*A N A D V E R T I S E M E N T*

The First Season Interludes by Ortant Aper

The Perfume Nationalist first season interlude music conveniently collected for you in one 40 minute album experience

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Perfume Nationalist lifestyle enhancement music for living laughing and loving

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Red Door

Elizabeth Arden Red Door (1989) + David Lynch's Twin Peaks: The Return (2017) and Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me (1992)

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Famous in a Small Town with Ty E

Wrappings by Clinique (1990) + David Lynch's Twin Peaks (1990)

featuring Ty E of soiledsinema.com

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A Year in Perfume Nationalism

There's a fantastic article on us, the first ever written, at The Autistic Mercury by friend of the pod The Eternal Dillards.

Jules and Querelle with Ty E

Dior Jules (1980) + Rainer Werner Fassbinder's Querelle (1982)

 

with Ty E of http://www.soiledsinema.com/

 

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Through the Looking Glass with Ty E

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Jovan Musk (1973) + Jonas Middleton's Through The Looking Glass (1976) & Illusions of a Lady (1974)

AMA answers and discussion

with Ty E of soiledsinema.com

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It Is Not the Homosexual Who Is Perverse with Ty E **TEASER**

Aramis 900 (1973) + Rainer Werner Fassbinder's Fox and His Friends (1975) + Rosa von Praunheim's It Is Not the Homosexual Who Is Perverse, But the Society in Which He Lives (1971)

with Ty E of soiledsinema.com

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The Bitter Tears of Joseph H Lauder with Ty E

JHL by Aramis (1982) + Rainer Werner Fassbinder's The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant (1972)

 

with Ty E of http://www.soiledsinema.com

 

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A Sun-Play of the Ages with Ty E **TEASER**

Guerlain's Jicky (1889) + Shalimar (1925)

+ D.W. Griffith's Birth of a Nation (1915) + Intolerance (1916)

with Ty E of http://www.soiledsinema.com

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Urotsukidoji: Legend of the Overfiend with Samememe

Hanae Mori (1994) + Urotsukidoji: Legend of the Overfiend (1987-89)

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Final Fantasy VI with The Surfing Violinist

Santa Maria Novella Marescialla + Final Fantasy VI 

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Female Misbehavior with Samememe

Niki de Saint Phalle perfume (1982) + Daddy (1973) + Lena Dunham's Tiny Furniture (2010) + Girls (2012-2017)

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Born to Die

Frédéric Malle Portrait of a Lady + Lana Del Rey 

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Rose Clouds of Holocaust w/ Ty E and Jugs

Montale Black Aoud + Death in June 

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Kouros the Barbarian with Don Jolly

YSL Kouros + Conan the Barbarian

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Male Fantasies with Ty E (Soiled Sinema)

4711 + Hitler: A Film from Germany 

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The Mall

in this aural IRL odyssey we penetrate the deepest levels of the #LiveLaughLove lifestyle, go to the mall to smell rare olfactory masterpieces, and conclude with a discussion of Stanley Kubrick at The Cheesecake Factory. With special guest Ayymode. Headphones recommended.

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The Downward Spiral

Dior Hypnotic Poison + Gaspar Noe Irreversible

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Suddenly, Last Summer

Elizabeth Taylor White Diamonds + Suddenly, Last Summer

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Dressed to Kill with Teddy de Chypre

Estée Lauder Private Collection + Dressed to Kill

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Got Yourself a Gun with Ty E (Soiled Sinema)

Aramis + The Sopranos 

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How Can I Keep from Posting

Estée Lauder White Linen + Enya

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Nymphomaniac Birthday Party with JUGS

Etat Libre d'Orange Rien + Lars Von Trier Nymphomaniac 

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TekWars; or, Virtue Rewarded feat. Kantbot

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Beautiful Melancholia

Estée Lauder Beautiful + Melancholia

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Nature is Satan's Church

Slumberhouse Vikt + Antichrist 

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Brade Runner 2049

Thierry Mugler Womanity + Blade Runner 2049

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Against Nature

Guerlain Mitsouko + Against Nature by Joris-Karl Huysmans 

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The Sensual World with Quinn Roberts

