After the whomp on the head with several big trees–and a few apple bruises–the resins of the previous editions swing in, but they’re much tamer now.
The bleach, musk and pee have been cleaned up with cider and polished with more frankincense, and the woods lounge just inside personal space for a long hot afternoon.
He’s still a cheeky monkey, but at least there’s no feces being flung anymore.
*
Another monkey edition:
Nocturnal short order cook.
Remember the guy who was the night closer at that blue-plate-special Cajun joint?
He was quiet and always smelled like dish soap, the étouffée spice mix–made of dried green herbs and woody thyme–and the dusting sugar that went on the beignets. No-one ever saw him in the daylight, but everybody liked him.
Black Widow has almost no projection and lasts as long as a dinner break.
*
New Orleans native Fats Domino revamped Junker’s Blues into The Fat Man–which became the first rock and roll single to sell a million copies–here’s a version of the original by Hugh Laurie.
Shirley Temple cough drops–medicinal grenadine, sweet and mentholated–that fade by the time the lozenge melts.
The combination shouldn’t work. Camphor and red fruit should be dissonant, but here they ring bright and clarifying and joyful.
I love it–not to wear, it’s too ridiculously cheerful–but my entire house, my linens and my gifts will all smell like this next holiday season.
*
John Wick and Wednesday both sample Vivaldi’s Four seasons.
It’s still winter here.
Sweet oranges out of the bottle, with a bundle of lavender that hovers inside personal space for fifteen minutes.
Then, almost suddenly, the coffee hits, like it was spilled onto the skin, and it’s marvelous–supported by gruff spices and leather, almost grumpy, in a normally-nice boss arriving to work late way.
(How can a scent seem both surly and comforting at the same time?)
Lasts an hour or two, a little longer on cuffs.
The guy usually fusses when I wear men’s cologne, but this one he likes.
*
A new one by a master. Both surly and comforting and so, so, good.
TokyoMilk #99
Black Anise and Mint Leaf (Margot Elena is so marvelously extra) make for an intrusive yet great wormwood opening, but then the “Smoked Amber” tramples all the herbs into damp bachelor pad funk.
Touted as unisex, but it’s taking up waaay too much room on the subway seat while boasting about its car emissions.
Lingers a foot off the skin for half the day, and on cotton until a hot water wash.
Wear with a barbershop Ivy League cut, and mirrored aviator shades. (Maybe don’t wear it.)
*
Soundgarden covering The Doors. Also a bit rude, but in the best way.
Oh, Junk, how I love you–one part Tiger Balm, one part black currant cough drops–you heal my soul with comforting ’70s vibes of beaded doorway curtains and rusty VW micro-buses, JOB rolling papers and Aquarian tarot decks.
The solid is much preferable to the spray, so it can be rubbed into the skin like a curative salve. Apply every four hours or as needed.
My little pot expires next year. I cannot wait until someone asks me what I’m wearing, so I can nonchalantly say, “Just some old Junk I had.”
*
Sloth’s timeline:
0:01 – Chamomile tea and loud mushrooms.
(The cat is deeply offended.)
0:05 – A bit of fruit and honey, then spiced coffee, with testicles.
Up close, in my personal space.
And they need a wash.
(I’m offended too.)
0:15 – The boys get a nice shower, with lavender.
0:20 – Unoffensive berries. (Not a euphemism.)
0:30 – Haaay!
Greens. Grassy greens, in the sun.
1:00 – Berries again, grapefruit sour, black currant bite. Nice.
2:00 – Oakmoss and resins 6″ above the skin.
4:00 – A smudge of herbal teabag dregs on cuffs.
Edit – 3/3/23
Aside from the dirty ball sack stage, this is a reasonable fragrance.
This designer made Bat, too, which has a lot of the same measured storytelling progression.
The mushrooms are odd–Tom Ford does them better in Black Orchid–but they’re brief, and kind of fun.
I like the acai berry very much, but it’s not my cuppa.
*
A proper Sloth playlist would have Dirty Head’s awesome NSFW Sloth’s Revenge, Tim Minchin’s hilarious Lament for the Three Toed Sloth and Sloth & Turtles’s jam A Song for Ants.
…but I’m stuck on this song today.
A nice clean herbal, but almost too soapy to wear on the skin–I feel itchy in it, like I haven’t rinsed enough.
This one stays in the laundry room, to spritz on wet towels before they go into the dryer. (Did you know fabric softener sheets make your towels less absorbent?)
Doesn’t last long, even on cotton, but the folding is more fun.
*
Bitter herbal mayhem.
I usually prefer gin and tonics in the summer, and if I’m wearing them, then I’ve had one too many.
*
Sharp pine needles barely tempered with cloves, hard leather–but weirdly rich with sour milk–and broody green warlock herbs.
Heavy and wild, evocative and fleeting.
Performs like an eau de cologne, but Byronically.
*
An elegy rather than a eulogy–but this Indonesian heavy metal band is kind of amazing.
kira a. gold 