin like some kinda dirty groupie but so I can ask Rick Rubin a plethora of questions about label politics and industry rule #4080, Lyor Cohen and Adrock and that time Russ bailed out Slick Rick for $800k, and the making of Raising Hell. Then Russ will discover I’m not going to do sexytime stuff with him and he will ask me to see myself out. He and I might try to be friends after that, even though we know it’s impossible. The end.