4ajbukoshka
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4ajbukoshka
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Malizia MilkCake: A still life
- Disclaimer: You may suffer diabetes or acute sugar shock while viewing the work shown below. -
Nutritional information per 100g:
Calories to be burned after consumption: 1500kJ / 353 kcal
Fat: 1g
of which saturated fatty acids: 0g
Carbohydrates: 86g
of which sugar: 77g
Proteins: 0g
Do these values sound familiar to you? No? Then you have never eaten zefir (зефир)*. The foam sugar specialty is available in pink or white, pure or with cocoa-containing fat glaze.
So spray on MilkCake, close your eyes and see it in front of you, left behind the alcohol and spiritu(o)s(en)department.
And there it hangs on the wall: the still life. It is entitled "Questo sabato doma s Tshajbukoshkoj" (This Saturday at home with Tshajbukoshka).
What do you see?
Zefir, as far as the eye can see.
Zefir, zefir, zefir
and...
A bottle of dishwashing liquid concentrate with apple flavoring?!
Would you like to dare to interpret?
You have five hours. Then the curtain closes.
And what remains is the wistful thought of a past Saturday, diabetes and the belt, which you can from now on a hole further zuschnallen.
-----------
*But that's okay, I made up the values.
Nutritional information per 100g:
Calories to be burned after consumption: 1500kJ / 353 kcal
Fat: 1g
of which saturated fatty acids: 0g
Carbohydrates: 86g
of which sugar: 77g
Proteins: 0g
Do these values sound familiar to you? No? Then you have never eaten zefir (зефир)*. The foam sugar specialty is available in pink or white, pure or with cocoa-containing fat glaze.
So spray on MilkCake, close your eyes and see it in front of you, left behind the alcohol and spiritu(o)s(en)department.
And there it hangs on the wall: the still life. It is entitled "Questo sabato doma s Tshajbukoshkoj" (This Saturday at home with Tshajbukoshka).
What do you see?
Zefir, as far as the eye can see.
Zefir, zefir, zefir
and...
A bottle of dishwashing liquid concentrate with apple flavoring?!
Would you like to dare to interpret?
You have five hours. Then the curtain closes.
And what remains is the wistful thought of a past Saturday, diabetes and the belt, which you can from now on a hole further zuschnallen.
-----------
*But that's okay, I made up the values.
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The Italian James Dean of the time
"You already know that this is the men's perfume? I'll be happy to show you the women's perfumes. Do you already know the new V..."
("I just know one thing above all: that my bias towards employees of a certain perfumery chain is unfortunately justified," she would have liked to reply, or preach a sermon about how unprofessional and sales-promoting it can be to forbid non-men to buy products whose marketing has chosen men as a target group, but instead she escapes with a polite) "Yes, thank you. I would like to test what has changed in the new version here apart from the bottle."
The bottle is still pretty to look at, still reminiscent of studs from "Rockstud" bags and shoes, exclusive, stylish - and now with a lid and a rivet neck ruff reminiscent of S&M games, which it did not need. For a moment, she wonders if Valentino Garavani "the one and only" also secretly laughed at this, if he ever got to see the design at all.
Tfft tfft. One spray on the wrist, one on paper. In the event that this "Uomo" is no longer himself, she does not want to have regretted her daring.
More than Tfft tfft it needs then also not for the small time travel.
It is October 2020 and Tshajbukoshka gets a call. Whether she would like to come. Signor Il heartbreaker's best friend has exhibited all her works at home and made a small vernissage out of it, for a select circle, a maximum of five people may admire them today. Tshajbukoshka calculates: Malena and her boyfriend, as well as her best friend, then there would be Signor - and she would be the fifth person. She would not miss this opportunity! Faster she had never grabbed the most expensive bottle of Primitivo from the cupboard into the bag, from the "other", Mario, Valentino, and redone the lipstick. She hears him before she sees him and is out of her mind like a 14-year-old in 2010 before the concert of Justin Bieber. That voice, deep, grown-up, louder than a vacuum cleaner with a V8 engine and just bursting with confidence. In her mind's eye, she sees him gesticulating, throwing things around and straightening his curls every now and then with a well (enough) camouflaged head movement backwards (not for Tshajbukoshka's attentive eyes). His presence is literally felt, one could almost think that the bass of his voice makes the floor vibrate, especially when he rolls the 'R' extended. The charm of the Italian remake of James Dean is not so easy to escape, not even if you have to listen to him just strained, as he muses, of course in Italian, about the herbs on his balcony.
