Axiomatic
Reviews
Filter & sort
Axiomatic
Translated
Show original
Silent desire
In the midst of the 1980s, a strangely bright rose grew, seeking protection in warm leather in front of light-flooded basil as the leader of envious white bloomers, heralds of elegant coldness.
A drop of her melancholy blood only wanted to give life a little longer, whereas the relentless ferryman on the Styx took her master of the timeless cut with him.
And what began full of recklessness and creative confidence left a painful legend as a scent.
The short life of Perry Ellis granted him eight years of fashion success and fame.
No one else created this timeless look between 1978 and 1986, casual, wearable, minimalistically different.
His knitwear in particular caused a sensation.
And who else could stage his fashion better than Perry himself?
High-quality but all the more modest shirts, sleeves rolled up, perfectly fitting pants in the middle of that marshland not far from New York.
Fire Island's and GQ's darling always with that warmhearted smile.
The all American boy.
Today, that same magazine, GQ, suggests wearing its early 1980s fashion again.
in 1985, an unnamed nose created great things for Perry, his well-deserved signature scent until his passing.
I knew the fragrance from the beginning, but didn't afford the elegant pour bottle until a few years later because it was actually adorning someone else and I didn't want to compete with its aura.
All that remained of our growing friendship was this fragrance and melancholy songs from Book of Love (I Touch Roses) and 'Till Tuesday (Voices Carry).
Hiss!
Aldehydes, green galbanum and basil, citrus fruits, above all a gentle orange.
Everything so inviting, embracing and highly complexly interwoven.
Not fresh as usual, but cozy.
Then the pungency of a bell pepper from the southern sun.
The prelude of precious passion.
A whiff of greenish incense on mint whispers from the asphodelos meadows here.
Their white bloomers spread fresh floral musk sheets.
The invitation to caress with lavender honey, that ambrosia of the happy few.
But the spring-like rose shies away from that bright meadow, it will lie down on leather at the shady edge of the sandal bushes, the ground so mossy soft.
In this way, it can somewhat escape the severe coolness of its adversaries, vain jasmine gardens.
Resinous eyes see the order of the painting interspersed with contrasting plays of light.
And with the right incidence of light, the brown pupils reveal a universe of pleasant amber, like iridescent tiger's eye. Civet of the fresh midday.
The skin, still pale in winter, experiences a spring awakening and loses itself in a swirl of coumarin.
Hay-like, rosy, dry.
Soft leather wards off too harsh a cold, but allows patchouli and labdanum to float playfully with the monarch butterflies and foxtail butterflies.
And those winged shifters waft around the forgotten and taste the rose nectar.
The heart of an amiable outsider.
This idiosyncratic composition was a romantic invitation in the midst of too striking a style of the time.
It was precisely this changeable rose that was to become the core of the fragrance.
What is it now, where does it tend to go?
Aromatic green in the chypre style?
Masculine leathery?
Discreetly passionate?
For me, the latter.
A drop of her melancholy blood only wanted to give life a little longer, whereas the relentless ferryman on the Styx took her master of the timeless cut with him.
And what began full of recklessness and creative confidence left a painful legend as a scent.
The short life of Perry Ellis granted him eight years of fashion success and fame.
No one else created this timeless look between 1978 and 1986, casual, wearable, minimalistically different.
His knitwear in particular caused a sensation.
And who else could stage his fashion better than Perry himself?
High-quality but all the more modest shirts, sleeves rolled up, perfectly fitting pants in the middle of that marshland not far from New York.
Fire Island's and GQ's darling always with that warmhearted smile.
The all American boy.
Today, that same magazine, GQ, suggests wearing its early 1980s fashion again.
in 1985, an unnamed nose created great things for Perry, his well-deserved signature scent until his passing.
I knew the fragrance from the beginning, but didn't afford the elegant pour bottle until a few years later because it was actually adorning someone else and I didn't want to compete with its aura.
All that remained of our growing friendship was this fragrance and melancholy songs from Book of Love (I Touch Roses) and 'Till Tuesday (Voices Carry).
Hiss!
Aldehydes, green galbanum and basil, citrus fruits, above all a gentle orange.
Everything so inviting, embracing and highly complexly interwoven.
Not fresh as usual, but cozy.
Then the pungency of a bell pepper from the southern sun.
The prelude of precious passion.
A whiff of greenish incense on mint whispers from the asphodelos meadows here.
Their white bloomers spread fresh floral musk sheets.
The invitation to caress with lavender honey, that ambrosia of the happy few.
