The Reluctant Whore

I just downed an espresso from the ever rancid Starbucks across the road and therefore the images of Madonna’s Louis Vuitton campaign really only form a fragment my current focus.

While in England, I got back into the habit of drinking several espressos a day (which is to say that I effectively relapsed) – partly because there was some extraordinary coffee available at the Borough Markets, across the road from where my friend Sio lives which is where I was staying.

The trouble with me drinking that much espresso, of course, is that it completely splinters my consciousness and I can barely remember anything but the relentless screams of my inner rage and whatever sparkly poodle runs in front of me. Plus, even in London, on coffee; every shadow is a mean spirited rat.

SO, yeah, here’s Madonna and her Louis Vuittonness. Ha ha, old bag selling old bags, something about gristle and muscle and surgery and how much work it takes to get a cow to look that good. Excellent. Prophesy fulfilled. Genius. Actually, she looks alright. Clearly, these are professional shots.

Here’s the interesting thing though; when I was in Bath, England on Sunday I went into a pharmacy with Sio and we looked at all the fragrances you could buy and I actually think that half of them – on an entire wall of fragrances – were named after celebrities. David Beckham, J Lo, Mariah Carey, Paris Hilton, Kate Moss blah.. . What the hell is WITH that? The profit you can make on a fragrance is huge because fragrances are total hype. Liquid smell that becomes a blank canvas for a cultural gesture costs nothing and has a seemingly limitless range of potential manifestations. Calvin Klein made his most recent fragrance about hip online Williamsburg culture, Mariah Carey makes hers about unicorns and vaguely ethnic ghetto sex, Paris Hilton makes hers about cheap, denial laced, imperious, pornographic glamour, Kate Moss makes hers about a gay centric throw back to the 90s by default but with a top note of low rent trash etc.

Who buys this shit? Not me. I actually have 5 fragrances, none of which I purchased, and they are on an admittedly absurd display in my bathroom because I thought it looked like a semi-effective attempt at zen, clear surfaces. Actually, that’s not true. I bought the Paco Rabanne while escaping the Venezuela jungle with my ex. It doesn’t work to escape WITH who you’re trying to escape – that’s the lesson I learned from that trip. Still, because we spent time in an airport in South America trying to be civil I now get to smell alright whenever I want.

See how this plays out? You’ve got Madonna, celebrity fragrances, inner rage, arbitrarily emphasised details, a tiny bit of amateur cultural deconstruction, South American drama. Still; it’s either this or some kind of durge. [source]