"Signorina, I smoked today," he confesses meekly, while looking at her with furrowed brows, making a pout and turning his cheek. She smells nothing of it. He smells the way he always looks: scrumptious, mysterious, special, forbidden good. Oh mio Dio.
"You've had a bit to drink, though, so I'll be driving today." - "Really? Be meravigliosa! I thought you were mad." (- How could I possibly be mad. I probably wouldn't even be if I woke up in the morning and you told me you just stole half my lungs and liver) She laughs. The evening is excellent, the artwork on display impressive - and yet, in a few months after this day, Tshajbukoshka will be asked only to remember him, what he looked like, what he said, what he did - the Italian tidbit who lets himself be carried into his own car, drunk as a skunk, only to protest loudly because he still has to hold the driver's door open for his signorina and apologize to his car for not driving himself. Strapped on the back seat he gives his interpretations of Andrea Bocelli, Il Volo and Random to the best with a fervor, which could conclude on ten opera singers.
At some point, it gets quiet. The singing has stopped. Tshajbukoshka opens her window and adjusts the rearview mirror to see him in it, sleeping peacefully with her stuffed animal in his arms, his curls in his forehead. ("Sweet!")
Once home, she gets him just awake enough to move, supported by her, up to the bed. In full gear. The smell of his leather jacket stays there until the next morning, although Tshajbukoshka manages with difficulty to get rid of it (and his shoes). So that's why people in horror movies never pick kidnap victims who are a head taller and more than thirty kilos heavier than themselves.
An exhausted Tshajbukoshka throws herself on the bed after a wonderful evening.
"How do you actually know it's love?"
- "When it smells like home on his temple, you don't know it, you feel it."
That Valentino, it's just him.
A phrase that fits Tshajbukoshka, Signor Il heartbreaker and Valentino alike: "I'm a year later a year older, but apart from the appearance I have not changed, at least that's how I feel - and those who know me know and confirm it gladly."
Comment from my friend: "You always smell so delicious, for you I would become a cannibal."
Another friend: "Sure you're not a lesbian? Somehow it emphasizes your masculine streak."
Her friend:" "Can I have a go? I like this one, hopefully it will suit me too."
("I just know one thing above all: that my bias towards employees of a certain perfumery chain is unfortunately justified," she would have liked to reply, or preach a sermon about how unprofessional and sales-promoting it can be to forbid non-men to buy products whose marketing has chosen men as a target group, but instead she escapes with a polite) "Yes, thank you. I would like to test what has changed in the new version here apart from the bottle."
The bottle is still pretty to look at, still reminiscent of studs from "Rockstud" bags and shoes, exclusive, stylish - and now with a lid and a rivet neck ruff reminiscent of S&M games, which it did not need. For a moment, she wonders if Valentino Garavani "the one and only" also secretly laughed at this, if he ever got to see the design at all.
Tfft tfft. One spray on the wrist, one on paper. In the event that this "Uomo" is no longer himself, she does not want to have regretted her daring.
More than Tfft tfft it needs then also not for the small time travel.