But the spring-like rose shies away from that bright meadow, it will lie down on leather at the shady edge of the sandal bushes, the ground so mossy soft.
In this way, it can somewhat escape the severe coolness of its adversaries, vain jasmine gardens.
Resinous eyes see the order of the painting interspersed with contrasting plays of light.
And with the right incidence of light, the brown pupils reveal a universe of pleasant amber, like iridescent tiger's eye. Civet of the fresh midday.
The skin, still pale in winter, experiences a spring awakening and loses itself in a swirl of coumarin.
Hay-like, rosy, dry.
Soft leather wards off too harsh a cold, but allows patchouli and labdanum to float playfully with the monarch butterflies and foxtail butterflies.
And those winged shifters waft around the forgotten and taste the rose nectar.
The heart of an amiable outsider.
This idiosyncratic composition was a romantic invitation in the midst of too striking a style of the time.
It was precisely this changeable rose that was to become the core of the fragrance.
What is it now, where does it tend to go?
Aromatic green in the chypre style?
Masculine leathery?
Discreetly passionate?
For me, the latter.
57 Comments
Translated
Show original
When the moon dries up over New York
How much accompanying fragrances once shaped a stage of life, giving it a frame in the album of memories.
Sometimes the image of the bottle alone is enough to conjure up those fragrant days again.
This makes the encounter with the altered version of the fragrance all the sadder.
The protective glass is broken by the unsuitable picture frame, the crack announces the unstoppable dimension of time in space.
You can see the photo from back then, the experience cannot be changed afterwards, but the smell no longer fits.
All that remains is a stored chord in the brain, which fortunately can no longer be reformulated.
This accord was dark green, conifers concealed a leather-covered, noble rose. And oakmoss enveloped a woody chypre.
Deep and rounded, those emeralds captured the massive green of the forested Rocky Mountains.
Everything fell into place, no discordant solos broke with the whole, a harmony from beginning to end.
The fragrance was simply called "Polo" for years. Its incomparable aura was to bring it a success that was reserved for only a few creations.
Today, a name suffix is needed, Green, to locate it in the brand's repertoire.
Rough, smoky, unrounded, the follow-up is offered.
Something the fragrance never was.
And a ghostly whiff of the past can be heard by experienced noses as an echo of the past.
But it remains only a faint and disguised frequency.
The overdrive testifies more to a chore than to a passionate dedication to adapting this epochal composition to current requirements.
Fortunately, other brands have succeeded in doing this with their draught horses.
Here, the foundations of the house have been unbalanced.
Acidic and urinous jasmine spoils the too smoky vetiver and puts it in brine.
Dusty juniper berry takes your breath away, the overly dry tobacco does the rest.
Crunchy woods are processed into chipboard.
Forgotten by the rain, the oak moss remains brittle and hard.
Recently, an ethereal camphor with a hint of eucalyptus has been wafting around the fragrance, which did not exist before.
And the woody melody of yesteryear sounds very distant, the rose too pale, the conifers uprooted. As if one were telegraphically reporting the predicament to headquarters with Morse code.
That will not detract from my memory.
The scent accompanied me on the threshold of puberty and afterwards like a coach to look up to.
These woody landscapes were worn by boys and men in my environment. We were able to agree on a common fragrance base.
Carlos Benaim created amazing things, because there are very few fragrances that can be worn casually across generations.
Carlos understood the direction of the then young brand very well when he was commissioned to create the right fragrance.
At the end of the 1970s, the fashion segment was dominated by Pierre Cardin and Lacoste with their distinctive logos.
Ralph Lauren achieved the unthinkable with his polo player. A small symbol with a big impact.
If he had done without it, his polo and rugby shirts would have been of high quality but indistinguishable from the competition.
And his range cleverly attracted several generations as target groups.
This fashion, a mixture of uptown Manhattan and country club in Kingwood Houston, was to bring about a paradigm shift in the USA: You are who, so show it!
Well, all we can say about the roaring sales in the early years is that every shopping mall and every high street was judged back then by whether a polo player had strayed there.
The unmistakable character of the fragrance was also fitting.
Deep, rich in shades of green, elegantly leathery with this magnificent rose, everything balanced. Was it the chamomile that connected everything?
In any case, the fragrance wanted to please, not offend.
If I were to choose a musical genre, it would be soft rock of the time.
Christopher Cross with his easily digestible loads.
Oh please, that little movie Arthur was the top!
Or more visually fitting...
Robbie Dupree with his hit "Steal Away".
Nice. sweet, cuddly.
Okay, I admit to exaggerating a little here, but with the best will in the world I can't attest to the social nonconformity of the old version of the fragrance.
