Obsession was lust. Youth. The unattainable. Kate Moss’ elastic skin against cracked stone. Classical bodies cut off mid-limb at the ad page’s edge (Vogue’s Venus di Milos). Also, all the big Os: orgasms, orgies, and oculi; eyes, eye-round breasts, and, in turn, Bruce Weber and Mario Sorrenti’s lenses. The fragrance’s serif label was often paired with the fine subtext “for men.” On the television spots, a woman’s voice whispered, “Between love and madness lies obsession.” The smell was “sensual, woody.” The bottle—a redacted teardrop or short pool. Where there was water, this scent was always shallow. Shallow like a lake from which Kate’s face surfaced, or a Roman bath from which Gemma Ward’s sweet teen bottom buoyed.
A Whitechaplain is dead, and the whole world is emptier for it, even though most don’t know it.
I know this won’t mean much to most of you guys. The long and short of it is, a friend from the first place on the internet I ever felt at home has died recently. I’m not sure what the official C of D will be listed as, but it was heroin addiction that killed him. Addiction and a bastard world that didn’t deserve him, and rarely appreciated him.
A friend of his says that this song was among his favorites.
So, here’s to you, Flecky. To borrow a phrase from Dr. Thompson, he was one of God’s own prototypes. Too weird to live, too rare to die. Sleep well, man.
I knew this guy from Whitechapel. It sucks that he’s gone
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