It is October 2020 and Tshajbukoshka gets a call. Whether she would like to come. Signor Il heartbreaker's best friend has exhibited all her works at home and made a small vernissage out of it, for a select circle, a maximum of five people may admire them today. Tshajbukoshka calculates: Malena and her boyfriend, as well as her best friend, then there would be Signor - and she would be the fifth person. She would not miss this opportunity! Faster she had never grabbed the most expensive bottle of Primitivo from the cupboard into the bag, from the "other", Mario, Valentino, and redone the lipstick. She hears him before she sees him and is out of her mind like a 14-year-old in 2010 before the concert of Justin Bieber. That voice, deep, grown-up, louder than a vacuum cleaner with a V8 engine and just bursting with confidence. In her mind's eye, she sees him gesticulating, throwing things around and straightening his curls every now and then with a well (enough) camouflaged head movement backwards (not for Tshajbukoshka's attentive eyes). His presence is literally felt, one could almost think that the bass of his voice makes the floor vibrate, especially when he rolls the 'R' extended. The charm of the Italian remake of James Dean is not so easy to escape, not even if you have to listen to him just strained, as he muses, of course in Italian, about the herbs on his balcony.
"Signorina, I smoked today," he confesses meekly, while looking at her with furrowed brows, making a pout and turning his cheek. She smells nothing of it. He smells the way he always looks: scrumptious, mysterious, special, forbidden good. Oh mio Dio.
"You've had a bit to drink, though, so I'll be driving today." - "Really? Be meravigliosa! I thought you were mad." (- How could I possibly be mad. I probably wouldn't even be if I woke up in the morning and you told me you just stole half my lungs and liver) She laughs. The evening is excellent, the artwork on display impressive - and yet, in a few months after this day, Tshajbukoshka will be asked only to remember him, what he looked like, what he said, what he did - the Italian tidbit who lets himself be carried into his own car, drunk as a skunk, only to protest loudly because he still has to hold the driver's door open for his signorina and apologize to his car for not driving himself. Strapped on the back seat he gives his interpretations of Andrea Bocelli, Il Volo and Random to the best with a fervor, which could conclude on ten opera singers.
At some point, it gets quiet. The singing has stopped. Tshajbukoshka opens her window and adjusts the rearview mirror to see him in it, sleeping peacefully with her stuffed animal in his arms, his curls in his forehead. ("Sweet!")
Once home, she gets him just awake enough to move, supported by her, up to the bed. In full gear. The smell of his leather jacket stays there until the next morning, although Tshajbukoshka manages with difficulty to get rid of it (and his shoes). So that's why people in horror movies never pick kidnap victims who are a head taller and more than thirty kilos heavier than themselves.
An exhausted Tshajbukoshka throws herself on the bed after a wonderful evening.
"How do you actually know it's love?"
- "When it smells like home on his temple, you don't know it, you feel it."
That Valentino, it's just him.
A phrase that fits Tshajbukoshka, Signor Il heartbreaker and Valentino alike: "I'm a year later a year older, but apart from the appearance I have not changed, at least that's how I feel - and those who know me know and confirm it gladly."
Comment from my friend: "You always smell so delicious, for you I would become a cannibal."
Another friend: "Sure you're not a lesbian? Somehow it emphasizes your masculine streak."
Her friend:" "Can I have a go? I like this one, hopefully it will suit me too."
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Laura non c'è - a missing person's report in Veneto
Laura is gone, she is no longer here
Laura is no longer a part of me!
And you, who are here asking me why I love her, when she no longer gives me anything...
(free translation from Italian by 4ajbukoshka; original: Nek - Laura non c'è. 1997)
Do you already have an earworm? No? Then please translate the lyrics back into Italian, little hint: it starts with
"Laura non c′è - è andata via
Laura non è più cosa mia!"
So while you're singing to yourselves, humming and hopefully in the right mood for Venezia, I want to tell you the story of Laura.
Once upon a time there was a Nonna who wore Venezia, not this version of Venezia here, but the vintage one from 1992.
This Nonna, called Laura in the rest of the story, didn't know in the 90s of the last millennium that we would look back on her today and call her Vintage.
Because Laura was bubbling over with energy and joie de vivre. She always had an open ear and eye - or two - for everything beautiful, a penchant for romance and drama, a small part of which, it is rumored, rubbed off on her granddaughter.
Adult and independent as she was, she nevertheless always retained throughout her life a dreamy look, a childlike countenance, and the ability to take an interest in and delight in every little thing, no matter how seemingly unimportant.