Challenging accords, unusual notes, brute masculinity - he didn't know any of that.
It was the perfect companion if you were caught between the moon and New York City.
Or anywhere else.
And today, yes today, it has dried up.
Sometimes the image of the bottle alone is enough to conjure up those fragrant days again.
This makes the encounter with the altered version of the fragrance all the sadder.
The protective glass is broken by the unsuitable picture frame, the crack announces the unstoppable dimension of time in space.
You can see the photo from back then, the experience cannot be changed afterwards, but the smell no longer fits.
All that remains is a stored chord in the brain, which fortunately can no longer be reformulated.
This accord was dark green, conifers concealed a leather-covered, noble rose. And oakmoss enveloped a woody chypre.
Deep and rounded, those emeralds captured the massive green of the forested Rocky Mountains.
Everything fell into place, no discordant solos broke with the whole, a harmony from beginning to end.
The fragrance was simply called "Polo" for years. Its incomparable aura was to bring it a success that was reserved for only a few creations.
Today, a name suffix is needed, Green, to locate it in the brand's repertoire.
Rough, smoky, unrounded, the follow-up is offered.
Something the fragrance never was.
And a ghostly whiff of the past can be heard by experienced noses as an echo of the past.
But it remains only a faint and disguised frequency.
The overdrive testifies more to a chore than to a passionate dedication to adapting this epochal composition to current requirements.
Fortunately, other brands have succeeded in doing this with their draught horses.
Here, the foundations of the house have been unbalanced.
Acidic and urinous jasmine spoils the too smoky vetiver and puts it in brine.
Dusty juniper berry takes your breath away, the overly dry tobacco does the rest.
Crunchy woods are processed into chipboard.
Forgotten by the rain, the oak moss remains brittle and hard.
Recently, an ethereal camphor with a hint of eucalyptus has been wafting around the fragrance, which did not exist before.
And the woody melody of yesteryear sounds very distant, the rose too pale, the conifers uprooted. As if one were telegraphically reporting the predicament to headquarters with Morse code.
That will not detract from my memory.
The scent accompanied me on the threshold of puberty and afterwards like a coach to look up to.
These woody landscapes were worn by boys and men in my environment. We were able to agree on a common fragrance base.
Carlos Benaim created amazing things, because there are very few fragrances that can be worn casually across generations.
Carlos understood the direction of the then young brand very well when he was commissioned to create the right fragrance.
At the end of the 1970s, the fashion segment was dominated by Pierre Cardin and Lacoste with their distinctive logos.
Ralph Lauren achieved the unthinkable with his polo player. A small symbol with a big impact.
If he had done without it, his polo and rugby shirts would have been of high quality but indistinguishable from the competition.
And his range cleverly attracted several generations as target groups.
This fashion, a mixture of uptown Manhattan and country club in Kingwood Houston, was to bring about a paradigm shift in the USA: You are who, so show it!
Well, all we can say about the roaring sales in the early years is that every shopping mall and every high street was judged back then by whether a polo player had strayed there.
The unmistakable character of the fragrance was also fitting.
Deep, rich in shades of green, elegantly leathery with this magnificent rose, everything balanced. Was it the chamomile that connected everything?
In any case, the fragrance wanted to please, not offend.
If I were to choose a musical genre, it would be soft rock of the time.
Christopher Cross with his easily digestible loads.
Oh please, that little movie Arthur was the top!
Or more visually fitting...
Robbie Dupree with his hit "Steal Away".
Nice. sweet, cuddly.
Okay, I admit to exaggerating a little here, but with the best will in the world I can't attest to the social nonconformity of the old version of the fragrance.
Challenging accords, unusual notes, brute masculinity - he didn't know any of that.
It was the perfect companion if you were caught between the moon and New York City.
Or anywhere else.
And today, yes today, it has dried up.
42 Comments
Translated
Show original
Primal Soup Joe
Apsu, the Mesopotamian interpretation of groundwater. According to this, a freshwater ocean is the origin of this world. In it, the separation between air and earth takes place.
According to this idea, our earthly home floats above this water and is protectively separated from the wet source by an air bubble.
Of course, a suitably funny deity with the same name should not be missing, who, together with the salt water goddess, Tiamat, sets about colonizing the world.
Oh wonder, her children strive for power, practice patricide and are punished by mom by letting even worse creatures see the light of day.
The Sumerians probably didn't yet know proper family planning.
So, that settles the name of the fragrance.
Let's see how this saga creeps into the course of the fragrance.
Sizzle!
