persianmouse

Like a witch at a brothel eating marshmallows. Dangerous sexy with a sweet tooth.

I get very little leather, the red musk and sandalwood and tobacco and honey are kittens clawing their way up my jeans demanding attention, and the vanilla cream lace is meowing in the background. And just when it gets quiet, the pink pepper come barreling in from nowhere to say hi.

In the bottle, I smell mostly amber, lavender, orange blossom. On my skin, the orange blossom and the amber/amyris (light sweet-smokey scent) comes out, the lavender is present, but not overwhelming (total backing vocals). I can also smell what I think is the angelica root (which is supposed to smell like juniper+musk), because there's an unusual note I can't quite place.

 

It smells like something softly sweet, and outside (not floral, woody, herby, or green, but some distinct smell of outsideness).

Generally speaking, I am not a jasmine kind of girl, nor is jasmine a mouse kind of flower. Me and jasmine have a long-standing arrangement to Agree to Disagree, and try to stay out of each other's way, save for a few illiciate rendevous, such as with Lush's Flying Fox (that wanton strumpet), that I dare not admit to in the harsh light of day.

But kittens, this is a jasmine I can really cuddle the fuck out of. It reminiscent of Flying Fox, and is a very natural and laid back floral smell, like not a bouquet of different flowers kind of floral, or a grandma/old-timey prostitute kind of floral, but like 'walking past the actual blooms on a warm evening stroll' kind of floral.

Funny thing is, most of these notes are not my scene (with the exception of the tobacco, which is an occasional ally, but it's really a minor player in this scentshow). Phaon Cresent is really just a big old stew of Things I Don't Like (not hate, just don't like) That Don't Work On Me...but yet somehow all comes together in way I end up really liking, and that really works for me. It's like...you know that Celebrity You Can't Stand, but they're in that One Thing where's they're really good, where they inexplicably shine? Yeah, it's like that.

Juniper Mint hair gloss manages to smell really clean and fresh, without having any of the typical notes I normally associate with clean/freshness. Doesn't smell powdery or skin-musky or green, but it just smells so fresh and real. Pretty good staying power, too.

Smells just like what the name and label suggest. A Fallen Woman who is happier for the fall. Definitely smells a lot like the French Tobacco single note, but you can also really smell the honey. But this isn't a fresh, innocent honey, this is a honey that has seen some things, and would be willing to tell you these things with it's red-stained lips, if you sit with her long enough and she takes a shine to you.

Pretty sure this is what fairy bedsheets smell like. Like wildflowers (but not FLORAL floral) and woodland things and tiny little throw pillows made out of blossom petals that they got at the Faeryland Pier 1.

When first applied, Weisse Maus smells like the finest, old-fashioned men's cologne. Now, some might take that as a bad thing, but hear me out. I don't mean a modern cologne with all its overwhelming syntheticness, I'm talking from way back in the day, when men's cologne still used essential oils and didn't come in a Windex bottle. When men wore hats and sock garters and knew how to wear pants that didn't collapse into a sad little shar-pei puddle at their feet. This is what Don Draper would smell like, minus the booze and smoke and sex sweat and lies. In short, it smells like a male guest at the Weisse Maus cabaret, right at the start of the evening, before all the booze and smoke and sex sweat and lies.

 

Then, for a brief period as it starts to dry down, I can smell the greeny smell the other reviewers noted, where it goes all green and crunchy. An unexpected salad bar at the debauched cabaret.

 

But once it dries, it smells almost exactly like Pinaud-Clubman talc. For those not familiar with Pinaud-Clubman talc (OMG why aren't you?!), it smells nothing like baby powder or talc. No one smells baby powder and thinks "God, I'd love to mount something right about now,". The same cannot be said for Pinaud-Clubman talc.

I would like you to think of an egg.

 

A chicken egg is preferable, as being the most commonly encountered egg of all the eggs, but any egg will do, really.

 

If you are having trouble picturing an egg, allow me to help you.