Estée Lauder Knowing + Kate Bush 

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Erotic Thrillers with @AlistairSel

Montana Parfum de Peau + The Fourth Man + Basic Instinct + Showgirls

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Melancholie der Engel with Ty E (Soiled Sinema)

Frédéric Malle Une Rose (2003) + Marian Dora's Melancholie der Engel (2009) + Magnus Blohmdahl's Revisiting Melancholie der Engel (2017) 

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Drakkar Deceivers with @SpaceAgeCowboy

Drakkar Noir + Dream Deceivers: The Story Behind James Vance vs. Judas Priest

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Soiled Sinema

Knize Ten and Soiled Sinema 

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C/Come and Take It

Byredo M/MINK and Cody Wilson's Come and Take It 

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Cum Town Magnifiques

The gender polarization of pop culture in the late 1990s and early 2000s seems unthinkable in the current climate of unisex subversion where men are women and women are men. An atmosphere of masculine pranks and tomfoolery, exemplified by Blink 182, Eminem, and Jackass, coexisted peacefully with the plastic, pornographic femininity of Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, and Pamela Anderson. The boys were as nude as the girls, but under the guise of comedy—something that hasn’t changed in the intervening years, as the heterosexual majority simply can’t take natural male nudity as anything but ridiculous no matter how forcefully it’s marketed to them as gender equality—and this created a free zone of homoerotic exploration that allowed me to have a poster of Blink 182 in underwear above my bed and it not be considered gay.

Cum Town, which harkens back to this era, is a comedy podcast that essentially works like a middle school male friend simulator for lonely millennial guys of the 2010s, a time when male camaraderie is stigmatized as potentially murderous and there are no legally existing spaces for boys to be boys without female monitoring and participation. The tossed off pop culture references—Pure Moods, Austin Powers, Titanic, Maddox, Sega Dreamcast—hit hardest those born between 1987 and 1990. Though there are three hosts, it is a showcase for the unwieldy improvisational genius of Nick Mullen, an Alt-Right-adjacent, seemingly apolitical comedian who exists in the Dirtbag Left New York scene of sister podcasts Chapo Trap House and Red Scare, a milieu that adopts and dilutes the language and symbology of the online far-right while eschewing its reactionary politics beyond the level of “political correctness has gone too far.” Before Cum Town, Nick posted masterful trolling articles on Thought Catalog under the name Nicole Mullen (byline: “Just a fun mom at a retarded school”) alongside pieces by cancelled reactionaries Jim Goad and Gavin McInnes.  When I stumbled on Nicole Mullen, I thought for a whole afternoon that there existed a female troll to beat them all, but was delighted to find that Nicole was Nick, and that Nick was stunningly handsome, with big, sad brown eyes, like a Romantic poet from the Victorian era of whom only one photograph exists. He made several appearances on a Fox News panel show called Red Eye, which aired at something like 2AM, and existed mostly through Twitter, Facebook, and the now-deceased Vine. I wondered how and where such a creature could channel his uncategorizable talents into a work of more sustained effort, and it turned out to be through an uncategorizable podcast which now makes nearly $50K a month on Patreon.

Cum Town is a chatty, low-effort enterprise with little to no form, and episodes have no topics except those that arise organically. The content consists mostly of racist jokes, song lyrics replaced with references to gay sex, and elaborate, extended, satirical Sadean fantasies of celebrities having gay sex with each other, which return and regenerate throughout the episode or the whole series. Batman characters with names like “The Niggler” and “Cumeatsioner Gordon,” who drinks Big Gulp cups of cum, will cross the sky like shooting stars in rapid fire. There is, as the title suggests, a neurotic preoccupation with semen and explicit locker room descriptions of gay sex, which strike heterosexuals as gross-out comedy and homosexuals like myself as murkily erotic. Nightmarish mutations of diverse gender-swapped Hollywood reboots will occur, such as Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, with both parents and all the children played by towering negress Leslie Jones, shrunken down and exploring plus-size comedienne Melissa McCarthy’s ass.

