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-).
Wednesday, February 27, 2019
Wednesday, February 20, 2019
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.
Friday, February 15, 2019
Yatagan Age Mindset
Rupert Birkin and OrtantAper discuss Bronze Age Mindset by Bronze Age Pervert and Caron Yatagan.
Thursday, February 14, 2019
Tuesday, February 5, 2019
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.
Sunday, January 6, 2019
Perfume Nationalist Guest Post: 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
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
Wednesday, October 31, 2018
Movies for Reactionaries
Safe (Todd Haynes, 1995)
A vapid Californian housewife willfully develops crippling allergies to have some sense of identity. She joins a cultish New Age commune where the primary villain is a gay man with AIDS ("His perspective is incredibly vast"). Foreshadows the totalitarian California liberal identity of today based on made-up trend allergies and various self-help replacements for true religion.
Disclosure (Barry Levinson, 1994)
An erotic thriller focused on the dangers of women in the workplace and the feminist-driven sexual harassment legislation mania of the 1980s and 90s, Disclosure has Demi Moore as a corporate femme fatale who games the system and "rapes" Michael Douglas, whom no one believes because he is a man. It concludes with a climactic virtual reality showdown that feels like an apt visual representation of the bureaucratic claustrophobia of #MeToo.
Storytelling (Todd Solondz, 2001)
Storytelling is a blistering 80 minutes of contempt that uncannily predicts the future we're living in. A pink-haired college art thot lies about rape to soothe her conscience after pursuing her black professor for leftist bragging rights. An upper-middle-class Jewish family lives in a continual state of inherited Holocaust victimhood while obliviously exploiting their maid, whose son is on death row for rape ("When you love someone and they don't love you back and you do something about it.") This would be called alt-right if it came out now, none of these actors would do it, and it would never be released by a major studio. Solondz's abject contempt for victims is what makes his best work truly transgressive.
Citizen Ruth (Alexander Payne, 1996)
Payne was a brilliant satirist for his first two films before lapsing into Oscar-friendly solipsism. Though Citizen Ruth is finally a pro-abortion movie, even the attempt at even-handed mockery regarding this issue makes CR feel like it is from a completely different Hollywood than the one that now churns out nothing but radicalized anti-white propaganda. This was the time of South Park centrism, where one had the luxury of pretending to consider both sides of the political system equally crazy. Quaint.
American Psycho (Mary Harron, 2000)
I can't think of another movie that has aged as well as American Psycho. In 2000, fans of the book were disappointed that they were given a comedy instead of extreme violence, but this is why it seems so modern. It took balls to give a performance as OTT comedic as Bale gave here, and talent to maintain absolute control in every frame. The Who's Who supporting cast (who would not touch this material in 2018) is uniformly excellent. AP is also a cinematic unicorn--a movie adeptly directed by a woman which does not have an obvious feminist overlay applied to the source material. Reductive critiques of AP go, "These people are rich and materialistic, lol they are bad," but the unapologetic white male milieu depicted in this film seems imminently desirable now and contributes to the film's popularity among young right-wing men. The 80s seen here are a paradise of masculine beauty, rich scents, and white marble modernist interiors. Were it made now there would be obligatory scolding all-knowing women and POCs signaling virtue and polluting the satire.
A vapid Californian housewife willfully develops crippling allergies to have some sense of identity. She joins a cultish New Age commune where the primary villain is a gay man with AIDS ("His perspective is incredibly vast"). Foreshadows the totalitarian California liberal identity of today based on made-up trend allergies and various self-help replacements for true religion.
Disclosure (Barry Levinson, 1994)
An erotic thriller focused on the dangers of women in the workplace and the feminist-driven sexual harassment legislation mania of the 1980s and 90s, Disclosure has Demi Moore as a corporate femme fatale who games the system and "rapes" Michael Douglas, whom no one believes because he is a man. It concludes with a climactic virtual reality showdown that feels like an apt visual representation of the bureaucratic claustrophobia of #MeToo.
Storytelling (Todd Solondz, 2001)
Storytelling is a blistering 80 minutes of contempt that uncannily predicts the future we're living in. A pink-haired college art thot lies about rape to soothe her conscience after pursuing her black professor for leftist bragging rights. An upper-middle-class Jewish family lives in a continual state of inherited Holocaust victimhood while obliviously exploiting their maid, whose son is on death row for rape ("When you love someone and they don't love you back and you do something about it.") This would be called alt-right if it came out now, none of these actors would do it, and it would never be released by a major studio. Solondz's abject contempt for victims is what makes his best work truly transgressive.
Citizen Ruth (Alexander Payne, 1996)
Payne was a brilliant satirist for his first two films before lapsing into Oscar-friendly solipsism. Though Citizen Ruth is finally a pro-abortion movie, even the attempt at even-handed mockery regarding this issue makes CR feel like it is from a completely different Hollywood than the one that now churns out nothing but radicalized anti-white propaganda. This was the time of South Park centrism, where one had the luxury of pretending to consider both sides of the political system equally crazy. Quaint.
American Psycho (Mary Harron, 2000)
I can't think of another movie that has aged as well as American Psycho. In 2000, fans of the book were disappointed that they were given a comedy instead of extreme violence, but this is why it seems so modern. It took balls to give a performance as OTT comedic as Bale gave here, and talent to maintain absolute control in every frame. The Who's Who supporting cast (who would not touch this material in 2018) is uniformly excellent. AP is also a cinematic unicorn--a movie adeptly directed by a woman which does not have an obvious feminist overlay applied to the source material. Reductive critiques of AP go, "These people are rich and materialistic, lol they are bad," but the unapologetic white male milieu depicted in this film seems imminently desirable now and contributes to the film's popularity among young right-wing men. The 80s seen here are a paradise of masculine beauty, rich scents, and white marble modernist interiors. Were it made now there would be obligatory scolding all-knowing women and POCs signaling virtue and polluting the satire.
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