MERCHANDISING, BITCHES. Can't download cologne. So we have branched into the man-musk market (pause just because). Until it too was unceremoniously swallowed by the financial black hole nipping at all our heels, one of Sum and my myriad side jobs was working on and off at a perfume lab (pause 5x) in Marina Del Rey, courtesy of tailor, astronaut and apple of my bloodshot eye, Zainab Outlaw. The owner was a study in contrasts: a true-blue hippie who did business like he had stolen and swallowed Gordon Gecko's beating heart whole, yet answered to the name Delight. The lab was filled with a rotating cast of pretty, furry-legged young women who would toil in his perfume mine daily while gossiping about witchcraft as payment for living at his Topanga Canyon commune. As it turns out, a lab of any kind also needs one or two people on deck who can pull off feats like picking up objects over five pounds in weight, or working for over forty-five minutes without a guitar and poetry break, so Sum and I were drafted in to handle the hard labor. It was here that we learned the ins and outs of creating smells: decanting, sterilizing, ignoring suspicious knocks at the door, lots of Captain Beefheart.
So it is with great pride that we present our flagship fragrance, a product that we have put our blood, sweat and tears into. Actually, that's pretty much all Recession is: mostly sweat, but a little blood from when I cut my finger while chopping onions to put in the spaghetti for lunch. Oh, the tears are from the onions too.
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