 

 

 

...no, that's not quite right, not eggy enough, that looks far too much like a personal massage device designed by Eero Aarnio.

 

 

 

Ah, that's more like it.

 

So, I would like you to think of the above eggs. Desperately yellow and rubbery and stinking of something primordial.

 

Think of eggs. Now, think of the exact opposite of what eggs smell like.

 

That is what Egg Moon smells like. The opposite of eggs.

 

This isn't a scent that eats eggs every morning as part of healthy breakfast.

This isn't a scent that makes sure to buy all its eggs from free-range cruelty-free small farmers.

This isn't even a scent that eggs your house.

This is a scent that tracks down the teenagers who egged its house, lures them outside in the dark of night, stuns them with a cattle prod, ties them up and throws them into the trunk of its 1987 Buick Grand National, where it drives them out into the Arizona desert, ties them to a cactus, and forces them to listen to SNL-alum Victoria Jackson reading Scooter Libby's bear-filled erotic masterpiece The Apprentice, until they beg for the sweet release of death.

 

 

 

Beth, goddamn I love you and you are so fucking awesome.

 

And I think that's what got people's fur up at some of jayne's comments. Because they weren't just "I don't like BPAL.", they were dispersions on the character and ethics Beth and all the Labbies. Passive little insinuations and innuendo based on nothing but rumor and anonymous blog posts.

 

That shit ain't right.

 

Spend a little time on the forums, and you might realize that Beth is one of the last people you ever need to suspect of cheating you. This isn't a case of Cult of Personality, Beth is genuinely a good and talented person. Even with the buffer of the Internet, if you're a crazy douchebag, its eventually going to be made clear. And the reverse is also true, when you are fucking awesome, that is also going to made clear.

 

Like it just was a few posts above this one.

 

 

Can somebody hand me a grilled cheese?

 

 

 

Smells delicious.

 

okay now that was just mean...points up.

 

Don't you know I'm a mean mean girl?

 

 

(AHH! I just noticed Pyramid Head in your sigline! Holy crap, that's awesome! And so appropriate! And awesome!)

Can somebody hand me a grilled cheese?

 

 

 

Smells delicious.

You know... I would really take what you said more seriously if BPAL didn't produce hundreds of fragrances every year for the exact same (very low) price. The people on Luca Turin's blog had a point about the basic logistics/economics of it all. I'm trying to do the reading suggested by some very nice commenters but so far I'm still left uneasy.

 

And for the record, while I did quote people who compared bpal to velveeta, I never endorsed their view.

 

Well, when you don't spend a lot of money on mass-marketing and fancy bottles and celebrity endorsements, its probably fairly easy to keep your costs down.

 

Also, not all BPAL is the same price. BPAL can run anywhere from $15-$27.00 on average.

 

I'm certain the mall scents...lack creativity. I prefer not to smell like everyone else.

 

Besides, I can not stand how [fancy house, commerical perfumes] are mass marketed with little to no real inspiration.

 

 

I'm sorry but that sentiment makes me really angry.

 

Aww...that's so horrid that someone would disparage something you enjoy, based on nothing else but their opinion. And say it right to your face. How awful.

 

Do you need a hug?

 

As far as the Black Sisters go, Black Heart is definetely the most gentle of the sisters, but weighed down with despair and regret. To reuse the allusion, this would be Andromeda Black (you know, the not really evil sister).


Soft and a little somber, but with a real presence behind it, not a wilting waif wilting under despair. The fruits come out more prominently than anything else, the plum first and foremost, with the vitis riparia (a kind of grape) and pomegranate as plum's backup singers. I get a touch of sweet pea, too, like a flower in the hair. Sort of a "Terribly sorry my sisters have caused you so much grievance, but here, have this lovely fruit basket with my condolences. Hopefully they won't kill anymore of your godfathers, ehh?"

I'm going to try mixing all three Black Sisters tomorrow, and will edit this review with my thoughts on that.