Goodness gracious, the lawnmower is warming up!
Green-colored chlorophyll plows its way up my nose.
Freshly mowed lawn as far as the eye can see.
Disturbing shrubs have been sacrificed for the sake of shaved aesthetics, so please don't expect any hesperides.
It then becomes deliciously aromatic. Coriander greens in abundance!
Someone should copy this!
Extremely close to the natural recipe and slightly salty.
Oh, what I would give for crispy nachos and one of those heavenly dips from Mexico. Green tomatoes, jalapeños and lots of coriander greens. The perfect green sauce on the other side of the Atlantic would be ready.
So, at this point in the fragrance progression in particular, it's wonderful to endure.
Just spread out a nice blanket on the freshly mown lawn, unpack your Mexican picnic basket and let the green be green.
But suddenly something Cascalone blows over from the pond...
... and the picnic blanket shifts as if of its own accord to the eerie shore full of ominous water lilies.
The smell becomes increasingly watery, increasingly musty...
The water becomes cloudy...
Air bubbles do not bode well...
UUUUUUAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!
The thing from the swamp rises thunderously from the murky broth!
And I can only watch, paralyzed, as it licks its sharp, fishy teeth with its slippery tongue.
On its head a crown of the deadest jasmine that ever existed.
It has paws like a whole toiling troop of miners.
And it smells stomach-churning.
The carrion is its signature.
There he is, the avenger of the saga's patricides!
But one evil rarely comes alone.
Also in the party is the villain's great-grandmother, preserved in algae.
Although she is no longer quite so aggressive due to advanced bone loss, she always has her poison cabinet with her in a rotten but stylish cellar bag.
Well, her twinset is debatable, but she has a solid basic taste. Everything in faux wood tones.
Her hairstyle dates back to the glory days of Jackie Kennedy.
She resolutely opens the bag, takes out a brass censer and begins to numb my senses with incense.
With a flawless cloth handkerchief soaked in white musk, she blows the smoke up my nose.
A strange, smoky freshness illuminates the scene in an unearthly way.
And I become paralyzed.
But my martyrdom has just begun.
Because Primeval Soup Joe is slowly but inexorably approaching. His stench and the magical smoke are turning greener than a spinach smoothie.
Meanwhile, the cheeky great-grandmother has opened her powder jar and is sprinkling iris dust around my nose.
Great-grandma: Gell, my darling, you're a good little boy.
That little bit of iris is fine.
And then she starts to sing...
Great-grandma: When monsters kiss Axios, then they must must must
they have to be very, very gentle
They are heavy and it hurts, they step on his toe
And the monster's lips get closer and closer!
Usuppen-Joe: Kiss!
I would like to take this opportunity to thank the clock industry, especially the alarm clock guild, for always being quicker than the police to help in the worst emergency situations.
I have them to thank for waking me up from a bad nightmare.
A big thank you, of course, goes to the fragrance's short shelf life. Just long enough to make you realize that you should avoid the brackish pond in the forest in the future.
And, of course, a special thanks goes to the coriander green note. The Mexican sauce will soon be on the couch table next to the bowl of nachos.
Because after the scent experience, I'm treating myself to a binge evening of every imaginable movie adaptation of Swamp Thing to cope with the shock.
According to this idea, our earthly home floats above this water and is protectively separated from the wet source by an air bubble.
Of course, a suitably funny deity with the same name should not be missing, who, together with the salt water goddess, Tiamat, sets about colonizing the world.
Oh wonder, her children strive for power, practice patricide and are punished by mom by letting even worse creatures see the light of day.
The Sumerians probably didn't yet know proper family planning.
So, that settles the name of the fragrance.
Let's see how this saga creeps into the course of the fragrance.
Sizzle!
Goodness gracious, the lawnmower is warming up!
Green-colored chlorophyll plows its way up my nose.
Freshly mowed lawn as far as the eye can see.
Disturbing shrubs have been sacrificed for the sake of shaved aesthetics, so please don't expect any hesperides.
It then becomes deliciously aromatic. Coriander greens in abundance!
Someone should copy this!
Extremely close to the natural recipe and slightly salty.
Oh, what I would give for crispy nachos and one of those heavenly dips from Mexico. Green tomatoes, jalapeños and lots of coriander greens. The perfect green sauce on the other side of the Atlantic would be ready.
So, at this point in the fragrance progression in particular, it's wonderful to endure.
Just spread out a nice blanket on the freshly mown lawn, unpack your Mexican picnic basket and let the green be green.
But suddenly something Cascalone blows over from the pond...
