Deciji Sapun

“All Out of Tears”

This small bar of soap cost me about $1.50 at one of the little storefront groceries on Milwaukee's south or west side (can't remember exactly where I bought it!) but it has loomed fairly large in my soap empire due to its mysterious stature. I mean, I'm sure it's not really mysterious, it's just the language barrier, but I'm not even sure where it's from or what it's supposed to be all about. Oh, yeah, and the fragrance is a conundrum, too, maybe the real mystery here. It's right in front of me, but I can't describe it. The only word I come up with is “medicinal”—it's slightly medicinal, but what does that mean? Does that mean it reminds me of pHisoHex® (that doctor soap my mom always had a green plastic bottle of when I was a kid)? I'm not sure, because it's been a half-century since I smelled that stuff, so I guess I'm at a bit of a loss regarding the fragrance.

There is some info on one side of the packaging, in three languages, but none of them are English—and I don't know what the languages are. On the other side there is an ingredients list, also not in English, but partially understandable (you know—aqua. parfum, tallowate, glycerin), and partially not—chemistry language—so that's not anything I understand much of either. When I look up the words on the packaging on the internet, I see some listings—and looking at a few, I have determined this is a medicated baby soap from Serbia. That is something, I guess, and maybe all I need to know. Oh... I didn't describe the picture on the glossy paper packaging, which is the most striking thing. It's a kind of dated looking illustration, like something from an old children's book, in a red oval, of a pink skinned baby sitting in wooden washtub with soapy water running over the sides. The baby's head is all covered in white suds, so it looks like one of those old powdered wigs. The baby looks pretty happy, really—far from tears, perhaps conspiratorial. There's also a green clover with the letter “M” in it. If that doesn't stand for “Mystery fragrance,” I'm at a loss. I'm going to try to smell it once more... nothing. It's like no other soap I have, yet it reminds me of something, somewhere, sometime—from far and long, I guess, ago.

Soap Review No. 80

The Soap Shop – Honeysuckle Gardenia Soap

“Interstellar: The Soap”

I obtained a sample size of this soap, a gift from friends, which I then identified by pictures on The Soap Shop website—and my own nose. It's a cute little swirly green and white bar with a lovely floral fragrance. I'm writing a review here and now because it's small and won't last long—because I'm compelled to use it—and I just wrote about the other Soap Shop soap they gave me—much appreciated! By the way, I'm not mentioning the friends by name because they went out to Colorado and brought back a boatload of edibles—but also, for me, who does not partake, some soap! Actually... they didn't go out there for the weed, but rather for the beauty of the land, and they brought back art and soap and no weed—weirdos, huh? I'm still not naming them.

Should I move to Colorado? I remember a time, way back, before Coors beer was pasteurized, you couldn't get it east of the Mississippi, so people in Ohio would occasionally take an all-night road-trip, Interstate to St. Louis (or maybe even a pilgrimage all the way to the “colorful” state) and come back with a trunk-load of Coors “Banquet” beer. If you tell a young person—who has grown up with craft beers, maybe never sampling the swill that is Coors Light, but knowing the horror of the “Silver Bullet” advertising—if you tell them this story, they will laugh, and absolutely not believe you. Why would they?—it's absurd. But history is important, because when the government starts spending money to build gas chambers, yes, that might be a red flag. Not to get too grim, but anyway, should I move to Colorado? This company, The Soap Shop, is from Idaho Springs, Colorado—where's that? I looked it up—it's a tourist town up in the mountains west of Denver, exciting to me because it's on US Route 6 (have I told you about my Route 6 project yet?), which is also, there, US Route 40 (which I've spent a lot of time on), as well as the dreaded Interstate 70 (there are only so many mountain passes, so the routes often double up). If I moved there, I'd have to work in retail, I suppose—and could I even get a job in a little shop selling beads or whatnot? Could I deal with it? What do you hear in that town?—the gurgle of Clear Creek or the drone of the Interstate? Did the creek run with blood during the Gold Rush? Were the Native Americans who healed with the local hot spring waters screwed out of everything for the sake of Europeans who just wanted add a few years to their lives for some additional raping and pillaging before ascending to Heaven?

