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Okay. Now, I know I'm supposed to like this. All the perfumistas seem to, and Dr. Turin gives it five stars. Well, I'm supposed to like lots of other things too, like Frank Zappa, show-quality classic Siamese cats, Blahnik shoes, Jeff Koons, half-rotted liquefying cheese, the fungus that grows on corn, and other such delicacies. I just don't. And it isn't because I haven't tried!
It's like spraying vodka on your arm, and then it becomes...unpleasant, flat, metallic and it just won't go away.
Who on earth wants to smell like this? "Bug spray," said my plain-spoken husband, and for once I agree with him.
Is there some form of mass hysteria at work here? Like when that housewife in Georgia was certain she'd been visited by the Virgin Mary, and throngs of the like-minded showed up to camp out in her yard?
People, it may be Serge, and it may be ultra-exclusive, and liking it may admit you to some secret society of the olfactory intelligentsia, but...it doesn't smell good!
It doesn't smell good.
18 May, 2008