A recurring theme is the relentless, cruel mockery of Jewish cohost Adam Friedland, Red Scare host Dasha Nekrasova’s fiancé, mocked variously as “a bug who eats dust” and a shekel-counting cheapskate and placed in numerous Norman Bates scenarios of wearing his mother’s clothes, being cucked by black men who live in trash cans, and having a dick so small that helicopter search lights and megaphones are necessary to find it. The bullying of sweet, mild Adam bleeds surreally into IRL on occasion, such as when Chelsea Clinton put him on blast for an untagged tweet mocking her appearance with what she described as “anti-Semitic tropes.”

Stavros Halkias, the third host, is the most knee-jerkedly liberal of the bunch and frequently drops his dumb sidekick persona to stridently express discomfort when Nick’s jokes or cultural observations have gone too far for the Patreon terms of service. His memorable contributions to the show are mostly in the form of his cacophonous laughter and farting on mic, which scares and repulses new listeners away, and the recurring theme of his chronic overeating and overall bodily decay, which dovetails nicely with Nick’s escalating depression and mental instability.

The early episodes, which begin with unlicensed use of the Home Improvement theme song, are the strongest. Nick has not exhausted his biographical pool of pathetic stories of life as a middling standup comedian in Austin, LA, and New York, living in Chinatown squalor and working at GameStop and cell phone kiosks in malls. In summer 2018, Nick’s mental health deteriorated to the point that he sought therapy and medication and tragically left social media, but not before releasing a series of emotional, vulnerable episodes where his honesty about glimpsing the void after too much cocaine at “Skankfest” is moving and admirable.

Cum Town fans are evenly split between those who like Million Dollar Extreme (right-wing) and those who like Chapo Trap House (left-wing). Both sides argue incessantly about the possible political underpinnings of the show, with the left believing that racist humor and a fascination with The N Word are deployed as nihilist irony and the right believing that the hosts exhibit straightforward awareness of suppressed and forbidden racial truths. Nick hates when his obsessed and frequently unhinged listeners attempt to ascribe meaning to his hundreds of hours of absurdist content, but there are remarkable, melancholic artistic depths lurking beneath the vulgar exterior of this show, which uniquely resonates with alienated young men across the world like myself who view Nick as our generation’s Travis Bickle.

Like These Boys

Comme des Garçons EDP (1994) and Autechre AE_LIVE

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The Ladies Make a Podcast

      It may seem surprising that the most genuinely transgressive of the triumvirate of “Irony Left” New York podcasts is the one hosted by two uniquely beautiful, model-esque women, one blonde and one brunette, who lampoon body positivity and satirically allude to their anorexia as a running gag, but Dasha Nekrasova and Anna Khachiyan make trenchant, occasionally cruel observations about gender, sexuality, politics, and pop culture that would result in the permanent cancellation of the bravest man. While they identify as Bernie-supporting socialists, the underlying theme of their show is a reactionary yearning for traditional gender roles. Dasha expresses how she wants to be treated like a baby, has never had to learn how to torrent because she has always had a boyfriend, and holds a bemused admiration for hentai, little girl roleplay, and the kind of starved, sub-legal female sexuality that Calvin Klein and Kate Moss transmogrified into corporate capitalist art of the highest degree, while Anna muses on the forgotten allure of a man fighting for a woman’s affections, the libidinal death involved in urban millennial relationships which invariably turn with time into “emotionally codependent sibling-roommates,” and the dystopian medical horror of condoms and birth control.

       The show began when an InfoWars video of indie actress Dasha, endearingly dressed as a sort of anime sailor with beret, went viral. In it she is quizzed about the impracticality of socialism by a blonde reporter, who is clearly trying to make her look stupid but comes off as the less interesting and likable party. Dasha sips on her iced coffee and sardonically eyes the camera, in a moment that defies audience expectations of bias confirmation and political party lines. I was confused and intrigued by it, initially assuming her to be an average DSA hipster. How wrong I was.