Sorry, I got off on a bit of a negative tack there—I mean, no reason to pick on a cute little Colorado town (I love towns that are named names of States that they aren't in, just because it confuses the terminally confused)—when really, our whole country is equally heinous and haunted, and so is the rest of the world. Which is why you need to occasionally make a point to block out the screaming horror of the past (doesn't mean you don't care) by taking a bath and getting lost in the transformation of fragrance. I truly believe smell equals interstellar travel. There is danger (certain brands of canned soup, when microwaved, can send you down the chute to Hell), but it's worth it, even if you escape for a mere 15 minutes. This soap immediately transported me, not sure where, but after a few journeys, I read something about it—their website (which has a lot of info, nice stuff to read, and positive messages, by the way) says it is fragrance oil of Honeysuckle and Gardenia I'm enjoying. Then I remembered one of my favorite soaps in the past couple of years—this one called Willow—which I read was scented with Gardenia—so now it's all coming together. What is this mysterious Gardenia? I will have to do more research. Where can I go to be around flowers? Is there a greenhouse, or have they all been taken over for growing marijuana? Could I get a job at a flower shop again? So many questions and possibilities have arisen—see, it's not just soap. Please don't limit yourself to that factory-made Walmart bullshit—it doesn't really even cost anymore to use interesting soap—and it might change your life.

Soap Review No. 79

The Soap Shop – Miner's Gold

“Waiting for Eureka”

This soap has lasted me awhile, for one, because it's good quality and dense, but also because I've been making it last, not using it all the time, because I'm so intrigued with the fragrance. I can't nail it down. It's outside my experience, it's not part of my olfactory vocabulary. Not that I'm an expert, by any means, but I have been trying a lot of soap. I wonder if the sense of smell can be learned, developed—well, of course it can—but I wonder how much it's an inherent thing. This one isn't subtle, it's pretty strong. I'm fascinated with it because it initially strikes me as repellent, but I keep going back and enjoying it. If I had to guess, I'd say it was “earthy”—which is harder for me to get a handle on than certain floral fragrances. It's not subtle in appearance, either, as it's made to resemble a rock taken out of a mine, with veins of gold running through it, and little chunks of gold here and there. It's really pretty ingenious, the way they made this visually. The gold parts are really pretty metallic looking—it's almost alarming to use it—and the veins running through are present throughout the diminishing of the bar. I even really like the color that's not not the gold part—it's a very deep gray, but it's very slightly sparkly, too, like a nice auto paint job—it's very beautiful, actually.

The soap came with the most minimal packaging, which I'm all for, but there is not much info there. The Soap Shop does have a good website, though, so I'm going to look there to see if I can match up any of the ingredients to my experience. Besides organic coconut, palm, olive, and castor oils, it says the gold chunks are glycerin, and there's also bamboo charcoal and gold mica—maybe this is where the sparkles come from? As far as fragrance, there are oils of oakmoss, lavender, blood orange, marjoram, and fir needle. I really have no idea what any of those smell like, except lavender—and mixing all that together? I'd have to find each of those and isolate them, take in each fragrance, to try to figure out how it works in this soap. I'm just not that dedicated, at this point. Some day I'd like to have a fragrance laboratory! Soon we'll have google-smells, but right now, I'll rely on words. Fir needle, I can imagine, and lavender I know. Marjoram is an herb, and is an aphrodisiac (just read that, I had no idea). Oakmoss is a fungal lichen whose fragrance is a strong, wet, earthy, mossy aroma—forest floor scent (I like that). Also, I just read that it's one of the bass notes in Chanel No. 19, which is my favorite perfume. Blood Orange is an English singer, fond of hats. Okay, that all helps, a little. Still, I swear the smell reminds me of something else exactly, or really close, but I'm not going to be able to figure out what. It probably doesn't really, anyway. I think it's just pretty unique. And right now it occupies that strange and unsettling space that's on the fence between never wanting to smell it again and falling in love with it.

Soap Review No. 78

Zum Bar – Clove-Mint

“Clovering”