Oh, dearie me, this is definitely the darker, more sinister sister of the Black family. This is Bellatrix Black, all full of murder and malevolence.

Simultaneously more imposing and lurking than either Black Lace or Black Heart, the bay, tobacco and clove are the most prominent notes, and I actually don't get much patchouli at all from it. There's a faint whiff of it, like if you went through an old, packed away trunk full of your old goth clothes from high school, when you bathed in a kiddie pool of patchouli every night.

I'm going to try mixing all three Black Sisters tomorrow, and will edit this review with my thoughts on that.

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUCK! This is good. Like really good. Like new episode of LOST good. Like rolling around on the carpet good. It reminds me a bit of Shub-Niggurath or War, so there must be ginger in it, and maybe-stressing the maybe here- plum (there's something about it that reminds me of Dionysia). And its one of those ones you have to put on to appreciate it. Because in the bottle (and the first couple of seconds on my skin) it smelled of Nacho Cheese Doritos and RC Cola. But once it blooms on the skin...I just want to bite my wrist. Unlike Shub and War, it loses it's Nacho Cheesiness (ginger=Nacho Cheese Doritos in my screwed up little nose).

 

Maeve wears a lot of red-violet velvet, and has a tendency to be everywhere, lounging in a bored manner. She doesn’t have to do or say anything to be notice, you just simply notice her, often when its already too late. Maeve does not appreciate the all the ham-fisted and clumsy double-entendres everyone feels the need to make at her occupation, erroneously thinking they are being original and clever. Maeve isn't a young girl, but she ain't an old broad, and if you tried to offer her Nacho Cheese Doritos, she would slow swing her slightly disgusted and disbelieving gaze over to you, standing there like a tool, arm outstretched, chip bag dangling from your hands, and simply stare hard at you, unblinkingly, until your balls timidly retract back into your abdomen, and, utterly emasculated with shame of your own buffoonery, you slink away like a seagull from a slow-moving car in a mall parking lot.

 

She reminds me a bit of the Poodle Lady from Batman Returns, or the Harley Quinn from Azzarello's 2008 Joker graphic novel;a kind a still viciousness, taciturn and deadly pretty things.

Oh, this is like the female companion to Morven, the Strong Man. It’s not that is smells exactly like Morven but with sugar or flowers or some shit, but it smells like Morven’s woman. There’s a touch of something similar to Morven there, but it’s sweeter than Morven, with a bit of ball-crushing girlish glee.

 

Definitely beeswax, and a smokey deep sweetness, not a delicate sweetness, this is a working sweetness. This is a loud brash woman with a Russian accent, who is strong like bull. She laughs loud and obnoxiously and often and rather like a man. She has the air about her of someone who birthed a few calves in her time. She’s built like a Valkyrie, and wears a leopard print leotard, unironic blue eyeshadow and doesn’t give a shit what you think about it. She has thighs that could crush a man’s skull (and frankly, probably has). She has a honey-blonde birds nest for a head of hair that’s secured in its ponytail with a throwing knife she stole from The Torture Queen. She never crosses her legs when she sits. She pulls the top off her beer bottle with her teeth (she has other ways of popping the top, but she’ll only do that amongst friends). She once stopped a rampaging water buffalo by punching it in the face. She wins all the midget-hurling contests. She always eats the worm in the tequila.

I had the good fortune of receiving an imp of Sabrina, the Ring Mistress, from a lovely forumite who acquired a bottle from the god Zeus after she defeated the Kraken armed only with a fancy cane.

 

Smelling Sabrina the Ring Mistress in the imp, I really really REALLY didn’t want to put it on. It smelled like paint thinner and birthday cake from Wal-Mart (which is like mediocre cake filled with apathy and despair).

 

But put it on I did, and oh, goodness, to borrow a phrase, this one is a grower not a shower. NO MORE PAINT THINNER AND WAL-MART CAKE.

