Tuesday, April 19, 2016

A Harrowing Tale

There I was, ready to make an eternal happily ever after vow to my homosexual lover. The White House had just turned rainbow in 2015. I was so glad I had voted for Barack Obama, who had always espoused his love of homosexual marriage. Our wedding had been set up as an exact replica of heterosexual weddings, where fathers sell their daughters' virgin pussies to other men as a business arrangement and the daughters demand everyone purchase a lot of expensive stuff that will never be used again and everyone has a grand time dancing to "Crazy In Love" at the afterparty. The man buying the daughter pussy then gets to break the hymen of the virginal daughter.
Everything was going according to plan until I looked at the cake, on which I had requested "Love Wins," one of my favorite sayings, be written. "Love Wins" are two words that have really inspired my homosexual lover and me. Every now and then I'll just whisper in his ear, "Love Wins," and we'll both know that atheist God approves of our sodomite union. Two little plastic men in tuxedos stood atop the cake. I chuckled. What would that shy, bullied child I used to be think if he could see me now? If only my bullies could see my "Love Wins" cake.
Underneath "Love Wins" I saw another word, however. That word was the word "Fag." "Love Wins Fag." I didn't know what Christian had done this but I sure was angry. I made a video of myself ranting about it on my YouTube channel where I espouse my socialist views. How could this injustice have taken place? I couldn't believe it was still so hard to be a homosexual in 2016. Christians and lower middle class white people made it so hard for me to be my true self. Nancy Reagan's legacy of AIDS also made it hard for me to be my true self, because the Reagans had invented AIDS and then refused to sell the cure for it, which they had also invented, to homosexuals. Who could I sue to get cake justice and end white supremacy? I consulted my Muslim friend, who is just like me and has compatible beliefs. He suggested I create a hashtag to spread awareness about my homosexual wedding injustice.
"Ahmed, you're a genius!" I said, hugging and kissing him.
"Phooey!" He spat like a cat hacking a furball. He pretended to hate it when I kissed him, but I knew he was only teasing.

Friday, January 29, 2016

Robert Piguet Bandit

One word comes to mind when I smell Bandit--rude. There is something so insouciant, contrary, and mean about it that makes it one of the great shockers of perfume history. It is considered a leather but it doesn't smell like leather; it smells like a fistful of burning weeds. Despite its age and French pedigree it is vulgar and trashy, something underscored by its tumultuous licensing history. I believe it became something of a hippie cult hit in the 1970s, evidenced by its presence in Jean Eustache's masterpiece The Mother and the Whore. In the film, Jean-Pierre Leaud and Bernadette Lafont have a dreary open shack-up relationship. When Lafont leaves on a trip, Leaud begins a courtship with a nihilistic, promiscuous hippie nurse played by Francoise LeBrun, who leaves the apartment reeking of Bandit. When Lafont returns she seems more annoyed by the stench of Bandit than the affair. In this context, Bandit does smell like 1970s malaise and regret; the full ashtray the morning after, two abortions later. It would be strange to smell this on someone who didn't have "a past," so to speak.
The received wisdom is that it was in bad form until the late-90s restoration, but my first bottle was a 90s extrait that smelled divine, and all 80s-90s bottles I have experienced smelled without a doubt like Bandit. Because it is a green fragrance, "vintage" hunting is useless, and I have purchased post-90s bottles that were new and boxed and had turned into a powdery nail polish mess. I don't see the extrait listed on Piguet's website anymore so I hope it was not discontinued.
I don't think it smells like Knize or Aramis or Azuree or Cuir de Russie. It smells like a bad woman--fitting, since it was a perfume made by a lesbian for a homosexual designer at a time when those identities relegated one to the criminal underworld.

Claude Montana Parfum de Peau

Certainly in my top ten of all time, if not top five, Montana is a landmark in avant-garde 1980s perfumery that still exists in excellent, faithful form after IFRA regulations. This is one of the weird animalic 80s rose chypres that modern American noses would turn from in confusion and horror. There are others like it--Paloma, Animale--but there is something so distinctive in Montana's blinding neon green glow that reminds me of nothing else. Montana and Mugler were the kings of ruthless, fascist-inspired, unwearable 80s leather couture, yet Mugler did not put out a scent until 1992. In Montana one sees what a Mugler scent produced during his heyday might have been like. In fact, Alien's streamlined neon jasmine accord reminds me somewhat of Montana.