Likewise, she delighted in her favorite drink, a sweet plum liqueur (no Spriz, even though she liked that too), of which, one didn't look, she was happy to indulge in a glass even during the week.
Laura enjoyed the lightness of being and in her arms you could always feel safe - just like Venezia.
Who is looking for a replacement for Laura, the vintage Venezia in this version, will very likely be disappointed.
Laura still celebrates the lightness here, the spring in Veneto, is (er)tragbar even at temperatures beyond the 30 and 40 degrees Celsius. However, she still does not fit into the clothes of her Nonna, for that she is (still) too petite, not strong enough.
So why a missing persons report?
Well... There are two things that I personally miss here:
1.: Laura. 2nd: the peach and the plum.
On one hand the vintage Laura from Venezia, on the other the new EdT applied, this difference becomes painfully aware: the durability and charisma of the modern Laura are not nearly comparable to her Nonna, the vintage Venezia, and the peach, which wafted in the old version over the day again and again so soft and delicious, is no longer to be guessed, at least not on me. Also the plum is in the vintage version a cracker, like sweet-sugary liqueur from dried plums, whereas it is hardly at all perceptible for me here.
Nevertheless, Laura is still today, without wanting to engage in self-congratulation at this point, beautiful, timeless, elegant and special.
One does not meet a Laura or also her granddaughter Lauretta every day.
Laura non c'è - e andata via
Laura è sempre cosa mia!
Laura is no longer a part of me!
And you, who are here asking me why I love her, when she no longer gives me anything...
(free translation from Italian by 4ajbukoshka; original: Nek - Laura non c'è. 1997)
Do you already have an earworm? No? Then please translate the lyrics back into Italian, little hint: it starts with
"Laura non c′è - è andata via
Laura non è più cosa mia!"
So while you're singing to yourselves, humming and hopefully in the right mood for Venezia, I want to tell you the story of Laura.
Once upon a time there was a Nonna who wore Venezia, not this version of Venezia here, but the vintage one from 1992.
This Nonna, called Laura in the rest of the story, didn't know in the 90s of the last millennium that we would look back on her today and call her Vintage.
Because Laura was bubbling over with energy and joie de vivre. She always had an open ear and eye - or two - for everything beautiful, a penchant for romance and drama, a small part of which, it is rumored, rubbed off on her granddaughter.
Adult and independent as she was, she nevertheless always retained throughout her life a dreamy look, a childlike countenance, and the ability to take an interest in and delight in every little thing, no matter how seemingly unimportant.
Likewise, she delighted in her favorite drink, a sweet plum liqueur (no Spriz, even though she liked that too), of which, one didn't look, she was happy to indulge in a glass even during the week.
Laura enjoyed the lightness of being and in her arms you could always feel safe - just like Venezia.
Who is looking for a replacement for Laura, the vintage Venezia in this version, will very likely be disappointed.
Laura still celebrates the lightness here, the spring in Veneto, is (er)tragbar even at temperatures beyond the 30 and 40 degrees Celsius. However, she still does not fit into the clothes of her Nonna, for that she is (still) too petite, not strong enough.
So why a missing persons report?
Well... There are two things that I personally miss here:
1.: Laura. 2nd: the peach and the plum.
On one hand the vintage Laura from Venezia, on the other the new EdT applied, this difference becomes painfully aware: the durability and charisma of the modern Laura are not nearly comparable to her Nonna, the vintage Venezia, and the peach, which wafted in the old version over the day again and again so soft and delicious, is no longer to be guessed, at least not on me. Also the plum is in the vintage version a cracker, like sweet-sugary liqueur from dried plums, whereas it is hardly at all perceptible for me here.
Nevertheless, Laura is still today, without wanting to engage in self-congratulation at this point, beautiful, timeless, elegant and special.
One does not meet a Laura or also her granddaughter Lauretta every day.
Laura non c'è - e andata via
Laura è sempre cosa mia!
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Translated
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Ayyayaya coco jambo ayyayai!
Put me up, put me down
Put my cocktail on the ground
Put some hazelnut in it
That makes me happy!
