November 2009 December 2009 January 2010 February 2010 March 2010 April 2010 May 2010 June 2010 July 2010 August 2010 September 2010 October 2010 November 2010 January 2011 February 2011 March 2011 April 2011 May 2011 June 2011 July 2011 August 2011 October 2011 November 2011 January 2012 February 2012 March 2012 April 2012
At sixteen I came across a small perfumery shop in San Francisco that made one mean batch of Egyptian Musk. I inhaled bottles of it, wore it for three years until I moved to New York, where I found it was a favorite among bouncers. It made its mark on my clothes stubbornly, so that friends who have old sweaters of mine today say that they can still smell me in the fibers. Yuck.
Two years ago I found a scent by Yosh that made me think somewhat of Egyptian Musk, but with less tin and more citrus. That went well, inasmuch as I've yet to smell it on a large muscle-man.
My current and aggressively amorous relationship is with the ne plus ultra of all fragrance houses, Byredo. I started with Blanche, then La Tulip, and now Rose Noir. Rose Noir is just like it sounds. Imagine pressing a fat rose in your palm, then think of a blood popsicle, or what you think keys might taste like, and you've got the scent down pat in your olfactory organs. (About blood popsicles: I've had one, or rather a little bite of one made from Ox's blood. Kids in Russia eat them as treats. It's an incredible thing, luxurious almost, and also a little disgusting.)
November 2009 December 2009 January 2010 February 2010 March 2010 April 2010 May 2010 June 2010 July 2010 August 2010 September 2010 October 2010 November 2010 January 2011 February 2011 March 2011 April 2011 May 2011 June 2011 July 2011 August 2011 October 2011 November 2011 January 2012 February 2012 March 2012 April 2012