Search the Community
Showing results for tags 'Halloween 2025'.
Found 98 results
-
Known as the Mistress of Bones and the Lady of the Dead, she is the Queen of Mictlan, the Aztec Underworld, who still presides over today's Day of the Dead rituals. Sometimes known now as La Huesuda, she brings peace and joy to the spirits of the deceased, and blesses the living who do honor to those who have passed before them. Copal, precious woods, South American spices, agave nectar, cigar tobacco, and roses. I've never done a first review before... I'm a little scared! What you shouldn't be scared of, if you dislike roses, is the rose in Mictecacihuatl. It's no more than a floral whisper beneath the resins, woods, and spices. I actually wish it were a little more floral (but then, I love me some roses). Mictecacihuatl is a lovely blend of copal (yum!) and wood (I'm not sure what kind, but I'd say NOT cedar, since that turns to hamster cage on me). The spices add a bit of kick, but they're not the sort of "dirty" spices that are in many BPAL blends, they're much lighter and cleaner. I worried that, with the nectar, tobacco, and rose, this might be too sweet, but it's really not. The sweetness just serves to make the other elements less dry. I really like this one, but I might layer it over something with a stronger rose to bring out that note. If you like woods and resins give this one a try!
-
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.
-
It is stripped off—the paper—in great patches all around the head of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and in a great place on the other side of the room low down. I never saw a worse paper in my life. One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin. It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate, and provoke study, and when you follow the lame, uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide—plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard-of contradictions. The color is repellant, almost revolting; a smouldering, unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight. It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others. No wonder the children hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to live in this room long. A smouldering, unclean scent: turmeric-dusted acrid marigold, linseed oil, bitter orange peel, crumbling plaster, clotted vanilla, and a whiff of sweet mildew.
-
The Lovebirds wanted to be spooky this year, and we didn’t have the heart to tell them that no one will be fooled. Fuzzy foamed milk with peppermint cream, green currants, and sugared green apple.
-
When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes, And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes, Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak, Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek , -- Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die, And will be born again, -- but ah, to see Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky! Oh, Autumn! Autumn! -- What is the Spring to me? Dark amber, dead leaves, khus, saffron, bitter clove, chrysanthemum, camellia, galangal, and a drop of oud. At first sniff out of the bottle I get a that 'greenhouse' smell of plants, not flowers, but plants. Which is probably the chrysanthemum talking. Then the Khus comes out to play which to my nose smells just like Vetiver. Once on my skin right away it becomes the smell of dead leaves all the way. *sniff sniff* Yep, dead leaves/dying plants with a very slight hint of smoke. After a few minutes it begines to morph and I start to smell a hint of the amber, clove and saffron. This amber is not as sweet as other amber blends, it is indeed 'dark'. The clove in the is very mild and on the back burner. I want to say it is slightly similar to Baghdad at dry down, but much darker and complex. After 20 minutes it morphs again and becomes sweeter and a little spicier. As it fades is is now all amber on me. I love sweet/spicy scents and this phase is my favorite so far. This one is such a morpher and all the phases are wonderful. It's such an exotic dark and sexy blend, I love it! So yea, dead leaves on a crisp day in autumn and a faint whiff of Halloween spiced amber. Yep, I'd say this IS the smell of the girls perfume from the Type O' Negative song 'Black #1' fer sure.
-
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.
-
But there is something else about that paper—the smell! I noticed it the moment we came into the room, but with so much air and sun it was not bad. Now we have had a week of fog and rain, and whether the windows are open or not, the smell is here. It creeps all over the house. I find it hovering in the dining-room, skulking in the parlor, hiding in the hall, lying in wait for me on the stairs. It gets into my hair. Even when I go to ride, if I turn my head suddenly and surprise it—there is that smell! Such a peculiar odor, too! I have spent hours in trying to analyze it, to find what it smelled like. It is not bad—at first, and very gentle, but quite the subtlest, most enduring odor I ever met. In this damp weather it is awful. I wake up in the night and find it hanging over me. It used to disturb me at first. I thought seriously of burning the house—to reach the smell. But now I am used to it. The only thing I can think of that it is like is the color of the paper! A yellow smell. Scorched wood and oversteeped chamomile petals pressed wetly into beeswax, brittle fossilized amber, a whisper of honeyed hay and saffron, and the sweet decay of overripe butter figs.
-
A leathered up, musky interpretation of BPAL’s Antique Lace: dry flowers, aged linens, and the faint breath of long-faded perfumes with well-worn leather and caramel musk.
-
Flapjacks drowning in an intoxicating blend containing wormwood essence, light mints, cardamom, anise, hyssop, and the barest hint of lemon.
-
*clinks bottles* *clinks shovels* How about one for the road? Fizzy pop and a syrupy slick of motor oil splashed across disintegrating tan leather seats.
-
Hollow plastic shells of mango sherbet and musky black clove echoing with a ghostly miaow of glowing amber.
-
Tartly sweet, brusquely pavement-kissed, zesty with fermentation, dusted with leaf-litter, and relished by opportunistic squirrels craving a tipple.
-
Every leaf tells a story.
-
A 99-cent drugstore eyeliner freshly melted with a Bic lighter, in concert with the leathery metallic gleam of a well-loved pyramid spike bracelet.
-
Dead Leaves and Apple Pie.
-
Piles of ube pumpkin cheesecake batter blorped into a brown sugar graham cracker crust.
-
There’s still a little time to kill before the viewing… surely it wouldn’t hurt to stop for a short stack? Black coffee, syrup-drenched buckwheat cakes, and a crusty cruller for the road.
-
Every leaf tells a story.
-
The Lady of the Graveyard! Autumn leaves, wild roses, bourbon vanilla, dry chamomile, and a bouquet of bright chrysanthemums and Mexican marigolds. Aw...I'm first? La Calavera Catrina is one of the most beautiful Autumnal scents ever. The Autumn flowers are perfectly blended, and the vanilla sweetens them up. There's a hint of rose, and chamomile, but neither one overpowers the blend. I get a hint (or more a "feel") of leaves, and they are definitely the crunchy sort that have already fallen to the ground. If you liked Flor de Muerto and Nothing Gold Can Stay, I would highly recommend this. 10/10 ETA: I just wanted to add that this has aged so beautifully and I get compliments every time I wear it. Every. Time. It has become really well blended and more perfumey which is just fine with me! Gorgeous scent and I hope I don't run out.
-
FLOR DE MUERTO The orange marigold, or zempasúchitl, has been one of Death's symbols since the pre-Columbian era. The yellow and orange petals are believed to represent the rays of the sun, bringing joy and light to the souls dwelling in the realm of the dead. These flowers surround Day of the Dead altars to guide the spirits to their offerings. out of the bottle this smells quite incredible - a very singular floral note, sweet and nectar-ish, golden in tone - it has a pure, light feeling to it. on my skin, i'm feeling this even more - it has a bit of spice, in the way that carnations have their own spiciness, but it's not like carnation - it really does have a sunny, uplifting quality to it, and very natural. wow. i can really smell the petals....and it's slightly dusky, but light somehow, while still having depth....this one really pulls you into it's flowery zone, it smells so realistic. LOVE THIS! it could work on a little girl or a mature woman.
-
Brown sugar cookies with fat chunks of cinnamon-dusted apple and swirls of caramel.
-
A bottomless swirl of black leather, dead branches, and flaming pumpkin guts.
-
Pumpkin spiced and buttery.
-
A pumpkin-spiced homage to this very limited Convergence 12 BPAL perfume from 2006: a sultry, sweet red musk blend with pumpkin spices and pumpkin pulp.
-
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.
