The Lost Scrolls

Going through some old papers, I came across notes that I made for a post back in January. As some of you may remember, Misanthropster, my sister Ella, and I reviewed all the deodorants that Wal-Mart carried. For those of you who weren't around yet, here's the post on men's deodorants, and here's the post on women's deodorants.

Having had so much fun "taste-testing" the mass-market deodorants, we decided to check out the more rarified scents that one of the local department stores carry. Luckily, Misanthropster worked at the department store, so she knew how the scents were organized. Unluckily, the cologne counter was manned by 'Nette, a half-crazed cologne Nazi who ran her little spot with an iron hand. Oddly enough, she had absolutely no personal odor (those of you who have read Perfume by Patrick Suskind will understand how creepy that is), and was very stingy when it came to sharing the scents.

Faced with an exciting goal and a formidable foe, our strategic planning went into overdrive. About a week before D-day, I reconnoitered the counter, taking note of all the brands. I then prepared a form that we could use to make comments. My wife checked the schedule, noting the few hours in which 'Nette wouldn't be around. We compared these to Ella's schedule and set the date.

The fact that all of us were doing this together meant that there wasn't anyone to watch George, so she had to come along. On the bright side, the kid loves colognes and perfumes and was happy to join in. The only problems ocurred when we forgot to let her sniff a particular deodorant or testing strip and she went ballistic. She saved all the strips, hiding them around the house. I'm still catching phantom whiffs of "Phat Farm" and "Boss."

The other downside was that we had to do this fairly late in the evening, which meant that we had to rush to make it before closing. Because of this, we weren't all able to test all the scents. We planned to return to the scene of the crime, but Ella had to go to Pennsylvania, where she got a job offer to work in an Art department at a small college, and Misanthropster moved to New York. Perhaps we will one day be able to take advantage of the extensive fragrance counters in Bloomies or Macy's.

Although this list is by no means complete, it does offer some clear tasting notes on a few of the mass-market men's fragrances. We limited our study to the fragrances that featured deodorant sticks for sale at this particular department store. Consequently, I cannot make any claim to completeness!

Looking at this, I can see our distinct personalities emerging. Misanthropster has a very educated nose, and makes numerous connections to other perfumes and colognes. I, on the other hand, am somewhat old fashioned. I like what Misanthropster calls "1940's colognes": woodsy, assertive scents. My sister lands somewhere in the middle, although her tastes revolve around anything that covers up the smell of hemp and paint.

Without further ado, here are our findings:

Aramis
Crankster: Sweet and ice-creamy.
Misanthropster: Like old-timey women's perfume. Smells like a men's version of Estee Lauder's "Youth Dew."
Ella: Like "Teen Spirit." The women's deodorant, not the song.

Atman by Phat Farm
Crankster: Cheap musk mixed with pencil shavings.
Misanthropster: Basil.
Ella: Pine.

Azzaro Chrome
Crankster: Soapy, industrial, and toilet-pucky.
Misanthropster: Like grass.
Ella: Like a women's deodorant.

Boss Selection
Crankster: Like licorice and sugar.
Misanthropster: Like licorice.

Burberry Brit
Crankster: Powdery, like baby oil.
Misanthropster: Warm. A lot like the women's version.
Ella: Musty and complex, with notes of frankincense. Like a Catholic Church.

Burberry Touch
Crankster: Like musk and bananas.
Misanthropster: Very floral.
Ella: Soapy baby powder.

Calvin Klein Eternity
Crankster: Like Ivory soap.
Misanthropster: Soapy.
Ella: Ivory soap crossed with autumn.

Calvin Klein Euphoria
Crankster: Soapy, with a touch of spices and leather.
Misanthropster: Fruity.
Ella: Soapy and sweet, with clover undertones.

Carlos Santana
Crankster: Like soap and vinegar.
Misanthropster: Like Burberry Brit for men.
Ella: I can't smell anything.

Claiborne Curve Soul
Crankster: Leathery, with soap tones.
Misanthropster: Freshly cut grass.
Ella: Grassy and light.

Davidoff Cool Water
Crankster: Soapy.
Misanthropster: Soapy and ocean-y.
Ella: Sweet.

Davidoff Silver Shadow
Crankster: Like vanilla and sugar.
Misanthropster: Like Sweet Tarts.
Ella: Like cotton candy.

Drakkar Noir
Crankster: A LOT of alcohol. It's difficult to decipher anything else.
Misanthropster: Like my high school band director, Mr. Rayford.
Ella:Too much alcohol. It smells like toned-down Old Spice.