 

It stays very close to the skin, and I want to say I smell honey. Or something akin to honey. Or something that is absolutely nothing like honey, but in my head I have decided its honey. Whatever. ME SMELL PRETTY NOW is what I mean.

 

There’s something very innocent and sexy bordering on taboo about Sabrina. Like a pretty young girls petticoat or pantaloons. There’s something so gentle but so so fuckable about it. Innocent indecency. Like a pretty young girl adjusting her garters, unawares as to the peepshow she’s performing.

Oh, I like this.

 

This is a manly scent for a manly man who does manly things in a manly manner.

 

It goes out and arm-wrestles tigers for fun. This scent doesn’t open doors, it kicks them down, even if there’s no reason to, even if its an automatic door. This is the kind of scent that goes out to strip bars with Minotaur and Velvet Bandito, but he always treats the strippers with respect and will beat the crap out of any hooligan that tries to start shit with any of the girls. This scent sings the theme song from Men in Tights. This scent, if personified, would be Bruce Campbell. You know all those Old Spice commercials with the manly men doing manly things and eating golf balls? They’re based on this scent’s average weekend. This scent drives a Ford Thunderbird that runs on broken dreams (which is a big hit with the environmentalist crowd). This scent sits in its study and reads Ernest Hemingway while wearing a cravat and silk smoking jacket. This scent knows how to fight with broadswords, and keeps one in the trunk of his car in case battle ever breaks out, he is prepared. This man is swinging some serious trouser snake. This scent had to get its cod-piece custom made, as The Cod-Piece Hut didn't have any big enough; it's made from shark teeth and adamantium (fuck yeah, he gnawed off Wolverine's claws in a bar fight, SNIKT that, you brooding amnesiac motherfucker), and is big enough to cradle three ferrets. He plays Hungarian Dance No. 5 on his car radio as he leans out the window shooting evil ninja assassins with a crossbow and steering with his junk.

 

But it is not, and this is key, cologney. But it is manly. There’s clove. And cedar, maybe? The rest is just manly man.

 

I am having the hardest time placing this scent. It’s like…a feminine robot. But not a girly robot or a tawdry robot. This isn't a robot for fuckin'. It kind of metal, but not a very metallic metal, and like...feminine grease?

 

...oh that sounded so wrong.

 

Maybe its skin musk that I’m smelling, but a light light skin musk…or lemongrass?

 

Hell, I don’t know. It smells like a fucking Ferris Wheel. Go find a Ferris Wheel and smell it. That’s exactly what this smells like.

HAI DO YOU LIKE FLOWERS I LIKE FLOWERS LOOK HERE ARE SOME FLOWERS THAT I LIKE LOOK AT THESE FLOWERS AND THEN SMELL THESE FLOWERS AND HAI I AM GIRL AND I AM HOLDING FLOWERS DO YOU LIKE FLOWERS?

This smells like flowers. But its not a typical floral smell. It’s not a headachey floral or a grandma floral, its like…the kind of perfume a little girl would pick out and love. It’s a clean (but not soapy or lineny) floral. And sweet. But not sweet like candy or honey. If you think of a little girl in an old-fashioned dress and flowers, this is probably what that smells like.

 

I’m not so good at picking out particular flower species…maybe freesia or wisteria or gardenia…freesteriardenia?

Surgeon General's Warning: This review has no nutritional or medicinal value. This review's claims of being an actual review of Robotic Scarab have not been proven. This review should be used for novelty purposes only. Please consult with your doctor before starting any new scent routine, except if your doctor is Doc Constantine, since he will only offer to make you smell of his seed.

 

 

Note to readers: These are the same characters from my earlier tome, Galvanic Goggles Guy and His Amazing Clockwork Cock. They reappeared in my delusional late-night ramblings about Robotic Scarab, because apparently they didn't have anything better to do. Which I assume you do as well, if you took one look at this self-indulgent TL;DR review and decided to actually read it. You might want to go get a sandwich or something first. I'll wait.

 

...

 

.....can you make me one too, while you're at it? Wait, what are you making? Egg salad sandwiches?