... and the picnic blanket shifts as if of its own accord to the eerie shore full of ominous water lilies.
The smell becomes increasingly watery, increasingly musty...
The water becomes cloudy...
Air bubbles do not bode well...
UUUUUUAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!
The thing from the swamp rises thunderously from the murky broth!
And I can only watch, paralyzed, as it licks its sharp, fishy teeth with its slippery tongue.
On its head a crown of the deadest jasmine that ever existed.
It has paws like a whole toiling troop of miners.
And it smells stomach-churning.
The carrion is its signature.
There he is, the avenger of the saga's patricides!
But one evil rarely comes alone.
Also in the party is the villain's great-grandmother, preserved in algae.
Although she is no longer quite so aggressive due to advanced bone loss, she always has her poison cabinet with her in a rotten but stylish cellar bag.
Well, her twinset is debatable, but she has a solid basic taste. Everything in faux wood tones.
Her hairstyle dates back to the glory days of Jackie Kennedy.
She resolutely opens the bag, takes out a brass censer and begins to numb my senses with incense.
With a flawless cloth handkerchief soaked in white musk, she blows the smoke up my nose.
A strange, smoky freshness illuminates the scene in an unearthly way.
And I become paralyzed.
But my martyrdom has just begun.
Because Primeval Soup Joe is slowly but inexorably approaching. His stench and the magical smoke are turning greener than a spinach smoothie.
Meanwhile, the cheeky great-grandmother has opened her powder jar and is sprinkling iris dust around my nose.
Great-grandma: Gell, my darling, you're a good little boy.
That little bit of iris is fine.
And then she starts to sing...
Great-grandma: When monsters kiss Axios, then they must must must
they have to be very, very gentle
They are heavy and it hurts, they step on his toe
And the monster's lips get closer and closer!
Usuppen-Joe: Kiss!
I would like to take this opportunity to thank the clock industry, especially the alarm clock guild, for always being quicker than the police to help in the worst emergency situations.
I have them to thank for waking me up from a bad nightmare.
A big thank you, of course, goes to the fragrance's short shelf life. Just long enough to make you realize that you should avoid the brackish pond in the forest in the future.
And, of course, a special thanks goes to the coriander green note. The Mexican sauce will soon be on the couch table next to the bowl of nachos.
Because after the scent experience, I'm treating myself to a binge evening of every imaginable movie adaptation of Swamp Thing to cope with the shock.
34 Comments
Translated
Show original
Neozoon in the disco
A neozoon is defined as an animal species that has been introduced or introduced into an area where it did not occur.
A zoonosis, on the other hand, is an infectious disease that is transmitted from animals to humans or vice versa.
In this sense, hyrax offers an interesting study in the field of behavioral research following a zoonosis of a neozoon.
Let's assume that a cute little animal called a hippopotamus from Africa has found its way into the living room of a young city dweller in Central Europe.
Funny little eyes, a snub nose to cuddle!
That's the end of the frivolous handling of the cuddly monster and the subsequent regrettable consequences.
Hiss!
Good, the animal probably needs fresh litter, pissed up it stares at its master.
Anyone who can make elemi resin stumble with jasmine has mastered his trade.
And dear Sven Pritzkoleit is no stranger to me. His "Sea Salt Tar | Parfums Sven Pritzkoleit" opened up a whole new perspective on the marine world for me.
Just as an aside.
Let's move on.
While cleaning the cage, the master smells a very common rose of saffron.
"Oh please, not oud as an excretion now!" he thinks to himself.
Fortunately, this demanding wood is dispensed with here, after all, the hippopotamus eats more calories.
After mucking out, master treats himself to a narcotic whiskey, because our cute furry dwarf has just filled the whole apartment with rutting hyraceum
And not just a little.
For the uninitiated: take 24 construction workers after their shift, squeeze the strangely spicy juice out of their glands and concentrate it using distillation.
The buzz is ready!
While his master reminisces about the good old days - he hasn't gotten any older without dancing, after all - and the booze starts to take effect, the lamb sneaks out of the cage.
And then it happens!
Master catches the runaway next to the no less narcotic indoor hyacinth.
For the uninformed: Grandmothers swore by this winter-busting bulb with its peculiar flower and widowmaker scent. The distinctive glass vases were a feast for the eyes, looking like the chalices of a pentagram community.
My master was just about to grab the freaked-out companion by the collar...
Zack!
Bite wound!
So as not to bore our readers, let's fast-forward in time.
A virus spreads rapidly through the nice host's body and causes some chills, fever and nausea.
