I've just covered myself in a fine-yet-firm misting of Bond No. 9 Silver Factory. So far, the incense doesn't put me in mind of Comme des Garçons Avignon at all. The iris and gas station gumball machines (both the metal and glass dispensers as well as the dusty candy within) in there take care of that.
A while back I was in a paint store, and a fellow working there complimented me on the fragrance. And if Silver Factory can cut through the toxic fumes he must be smelling every day of his life, you know it's doing something.
The reason I mention his compliment is that he seemed astonished at himself for even noticing a perfume, and at being moved enough to ask what it was. He was sort of apologetic, as if he were intruding by inquiring about something so intimate. It wasn't like it was one of his stock moves, like a Hooters waitress making you feel special for tips.
Silver Factory is smelling nice on me now! Oh, and I like the bottle.
Oh Katie, sweet little Katie Puckrik, let me tell you about The Rule of the Plaid Pants. A fellow, let's call him Jerry, wears plaid pants to work, garish turquoise and mustard things made out of some unnatural no-wrinkle businessman fabric. And Jerry's wife, let's call her Irene, begs Jerry to put on some Dockers instead. Or even stay home, take a mental-health day. Anything but the plaid pants.
But Jerry's oblivious, so he pays his wife no heed and strides right out of the house in his plaid pants. And the reaction at work is unanimous. "Hey Jerry, great pants!"
Because what the hell else can anyone say? Jerry's wearing fucking plaid pants. So you say, "great pants!" and get the hell out of the way. But Jerry doesn't get it and comes home and crows to Irene about his pants' popularity and how he plans to pick up another pair this weekend.
I'm convinced The Rule of the Plaid Pants is why so many men insist upon wearing their cheap designer lighter-fluid, because everyone says, "Great cologne!" None of them mean it, not the Hooters waitresses, the strippers, the cute girls in class. They're simply stunned and they can't think of anything else to say.
But I'll grant you, yours doesn't quite sound like a case of The Rule of the Plaid Pants. And, besides, I gave Silver Factory its first wearing in ages and, you're right, it's not too terrible. Especially once it begins to fade. I still get plenty of incense and violet and, yes, iris, and I do think all of the Bonds are "artificial on purpose." I hold none of this against the perfume, I just don't like smelling it very much. But I can't quite sell it because of that damn bottle. It looks good.
Save your pity, Rolleri, because when the paint store guy smelled me, it was leftover Silver Factory, waaaaaay after I'd first sprayed it, and after a sweaty yoga class, even. So it definitely wasn't the "Quick! Say something!" reaction that keeps polite society moving forward.
I'd say it was a tribute to the Silver Factory drydown, which does seem to be the very best part of the fragrance, and to its credit, lasts...and lasts...and LASTS.
That's one thing about all of the Bonds I've tried: none are fleeting. (And some of the bottles are nice.)
This is highly personal and probably not reflective of society at large (unlike The Rule of the Plaid Pants), but when I smell a scent I like on a woman, I'm too embarrassed to say anything. I suddenly feel like opening doors for her or pulling out chairs or buying her things, but I can't mention the perfume. Show not tell, as they say in writing workshops.
I once worked with a woman who wore an incredible perfume, soft and buttery and billowy, it moved across space. If I tried to draw you a picture of the perfume, it would have to be several pictures, maybe an entire flipbook.
To pick up the telephone after she had used it was a sumptuous experience. (I almost fell in love with her telephone receiver.) But I never asked her what it was, never once mentioned the perfume. It was uncomfortably good.
Maybe your paint-store fellow felt the same way about Silver Factory (and sweat) and he's just more bold than I am.
Read Bond No. 9 Silver Factory (Part One) here.
Plaid pants via
Gumball machine via
Hooters Girl via