 

...nevermind. I'm good.

 

 

 

 

Here begineth the Not-A-Review Review.

 

 

 

You know that The Girl has not always been here. There was a time when there was a definite lack of a Girl Shaped Thing loitering about in your periphery. You know that The Girl is here now. You are as secure in that knowledge as you are in anything, which is to say, not very. But it is more likely then not, for although you are not above the occasional amusing delusion, it is unlikely you would have one this…peculiar. Quixotic. Loud. Prone to the throwing of things you’d rather not be thrown. Gently irritating in a suicidal way, like a moth constantly fluttering at your candle-flame. Fussy.

 

She fusses. Over everything. You wonder how she has time to eat and breathe, so much does she find to fuss over. Over herself, over you, over the furniture, over being here, over the way she claims you stare. Over things that are happening, over things that already happened, over things that haven’t happened yet, over things that will never happen, over things she only dreams, over things you dream. Over the things in The Workshop, which you had to insist she not fuss herself over, which made her body tremble and her breath quicken and her eyes brighten and almost almost almost cry, but maybe you were staring again, maybe that's why. Over the food, over the dirt, over the smoke on the horizon and the smell in the air, over the birds in the sky and rats in your lab. She gave them names. Names. And cries when you take them apart. And gets mad at you, as though it were your fault.

 

She fusses now, sitting in the dress you stole for her. She fusses with the hem, bunching it up, and smoothing it down, over and over, as though she is testing its structural integrity for possible catastrophic failure. She has been quieter lately, which you regard with high suspicion. She’s been subdued since The Incident In Town. That makes you itch in a way you don’t like. And you find you cannot focus on anything save her sullen posture.

 

You should make her something, something she will like and will happify. She is so loud when there is something she likes. You hate her loudness, her noise, but you hate the absence of it now because…because she shouldn’t be quiet over something so trivial. She should be quiet because you have important work to be doing. She should be quiet for that, for you, not other things, not because of other people. You think you must hate her, and so will make her happy so you can stop thinking about it.

 

Something she likes. You consider what it is that women like. Pretty, useless things, women like pretty, useless things. Flowers. Butterflies. Shit to stick in their hair. Ornate boxes too small to contain anything. Cats. Tiny pillows with tassels. Babies.

 

You pull various implements and trays toward you, and set about the task of creating a pretty thing of no real use without having to go through the trouble of standing up or going outside.

 

As you work, silent and focused as a stalking snake, The Girl gets up and walks in her irritating way over to the rat cages. To fuss, always to fuss. Stupid, useless girl. Those were all brand new rats she didn’t know, and now she will get attached to these, giving them names and fussing. You gave her her own rat for her to keep and fuss over in the privacy of her room, to get all her fussiosity out on that rat, and leave his alone. And now she will cry again soon, because she didn’t learn she never learns. Stupid, useless girl.

 

The strap of her dress falls idly over her shoulder, like a lion rolling over in it’s sleep. It’s downward trajectory is a source of undue fascination with you. As is her small, scarred hand gliding over to restore order to her accoutermentical anarchy.

 

It’s a different kind of itching, now. Stupid, useless girl.

 

With a last twist of a screw, you finish the impromptu bribe. You hide the little thing in your hands and make a sound like a little bird, catching The Girl’s attention. Thoroughly caught, you drag her towards you with a jerk of your head. Her inevitable curiosity will lead her to you, even if she glares at you for calling her like a dog or particularly smart horse. And she glares, as you knew she would, and she still comes to you, as you also knew she would.

 

She stands in front of you, arms crossed, annoyance and curiosity fighting a vicious civil war across her face, creating an odd twist to her lips you instantly remember forever. Her slight, sharp smell of something that might be flowers, might be holy, enters your space, utterly without permission. Grabbing her hand before she can jump away, you deposit The Gift Aimed To Distract into her warm palm. You’re staring now, but don’t care.