Put me up, put me there
Raffaelos everywhere
Put me up, put me down
And make me happy!
Put me up, put me there
Dolce, Dolce everywhere
Like that Italian boy
Who makes my heart go
Ayyayaya Coco Jambo ayyayai!...
To answer the question in advance, YES, ona soshla s uma (she went crazy). But a long, long time ago.
And so Tshajbukoshka hops tipsy-spirited through the summer, through the city, music in her ears and Dolce Garden on her fingers (after all, she listened to Signor Polecat Cravacho for once and tried his thimble method in what is now the third test today).
Dolce Garden starts off slightly alcoholic and fruity, the tangerine falls rudely against Tshajbukoshka's nose and rolls off nicely as soon as it does.
"When are they finally coming, the liquid calories that don't end up on my hips?!" muses Signorina impatiently to herself as a whiff of cocoa surrounds her (even though it's not listed, it's been sitting on the table for half an hour easily). One by one, the Raffaelos plop into the cocoa. Here and there, a whiff of florals blows around Signorina Verfressovna Tshajbukoshka. Which? Robots with mustard, is her egaaaaal.
She's in einklyang-ylang with herself.
And if she hasn't died, she continues to gobble up Raffaelos while dancing and sipping her hazelnut cream coconut cocktail.
"Perché la vita è bella perché la vita è rara!" (Tiziano Ferr[er]o: Balla per me)
Put my cocktail on the ground
Put some hazelnut in it
That makes me happy!
Put me up, put me there
Raffaelos everywhere
Put me up, put me down
And make me happy!
Put me up, put me there
Dolce, Dolce everywhere
Like that Italian boy
Who makes my heart go
Ayyayaya Coco Jambo ayyayai!...
To answer the question in advance, YES, ona soshla s uma (she went crazy). But a long, long time ago.
And so Tshajbukoshka hops tipsy-spirited through the summer, through the city, music in her ears and Dolce Garden on her fingers (after all, she listened to Signor Polecat Cravacho for once and tried his thimble method in what is now the third test today).
Dolce Garden starts off slightly alcoholic and fruity, the tangerine falls rudely against Tshajbukoshka's nose and rolls off nicely as soon as it does.
"When are they finally coming, the liquid calories that don't end up on my hips?!" muses Signorina impatiently to herself as a whiff of cocoa surrounds her (even though it's not listed, it's been sitting on the table for half an hour easily). One by one, the Raffaelos plop into the cocoa. Here and there, a whiff of florals blows around Signorina Verfressovna Tshajbukoshka. Which? Robots with mustard, is her egaaaaal.
She's in einklyang-ylang with herself.
And if she hasn't died, she continues to gobble up Raffaelos while dancing and sipping her hazelnut cream coconut cocktail.
"Perché la vita è bella perché la vita è rara!" (Tiziano Ferr[er]o: Balla per me)
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Translated
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Ja tebja ljublju - Ode to the long-necked woman
Without wanting to start at this point again a lecture about inner values:
I have always given "J'adore" a wide berth. The golden rings around the neck of the bottle have reminded me in itself too much of the so-called "long-neck" or also "giraffe neck women".
Therefore, I found the bottle repulsive, he somehow celebrated an exotic, but at the same time absolutely unhealthy ideal of beauty, which even today has the consequence that women of the affected tribe (originally from Myanmar, but now very often based in Thailand) are treated like exhibits in a zoo.
Well. rehabilitated by no less an alien than E.T. I found the bottle then funny sweet - like an E.T. suffering from flatulence because of his excessive Smarties consumption - so still not my Beuteschema.
And today? Today I think of the sinfully expensive drink in the bottle with the gold neck, which a certain Signor Il heartbreaker and Tshajbukoshka opened, so that the latter then dumps away about three quarters of the contents the next day, because she does not know what she should cook with champagne and does not drink alone.
Is that what decadence smells like? Is there gold in the bottle?
Nope, no, ma noooo!