Guess
Crankster: Cloying and sweet.
Misanthropster: Ginger.
Ella: Flowery and soapy.

Hugo by Hugo Boss
Crankster: Smells like Bactine.
Misanthropster: Nothing.
Ella: Antibiotic ointment.

Kenneth Cole Black
Crankster: Pepper. Specifically, it smells like lemon pepper.
Misanthropster: Lemony and soapy.
Ella: I refuse to respond.

Kenneth Cole Reaction
Crankster: Smells like cucumbers, looks like nuclear waste.
Misanthropster: Standard men's cologne.
Ella: Subtle. Like cucumbers.

Kenneth Cole RSVP
Crankster: Smells industrial, like cheap, fake musk.
Misanthropster: Like leather and cigars.
Ella: Like musk and frankincense.


Kiss
Crankster: Ball sweat with floral tones.
Misanthropster: Like Gene Simmons' armpits after a long concert and a lot of pot.
Ella: Plastic-y, like a new Barbie.

Ralph Lauren Polo Blue
Crankster: Smells like pears.
Misanthropster: Like apples.
Ella: Smells like apples.

Tommy Bahama
Crankster: Smells like pee.
Misanthropster: Like my grandfather's cigar boxes.
Ella: Cinnamon-y.

Tommy Bahama Very Cool
Crankster: Sweetish. Very herb-y, vegetable-y.
Misanthropster: Standard men's cologne.
Ella: Smells like my ex-boyfriend.

Tommy Hilfiger
Crankster: Strong notes of menthol.
Misanthropster: Smells like bug spray.
Ella: Minty and blue.

Unforgiveable by Sean John
Crankster: Perfectly named. Nasty mix of citrus and cheap musk.
Misanthropster: Smells like rotten fruit.
Ella: Like rubbing alcohol. Overtly.

Mean Girls

As I began wrote this post, I found it spiraling out of control. I realized that I had a lot to write on this topic, and that trying to fit it into a single piece wasn't going to work. Consequently, I've broken this into three posts, all of which are only moderately meandering.

A while back, the wife and I were shopping for school supplies at the almighty Wal-mart. As she searched for the perfect spiral-bound composition book and I sought a two-pocket folder that didn't look totally lame, I came across a brightly-colored binder with a childish drawing of a rocket. Looking closer, I read the words "Boys are stupider...send them to Jupiter."

Now, normally, I'd just be irritated at the unnecessary ellipses and the fact that a semicolon would have better set off the independent clauses (as some of you might have noticed, I am a militant supporter of the semicolon). This time, however, I was irritated by the message. As I searched through the binders, I found several similar covers, all equally upsetting (albeit free of inappropriate ellipses). There was the one that pointed out that "Boys are smelly":
And another one advanced the novel suggestion that "Boys are dumb":

Later, when I got home, I found out that the creator of these nasty little notebooks had gotten in trouble over another logo, which thousands of retailers had pulled from their shelves after Glenn Sacks led a protest against it. Here's what it looked like:

Okay, I admit that I have been known to engage in the occasional episode of bad taste, but there was something about this that made me really queasy. A big part of it had to do with the target demographic; while these notebooks might be ironically flirtatious if carried by college-age women, Wal-mart was marketing them to elementary-school aged girls. They were at child-eye level, mixed in with the Care Bears, Sponge Bob, and My Pretty Pony merchandise.

Not to get melodramatic, but I can easily imagine what it would be like for an insecure third grade boy to see this notebook in class. I found it hard to believe that people were actually putting these messages out there. Yet there they were, on sale at the Wal-mart.

This dovetails nicely with recent studies showing that boys are beginning to seriously underachieve in elementary and high schools. Apparently, the structure of a traditional classroom, with its emphasis upon self-control and independence, is not ideally suited to boys. According to this article from the Voice of America, 70% of poor or failing grades go to boys, and boys are far more likely to exhibit learning disabilities. For that matter, boys apparently lag about a year behind girls in terms of maturation.

When I first started teaching, academia was still in the grip of a nationwide struggle to improve the performance of girls in school. I was given numerous pamphlets and textbooks that instructed me to actively encourage my female students. I was taught strategies for increasing female involvement in the classroom, and advised to intensely focus on "drawing out" my shy co-eds. I remember being impressed at the level of attention given to student welfare; as far as I was concerned, the gender issue was secondary to the concern of increasing student engagement and being sensitive to student needs.