      Both women are the children of Russian immigrants and are blessed with an unflappable Slavic stoicism in the face of their numerous haters, who not inaccurately label them dangerous crypto-fascists and react with transparent sour grapes jealousy that such women can “have it all,” that these extremely online art hoes rose above the herd to craft a cogent artistic and political statement for which there is no correlate in the barren, neoliberal-dominated cultural landscape of the 2010s. Witness how Dasha and Anna deflect the middling complaints of the bluepilled, bluechecked masses on their Twitter and Instagram accounts, which as with all media today form part of the extended universe of the show, with a few well-chosen bon mots, never letting on that anything upsets them while projecting fully fleshed and vulnerable characters nonetheless. The audio is only one facet of the show, and the ladies’ keen aesthetic eye is demonstrated by their choice of theme music—Russian girl group t.A.T.u.’s lipstick lesbian pop hit “All the Things She Said”—and visual excursions like their Valentine’s Day live show, with Loveline Q&A delivered through a Million Dollar Extreme-esque Chaturbate interface with scrolling comments about Russian collusion and paypigs.

       Neoliberal moral panic looms in the background of the show, and part of its subversiveness is just how casually the ladies toss off forbidden, self-evident truths: that Russian collusion was a scam concocted by the Democrat Party and the fake news media to salve the wounds of Hillary Clinton’s embarrassing loss to Donald Trump; that #MeToo is and was always a dangerous, large-scale, masturbatory exercise in Hollywood millionaire self-absorption and virtue-signaling; that no insipid “separate the art from the artist” argument is necessary to consume and enjoy the work of dubiously cancelled men like Woody Allen and Louis C.K. They have devoted entire episodes to intricate defenses of Woody Allen, calling Mia Farrow a power-mad, vengeful shrew as though blithely unaware of the last twenty years of escalating feminist rules of propriety. A frequent theme is the lack of inspiring public figures and intriguing aesthetics on the Left, while the Right is overrun with them: Kellyanne Conway, Roger Stone, Steve Bannon, and of course Daddy, @RealDonaldTrump, the first meme-savvy and truly hilarious American President, whose sardonic dismissals of haters and losers and brazen, crude masculinity make him a singular countercultural icon for those who have personally felt the iron fist of neoliberal puritanism. Anna is the first person to share my opinion of Lena Dunham, whose misunderstood work occupies a similar space to Red Scare—that her intelligent and truthful vision was compromised by her catering to the relentless affirmative action demands of intellectually limited liberal critics.

       As Cum Town flirts obsessively with homosexuality and “The N Word,” Red Scare flirts obsessively with the “Deplorable Alt-Right” that Hillary Clinton warned voters of on the campaign trail. In “The Climate is Cancelled,” with cancelled guest Deanna Havas, climate change hysteria is frankly discussed as a major tenet of bourgeois neoliberal religion. The sublime and melancholy “Post-Horny” with Angela Nagle paints a deeply disturbing overview of the death of sexuality as the result of sexual liberation, dating apps, dissolved gender roles, and overall erotic desensitization. In “Cinema: Dead and Loving It” with Nick Pinkerton, the hyper-politicized woke bleakness of modern Hollywood cinema is lambasted, where so-called “diverse” reboots of foolproof, regurgitated intellectual properties are rewired as mutant neolib propaganda marketed with a cynical moral imperative to pay for the product as vengeance against an alleged army of right-wing troll saboteurs. In “Bots will be Bots” with Heidi Matthews, Dasha delivers a sultry, autoerotic monologue like something from Truth or Dare-era Madonna in defense of groypers, the post-Pepe right-wing frog avatars with curled eyelashes and long rubbery arms, as delectable agents of chaos who represent the uncontainable id of the Internet.

       Dasha and Anna are both fans of French nationalist treasure Michel Houellebecq and the original galaxy brain post-feminist lady academic, Camille Paglia, which is what initially drew me to the show. Frankly, they are the first women under the age of 70 whose ideas have piqued my interest after the escalating, all-encompassing anti-male, anti-white social justice movement of the 2010s which culminated in the friendship-destroying hysteria of the 2016 election. Hearing a maligned female trait like vocal fry, so long the harbinger of political conflict and passive-aggressive female bureaucratic domination, transformed into a warm, enveloping, almost maternal presence, was a profoundly moving experience which penetrated the scar tissue of bitterness and misogyny I’d developed. I became deeply emotional about all the female friends I lost or could no longer be honest with due to the brutal changing of political tides. If podcasts are friend surrogates, Red Scare fills a unique place in the male heart where feminine charm and humor used to be.