I see this Zum Bar soap in stores a lot—there are usually a lot of varieties, and you really notice it because the soap's packaging is minimal—there is just a band around each bar—and there are usually some bright colors, and the soaps have this distinctive ridged shape. I think the odd shape kind of annoyed me—not that there's anything wrong with it—it's actually easy to handle—but I'm not crazy about it, aesthetically. The one word that sold me on this particular variety is “clove”—I just love clove, it's one of my favorite flavors, spices, and smells (and remember clove cigarettes?—I enjoyed those things, even though we knew, way before they told us, that it was like smoking fiberglass). This soap was no disappointment—the clove and mint blend nicely, and I never got tired of washing with with this scent—I'd often use it for my face. I made it last. There's an extensive website—it's a company called Indigo Wild , in Kansas City—and all pertinent info is also on this minimal band of paper packaging. It says “Goat's Milk Soap,” and the size is 3 oz—not huge, but a nice size. It claims to be made by hand in small batches using a cold-processed method. I don't know enough about soap-making to know if that's a good thing, but they say it is. It's free of detergents and synthetic fragrances—the ingredients are all natural things, including goat's milk—it almost sounds edible. “Mineral pigments “is listed, so I'm guessing that's where the really intense and beautiful green, cream, and orange-brown swirls of color come from. I really don't know why I resisted this soap for so long—maybe it seems too perfect—the colors too well-defined and beautiful, the shape too unique, too many interesting varieties, and its description sounding too good to be true. But if this one's any indication, I'm the one who's wrong, and I'll definitely buy more, eventually—Zum won me over, for now.

Soap Review No. 77

Anatolia Daphne – Olive Oil Soap

“Dawn of the Dead”

Out of the fancy box, this soap is a big, beige, rough-hewn rectangle, as if cut from a block, odorless, colorless, unadorned. It's 5.7 oz, so average size I guess. I was given this as a gift; I've never seen it in a store. It comes in this nice, slide-open cardboard box—which seems handmade—it's a nice box—I've seen wristwatches and expensive perfume come in boxes this nice. It seems like it could have been expensive, but looking online, it's not. There's a lot of info on the box—it says traditional, handmade, 100% natural, and there's contact and product details, and ingredients, which are: “Olive Oil, Soap Base, Vegetable Oil, Water.” I don't know... that's not specific enough for me. Soap Base. There is a website, a pretty nice one, which includes other Anatolia Daphne products.

The production address is Hatay, which is a Turkish province that borders on Syria. It's not far from Aleppo, actually, where the last olive oil soap I used is from. It's on the eastern Mediterranean coast which is, of course, a good region for olives, and olive oil, and olive oil soap. I could start reading about the history and politics of this little area, but I'd be here all day and probably still not understand anything. Of course, recently, there is the news of war from the Turkey and Syria border. I tried to read about that, and was mostly confused. It's not easy to understand, and I imagine, not necessarily agreed upon by those with knowledge on the conflict. I'll likely become more informed about all this, as war rages and the politics churn, but I don't pretend I'll become expert about the intricacies, subtleties, and implications of the history and politics. This got me thinking about how what you see on the news is the bad stuff—I know this is obvious, but you forget that. You see news about a region where there is conflict and you think it's it's 100% war zone, death and destruction. But there are people there going on with their everyday lives as much as possible. How much is business as usual and how much is disrupted or tragic, it's hard to tell. Of course the news goes where the action is, where the tragic stuff is. I'm not saying the news should just drop in on an area at random—of course it goes where the dire stories lie. But maybe for every news story about a distressing situation in a particular area, you owe it to yourself to check out something positive about the place. I guess this is where traveling comes in, and people who travel a lot definitely have a more balanced perspective of the world. I know I have not traveled nearly enough, and the little traveling I have done, I mean out of this country, has been really valuable to my perspective.

Back to the soap—it's a nice, no-nonsense soap, and has that olive oil quality, nice on your skin. It's totally uniform, but there were a couple little black specs in it here and there, which just made if feel more legit as handmade soap. I took a picture of one of the specs and would have liked to put it under a microscope. I suppose it was just some part of a plant or a piece of something. There is supposedly no fragrance in this soap, but it does have a smell— I tried to describe it—can't really—it's gentle and pleasant—I guess it's the fragrance of the olive oil. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was laurel oil, like the last olive oil soap. But that's not listed in the ingredients, and if it's there, it's really subtle. One more thing—and the biggest mystery of all. The olive oil soap form Aleppo floated... which I only knew because I read that, and then tested it. I don't know why. I thought maybe because of the olive oil composition, but I have no idea. But I decided I should test every soap from now on to see if it floats or sinks. Most sink. This one, I'm sad to say, sinks. So maybe there goes my olive oil theory? I don't know. I probably won't mention it, in the future, unless a soap actually floats.