A decade later, the situation is rapidly reversing, and I'm not too impressed with the public response. Admittedly, I'm a little sensitive about this, as I was diagnosed with a learning disability in third grade. Like many other boys, I found it hard to organize my work and concentrate on my teachers. Years later, I discovered that I was not alone. In some school districts, as many as 40% of all students were diagnosed as either learning disabled or gifted and talented, which means that almost half of all students were unsuited for the mainstream classroom. The vast majority of these "learning disabled" kids were boys.

Admittedly, I have a problem with the entire issue of learning disabilities, but, apart from that, the diagnoses are so gender skewed that I have to wonder if this problem is sexism masquerading as science. If so many boys can't function in a standard classroom, mightn't there be a problem with the classroom, not with the boys?

Rattling Around

I offer deepest apologies, everyone, for the prolonged absence. After dropping the wife and daughter off in New York last week, I've been banging around the house, cleaning, packing books, and getting a lot of things done. For example, I just finished compiling my brother-in-law's Christmas present, which I promptly sent off to him.

By the way, February is the new December.

One thing I obviously did not do was work on the blog. I don't really like to talk about the day-to-day events of my life, largely because they're either mundane or because they involve other people whose privacy I'd rather protect. Instead, I try to use this space to work out some of the ideas that roll around in my head; in the process, I've refined my righteous anger, exorcised a few little demons, and discovered that the things that wither my soul are surprisingly universal.

Over the last week, the thoughts in my head have been pretty boring, to be honest. They've largely consisted of missing my family, being irritated at the state of my home, worrying over my wife's quest for a job, and (surprisingly) rediscovering a few of the joys of living alone. My biggest thoughts, or emotions, have revolved around my family. A couple of days ago, I was worshipping at the altar of Wal-Mart when I heard a baby cry. It was the kind of lusty, soul-felt, life-is-brutally-unfair wail that my daughter specializes in on those occasions when we don't let her do what she wants.

If I was a woman, my breasts would have started leaking. As it was, I was filled with a palpable, physical desire to seek out the kid, lift her on my shoulders, and give her a horsey ride. Hell, it usually works with George.

I was amazed that the sound of wailing, the most irritating sound in my daughter's repertoire, should be the one that makes me feel so achingly lonely.

Another thing rolling around in my head was the recent death of a little girl, Nyia Page, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. If you want to find out the whole story, you can Google her, but I don't want to recount the events surrounding her death. Long story short, she died of hypothermia, and her father was responsible. Apparently, Nyia kept waking him up, and he lost his temper.

I think the most upsetting thing for me was that I could relate to this story. When George was a little younger, and I was surviving on less sleep than the average North Korean political prisoner, there were a few times when my frustration, her tears, and various other pressures started to get to me. On a couple of occasions, I had to separate myself from my daughter, take some deep breaths, hum a few bars of "Let It Be," and generally give myself a little time out. As any parent can attest, no matter how sweet-tempered and delightful a child may be, there are times when our little bundles of joy become nerve-jangling hand grenades of misery and irritation. I think one key to being a good parent, or at least a responsible one, lies in knowing when to step back from the situation, not to mention the child.

So, even thought I don't hit my child, I can understand the loss of one's temper, and I can understand an accident. And I think that's what scares me the most about Nyia Page and her daddy, William. The other thing that terrifies me, though, is that after William Page lashed out at her daughter, he left her outside to die in the cold. Missing my daughter so much, I can't imagine the soulless cruelty that it would take to do that to a little girl.

I don't know what upsets me more: the part that I can understand, or the part that I can't.

My Men Wear ??? (Or Nothing At All)

Recently, I decided to switch my deodorant. I had to face the fact that I'd gotten sick of my old scent, and it clashed with the cologne that my wife bought me for Christmas. To put it bluntly, whereas Burberry London has a woodsy, spicy scent, Speed Stick Original Scent smells like a lime rolled in baby powder.


I've done this before, and I dread it. For me, switching deodorants is a traumatic experience, involving deep soul-searching. No longer content with my identity, I have to ask myself difficult questions:

Am I still a stodgy Speed Stick traditionalist, or have I progressed into the world of Adidas athleticism?

Can I still pull off the bracing, skunk-defying scent of "musk," or is it time to throw in the towel and give "Arctic Rush" a try?

If I wear Old Spice, do I smell sophisticated, or do I reek of sterno that's been filtered through a sock?

Heady questions, indeed. Unprepared to face this level of self-analysis, I decided to employ a delaying tactic; I bought a stick of Old Spice "Pacific Surge," one of those innocuous, "cool water" scents, which would hold me over while I thought this through. Still, as much as I delayed, I knew the time had come. I had to choose a new scent. A new me.

