doomsday_disco

By moonlight—the moon shines in all night when there is a moon—I wouldn’t know it was the same paper. At night in any kind of light, in twilight, candlelight, lamplight, and worst of all by moonlight, it becomes bars! The outside pattern I mean, and the woman behind it is as plain as can be. I didn’t realize for a long time what the thing was that showed behind,—that dim sub-pattern,—but now I am quite sure it is a woman. A perfume of veils and bars, moonlight slashing through prison walls: silvered lavender and white iris shuddering like lamplight on stained plaster, ambergris frothing through vanilla husk, and the phantom outline of a rose-touched woman’s silhouette.

There is a recurrent spot where the pattern lolls like a broken neck and two bulbous eyes stare at you upside-down. I get positively angry with the impertinence of it and the everlastingness. Up and down and sideways they crawl, and those absurd, unblinking eyes are everywhere. There is one place where two breadths didn’t match, and the eyes go all up and down the line, one a little higher than the other. Indolic jasmine glaring through a haze of tobacco yellow and stained lace.

You’re a grownup, no one can stop you from slurping up clouds of rooty foam from around a giant glump of pumpkin ice cream squished onto the rim of a frosted goblet.

Saying “bone apple teeth” instead of “bon appétit” seems to take on a special meaning in the context of Halloween treats. Here’s a scent commemorating the allure of everything our dentist would have us avoid: a luscious red apple rendered nigh impenetrable by armored plates of toffee and caramel, sprinkled with bone-dry cinnamon-glazed almonds and hard bits of popcorn.

A scent inspired by the debris left over from frantic last-minute costuming sessions. Torn scraps of velvety black voodoo lily mingled with dried rose petals and a flash of red peppercorn.

The Lovebirds wanted to be spooky this year, and we didn’t have the heart to tell them that no one will be fooled. A frothy strawberry malted with papaya juice and black cherries, topped with marshmallow cream.

Sweet-tempered and kind, this emotionally generous dragon has a hoard made not of gold, but of handwritten letters, warm socks, library check out cards, and old mixtapes. Famed throughout the realms for offering a listening ear and a warm hug in lieu of unsolicited advice, it roosts in sun-warmed meadows, secondhand bookstores, and antique shops, and its scales glow softly in shades of sun tea, wildflower honey, and sweet apricot.

An intangible vapor, an obfuscating mist: grey iris, ambergris, mallow blossom, white tea blossoms, and scorched milk. Alfred Stieglitz

And the weaver said, Speak to us of Clothes. And he answered: Your clothes conceal much of your beauty, yet they hide not the unbeautiful. And though you seek in garments the freedom of privacy you may find in them a harness and a chain. Would that you could meet the sun and the wind with more of your skin and less of your raiment, For the breath of life is in the sunlight and the hand of life is in the wind. Some of you say, “It is the north wind who has woven the clothes we wear.” And I say, Ay, it was the north wind, But shame was his loom, and the softening of the sinews was his thread. And when his work was done he laughed in the forest. Forget not that modesty is for a shield against the eye of the unclean. And when the unclean shall be no more, what were modesty but a fetter and a fouling of the mind? And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair. Sunlight on skin: sweet amber, honey dust, golden sandalwood, and soft musk.

Happy Halloween, all! Brian here — Doc Constantine to some — making my occasional guest appearance narrating BPAL scent copy. The Porcelain Bat came into our lives last year, the morning we staggered home from New York Comic Con. Samantha and I were running on fumes—suitcases still in the car, clothes sticky from the long drive, brains mushy from lack of sleep. All we wanted was showers, silence, and unconsciousness. Instead, at the crack of dawn, we encountered a fluffy ball of chaos. Sam was the first to notice. She was upstairs when she heard a shuffle in the bathroom. At first, she thought it was a mouse, but when she leaned closer, she froze. Pressed against the frosted glass of our under-sink cabinet was the very distinct, unmistakable silhouette of a bat. One wing splayed, tiny body smushed, like it had been waiting all week for us. Her scream shook the walls: “BRIAN! THERE’S A FUCKING BAT IN THE BATHROOM!” I was so exhausted that her words barely made sense. “I know all those words,” I muttered, “but not in that order.” By the time my brain caught up, Sam had cracked the door open. The bat had managed to get out from under the sink and was boinging around the bathroom like a rubber Halloween toy brought to life. It zipped around the bathroom, frantic, wings flicking against tile and towel racks. For a creature that small, it felt huge—its wingspan may have been a mere handful of inches, but to us, shrieking bat-startled banshees, it was a twenty-foot beast. Everyone’s goth AF until a bat is flying straight at your face in your own house. Sam called every bat rescue service in Delco and all neighboring counties, but no one could give us an assist until at least ten hours later. We didn’t have that kind of time, not with the bathroom locked down and our bladders on strike. So we started preparing. I pulled on every piece of protective gear I owned: chainsaw helmet, gloves, goggles. If I could’ve found hockey pads, I would’ve worn those, too. Sam looked me over and frowned. “BUT YOUR NECK ISN’T COVERED!” I glared at her. “Don’t.” “WHAT IF IT’S A VAMPIRE BAT?” The joke is funny in hindsight, but in that moment I wasn’t laughing. I peeked through the old-fashioned keyhole, heart hammering, but saw nothing. Was it perched on the towels? Hanging from the door? Clinging to the ceiling like some tiny gargoyle? There was no way to know. So finally I muttered, “Fuck it,” shoved open the door, and went in with a plastic storage bin and a scrap of cardboard. Luck was on our side, and the little guy had ended up in the bathtub. The porcelain sides were too slick for him to climb: a tiny prisoner in the big white basin. Carefully, gently, we lowered the bin over him. He rustled his wings but didn’t fight. We slid the cardboard underneath, lifted him up, and carried him outside. Out on the porch, we set the box (opened, so he could make his way out on his terms) on a shady table and let him rest. Our tiny intruder, the Porcelain Bat, had survived his ordeal. And so had we. The sweet little guardian of our bathroom sink. The warm, unsettling thrum of musky fur and leathery wings smushed against frosted orris root and vanilla plaster dust.