Soap Review No. 76

Hemani – Turmeric Soap

“No Fun”

This is a common brand (Hemani) of Ayurvedic soap, that you might see in a local Indian food store. This bar cost only $1.49, but it's also very small (2.65 oz.) and didn't last very long. I used it a lot, because I felt like my skin liked it, and Turmeric is known to have all kinds of medicinal benefits—I'm not sure about on your skin, but I trust no one's eating this. I've written over 70 soap reviews now, and I haven't yet, I don't think, talked about how you probably shouldn't eat soap? Turmeric is the bright orange spice often used in curry, in its root form, dried and ground, but it's not the most flavorful or fragrant thing out there. I read about some instances of artificial coloring agents being used in some Turmeric products; you're not supposed to do that, but as we know corporations and individuals do stuff they're not supposed to do at a mind-numbing rate. The ingredients here are simple, and include Turmeric, also common chemicals such as EDTA, also perfume—a little surprising since there is very little fragrance at all, and I assumed it was just the soap make-up (Sodium Palmate and Sodium Palm Kernelate) and the Turmeric, which is described as having mustard like fragrance. What this soap reminds me of, smell-wise, is some other soap, but I can't remember what. It's not a totally pleasant smell, it's a little harsh, a little metallic, bordering on acrid, even. Not too unpleasant to use, by a long way, but in no way what I'd call lovely, or even very soothing. When it comes down to it, I have to admit, my main interest in soap is the fragrance. I think I've made that clear, but unless a soap makes me break out, I'm not going to be against it, even if it's skin-drying. My real passion is for fragrance, and what I'm crazy about is smell that takes me other places, brings back memories, or somehow inspires a feeling of well-being. This soap has none of that, and it's just really not much fun.

Soap Review No. 75

Nagchampa – Banana Soap

“Snorky”

This small bar of soap wasn't anything like the big, weirdly shaped bar of Nagchampa soap I used earlier, which was more a sandalwood soap. This one is pale yellow and has a very slight fragrance. Maybe that's good, in a way, because actual banana can have a pretty intense smell, especially when ripening—it's one of those that balances on the fine line between delicious and disgusting. So this is just a hint of banana. To be honest, I'm not sure the hint isn't in the word Banana, engraved on the bar in a very cool font, or the pale yellow color, or the attractive box. I'm wondering if maybe it's been sitting around for awhile—well, I bought it awhile back, and it's been sitting around here, and who knows how long it was in the store or on the long road from India? I wonder if I should pay more attention to the date when a soap is manufactured? Anyway, it cost only a few dollars, and is pretty small. It's vegetarian, I guess—“Free from Animal Fats”—among the ingredients is palm, rice, and coconut oils, and glycerine. It's a really pleasant, good on your skin soap, so if you're in a store and see a box, hell yes, pick it up! If you're wondering, the nickname I gave this soap, “Snorky,” isn't because that's what Al Capone wanted to be called, instead of Scarface, but because it's the name of the elephant keyboard player in the Banana Splits band—he's kind of my favorite.

Soap Review No. 74

Duke Cannon Supply Co. – Big Ass Beer Soap

“John Wayne's Butt”

The Duke Cannon Supply Co. offers a lot of similar products that are meant to appeal to a retro appreciation of manly values and tastes, and they do a pretty thorough job of covering all the bases, both evoking nostalgia and poking fun at contemporary tastes. To what degree it's tongue-in-cheek, somewhat ironic, is not totally evident, which I guess is good marketing, since “all-in-fun” is more universally appealing than “angry and disgruntled.” And while it's not exactly unique to name your product “Big Ass” something, it still feels a little bit bold. At 10 ounces, this huge block of soap is impressive to hold on to. Their website is a lot of fun, and so is the box, which includes a photo of the top of a beer can on one end, and in the fine print, a rant against craft beer. That the soap is made with beer as one of the ingredients allows a marketing tie-in with Old Milwaukee beer, which adds to the regular guy, real man thing. I do love the Old Milwaukee logo, and the idea of it, though when I did drink beer, I remember it being on the low end of the spectrum as far as swill-factor went, but I drank my share because it was cheap.

Oddly, there are no ingredients listed on the box, though I did find them on the website. Not surprisingly, some chemical-y bullshit, but I'm sure they would find my interest in ingredients not manly, and any possible concern with personal or environmental health to be against their credo. Or at least the values of the “Duke Cannon” character they are portraying. I'm guessing that a lot of this soap is given as a gift and then never leaves the box—I've found that your average person is freaked out about trying new things, soap included. I wonder if it should be considered a manly value, to boldly try new, weird food, or new unusual soap? Anyway, to their credit, I found the light tan color lovely and the large letter “D” indented in the soap compelling. It felt soft and sudsy, and didn't make me break out (rarely a concern, but always a plus in its absence). My greatest focus was on the soap's fragrance and how that made me feel over the bar's fairly lengthy life. My obsession with fragrance, I'm sure, is decidedly not a manly endeavor.