As for what it actually smells like, it is a giant electric rose surrounded by pepper, sour greens, sour fruit, and a salty,garbagey, urinous castoreum leather accord. From what I understand, Montana's popularity in the Middle East contributed to the development of the now-popular damasceone rose-oud accord; in a way, this predicted the Montales of the present day 20 years ahead of time. It smells exotic and Arabian, neither male nor female. Others will probably not encourage you to wear it, but that's beside the point. This is not a perfume that wants to be pretty. 
A bottle of it can be seen on Catherine Tramell's boudoir in Basic Instinct. That says it all, as far as what type of woman would wear this. 
Ignore reformulation talk of this one. I have had many bottles from all eras and think it is remarkably consistent. A fragrance this dirty needs its fresh green top notes and some of my older ones did not smell quite right. The bottle remains gorgeous and unchanged. A perfume this good warrants paying full retail price if necessary. For lovers of Yatagan, Magie Noire, Amouage, and the 80s in general.

Tuesday, December 15, 2015


Anyone with a perfume habit in America in the twenty-first century knows that awful people will reduce every complex, stunning, fascinating work of art to "baby powder" and "old lady" every day of your life. Here are just a few of the comments I've gotten over the years.

Youth-Dew: "Old lady" "Baby powder" "It smells like incense in here"

Amouage Gold Man: "It smells like baby powder and diapers" "It smells like incense"

Anything with patchouli: "Who's wearing patchouli?" in furious tone

Poison: "Glade" "Old lady"

Aromatics Elixir: "It smells like bug spray" "Someone smells like weed" "Barbecue sauce"

Patou 1000: "Something smells horrible in here. Like baby shit."

Magie Noire: "What is that hamster cage smell?"

Yatagan: "Someone smells like weed"

Carnal Flower: young father furiously insisting his baby has pooped her diaper while wife insists she has not

Habanita: Baby powder

Rive Gauche: Baby powder, old lady

Une Rose: "Barbecue sauce"

Secretions Magnifiques: "You smell so good, like sandalwood!"

Joy: "It smells like a perfume counter in here"

Aramis: Baby powder

Comme des Garcons: Yankee Candle, Christmas potpourri

Le Labo Oud 27: Old lady

Paco Rabanne La Nuit: coworker insisting there was animal poop in the room

Angel: grandma, old lady

all Santa Maria Novellas: "WHAT is that SMELL?" in furious tone

Thursday, December 10, 2015

The Rage and the Pride and the Patou

Perhaps the most important media event of 2015 for me was witnessing the fall of Gawker, who were instrumental in popularizing the brand of shallow, sarcastic, morally demonstrative witch-hunt leftism that has, barring a paradigm shift of massive proportions, spelled the death of my generation. They received intense backlash from the mainstream media earlier this year for outing a CFO of Conde Nast without first thinking through how the story fit into the leftist agenda.
What eventually resulted was that Gawker laid off many employees, drastically increased the amount and pervasiveness of advertising on the site, and shifted focus from pop culture to politics exclusively. By politics, I mean becoming so openly partisan, irresponsible, and mean-spirited that coverage of mass murders is rendered in an excess of Garofalo-sarcastic scare quotes if the perpetrators are Muslim, and anyone that has concerns for national security or their own well-being, anyone disturbed, anyone grieving too openly, is mocked and derided as a wimpy, sentimental Islamophobe.
To Gawker, even mentioning that the perpetrators of the San Bernardino shooting were Muslim is utterly irrelevant, though they love prizing out and displaying any links to Confederate flags, pro-life politics, the NRA, American Sniper, or Rush Limbaugh in white criminals.
In the slow, secretive process of my total divorce from liberalism, the most unsolvable mystery of millennial liberal orthodoxy was the rapturous, ubiquitous multicultural defense of Islam, the Religion of Peace, a far-right totalitarian religious ideology that, among other things, requires the legal subjugation and imprisonment of women and punishes homosexuality with prison sentences and death. This paradox, even more than the virulent campaigning against free speech, the censorship, the anti-man anti-white sneering, the 19th century teetotaler campaigns against a phantasmagoric made-up rape culture, was what made me realize that liberalism was a self-defeating, masochistic, and authoritarian ourobouros eating its own tail.
How anyone can still think of Democrats as the benevolent saviors of mankind in the current climate is beyond me. Liberal orthodoxy dictates that those who insult Islam deserve to die, that they are asking for it. You think I'm kidding? The liberal take on the Charlie Hebdo shooting was that they were asking for it because they did not insult "white people"--I put "white people" in scare quotes because I so detest the way this term is contemptuously bandied around by them--and Christians exclusively. The liberal take on the later Paris shootings was who cares, it was "white people," the same thing happened in Beirut and didn't get enough attention. The liberal take on the San Bernardino shooting is who cares, we have to shelter the precious Muslim community that, every time this happens, does absolutely fucking nothing to condemn it.
There is some mechanism in the liberal brain that latches onto manufactured, patently fake controversies that make Christians look absurd like the alleged Starbucks holiday cup controversy or the various gay wedding cake debacles of earlier this year, yet remains willfully oblivious of homosexuals getting thrown off buildings by Islamic extremists,female genital mutilation, and the realities of Sharia law. Anti-Christian blasphemy is so ubiquitous that it looks dated and out of fashion; Austin is overrun with uncreative post-Drag Race queens that adorn themselves with inverted crosses and pentagrams, and American Horror Story (which was, I'll admit, pretty brilliant for two seasons when it had no redemptive message) seems to exist solely to propagate trendy occultism and exact teenage revenge on square Christian parents. Liberals will scoff condescendingly about creationism and maintain that they are atheists and everything should be secular, but they run for cover when faced with inconvenient truths about any of their beloved It's A Small World of "POCs" (pronounced "pock") and "WOCs" (pronounced "wok"). In short, they have no principles, and will crumble and regenerate according to trends. Their bourgeois anti-white ethno-masochism has reached dangerous levels.
Mull this over as you read Oriana Fallaci's The Rage and the Pride and The Force of Reason. She was a brazen, ballsy figure who embodied a particular kind of 20th century journalistic boldness that we won't likely see again. She was willing to make herself an international scourge by sticking to her principles. She was also extremely stylish, and wore Patou 1000, a dry, bitter, and opulent 70s chypre.

