Ugh. No. I hurked in my mouth. My cat ran from the room with his ears back.
An explosion of rotting bananas and decomposing rubber bath toys that settles to moldy marzipan after five wretched hours. (I was so astonished at how vile it was, I had to see how it played out, the way one sits through a bad movie.)
The guy came home and said, “Huh. Not bad,” and now I’m questioning all my relationship assumptions.
Lord of Misrule is what to wear to wild Bacchanalia parties where you sign a waiver to not hold the host responsible for any bruises, scratches or accidental pregnancies.
A pinch of lemon zest, then a bite of fresh ground black pepper–with sharp teeth, enough to make one wake up and pay attention–and woody patchouli that’s been sweetened with a hit of licorice powder. The base is everlasting vanilla kisses, dark and dirty and rough in the best way, that linger on clothes and sheets for several nights afterward.
On the right guy, this would give soft demi-satyr vibes. On the right woman, this would be dangerous.
I have mixed feelings about the Hunger Games series, but the movie soundtracks were amazing.
Fir and sweet balsam pine, with benzoin making it soft. There’s a timeless quality to Fresh As, as if it could have been worn by a troubadour of centuries past, with stringed instruments made of spruce wood and polished with golden resins, yet also by a modern musician, fresh electric ozone and green Recording-In-Progress lights. Pair with a clever shirt and a tweed cap.
My brother introduced me to this one–I love the way this is filmed, so we feel like we’re in the studio with them.
An odd one that started with faint florals and shy herbs with no projection from the test strip–a meh from me at the store–but slowly filled my car with big branches of moss and limes on the way home. If Cocktail came in a small size, or better yet one of their solid pots, I’d order one, but there’s no way I’d shell out for three ounces without being able to test it on the skin.
This song always winds up on my driving playlists.
So Lolita Lempicka ran off and joined a coven, and came back organic and amazing.
Sugary licorice and lemonade top notes that last for hours, resin and burnt caramel all night long.
Bonfire dancing, bohemian patchouli flirting and aniseed incantations at midnight. Wakes in the morning still smelling of fairy sin on the skin.
Brash, pansexual and gorgeous.
The solid is tamed down–the gateway drug version–more secretive, the sweetness hiding in leather. I love it no less.
The soap shingle might not be the best way to test, but it’s fun. I get honey tempered with burnt cedar in the suds, and sweet resinous spice on the rinse.
I like the chocolate licorice accord, though any Lolita Lempicka Noir does it better.
Not for me, but pleasant enough to sit next to on a long bus ride.
All Good Things was the super-group everybody had heard but never heard of–they did epic rock studio work for video game soundtracks and TV shows–until their fans tracked them down and said give us albums. So they did.