A Letter to Maurice Roucel (aka an honest, normal person appreciation)

Dear Maurice,

I'm sure you're wondering why I send you so many of these letters. Do I have a life? Am I slightly off? Do I know your address? Yes, no, and...no--not yet--just to get that out of the way. To be even more precise: I'm in love with you. And I don't want to alarm you by saying that, again, so let me just clarify that by in love with you I mean I'm obsessed, and by obsessed I mean I can't stop smelling your perfumes while thinking of you and how sweet and smart you are, and by that I mean I'm trying, I really, really am. I swear. It's not my intention to freak you out.

I tell myself you don't make these fragrances especially for me. I say, um, Brian, it's not like he's making a CONSCIOUS, concerted effort to rock your world. He would never jeopardize his career that way. He covers his ass by making a few for other people as well. The thing is, Maurice, it's just uncanny how much I love the things you do. I have Gucci Envy, Guerlain Insolence and L'Instant, Iris Silver Mist, Dans tes Bras, 24 Faubourg, Alain Delon Lyra, Missoni, Krizia K, Lalique Pour Homme, Kenzo Air, Bond no. 9 Broadway Nite and New Haarlem, Tocade, and...oh, I'm getting dizzy again. When I get dizzy, I get more obsessive. Ergo: I should probably hold back a little.

Suffice it to say I think you're a genius. So many of your scents contain your signature accord, Michelia longifolia, of the Magnolia family (okay, I'm taking this from Wikipedia, but I do know that you apprenticed under Henri Robert of Chanel, where you were head chromotography chemist for 6 years, and no, I do not know what that means, but I suspect you will be impressed that I care enough to have memorized it, and I can assure you that reciting it never ceases to impress other people too, into curiously stunned silence.) The doughy, sensory-saturating persistence of your fragrances sends ME into trances, Maurice (can I call you "my love"? I'm merely asking. It's okay, if not, just say so), and by trances I don't mean those mental fugues that make people lose control and consciousness and cause harm to buildings full of other people without remembering it later, unless I do mean that and have done such things and I've simply forgotten, in which case I sincerely apologize and may God forgive me. Did I mention I love you?

Did I mention I'm growing a mustache? Don't go thinking it's all because of you, Maurice. It's not like you're the only person in the world with one. Even some women have them. Don't be so vain, Mr. Maurice Roucel. Don't be so full of yourself. You're so lucky you have me. You're so lucky you have someone looking out for you, otherwise you could get a very big head, so big that you wouldn't be able to smell properly anymore, and then where would you be? Don't worry, I would certainly take care of you. I'm just telling you so you'll see we're not all that different, you and me. Soon we'll both have mustaches. We both love perfume. We both read the newspaper. I bet you like sunsets, too! It's not like I'm obsessed with you. Jesus. Don't be silly. I'm just keeping you posted.

It's weird, how much you seem to know about me; the way I feel, the way I think, the way I smell. It's as if you made Tocade because you know how much I adore vanilla. It's like you woke up one day and realized, Hey, I bet Brian really likes chocolate and melon, and you went right to the lab, and did whatever you do in there (what is it you do, anyway? I want to know everything about you, I get so curious I grit my teeth and even chip them sometimes!) and you came out holding Missoni in your hand, and you said to one of your assistants (oh, to be one of these lucky people) "Please, make haste, take this right away to Brian," and you gave them my address, and they rushed right over, because they knew how serious you were. You're so thoughtful. And sensitive. I mean, how did you KNOW? The moment I smelled Broadway Nite, that intoxicating blend of lipstick, honeysuckle, and rose, I knew you'd created it because it would remind me of all the adult women I knew in my life when I was a child, the way they smelled when they hugged me, never without lipstick, never without perfume. Maurice Roucel, how do you know these things? When did you become psychic, and under what circumstances?

Here is why I'm writing. I love you. I might have said that already. Can it hurt to say it again? The other thing is, I was wondering, the Amouage is very expensive. You know, Reflection Woman? Seeing as I've purchased so many of your fragrances and wear them regularly and sign on to Basenotes to defend Lolita L and Insolence against their idiotic, small minded detractors (or did, until they canceled my membership and barred me from doing so because, I guess, they can't handle the truth, or called me a psycho or whatever, PLEASE, I'M not the one who wears Just Me on a daily basis) I was just wondering if you could find it in your heart to get the folks at Amouage to send me a bottle, just a teensy one--do they come in six ounces?--like, you know, as a gift, as a thank you. The reason I suggest this is I know you're really thoughtful, and psychic, like I said, but in case we're too far away and you can't get a good read on what I'm wanting (or is it signal, like a cell phone?) and you're so thoughtful you want to get me SOMETHING, I thought I'd make sure you knew. You could also send me a picture. It doesn't matter if it's the same one I asked for last time. I ruined that one trying to paste a cut-out of myself next to you.

Signed: your biggest fan, who thinks you're brilliant, and is losing space in his cabinet thanks to you. Just kidding! I mean, I AM losing space, but don't worry, I have four more rooms--and relatives!

Love
Brian