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

Serge Lutens La Religieuse

La Religieuse is ironically the perfume that made me finally "get" Serge Lutens, though it is widely disparaged as dull and underwhelming. I fell in love with the name, concept, and the extra nihilistic and alienating interviews Lutens has given to promote it that incorporate abusive nuns, snow, and purple vestements of pederastic priests. I enjoy how Lutens's inscrutable, un-PC interviews unfailingly embarrass and disturb the mannered, leftist perfume blogger cognoscenti that worship his fragrances. Combined with how the perfume itself is a gentle, beautiful jasmine and not the type of gothic pornographic incense bomb that bloggers want and expect from Lutens, the whole endeavor seems designed to troll its audience and I cant help but love it.
I don't know how anyone could find this cheap or common. It does indeed smell like a pure expanse of snow in the manner of Estee Lauder's great Pleasures, buffered by a sweet smoky green rasp that hovers in the background. It doesn't smell like a department store fragrance at all; women don't smell like this anymore. No one wears perfume and if they do it is something garbagey-foody-vanillic. Its name is perfect because I can imagine the wayward nun from Black Narcissus dabbing it on in secret from a tiny bottle labeled "Jessamine Cologne" in kitschy Evening in Paris script. I've been looking for the perfect jasmine and this just might be it.

Enchanted Forest by The Vagabond Prince

I won an Editor's Choice Award at Fragrantica! This is the first time in awhile anything has come of my perfume writing. They kindly sent me a bottle of Enchanted Forest.

My first thought on spraying Enchanted Forest was that it smells like Enya. Winter Enya, specifically the "On My Way Home" video where she is Anna Karen-Enya on a snowbound train wrapped in white furs and turban, reliving sepia-toned holiday memories of pine forests and paper lantern Christmas ornaments. Enya is one of my favorite pop artists ever, so the fact that Enchanted Forest conjured the Enya world so effortlessly and effectively pleased me immensely.
There is a wonderfully dirty castoreum-pine effect at the beginning that is like Yatagan. The rest of the perfume is built on a contrast of sour blackcurrant, my favorite perfume fruit, and misty, bitter pine and moss effects. Something I find impressive is how it makes fruit and holiday trappings smell so staid and masculine.
I'd like if the woodsy elements were bolder--more patchouli, more castoreum, more grass--but this is a beautiful and unique perfume for those like me who enjoy bitter blackcurrant of the type found in Magie Noire and L'Ombre dans L'Eau, truly an Eau d'Enya.