That's the smell of a flower - or hundreds of flowers. Soap made from flowers, soap in the shape of flowers as a gift. Tshajbukoshka knows a few businesswomen who earn extra money on the side with this sweet idea of household art. And this Dior would suit them too. It's kept relatively simple, but not boring, and shines with understatement. That's what makes it so fascinating.
Applied after showering, it potentiates the feeling of cleanliness and grooming with itself. If I am greeted for the hint of a moment of freshness that makes me think of citrus, jasmine shajbukoshka and her friend ylang-ylang show who is in charge as they go on. They are friendly determiners, not choleric bosses.
"Ja tebja ljublju (I love you)
Ja zhit' bez tebja ne mogu (I can't live without you)
Oui, oui moi je t'aime
Сhaque fois que tu te réveilles
Yes, yes, I love you
It's so easy to say and to do
I, I love you
Because only you make me [glow]!"
This ode sounds a bit funny, almost smug, coming from the mouth of one Adriano Celentano - and I had to listen to the song twice to realize that the grandmaster has taken hold of the Russian language here and what he was saying.
With "J'adore" one rather beams so inwardly.
So to the title "J'adore" I would like to say, Non lo so. I don't know.
"J'adore" is really beautiful, classic, elegant, timeless and ageless, but I wouldn't dedicate a serious ode in the style of Il Volo's "Grande Amore" to it.
For such "J'adore "s, here on Parfumo they invented the "ever-walker" (or the ever-walker), that's for sure.
Here we have an absolutely unexotic beauty, which one can admire in contrast to the long-necked women gladly of the öfteren.
I have always given "J'adore" a wide berth. The golden rings around the neck of the bottle have reminded me in itself too much of the so-called "long-neck" or also "giraffe neck women".
Therefore, I found the bottle repulsive, he somehow celebrated an exotic, but at the same time absolutely unhealthy ideal of beauty, which even today has the consequence that women of the affected tribe (originally from Myanmar, but now very often based in Thailand) are treated like exhibits in a zoo.
Well. rehabilitated by no less an alien than E.T. I found the bottle then funny sweet - like an E.T. suffering from flatulence because of his excessive Smarties consumption - so still not my Beuteschema.
And today? Today I think of the sinfully expensive drink in the bottle with the gold neck, which a certain Signor Il heartbreaker and Tshajbukoshka opened, so that the latter then dumps away about three quarters of the contents the next day, because she does not know what she should cook with champagne and does not drink alone.
Is that what decadence smells like? Is there gold in the bottle?
Nope, no, ma noooo!
That's the smell of a flower - or hundreds of flowers. Soap made from flowers, soap in the shape of flowers as a gift. Tshajbukoshka knows a few businesswomen who earn extra money on the side with this sweet idea of household art. And this Dior would suit them too. It's kept relatively simple, but not boring, and shines with understatement. That's what makes it so fascinating.
Applied after showering, it potentiates the feeling of cleanliness and grooming with itself. If I am greeted for the hint of a moment of freshness that makes me think of citrus, jasmine shajbukoshka and her friend ylang-ylang show who is in charge as they go on. They are friendly determiners, not choleric bosses.
"Ja tebja ljublju (I love you)
Ja zhit' bez tebja ne mogu (I can't live without you)
Oui, oui moi je t'aime
Сhaque fois que tu te réveilles
Yes, yes, I love you
It's so easy to say and to do
I, I love you
Because only you make me [glow]!"
This ode sounds a bit funny, almost smug, coming from the mouth of one Adriano Celentano - and I had to listen to the song twice to realize that the grandmaster has taken hold of the Russian language here and what he was saying.
With "J'adore" one rather beams so inwardly.
So to the title "J'adore" I would like to say, Non lo so. I don't know.
"J'adore" is really beautiful, classic, elegant, timeless and ageless, but I wouldn't dedicate a serious ode in the style of Il Volo's "Grande Amore" to it.
For such "J'adore "s, here on Parfumo they invented the "ever-walker" (or the ever-walker), that's for sure.
Here we have an absolutely unexotic beauty, which one can admire in contrast to the long-necked women gladly of the öfteren.
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