Of course, there was only one way to do this. I had to smell every deodorant in Wal-Mart. Needless to say, this was going to burn the hell out of my sinuses, but you don't screw around with a thing like this. One false move, and you end up reeking like a Bulgarian taxi driver during mating season.


I knew that I'd need a woman's input. I enlisted my lovely wife, Misanthropster. Unfortunately, however, she only made it about halfway through the Speed Sticks before a screaming headache tabled her contribution. Undaunted, I enlisted my sister, Ella. Bribing her with a bag of boiled peanuts (one of her favorite foods), I got her to contribute to my in-depth study.

This was serious business, and we knew that we'd need something to clear our noses after each deodorant, so we began with a visit to Millstone, the gourmet coffee stand in the middle of Wal-Mart. After a little discussion, we chose "Columbian Supremo," deciding that its rich scent and slightly burned overtones would do the trick. We put about a quarter pound in a bag and trekked over to the deodorant section.


An hour later, our sinuses torched beyond recognition, and sporting a slight buzz from the alcohol inhalation, Ella and I had smelled all the deodorants. She was impressed by the variety of scents, while I was surprised at the similarities. We were both shocked by the fact that we nearly got kicked out when a Wal-Mart employee caught Ella taking pictures of the deodorant section. Apparently, taking pictures in Wal-Mart is a major no-no.

Still, she was able to click a shot of what we agreed was the best scent:


All in all, it was a total blast, and Ella has already started plans for a test of the women's anti-perspirants. I'm trying to talk her into checking out the high-end department store deodorants.

Stay posted.

Here are our findings:

AXE Clix
Crankster: Like a toilet puck mixed with telicherry pepper.
Ella: Very fruity. Like "Country Apple" from Bath and Body Works.
Misanthropster: Very fruity.

AXE Essence
Crankster: Smells like a salad. Lots of celery and pine.
Ella: Like a Christmas tree.
Misanthropster: Cedary. Definitely the best of the Axes.

AXE Unlimited
Crankster: Cloyingly sweet.
Ella: Like rubbing alcohol mixed with potpourri.
Misanthropster: Like body odor.

AXE Touch
Crankster: Like a honeydew crossed with a watermelon Jolly Rancher.
Ella: Like melon with Jolly Rancher tones.
Misanthropster: Foul and rotten.

Brut Original Scent
Crankster: Notes of nutmeg, allspice, and cinnamon.
Ella: Notes of liquorice, mint, and baby powder.

Degree Clean Slate
Crankster: Smells like a walk through the woods.
Ella: Smells like spring in the forest.

Degree Ocean Blast
Crankster: Smells like Jock-itch medication.
Ella: Horrible. Like B.O.

Old Spice Aqua Reef
Crankster: Sweet and cloying.
Ella: Smells like Uncle Ted.
Misanthropster: Something a Middle Easterner would wear.

Old Spice Classic Fresh Scent
Crankster: A mixture of musk, citrus, and sterno.
Ella: Like a cross between liquor and bathroom cleaner.

Old Spice Classic Original Scent
Crankster: Lots of alcohol and musk.
Ella: Just like Jagermeister. Never wear on a date unless you run out of roofies.

Old Spice High Endurance Arctic Force
Crankster: Sweet, with berry tones.
Ella: Sweet, with spicy undertones.

Old Spice High Endurance Mountain Rush
Crankster: Slightly musky.
Ella: Heavy reek of rubbing alcohol. Smells slightly sour.

Old Spice High Endurance NASCAR
Crankster: Sweet, with a talc-y smell.
Ella: Smells just like Arctic force.

Old Spice High Endurance Original Scent
Crankster: Cool and clean. Slightly minty.
Ella: Salty, like the ocean.

Old Spice High Endurance Pure Sport
Crankster: Mountain berry Kool Aid mixed with poison.
Ella: Berry notes.

Old Spice Red Zone Pure Sport
Crankster: Cucumber notes. Musky.
Ella: Alcohol mixed with Uncle Ted.
Misanthropster: Too fruity. Hints of musk.

Power Stick (generic)
Crankster: A laundromat.
Ella: Baby powder crossed with a swimming pool.
Misanthropster: Pepper.

Right Guard Extreme Fresh Blast
Crankster: Powdery, with an overbearing scent of industrial cleaner.
Ella: Woodsy. Like a freshly cleaned highway rest area bathroom.

Right Guard Sport Cool
Crankster: Like Pine-Sol mixed with plasticine clay.
Ella: A full bouquet with berry notes

Right Guard Sport Fresh
Crankster: Like a banana covered in Karo syrup and corn starch.
Ella: Woodsy. Like an Italian hostel.