Said host runs to the bathroom to vomit, smashing an ancient "Joop! Homme (Eau de Toilette) | Joop!" Emergency ration, which smells tipped.
Drenched in a violet concoction, fuzzy fur all over his body and ripe as a daisy, he puts on the obligatory capital city tracksuit, the one with the funny stripes.
For language fetishists: When typing wuschelig, I initially wrote wuschig. Great amazement at what a missing "el" can change in understanding. Please look it up yourself.
So, master in the trainer, scent tree hanging around and foaming at the mouth.
What's missing here?
Wonderful, what a blessing these monitoring loudspeakers are for the modern Neanderthal.
In no time at all, the appropriate background music booms out and lets the civilizing George Frideric Handel move on to England.
Because the merry troupe from Night Club sings of the hero's imminent demise with "Die in the Disco" if action is not taken quickly.
And the victim craves sweets, just like the virus spreader.
Together, they turn the kitchen upside down to satisfy their cravings.
Fortunately, said grandmother left behind a year's supply of vanilla-or-something pudding.
Synapses are calmed, the immune system puts the life-threatening intruder in its place, the reproductive organs run hot.
Joo, how practical these new LED gadgets are.
Tip tip tip tip...
Matching light effects in macker-purple with club flickering conjure up the perfect catwalk and the iconic dance floor in the kitchen.
You can conjure up the Hermannplatz atmosphere at home without having to order from the delivery service.
For those unfamiliar with the area: there used to be a very nice Karstadt department store in the expressionist style on the aforementioned Berliner Platz, built by Philipp Schaeffer and opened in 1929.
Today there is a different wind blowing there.
So, in the end, master and cute monster get along.
One smells nicer than the other.
Both bounce happily to the funny rhythms.
And there's no food envy at the vanilla-whatever-sandalwood trough.
For those who understand fragrances: this creation opens urinously on elemi resin and jasmine, plus a sweet rose.
Soon, however, the animalic dominates the action, and powerfully so!
So far, so good.
But why a hyacinth is now popping up and shouting "Joop! Homme (Eau de Toilette) | Joop!" from the crypt is unfortunately not understandable at this point.
There is also a creamy, extremely creamy blend of sandalwood and tonal vanilla that turns the fragrance on its head.
Possible uses: Fetish parties or THW exercises.
You shouldn't always bring exotic animals into your home...
A zoonosis, on the other hand, is an infectious disease that is transmitted from animals to humans or vice versa.
In this sense, hyrax offers an interesting study in the field of behavioral research following a zoonosis of a neozoon.
Let's assume that a cute little animal called a hippopotamus from Africa has found its way into the living room of a young city dweller in Central Europe.
Funny little eyes, a snub nose to cuddle!
That's the end of the frivolous handling of the cuddly monster and the subsequent regrettable consequences.
Hiss!
Good, the animal probably needs fresh litter, pissed up it stares at its master.
Anyone who can make elemi resin stumble with jasmine has mastered his trade.
And dear Sven Pritzkoleit is no stranger to me. His "Sea Salt Tar | Parfums Sven Pritzkoleit" opened up a whole new perspective on the marine world for me.
Just as an aside.
Let's move on.
While cleaning the cage, the master smells a very common rose of saffron.
"Oh please, not oud as an excretion now!" he thinks to himself.
Fortunately, this demanding wood is dispensed with here, after all, the hippopotamus eats more calories.
After mucking out, master treats himself to a narcotic whiskey, because our cute furry dwarf has just filled the whole apartment with rutting hyraceum
And not just a little.
For the uninitiated: take 24 construction workers after their shift, squeeze the strangely spicy juice out of their glands and concentrate it using distillation.
The buzz is ready!
While his master reminisces about the good old days - he hasn't gotten any older without dancing, after all - and the booze starts to take effect, the lamb sneaks out of the cage.
And then it happens!
Master catches the runaway next to the no less narcotic indoor hyacinth.
For the uninformed: Grandmothers swore by this winter-busting bulb with its peculiar flower and widowmaker scent. The distinctive glass vases were a feast for the eyes, looking like the chalices of a pentagram community.
My master was just about to grab the freaked-out companion by the collar...
Zack!
Bite wound!
So as not to bore our readers, let's fast-forward in time.
A virus spreads rapidly through the nice host's body and causes some chills, fever and nausea.
Said host runs to the bathroom to vomit, smashing an ancient "Joop! Homme (Eau de Toilette) | Joop!" Emergency ration, which smells tipped.
Drenched in a violet concoction, fuzzy fur all over his body and ripe as a daisy, he puts on the obligatory capital city tracksuit, the one with the funny stripes.
