Norwegian black metal bands you’ve never heard of have written songs about her, and one Swedish band scored a minor Scandinavian metal chart hit a couple of years ago when they released a song called ‘Melita’ inspired by a heartbreak night to remember (courtesy of Melina) that really put the capital D in doom. Since arriving in Copenhagen 12 years ago, she has been the doom (and on one occasion, the death) of bass players and other musical paragons of testosterone from Seattle to Siberia. Meet Melina, the nemesis of Quantum Demonology’s nameless protagonist. ( Quantum Demonology, Quotidian Pleasures) If you ever wanted to know what a Greek Goth Goddess looked like, here was exhibit A. Why not let a short, busty, perfectly flawed blonde describe her, too? For another, I much prefer short, busty, rather less perfect blondes. Being somewhat vertically challenged in my current disguise, for one thing she’s too damn tall. I should also add before I cook my own goose that much as I like her, she’s not my type at all. Visualize a waist-length, wavy fall of glossy, naturally blue-black hair, a pale, moonlit complexion touched with a tiny brush of petal-pink, eyes as luminous, sparkling green as a secret Mediterranean cove in high summer, and a full, rosaceous mouth that could send any man and several women dreaming. She stands six feet in her stockings, six feet of willowy, long-waisted, long-legged perfection (her mother was a fashion model) wrapped around a sarcastic heart of Gothic black. Yet before I can get to the perfume, I should maybe explain something about the woman who inspired it. The downtown taxis are finally silent and the Saturday night bar crowds have all dispersed at closing time towards home, to their beds, to Saturday night intents and purposes. At this dead-of-night hour, even the streetlights are asleep and only the red neon glow of a Coca-Cola sign at the burger joint across the street glows its admonitions against the dark of an April night. From where I sit at the Genie’s desk, I can see her twitch her tail as she dreams and softly snores. She sleeps in the other room now, Hairy Krishna spooned inside her outstretched arm, and on the sofa in the living room, Janice Divacat spreads her calico belly against a magenta silk throw pillow, dead to the world. You might as well know it right from the start: this is not the Genie. (Note: Found on my laptap when I woke up this morning, a review! It seems I had a visitor last night…) – a review of Neil Morris Fragrances’ Essence of Melina Contact information & something on How I Review.
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