SHOULD WE LAUGH, CRY OR WHAT?

I’m always morbidly fascinated by the strangeness of human behavior. Today’s example is the observation that lawyers will never cease to engage in their predatory, symbiotic relationship with those people who have no common sense. Thanks to Joan Elaine, I just read about an alleged incident in which Josh Lobb of Slumberhouse Perfumes received a letter from a lawyer representing Strange Invisible Perfumes ordering him to desist from the use of the word “strange” in his description of his fragrances or be faced with a lawsuit. For anyone who shares my morbid curiosity, here’s the document that was posted.

Of course, my first reaction to any incident like this is that it must be a practical joke. Maybe the joke is in poor taste and potentially damaging to all concerned if taken seriously, but a joke just the same, perpetrated by some unnamed party. If it’s not, it is indeed a strange reaction to the use of a common, perfectly innocent English word, and a sad commentary on the strange lengths to which lawyers will go to make a buck.

Somewhere on his website, Josh uses the phrase “strange and unique perfumes” to describe his products. According to the letter that he posted on Twitter, Ms. B of SIP took offense at his use of the word “strange”, which allegedly is protected as part of the “Strange Invisible Perfumes” trademark, and hired a strange, invisible lawyer to put a stop to his use of the word “strange”. By the same reasoning, the words “invisible” and “perfumes” would presumably be individually trademarked as well. Uh-oh. We have probably all used the word “perfumes” in our company names or product descriptions, little knowing that the word was the exclusive property of SIP. What about the “Invisible Fence” company, whose name for their dog containment system is trademarked? Can they sue SIP (or vice versa) for the use of the word “invisible”?

I looked up the Twitter thread, read the letter that was posted, and did a little bit of Google research on the lawyer in question, only to find that she seems to have no official business listing, and the address on the letter appears to be a drab suburban residence. There’s nothing wrong with working out of one’s home – many of us do it - but that’s not the typical pretentious behavior of lawyers, most of whom have slick websites and posh offices. In fact, it supports the practical joke hypothesis. An alternative hypothesis is that maybe it’s all just a pathetic publicity stunt on the part of one or more of the parties in question. After all, it’s a well-known fact that bad publicity is better than no publicity at all.

So given the fact that it’s not really clear what’s going on, why am I writing about this topic at all? Because the third, albeit most improbable-seeming, hypothesis is that it’s really true and not just an urban legend in the making. I hope that with time, more shall be revealed so that whatever nasty worms have been released from the proverbial can will come back to settle on the deserving party or parties.  In the meantime, maybe we should laugh because the situation is so outlandishly funny, cry at people’s general stupidity, and fantasize about Dick the Butcher’s famous suggestion about what to do with lawyers in Shakespeare’s Henry VI. 

[Thanks to Wikimedia for the can of worms image and for all three "strange" graphics used here, including Liquid Stranger's cover art for The Invisible Conquest (wow - strange, invisible and liquid, all in one spot!)]

AMBRETTE SEEDS, OKRA AND “BOTANICAL MUSK”

The “Mystery of Musk” project seems to have created a lot of interest in natural, plant-based materials that can produce a musky scent. Of course, animal-based products like civet and castoreum are natural, too, but there are some convincing and not so convincing reasons for not using them. I won’t go there today.

A few weeks back I wrote a post on amber, but didn’t include ambrette seeds in that category. Perhaps I should have because the name sounds a bit like amber, and it sometimes seems to be described in terms of amber or included as a component of an “amber” accord. The source of ambrette, also known as “botanical musk”, “vegetable musk” and other, less obvious names, comes from a plant in the hibiscus family, Abelmoschus moschatus, shown in the drawing at the top. It’s related to okra (Abelmoschus esculentus), a vegetable that I love curried, fried in batter, cooked in gumbo, or just about any other way you want to prepare it. I used to grow it back when I lived in a place where we didn’t have slugs as big as small dogs, slimy disgusting creatures that can completely mow down a row of okra plants overnight. Come to think of it, okra has a slimy side to it, so maybe there’s something in it that slugs find especially delightful. I now snap up okra whenever it appears in one of our local produce stands, which is all too seldom.