 

Sitting solid and heavy and hot from your hands, a brass scarab beetle rests in the center of that small palm. Beetles are almost like butterflies, it should be sufficient.

 

Her mouth opens slightly as she lifts it up higher for closer inspection, curiosity finally genociding the last of the armies of annoyance holding out along her brow. She jumps slightly, when the scarab begins to move, gently roving over her hand with no real destination. She makes a sound in between a giggle and a gasp, as it tickles its way up her finger. Her face has lost all previous sullenness, as she stares at it with the same slightly confused rapt amazement one normally sees in kittens. Your mission has been accomplished, and with great success. You have now mastered Giving Gifts To Women. A brand new skill you can add to your resumé. Builds large, mechanical bird-shaped aviation devices, horrible machines of death, and small curiosities to delight the womenfolk.

 

As the robotic scarab reaches the tip of her finger, it shuffles its feet for a moment, before spreading it’s leather wings with a quick thuup. The Girl positively squeaks in delight as it takes off and instantly careens back into her head, tangling in her hair. She reaches up to pull it out, but you’re there before her, calloused hands digging into her soft, absurd hair. As you work to untangle it, pushing large sections of her pelt aside, you smell that smell again, something almost like flowers, something that might be holy, and you surreptitiously lean in to smell it again, deeper and longer, and you smell the warm leather and oil of the Pretty Useless Distraction, and it mingles with possibly pious flowers in such an obscene way. The Girl is being unusually docile, standing quite still and not fussing at all as you surgically extract the still squirming scarab. You will have to remember to throw bugs in her hair every time you want her to be quiet.

 

 

 

Oh, this smells like dangerous men. Not bad men, necessarily, but dangerous. The kind of man who's entirely too good-looking, and knows it, with an almost feminine mouth, curved at the ends to always appear smirking at a private joke, and feral eyes. Hair that looks fabulous and rakish, even whilst he engages in...strenuous activities. Looks just as home with a lily in his hands as he does with a billy-club, and he doesn't particularly care which one is in his hands. Charming, cultured, and clean. Has been known to cut with things other than his wit, but not often and never undeserving, if one has a rather liberal interpretation of the word 'deserving'. He looks at you as though you are the only thing in the room, which, depending on his mood and your history together, can be either very very good or very very bad. Is kind to animals, and especially favors cats. Somehow manages to keep his shirt sleeves pristine and white, but maybe he just buys new shirts, cause certain...liquids you just can't get out. Has an awful tendency to startle you by coming around corners, suddenly and slowly at the same time, full or mirth at how nervous he makes you. You think inappropriate things at the mere sight of him taking off his suit jacket, and he knows you do, and makes sure to look at you every time he does, so you know that he knows. He shaves with a fancy-handled straight razor in his practiced hand, and never cuts himself.

The scent is...difficult to describe.

 

Imagine a man (well, mostly a man) of indeterminate age and ethnicity. He could a 20-something Greek, or a Filipino centenarian. He's not exactly attractive, but not exactly not. It's that he's a bit...peculiar-looking. Not in Steve Buscemi way, it's just that the light in his eyes and the twist at his mouth suggests a non-specific, generally-harmless madness, that, under the right conditions, can be both very specific and very specifically-harmful. Although it is doubtful that that madness will ever be directed at you, it's best to be careful never to give it reason to. He has a giant mechanical hawk that he uses for cross-country travel and speedy getaways. He calls it his Clockwork Cock, because the alliteration amuses him, not that he thinks it's a chicken. That would be madness.

 

He wears a coat that has entirely too many epaulets, none of which are in the proper spot for an epaulet, and looks as though it outlived it's maker (which it has). His hair is remarkably clean, and curls in such a way that suggests it's attempting to escape. Looking at him, you can't help but hear a theremin's music, with the occasional terrible note from a melancholy oboe meandering through, kicking over trashcans and pulling up flower beds. He enjoys explaining and describing things, it pleases and calms him, makes him feel useful and a Contributing Member of Society, so, as part of Society, be sure and ask lots of questions. His mother died when he was small and she was still God. Upon meeting his father for the first (and last) time, he was convinced he was the Devil, and acted accordingly for a devout young man with many interesting devices hidden about his person.