For language fetishists: When typing wuschelig, I initially wrote wuschig. Great amazement at what a missing "el" can change in understanding. Please look it up yourself.
So, master in the trainer, scent tree hanging around and foaming at the mouth.
What's missing here?
Wonderful, what a blessing these monitoring loudspeakers are for the modern Neanderthal.
In no time at all, the appropriate background music booms out and lets the civilizing George Frideric Handel move on to England.
Because the merry troupe from Night Club sings of the hero's imminent demise with "Die in the Disco" if action is not taken quickly.
And the victim craves sweets, just like the virus spreader.
Together, they turn the kitchen upside down to satisfy their cravings.
Fortunately, said grandmother left behind a year's supply of vanilla-or-something pudding.
Synapses are calmed, the immune system puts the life-threatening intruder in its place, the reproductive organs run hot.
Joo, how practical these new LED gadgets are.
Tip tip tip tip...
Matching light effects in macker-purple with club flickering conjure up the perfect catwalk and the iconic dance floor in the kitchen.
You can conjure up the Hermannplatz atmosphere at home without having to order from the delivery service.
For those unfamiliar with the area: there used to be a very nice Karstadt department store in the expressionist style on the aforementioned Berliner Platz, built by Philipp Schaeffer and opened in 1929.
Today there is a different wind blowing there.
So, in the end, master and cute monster get along.
One smells nicer than the other.
Both bounce happily to the funny rhythms.
And there's no food envy at the vanilla-whatever-sandalwood trough.
For those who understand fragrances: this creation opens urinously on elemi resin and jasmine, plus a sweet rose.
Soon, however, the animalic dominates the action, and powerfully so!
So far, so good.
But why a hyacinth is now popping up and shouting "Joop! Homme (Eau de Toilette) | Joop!" from the crypt is unfortunately not understandable at this point.
There is also a creamy, extremely creamy blend of sandalwood and tonal vanilla that turns the fragrance on its head.
Possible uses: Fetish parties or THW exercises.
You shouldn't always bring exotic animals into your home...
36 Comments
Translated
Show original
The indomitable man
1987
This magical year reflected the quintessence of the decade.
Goals that had been set were achieved.
A complete penetration of fashion dictates reached its zenith.
Several social groups indulged in brand fetishism, the manufacturer's label enjoyed greater respect than the actual item of clothing. Sometimes people deliberately wore such a label loosely sewn onto the sleeve of their suit jacket; sexily out of place on the button placket of their jeans, it attracted curious glances in the hope that the corresponding underpants had been photographed somewhere in a glossy magazine. A guarantee for fashionable togetherness.
By the end of the decade, the prevailing trends would only change marginally, shoulder pads couldn't get any wider and pleated pants couldn't get any more amphoratic.
Oh yes, the big stock market crash in October of that year was to mark the beginning of protracted financial crises.
The pleasant distraction was provided by the pleasing plastic pop section in the ears, preferably in a crystal-clear dance-leg maxi version.
A Rick Astley like that made the hips of the masses swing, he would never give you up, never. For sure!
Everything went like clockwork.
And then he came, the third of the bunch.
Whoosh!
An ironic opening by Fougère that has washed itself out.
The bergamot is gagged by that ill-famed lavender gang. A mess and over the Jordan!
The incomparable distinguishing mark of that gang, the dreaded slider cap on mugwort, makes you break out in a cold sweat.
This is where it gets serious!
Hanseatically sober, that slightly dusty dark juniper berry blends in with the tart green of the gang.
Add a little thyme and the masculine tour de force is ready, quite protein-rich.
Uncomfortable looks and nervous twitching.
The rather English musk proves that you are not a child of sadness. It sits lasciviously on a wooden bench with an invitingly comfortable patchouli glaze.
The longing backseat in lilting, popular songs has had its day here.
Grow up for once!
But the heart is not given lightly, after all, the hedonistic spirit of the times sets certain limits.
A rose slumbers in the mineral-crunchy moss, only to open up to serious - ergo rare - approaches.
It only reveals its slightly fruity splendor when allowed access to its guarded intimacy, dazzlingly countered by patchouli, slightly incense-like. Light and dark notes, rich in contrast.
The noble heart of the third man.
Silent glances often say more than loud posturing.
Because this fragrance composition is characterized by a certain understatement.
What appears to be quite fresh from the color liquid, it really doesn't get any greener, turns out to be an increasingly darker humanizing fougère, which carries the classic rose-patchouli theme at its heart like a witch's board.
