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
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.
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.