Someone pushed T-Bone Walker into the CD player and suddenly I'm in two places at once.
My fat bottom is sitting down in front of my workbench, fiddling with Mr. Green, but my spirit is flying off to the Tower District, swigging guinness, macking on fried dill pickles, and listening to a three-piece jazz band banging away in the corner.
Now I want to blend something smokey and dark, with a pinch of cheap, and buckets of desperation and lonliness. Something with a little adultery in it, and some 'over-the-hill'.
I don't know. I think this perfume might make someone suicidal.