The Needs of Modern Man

Chanel Antaeus and Cruising 

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Brade Runner

Yves Saint Laurent Opium and Blade Runner

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Women N Love

Chanel No. 5 and Women in Love 

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Paglian Poison

Christian Dior's Poison and Camille Paglia's Provocations 

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Safe from Giorgio

Rupert and Ortant discuss Giorgio Beverly Hills (1981), the floral bomb that defined the 1980s, and Safe (1995), Todd Haynes's spacey and satirical exploration of multiple chemical sensitivity and the birth of allergies as bourgeois liberal identity. 

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Magie Noire Scare

Rupert and Ortant discuss 1978 masterpiece of sulfuric darkness Magie Noire by Lancôme and transgressive cultural commentary podcast Red Scare by Dasha Nekrasova and Anna Khachiyan.

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Dune et Dune

Dior's foreboding 1991 woodsy oriental Dune and Frank Herbert's Dune universe

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Cum Town Magnifiques

Discussed this week are Etat Libre d'Orange's notorious 2006 semen and blood fragrance Sécrétions Magnifiques and Nick Mullen's legendary comedy podcast Cum Town (2016-).

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Million Angel Extreme

Rupert Birkin and AperOrtant discuss two subversive works of art launched within the mainstream: Thierry Mugler's raunchy 1992 oriental Angel and Million Dollar Extreme's surrealist sketch comedy program Million Dollar Extreme Presents: World Peace. 

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Yatagan Age Mindset

Rupert Birkin and OrtantAper discuss Bronze Age Mindset by Bronze Age Pervert and Caron Yatagan.

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Problematics Elixir

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Notes on Perfume Nationalism

I am a big believer in following synchronicities when they appear. If you see a recurring word, number, or pop culture element pay attention and investigate what it could mean. The world is full of magic and mystery if you pay attention even in our current feminist-liberal zogged out dystopia. One such symbol for me is the orange, black, and red striped pattern featured on the original bottle of Lancome's Magie Noire, a perfume endowed with occult significance on both a conceptual and personal level. Lancome saw fit to cover the box with esoteric alchemical symbols in addition to naming it "Black Magic," all things not to be taken lightly in the post-Opium world where for awhile perfumes were routinely given dangerous names with ambiguous, even negative associations--Poison, Obsession, Egoiste.

I am an unconventional Christian who was raised Southern Baptist and I am prone to slight enjoyable bouts of religious mania and paranoia based on the autistic cocoon of media and fragrances I've built around myself. In one such incident I began to believe that the numerous bottles of Thierry Mugler's Angel adorning my room, being crooked stars ergo pentagrams, were attracting satanic energy. In another I was positively hallucinating rose clouds of holocaust when I wore Frederic Malle's overrated Une Rose to watch Marian Dora's Melancholie der Engel, the most extreme act of cinematic depravity this side of legality, with two disreputable homosexuals who considered themselves libertines and gave me MDMA. The Magie Noire symbol is different because it keeps occurring, pervasively, and seems to indicate creative wormholes I should jump through to combine anachronistic elements and help others see the world in a more sensual and fluidly exciting manner.

I was on a New England vacation with one of my oldest friends.  This was the week of the Kavanaugh hearings, an elemental showdown of toxic femininity and demonized masculinity, and I was in Salem, MA doing witch trial tourist stuff. Needless to say I felt nothing for the witches after enduring a year of #MeToo, that repugnant moral panic masquerading as enlightened liberal justice. One day we went to Providence and I insisted on going some twenty minutes out of the way to Chamonix Antiques, an exquisitely curated store run by Nick Rochefort of Million Dollar Extreme, the visionary surrealist rightwing comedy troupe who gave us Million Dollar Extreme Presents:World Peace, which next to Knots Landing I consider to be the highest art the medium of television has ever produced, and which was ignominiously cancelled by libtards as revenge for the results of the 2016 election.

