Once upon a million years ago my hubby decided that we needed a subscription to Maxim Magazine. I protested siting issues with commitment. I hate being tied to subscriptions and such but as per his usual fashion he ignored me entirely. And while he was off on a ship, base or wherever, the magazines kept pouring in, like clockwork. And I didn’t want to read them. I mean honestly, plastering every cover was some half naked babe. I had no interest. I couldn’t throw them out because the sailor said he would read them when he got around to it. So they began to take up space on our shelve unit. One day I decided well, lemme give it a gander, I’m bored on the train commute anyway. The moment I got past the fact that I was drawing attention with the cover, I fell hard. I’ve since developed a deeply maddening love for Maxim. It is by far the wittiest writing I’ve ever come across. For me the mag covers a number of interesting topics and you never really know what content you’re going to get until you open it up. I like that it’s not boring. And I’ve come to appreciate the half naked babes layered in between interesting and nonsensical articles alike. Now I should tell you, the Maxim mags that I pick up are anywhere from the year 2012-2015. Most of the mags that I’m reading now are already past tense yet it’s all a new discovery for me. One that I quite relish.
Here’s what I liked in the past few that I’ve read:
I finally opened the Coco Mademoiselle Chanel perfume sample. (Yes close your mouth – I’ve never really taken the time to smell it before) and voila – j’adore! Yeah that’s all she wrote. I don’t have to create a scene of Keira Knightly in something frilly running through a garden with puppies do I? I came, I smelled I will buy. Moving on.
And even though the commercials are completely over the top and almost a spoof of a spoof Versace’s EROS smells divine. I believe that will be my next pick for my sailor. Trust me, the man that wears that is gonna get your attention.
And Givenchy did a delicious scent in a very clever bottle mimicking a smart phone called Play complete with “fast forward and rewind” etchings on the front face – and what other crooner but JT would do to advertise this bad boy?
And my last but certainly not least pick is L’Homme – YvesSaintLaurent.
You’ll notice that I didn’t describe any of these scents. That’s right. I don’t think I’m capable. I simply know I found each one divine in its own unique way. So perhaps when you’re in Sephora next time, you’ll recall the fragrances I mentioned and sniff sample yourself. Personally when I visit Sephora I’m not always in an experimental frame of mind. I like to have a few names in my head and sample specifically. If I fall in love with anything I smell then I would probably purchase. If not, on to the experimentation and chatting with the very helpful and knowledgeable beekeepers!
The next book I’m going to get is Sylvia Day’s Captivated by You. I still haven’t gotten through The Obedient Father. I have no idea what’s going on but once a voracious reader, I cannot call myself that at this moment. And it frustrates me to no end. I’ve got to find content that I want to read (not just Maxim) so I will give Captivated by You a chance. I’ve read her before so I know I dig her as an author. Plus I know good authors are better when they’re great readers. You learn a lot from reading. If you don’t you become too stagnant and boring – so don’t wanna turn to stone. Must read something soon.
An article that rolled off the tongue like poetry and left a taste in your mouth like the very liquor that was being written about had me closing my eyes on the train and visualizing a scene my eyes had never seen but my spirit sympathized with only to well. Rum and Revolution it was called.
And word for word here’s the last paragraph of that article. Decide if you’re impressed.
An Excerpt from Rum and Revolution written by Rick Bragg for Maxim Magazine:
A rock, or a chunk of concrete, something hard, struck the wall of the bar.
The men at the bar, writers, photographers, and genuine expatriates scarcely flinched; it was only serious when it was bullets and machetes.
“Barbancourt?” the bartender asked. The men replied in French. He poured the rum straight.
It tasted like sweet, harsh, liquid smoke. It tasted like the place, redolent of Haiti’s deep magic, and rich and tortured history. It was easy to believe, after a glass or three, in incantations, and in the stumbling, moaning dead. But I knew it was the living you had to fear in Haiti.
I sat numb as the men spoke about the killing, and the embargo, and the possibility of a U.S. invasion. Or, at least, I think that was what they were talking about. I was pretty ignorant of French, and drunk, and sleepy. But I never forgot that taste.
I had it again years later in a white-tablecloth restaurant.
I had another, and, in my head, I drifted across the water.
So this is why they call it “spirits.”
I was hooked. Aren't you?