 

At some point, you will have to climb aboard the Clockwork Cock-That's-Really-A-Hawk, because the only other option is fire. While leaning on his back, clutching at the inappropriate epaulets and trying not to look at the disappearing ground and approaching clouds, you find your face closer to his than you find entirely comfortable. He's wearing a pair of ridiculous-looking, old-fashioned bomber goggles (for the bugs, you see). You, however, are not, for he has no spares, never expecting anything riding shotgun that was in a position or state to complain about such annoyances. His earrings are ornate and have no pairs, each one unique, each a intimate union of the organic and the mechanical. If you pull your face too far away from him, they become bothersome little windchimes slapping across your face. You're forced to press your face closer to his, before that steel-and-claw one takes out a tooth. You see him eye you sideways for a long moment, and then grin, or at least pull his lips away from his teeth, reminding you that his canines are entirely too long for comfort. As you try not to look, and try to come up with some questions of cumulus clouds that will require a long and involved explanation, your nose presses close to his temple and the smell of his sweat on his skin mingles with the sweet smell of the old leather of the goggles, the odd cleanliness of his hair, the hot metal of the Clockwork Cock, the atmosphere and the fear and the tension and the canines too long for comfort.

 

That's what Galvanic Goggles smells like. More or less.

I GOT ME SOME INTERGALACTIC!

 

AND IT IS NOTHING LIKE I EXPECTED. SO MUCH SO THAT IT GAVE ME YELLY! DISEASE.

 

I EXPECTED THE DISILLUSIONED LOVECHILD OF NEO-TOKYO AND STARDUST, OUT TO MISSPEND ITS YOUTH AS BEST IT CAN.

 

WHAT I GOT WAS GRANDMA'S FRUITCAKE.

 

BUT NOT REAL FRUITCAKE, JUST THE CONCEPT OF FRUITCAKE. LIKE IT SMELLS LIKE THE GUY WHO FIRST THOUGHT "Hmm...dense dark bread that is simultaneously stale and syrupy, riddled with technicolor "fruit" and hard black crunchy things you hope are burnt nuts, but which could just as easily be char-broiled kidney stones for all you can determine...SOUNDS DELICIOUS!".

 

I EXPECTED ZIGGY STARDUST. I GOT THE STARLAND VOCAL BAND.

 

I EXPECTED 'Ground Control to Major Tom...'. WHAT I GOT WAS 'Skyyyyy-rockets in flight!'.

 

I EXPECTED The Velvet Goldmine. WHAT I GOT WAS Glitter.

 

I EXPECTED DEBAUCHED, BI-CURIOUS BOYCHIKS IN TIGHT METALLIC JEANS, BIG WHITE FUR COATS WITH NO SHIRTS UNDERNEATH, GLITTER EYELINER SMEARED ACROSS THEIR LIDS LIKE DELICIOUSLY DIRTY CLEOPATRAS, LISTENING TO THE COWBOY JUNKIES COVER OF "Sweet Jane" ON AN OLD RCA VICTROLA AS THEY LAY PRONE AND ARCHED UPON VARIOUS CUSHIONS AND PILLOWS AND SILK SARIS IN A DETERIORATED OLD VICTORIAN PARLOR, FLORAL WALLPAPER FADING AND PEELING AND WATERSTAINED, STRAY KITTENS KITTENING ABOUT THE MAN-PILE. WHAT I GOT WAS SOME EMO HIPSTER FUCKWAD IN HIS SISTER'S JEANS, WHOSE NOKIA PHONE PLAYS A Panic!At The Disco SONG WHEN HIS MOM CALLS.

 

 

 

....WHY DO I ALWAYS ASSOCIATE VICTROLAS AND GRAMOPHONES WITH SEX?