The good Pierre Bourdon conjured up a fragrance that could not better caricature and capture the zeitgeist.
You want bourgeois neo-conformism, here you go, you have something to enjoy!
Because those tart, almost bitter herbs, the built-in physicality and the ghostly rose will make you freeze that practiced smile - refreshed today thanks to social networks - and gasp for air, soapy moss base or not!
The narrator carried the third man in the right place at the right time.
When he turned the corner, he celebrated the congenially throbbing interpretation of a fougère all the more confirmed.
The stinker was available to buy in white packaging, quite inconspicuous.
And to match, a musical antidote also appeared in white, New Order 1987 Substance.
Killing two birds with one stone!
One of the writer's fondest shopping memories.
And should this rebellious creature ever leave the dance floor feeling misunderstood and out of place, there was a little consolation.
Because someone also understood the scent and the change from Joy Division to New Order.
And Ceremony simply went with mugwort, juniper and musk for what felt like an eternity.
So he created a place on the fringes where it was good to stay.
Because others can get down, the lavender taught him.
And that's what counts.
This magical year reflected the quintessence of the decade.
Goals that had been set were achieved.
A complete penetration of fashion dictates reached its zenith.
Several social groups indulged in brand fetishism, the manufacturer's label enjoyed greater respect than the actual item of clothing. Sometimes people deliberately wore such a label loosely sewn onto the sleeve of their suit jacket; sexily out of place on the button placket of their jeans, it attracted curious glances in the hope that the corresponding underpants had been photographed somewhere in a glossy magazine. A guarantee for fashionable togetherness.
By the end of the decade, the prevailing trends would only change marginally, shoulder pads couldn't get any wider and pleated pants couldn't get any more amphoratic.
Oh yes, the big stock market crash in October of that year was to mark the beginning of protracted financial crises.
The pleasant distraction was provided by the pleasing plastic pop section in the ears, preferably in a crystal-clear dance-leg maxi version.
A Rick Astley like that made the hips of the masses swing, he would never give you up, never. For sure!
Everything went like clockwork.
And then he came, the third of the bunch.
Whoosh!
An ironic opening by Fougère that has washed itself out.
The bergamot is gagged by that ill-famed lavender gang. A mess and over the Jordan!
The incomparable distinguishing mark of that gang, the dreaded slider cap on mugwort, makes you break out in a cold sweat.
This is where it gets serious!
Hanseatically sober, that slightly dusty dark juniper berry blends in with the tart green of the gang.
Add a little thyme and the masculine tour de force is ready, quite protein-rich.
Uncomfortable looks and nervous twitching.
The rather English musk proves that you are not a child of sadness. It sits lasciviously on a wooden bench with an invitingly comfortable patchouli glaze.
The longing backseat in lilting, popular songs has had its day here.
Grow up for once!
But the heart is not given lightly, after all, the hedonistic spirit of the times sets certain limits.
A rose slumbers in the mineral-crunchy moss, only to open up to serious - ergo rare - approaches.
It only reveals its slightly fruity splendor when allowed access to its guarded intimacy, dazzlingly countered by patchouli, slightly incense-like. Light and dark notes, rich in contrast.
The noble heart of the third man.
Silent glances often say more than loud posturing.
Because this fragrance composition is characterized by a certain understatement.
What appears to be quite fresh from the color liquid, it really doesn't get any greener, turns out to be an increasingly darker humanizing fougère, which carries the classic rose-patchouli theme at its heart like a witch's board.
The good Pierre Bourdon conjured up a fragrance that could not better caricature and capture the zeitgeist.
You want bourgeois neo-conformism, here you go, you have something to enjoy!
Because those tart, almost bitter herbs, the built-in physicality and the ghostly rose will make you freeze that practiced smile - refreshed today thanks to social networks - and gasp for air, soapy moss base or not!
The narrator carried the third man in the right place at the right time.
When he turned the corner, he celebrated the congenially throbbing interpretation of a fougère all the more confirmed.
The stinker was available to buy in white packaging, quite inconspicuous.
And to match, a musical antidote also appeared in white, New Order 1987 Substance.
Killing two birds with one stone!
One of the writer's fondest shopping memories.
And should this rebellious creature ever leave the dance floor feeling misunderstood and out of place, there was a little consolation.
Because someone also understood the scent and the change from Joy Division to New Order.
And Ceremony simply went with mugwort, juniper and musk for what felt like an eternity.
So he created a place on the fringes where it was good to stay.
Because others can get down, the lavender taught him.
And that's what counts.
29 Comments
