Guest write: 'Eau d'Joe' with thanks to Joe Gensle

I’m breaking a man-rule by admitting that, sometimes, there are those occasions that I enjoy shopping for clothing for myself. Those occasions are so rare that it’s usually a $300USD day without buying any shoes, accessories, or what I’d call ‘fancy’ clothes. ‘Fancy’ means slacks that need tailoring to finish the cuffs, shirts made for neckties I own but no longer need, and suits or blazers which I love but for which I have no need.

I read the shopping blog, here, and had already made my strategic mission into the mazes of sale racks of men’s shops and department stores. The mission was simple, really. Find clothing that’s impervious to gallon-per-hour perspiration, rain, and splashed drinks. Too, there’s the unique-to-New Orleans Café du Monde syndrome, namely, a ‘house’ custom of blowing one’s powdered sugar from atop the beignet.

We fat people are a sweaty lot, anyway. But blow powdered sugar on me when I’m completely perspired, and in one of my new easy-breathing shirts, and I’m going to be imperiled. I become subject to attack by relentless waves of dive-bombing mosquitoes. I stick to nearly anything that’s dry against which I’ve merely brushed a limb or affected article of clothing. Hell, I might even be mistaken for some colossal dessert by a Southern Decadencer, and you know my size and infirm leg do not the aerodynamic sprinter, make.

So I bought some nice shirts. I already have a share-sized golf-style umbrella that’s somewhat compact. I’m okay in the walking shorts department. I have more T-shirts than fans at a country music festival. Shoes? Well, my black ‘combat’ tennis, i.e. black New Balance shoes will sport fresh stings.

The other clothing needs are adequately covered for the trip.

But I was really short of one indulgence. Whether traveling or not, I like men’s cologne, and am verrrry picky about the fragrances I wear. Lagerfeld was made for my body chemistry, I’ve worn it more than 20 years, and recently ran out. ‘Aw hell,’ I thought, I’ll call my friend, Luv.

Luv works at a local drugstore’s cosmetic counter. So I asked her, “Do you have any of the nicer men’s fragrances at disaster-closeout prices?” and she assured me she did.

Although it seemed a bit sweet, there was something about the fragrance as I sniffed the box. Since she didn’t have a tester, she opened the box and produced a small square of index card-like material, and was ready to shoot. “Wait, Luv-- I need to know what it smells like on my skin.” And it was sweet, but there was also some subtlety to it, and it was mindful of something else of which I couldn’t think at that moment.

I’m the proud owner of a 3.4 ounce bottle of Tommy Bahama cologne. I wore it to work the other day and caught a whiff of myself on the commute. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I smelt of a fucking tropical coconutsy pineappely drink. It was so spot-on, that when I got out of the car, I had the urge to look around to my massive bum to see if a paper umbrella had sprouted from my arse.

Please don’t blow your beignet sugar on me because I think this cologne is going to give me all the looks, comments and bugs I can handle. Or not handle, causing me to flee to my room and shower, clothing and all.