I wasn't in the store long before I saw a set of three vintage plastic Italian nesting ashtrays in the Magie Noire pattern. I bought them along with a very perfumey-looking Polish theater poster and exchanged a few words with Nick, who was extremely friendly and had piercingly intelligent, intimidating eyes.

The significance of the Magie Noire pattern simply appearing in Nick Rochefort's store should not be underestimated. Since the left-wing cultural crackdown of the last few years intended to punish dissidents and Trump voters, I have frankly doubted my place in the world. Most of my old friends ghosted and disavowed because I was so publicly rightwing and I swore off social media for about two years, mainly in order not to get fired from my wagecuck job as the media relentlessly ran the message that Democrats should help doxx and blacklist anyone in their social or familial circles who had assisted in the ruination of Crooked Hillary. My boss was handing out safety pins. I had always simply been honest about what I thought with people I knew and suddenly it was necessary to shut up or be totally anonymous if one wanted to avoid getting doxxed by Antifa and "called out" on the Internet by repugnant, hysterical liberal beasties.

What was this appearance of Magie Noire telling me? Frankly I think it was indicating I should get back online, experiment, and put something out there representative of what I wanted to see more of in the world. My inner life is largely comprised of an obsessive fascination with perfumes, the stronger and more 1980s-styled the better, and dissident rightwing cultural takes of the kind Hillary Clinton warned about when she famously warned of the "Deplorable Alt-Right." Trump was a candidate straight out of a 1980s soap opera. His insurmountable masculine confidence and love for gaudiness and opulence made him stand out against the barren, masochistic cultural landscape of the 2010s in a big way. I loved him and openly supported him as soon as he announced he was running in 2015, to the chagrin of everyone I knew. He swept in like a Guardian Force in a Final Fantasy game to make a mockery of liberal faggotry and piousness and give the West one last gasp before we're irrevocably taken over by fertile undesirables mobilized by the Democrat Party for nefarious ends.

My concept of "perfume nationalism" comes from my idol and biggest influence, Camille Paglia, who synchronizes disparate elements from daytime soap opera to ancient Egyptian artwork to the Marquis de Sade in her individualistic, fluid vision of the history of mankind. The Right needs to reclaim opulence and aesthetics and break free from the chains and cobwebs of the limited, polarized political climate of today. While the Left suicides itself with antinatalism, Marxist inversion, transgender theory, noxious calls for the extinction of white men, and general female toxicity, we should embrace the beauty they have abandoned. Perfume is an apt symbol of rebellion because the perfume-phobic scent-free pieties of today are the direct result of liberal hatred of sensual beauty and the assertion of control through elective allergies as identity politics, the genesis of which is depicted in Todd Haynes's Safe, my favorite movie. It is always bourgeois white liberals who perform theatrical coughs when faced with strong fragrance, to assert their dominance over the space in the most needling and wimpy way possible. I want young men of the Right to discover strong 80s-style fragrances as assertions of power and identity. We have had so many years of wan aquatics and anorexic "your skin but better" Iso E Super woody nonentities; we must go around casually smelling like humidors, leather, and incense-filled cathedrals as our fathers and mothers did in the 80s with their Opium and Magie Noire and Polo and Yatagan! The deplorables literally memed Trump into the presidency and trolling libtards on the olfactory level has similar potential. Reclaim opulence and enjoy this miraculous sense they have taken from you with their specious claims to scent-free spaces IRL and dissent-free spaces online.

