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December 2015

Sniff My Rosebud

Even at this late stage of my cologne obsession, there are still surprises to be had, and I’m constantly amused by how little I know my own likes and preferences. If you’d told me I’d choose a floral over a woody scent, I’d have laughed richly. If you said I’d select something fruity over something spicy, I’d have called you nuts. Yet the nose knows what it wants, and will choose accords accordingly, despite what the mind and the educated guesswork might surmise. A case in point was my recent run-in with the Bond No. 9 line.

I’d just visited one of their stores in New York, and left impressed but not enraptured, and definitely not in love enough to justify the exorbitant price tags. Yet while waiting for Kira to deal with her shoe complex at the Harvard Square Tannery, I perused the small selection of Bond fragrances and fell in absolute love with the New York Oud.

It opened with a fruity blast of plum (two of my favorite frags – Plum Japonais and Pomegranate Noir – employ a fruity sweetness) and then something I never thought I’d like: rose. The classic floral note, so rich and redolent of history and grandmotherly overuse, was never on my radar, but that changed with Tom Ford’s ‘Oud Fleur’ – and the revolutionary turn-around is complete with ‘New York Oud.’ I find the namesake – the actual oud itself – is downplayed, but an integral component for keeping the floral aspect from blooming uncontrollably. It’s a delightful combination that on paper reads like a copy of the ‘Oud Fleur’ but in reality emanates an entirely different story – a story that needs to be part of my life. After spraying some on in the store, it haunted me for the rest of the day. I think I may have annoyed Kira with all my exclamations of adoration, but that’s what a good cologne does to me. Obsession and passion – two sides of the same sweetly-scented coin.

Of course, this puts a wrench in my holiday wish list, which has already been posted here. The good thing is, there’s always Valentine’s Day, and a rose fragrance may be more apt for that anyway.

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Cropping Head

Testing out winter garb for upcoming condo stays, I had to crop my bed-head out of these shots because it was simply unacceptable. The outfit, admittedly, isn’t much better, but for winter nights in Boston it’s perfect. Fuzzy long underwear and a soft (and Delusionally-Grand and bunny-like) t-shirt are all I need to bundle up and hunker down in one of the few spaces on this earth where I’ve always felt completely safe.

There are a number of situations where fashion takes a backseat to function and circumstance, and winter nights constitute just such a condition. I’ll pardon all sorts of otherwise-criminal fashion choices when it gets frigid. I usually don’t share such moments, but since turning 40 I’m a little more open to revealing the ugly (and silly) truth about things, including what I wear to bed. And it doesn’t get much uglier than this.

Hey, when you know the rules you can break them.

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Behold, the 1st of December!

How did we make it to December already? November went by in a blink, and now we are really in the holiday groove, and you’ve got to prove your love to me. Before we march toward the end of the month, and the end of the calendar year, however, I offer this quick look back at the Decembers that came before. Though it is our darkest month, there are glimmers of light, and glimmers of hope, to be found in family and friends.

Evidence in support of hope: this holiday card from 2011, wherein I share billing for only the second time ever.

The little drummer boy.

Red suspenders.

Babes & sundaes.

Brothers & Christmas trees.

Holiday portals.

Snow rose.

Snow kale.

This holiday tradition began in 2011…

And we’ve managed to do it every year since then.

Like a Victorian virgin.

Naked Christmas caroling.

A simple holiday votive.

Porny gay Santas.

Oh Christmas tree.

The madness of men at this time of the year.

The real reason for the season.

Pom explosion.

Once upon a time, I was this wee little thing.

Family fun on Christmas Eve.

Walking in a winter… you know the rest.

And if this still isn’t enough to put you in the Christmas spirit, here’s a naked Ryan Reynolds pic for you. There. Scrooge be gone!

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