A bottomless swirl of black leather, dead branches, and flaming pumpkin guts.

Don’t you just love that new hearse smell? A stylish, contemporary corpse-carrier for the most discriminating clientele: traces of embalming fluid clinging to white satin curtains and fresh white leather seats.

Golden Amber and Plum Blossom.

Ladies, is it gay to have a skeletal system? Short answer: YES! Because the human wrist was undeniably made to flap and go “enh.” There are many theories about the historical origin of the so-called “limp wrist” gesture, which has bedeviled arbiters of masculine/feminine presentation since at least the ancient Roman times. So when we defiantly flop our phalanges, we’re reclaiming a time-honored tradition! And letting our skeletons do what they do most naturally: camp it up. Did you know the human wrist is made up of eight small bones, plus the forearm’s radius and ulna? Factor in the four small ones that comprise that lightly extended pinkie finger, and the number of bones required to execute this delicate maneuver add up to FOURTEEN. No wonder we’re always so tired. So defy nature if you truly must, but never forget: when bones are all that’s left of you, the wrists will be extra floppy. And we think that’s worth celebrating while you’re still alive! This scent debuted in 2023 as “Is He, You Know” but since this is commonly deployed as an equal-opportunity aphorism, we’ve created a campy companion scent: sweet 13-year aged patchouli, peru balsam, white oakmoss, spikenard, bourbon vanilla, sugar cane, and a sprig of lilac.

These are dark times indeed... so here's a gourmand for the brooding scholar. The warm, nutty richness of roasted macadamia folded into the dry papery musk of time-worn tomes bound in crackled leather; golden drips of beeswax candlelight flicker against polished teakwood shelves, while the smoky warmth of fireplace smoke lingers in the air. (Nutty portmanteau absolutely intended. Don’t @ us.)

Snake Oil, opium tar, indigo poppy petals, plum cognac, and a dribble of laudanum.

Black Orchid and Crushed Berries.

From Edward Gorey’s Scènes de Ballet. A glimmer of white tulle in a thicket of ink-black pines, graceful as a half-spied pirouette between a silhouette of clawed branches. The hush of forest moss under satin slippers, a wisp of candle smoke, the flick of a wrist as pale as lilies beckoning through thick myrrh shadows.

In the vein (GET IT) of Boo, Suck It, and Spooky, this is a gushing font of sweet bloody black cherry cream and crushed dried blackberries.

Ohohoho! /Ojou-sama laugh I was here for the raspberry, and fortunately, the raspberry is the star of this duet on me. It starts off as a tart, bright raspberry, but it ends up developing a bit of creaminess to it after a few hours of wear, which could be due to the vanilla, but I'm not 100% on that since that has happened with other raspberry scents on me, even the ones from Astrid (it's not a bad thing, though -- it's more like realistic tart raspberry morphs into a raspberry Mamba, which is a hard, taffy-like fruity candy). There's only the barest hint of frankincense in the background if I go sniffing for it, but I probably wouldn't have guessed this contained any if I didn't know it were there. I layered a drop of this with Black Butterfly Moon, and I enjoyed the combination of the two scents more than the moon on its own. I'm not sure if the lunacy scent brought out more of the vanilla-infused frankincense from this, or if this brought out more of the vanilla resin in the lunacy, or what, but I definitely get some vanilla and resin with the tart raspberry that floats over the blackberry and purple flowers from the lunacy scent, and the vanilla and resin note make me think of the Bourbon Vanilla bath oil from several years ago (deceptively sweet: bourbon vanilla oleoresin and benzoin resinoid). I am after more raspberry scents to pair with Framboise Hair Gloss, so I'll be needing a bottle of this before it goes away.

Vanilla-Infused Frankincense and Raspberry.

This doesn't smell like just the two notes in this duet, to my nose. When I first sniffed it in the decant, I wondered if this were just he Dregs of a Bottle of Vanilla Extract (Discovered in the Mud) plus tobacco. Then I sniffed them side by side and realized that Dregs is much cooler and features a different dirt note, and there's a bit of spice to this one that's not in Dregs. But nevertheless, I get dirt, a sheer vanilla, and a dry tobacco note. My partner also thought that I smelled like dirt when I wore this, and when I layered a drop of this with Black Butterfly Moon, I mostly got the dirt and sheer vanilla floating over the blackberry-tinged purple flowers of that lunacy scent. If you're here for a vanilla and tobacco flower duet in the vein of Pediophobia, or Zorya P, you're going to be disappointed. That's what I was hoping for, so I don't think I'll be keeping the decant.

Vanilla and Tobacco Flower.

Vex, the Bone Goddess – summoning rituals of skulls, bones and stones, chanting into the dancing flames, pits of black ash and spice, the door opens. A bone goddess’ sacred incense: fire and ash, bone shards, and stone.

Dark delusions, sinister shadows in an underground lair, surrounded by death and decay, puffs of tobacco smoke and a longing to be whole. Pipe tobacco and a splash of Victorian fougere, damp soil and grave moss, yew boughs and mandrake root.