Perfume Nationalist Guest Post: Dior Jules

**ATTENTION: THE FOLLOWING IS A DECLASSIFIED DISPATCH FROM FROGTWITTER CADET IN SPECIAL FRAGRANCE CORPS WHO WISHES TO REMAIN ANON. HE HAS RECENTLY HEARD CALLING OF PERFUME NATIONALISM AND BEEN DEBRIEFED WITH HIGHEST SECURITY CIVET CINEMA EDUCATIONAL REELS. AS PREMIERE ASSIGNMENT HE HAS BEEN INSTRUCTED TO COMPOSE HIS THOUGHTS ON CRUISY 80S FOUGERE DIOR JULES**

Jules

It smells like what i imagine Ozymandias’ green house in Watchmen smells like while he is talking to you of his world vision while shrugging off and laughing at the fact that he is lying to the world and even sacrificing many of them. A greenhouse garden filled with the most exotic plants of the world...it seems more temperate forest than jungle, a delicate sourness of sheer fecundity in the air, the gravity of all these presences weighing on you is only matched by the levity in their unceasing procession, but it is not a totally free procession, it’s minty and cold and seems to deliberately reach for stars and dignity instead of reaching it haphazardly in a more whimsical fashion...there is a levity in the sense Christianity reaches for levity, but it is a false levity fueled by illusions of free will and such?

Dirty soap seems more and more apt a descriptor...but wat mean? Im getting visions of dirty saturated leathery cowboy washing his face in the morning, leaving just an abrupt perfume of soap over spicy leather body musk...a sad attempt at cleaning up what deep down is spicy...indeed this is seems a stiff cover up, I think I want to try something of a little more loose and whimsical bent....I’m also getting visions of being in Ozymandias’ greenhouse in Antarctica again. The widest expression of the wild in a tightly controlled atmosphere...just like ozymandias, the most calculated minty cool guy with a most ravenous wild ambitious broad instinct within. But despite having encapsulated all this wild, and appearing to be intimate with it, he seems out of touch with it on some level...

A concern of mine is that the scent evokes memories of encounters with older people, grandmas and grandpas. These are people, at least in my life, who pretend the most towards dignity and uprightness, a pursuit which I now see as silly and tasteless. They acknowledge the beastliness of life and consider themselves the conquerors&assimilators of it, but it is delusion, half baked attempt at full alchemic assimilation. Just today I spoke with my grandfather, one close to death, and he spoke of free will and each of us choosing to be good or bad...a view I do not hold, an energy I do not hold, an energy Jules seems to hold... I wanted man in white pants and sports jacket, bent on James dean driving...not man in white robes pretending towards dignity and wasp preppiness.

The word exquisite comes to mind. Like a library with many old and wizened books on its shelf, like a greenhouse with many plants and creatures under its roof in vital balance, but again it’s too clean and lacks a whimsicality proper to the fullness of nature. The library is tooo well organized without chance stacks of books that allow one to stumble across truths synchronistically and whimsically...

It perhaps has too much of a sense of its own nobility. It tries too hard to uphold a facade, it wants to appear whole instead of just resonating in it and being it.

A jock lends his letterman’s jacket to his lady friend, he is white knighting. This perfume smells like white knightery in these various senses....

I got sent a complimentary aquatic cologne sample along with Jules and the contrast is very interesting...Perhaps aquatics are tooo washy, wishy washy, no depth, just a naive fuckboy grin shimmering along, no deep seismic activity going on.

Aquatics give sense that there is no dark depth to be reverent of...simple fuck boy fragrance... Jules gives sense that there is depth but that it has conquered and subdued it, it has nature within its grasp, again the ozymandias greenhouse comes to mind, he has world in palm of his hand and will slay the dragon. Aquatics don’t even acknowledge there is a dragon.

I want a fragrance that doesn’t pretend to have the dragon tamed and admits to having more than a bit of it within itself. Jules seems to be too sure it has the dragon contained. (There is literally a dragon on the d’orange rossy de palma)

Is it bad that I want to smell more urine? Or am I thinking wrongly of what it is I want?

Is Angel a bit more of a shameless slut? Tinged by more bodily fluids and less soap as Jules is?

For some reason this comes to mind thinking of Jules, a deep fragrant forest and misled men thinking they have reached final strange dignity?

This is my first full length review, maybe I allowed myself to chase associations too freely, bless you for receiving my own mad fullness.

I’ve been reading about the various libre d’orange perfumes and they seem more “salty sulfuric” as you mention and more erotic

As the green sour note wears off it gives off discrete hints of pussy