Speed Stick Active Fresh
Crankster: Like Pine Sol.
Ella: Like disinfectant in the wilderness.

Speed Stick Clean Blast
Crankster: Crushed weeds.
Ella: Tilex mildew remover.
Misanthropster: Ass.

Speed Stick Cool Fusion
Crankster: Powdery.
Ella: Like open air and shaving cream.
Misanthropster: Light and inoffensive.

Speed Stick Fresh Rush
Crankster: Like public bathroom soap crossed with Caldo lotion.
Ella: Like some rubbing alcohol I bought in Italy.
Misanthropster: Like the average men's cologne.

Speed Stick Irish Spring Original
Crankster: Herbal and soapy.
Ella: Minty, like a cut lawn.

Speed Stick Irish Spring Icy Blast
Crankster: Berry notes.
Ella: Very cool, clean, clear, blue. Simple.

Speed Stick Musk
Crankster: Notes of musk and leather.
Ella: Smells like a charming old house.

Speed Stick Ocean Surf
Crankster: Notes of laundry soap and lavender.
Ella: Smells like a Barnes and Noble bookstore.

Speed Stick Regular Scent
Crankster: Like Canoe cologne with lime notes.
Ella: Soapy, powdery, and fruity.

Speed Stick With Aloe
Crankster: Smells like Irish Spring mixed with cucumbers.
Ella: Very fruity. Smells like the cucumber perfume that Victoria's Secret used to carry.
Misanthropster: Cucumbery.

Dressing Down

Last week, I told my students that I would give an extra credit point to anyone who wore a costume on Halloween. One brave soul, Chelsea, dared me to do the same. Now, I've been known to back down from a dare or two, but wearing a costume? Hell, I was just waiting for a good excuse.

I decided that I would dress like a redneck, complete with stained clothes, Red Man, spit cup, the whole nine yards. It's worth pointing out that I tend to get a little uptight about my costumes. In other words, it wasn't enough that I went as a redneck; I had to be accurate. I grew out my moustache for a few days, then sculpted my facial hair so it looked like I had a fu manchu. I dug out my tight jeans, hiking boots, and paint-spattered flannel shirt. I bought a wig, a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a wife-beater. I was on my way.

Before I finalized my costume, I decided to do some last minute research, so I went to Redneck Mecca. Wandering around the Wal-Mart, I played a little game of Jane Goodall, carefully observing my inspiration. As I looked over the young gentlemen in the store, I began to wonder if there was a redneck style guide. How did they all know to bend their caps the same way and wear the same five tartan designs on their plaid shirts? Was this something that Daddy taught them, or was is somehow encoded in their DNA? Regardless, I collected the data I needed and went on my merry way.

As I was driving to the store for a few last-minute items, I saw an older man standing at an intersection, with a sign that said "Need Food." Now, it's pretty uncommon to see people begging around here; in fact, this is the first beggar I've ever seen in the area, and it was clear that he was uncomfortable. His clothes were clean and tidy, albeit typically redneck; he had the military jacket, the dark jeans, the hiking boots and the Chevy baseball cap. Thinking about it later, I realized that he had definitely taken pride in his appearance. His tastes were wildly different from my own, but it was clear that he'd put some serious thought into what he wore. Watching the rednecks wandering around the mall, I noticed the same thing--my extreme stereotype was, simply, inaccurate.

When I got home, I decided to tweak my costume. I cleaned my jeans and boots, bought a brand-new flannel shirt for the ensemble, and added my dad's old Navy jacket. Looking at myself in the mirror, I knew that I'd hit it--mildly disreputable, but clean and tidy. I realized that there were only three sour notes: my jeans flared out at the bottom; my flannel shirt had shrunk, making me look like I had Frankenstein arms; and the only big belt buckle I could find was an old Soviet mariner's insignia. Still, the look worked. In fact, I decided that the too-short sleeves enhanced the costume a little.

The next day, I discovered that it's possible for a costume to be too perfect. I found that the number of flirty glances that I got had definitely tapered off. This isn't to say that I didn't get attention. In fact, in one grocery store, the security guard was extremely solicitous, and the Burger King near school seemed eager to fill my order and get me out the door. The attitudes of my colleagues, on the other hand, didn't change at all; many of them didn't notice that I was wearing a costume. Now, I've been known to let standards slip here and there, but come on! My students figured it out immediately.

So here's what I learned:

1. A wife-beater only looks good if you weigh 150 pounds and have less than 5% body fat.

2. Some of my co-workers are morons.

3. Redneck facial hair is itchy.

4. I still have Catholic guilt, and it still completely rules my life.