Fresh okra flowers are beautiful, like a light yellow hibiscus with a dark red center, and the fresh pods and seeds have a light perfumey smell. Abelmoschus moschatus flowers and pods look very similar. Ambrette amps up the okra scent to produce a highly distinctive aroma that makes a wonderful perfume base.

A while back I bought a bottle of ambrette seed CO2 extract and have been learning to love it. It arrived in the winter, as a beige-colored solid that looked like just about any other absolute. In that state it didn’t seem to have very much aroma, just a sort of off-putting waxy smell a little like fake oakmoss. To give it a fair chance, I warmed it up enough so that it became liquid, and rubbed a little bit on my skin. At first there was just the waxy smell, only stronger, but before long it bloomed with one of the most amazing and unique scents that I’ve experienced. Unless you’ve smelled ambrette, it’s hard to describe because I can’t think of anything else like it. It’s a little bit floral, a little bit sweet, and a lot of its own musky character. It has decent sillage and lasts for a very long time once it reaches the “musky” phase of its development. I like to wear it by itself, but I’m not sure that hard-core approach is for everybody. Now that it’s summer, it stays mostly liquid, with some waxy stuff in the bottom.

I was planning on using ambrette in a perfume when I acquired some samples of Strange Invisible Perfumes. The first one that I tried, Musc Botanique, was almost pure ambrette with the waxy notes at the beginning covered up with some geranium. I love it. The next was Prima Ballerina, mostly a mixture of ambrette, rose, and lime. Also very nice. The third one, L’Invisible, seemed weak compared to the others, but there is a slight ambrette note in the drydown along with some oakmoss. I still have two more SIP samples to try, so am curious to see if they have ambrette in the base, too. If so, I’ll have to conclude that the trademark of SIP is ambrette. Not a bad thing to use, but it would be nice to mix things up a little. Once I try all of the samples, I’ll probably post reviews here. In the meantime, I’ve concluded that ambrette is a good scent for hot summer weather, and will go to the produce stand to look for some okra. A big pot of gumbo sounds like a good meal for the coming weekend and an opportunity to think about the musky side of okra.

[All Abelmoschus illustrations are from Wikimedia]

FALSE ATTRIBUTIONS OF SILLAGE

Yesterday I was testing the sample of Strange Invisible Perfumes Musc Botanique that I got from the perfume shop, sitting at my work table and really getting into huffing the geranium and ambrette seed mixture. At some point it seemed to me that the sillage miraculously developed into the most wonderful thing that I had ever smelled, something that was indescribably sweet, powdery, musky, floral, and like nothing I had ever smelled before. I wrote an over-the-top review raving about how wonderful the sillage was, and how strange it was that it wasn’t detectable close to the skin. I was ready to go out and buy a full bottle of the stuff.

At some point during that rapturous experience, I had to go outside. Once I was out of the house, the scent reverted to a fairly simple ambrette, and the wonderful sillage was gone. When I went back in the house again, the rest of the scent came back and I realized that what I was smelling was a combination of the Musc Botanique and the fumes rising up from several batches of newly-made soap that were curing in the sun on a table in the back greenhouse room. I had to laugh and, of course, re-write my review. However, I have to say that the combination of everything at once was heavenly.

Another similar incident happened when I was at the meeting in Saint Louis. I had put on Sel de Vetiver that morning, but when I got to the meeting, I smelled sandalwood, a very nice sandalwood indeed, almost like the one in the original Samsara. At first I thought someone else in the room was wearing a perfume with lots of sandalwood, but at some point I realized that the smell was coming from my wrist. At that point I thought to myself how remarkable it is that Sel de Vetiver smells so different in a warmer, more humid climate. Then I realized that the sandalwood smell was coming from my left wrist, in the vicinity of my plastic watchband. Apparently one of the experimental mixtures that I had applied a couple of days before had gotten under my watchband and been soaked up by the plastic. I think I know which one it was and when it happened. Weeks later the watch still smells vaguely like sandalwood. Amazing.

Have you had an experience where you thought you were smelling your perfume but it turned out to be something else? Write a comment about it, and you will be entered in a drawing to win a 5 ml bottle of Golden Cattleya perfume, the newest addition to the Orchid Scents line. If you’re in the US, I’ll also include a full-size Golden Cattleya soap, one of the ones that was drying yesterday. The drawing will be on Saturday, August 28.