Yesterday at the bus stop a gentleman next to me whiffed of a cologne much stronger than the street. This was at Drumm and Clay, where the San Francisco sewer system is absolutely Roman in its intensity. This leads to three thoughts: 1) His coworkers had one heck of a day with him; 2) His nose died; 3) Thank you, strange man, for defeating the pong of ages.
Breathe, little sheeplings, breathe!
As a smoker, I like people like that. Normally people draw away from me in terror and bury their delicate little smelling organs in their perfumed hankies while scrolling through their text messages. He took the burden off my shoulders, and manfully distracted every offended nose on the bus.
Years ago if you got on an office elevator in the morning it stank of Aramis. Because every young man between twenty and fifty slaving away for the corporate masters in this city shopped at Macy's.
Well, it was "better" than the oh-so-butch smell of Brut.
Or health club exercise reeks, recently.
Stale yoga sweat too.
In all that time, I have avoided dousing myself, just yellow bacterial soap while showering, and a dab of anti perspirant in the morning. Plus, of course, the usual mild fragrance of pipe tobacco and the occasional cigar or cheroot. Meaning that my personal smell is of a freshly washed cowboy or tough guy straight out of a film noir fantasy, totally nightmarish for the modern sensibilities. Twixt Clint Eastwood and The Dude.
I probably smell like gluten and vaccines.
Most of you smell like tofu.
Vanilla tofu.
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