At first, the smell nauseated me a little bit—not extremely, not terribly—but it was definitely on the unpleasant side. But as I used it (and I realize this has become a common theme) either the fragrance mellowed out a little or maybe I just got used to it. It definitely grew on me, and while I'm not totally in love with it, I like it a lot, like a man friend who is a little inappropriate at times. I guess part of the appeal is that I can't really nail down the smell. It reminds me of something, it's nostalgic, kind of retro, I guess, and really does evoke, to some degree, a working-man, or door-to-door salesman smell. There's probably something out there it matches up with exactly, but I just can't figure it out. Let me try one last time: OK, it brings back some childhood memory, like a soap my parents used or some aftershave my father had. I admit, Duke Cannon really pulled it off. I suppose not wanting you to think it will be like bathing with stale beer, their marketing claims a “Woodsy, Sandalwood Scent,” which strikes me as a little... artistic. If you were really dead-set on a retro man's soap, why not Kirk's Castile or Fels-Naptha?—two hardcore cleansing soaps I remember from childhood (which I have yet to review, here). Well, because that's not the point really—the point is humor and nostalgia—which this soap does have, in spades.

Soap Review No. 73

Chami Soap – Laurel Soap

“Laurel Gray”

At first, this doesn't seem like soap at all, because it's such a rough-hewn, hard-edged, uneven, square brick, and it's even uneven in color—green, brown, tan, parts of it pretty light, and parts of it very dark (my “tagline” Laurel Gray doesn't refer to the color, but the character played by Gloria Grahame in In a Lonely Place (1950)). It's so brick-like you'd think you might pave a patio with it—certainly not use it to wash. Stamped on the top is the logo, which is a kind of heart-shaped indentation, and inside that, indented writing, Arabic, I guess, and then at the bottom of the heart, four small, very distinct stars. There are also four black stars on the simple, white, 2 ½ inch square, paper label, under where it says Chami Soap. Under that is says: Laurel Soap, then: Specification: 90% Olive's Oil – 7% Laurel's Oil – 3% Alkali. All caps in a box, then: Made in Syria, and under that, smaller: Syria – Aleppo – Rkak St – Manara Building. Then the date of the product and expiration, and that's it. There it is, right down to the building. This soap is the real thing, but it cost me like nothing, under $2, I believe, at the Holyland Grocery and Bakery on S. 27th and Ramsey. That's a great store. I'm not sure of the weight—it's not big, but it is a square shape, most efficient for soap wear. The other weird thing is that it floats—I don't know why, but it does. And it lasts forever—I started this bar months ago—and granted, I use 9 different bars of soap at a time—it's still going strong—a little, two-tone, green jewel, still soapy and full of fragrance.

Because of the civil war there that went on for years, when I think of Syria I think of bombs and destruction, but now maybe things are coming around? Aleppo is an old, old city, and must be one of the most interesting places in the world. Maybe some day everyone will be able to freely visit everywhere, and we'll all realize no matter what our problems, interests, or beliefs, we're all a bunch of hairless bugs, dropped into the horror and beauty of nature, here for just a moment, but each with the potential of individual reinvention and the creation of poetry. The only real enemies are those who want to amass all the resources while others go hungry—but no matter how much gold you have in your cave, I say at the moment I bathe with this soap I'm as rich as the richest person on Earth. I would love to visit the soap-makers. I'm going by what I read on the shaky-web, but this soap might be made by the old process, boiling the ingredients in a vat, then pouring it on a big floor, evened off to the thickness of the soap, and cut into squares after it cools and hardens. Then the squares are stamped with the logo, gathered up and stacked where they dry for months and months. Olive oil soap like this has a really nice texture, smooth and lush—I imagine it's very good for your skin. This particular one has an intense fragrance—not super strong, but very distinctive—part of it is the olive oil, and similar to all the olive oil soap I've used. But also there's a lovely, slightly floral smell, and I guess that must be the laurel oil. I really like it. This is just one of my favorite soaps, for sure, and if I ever end this quest to try all bar soap known to man and settle on a dozen or so in my house, I think this will be one. Using it seems to do something positive to my brain—I don't know if it's the fragrance (aromatherapy), or something in the soap itself (biological), or if there is something else—mystical, magical, even.

Soap Review No. 72

Upper Canada – Maple / Erable

“Double Maple Love”

The box this soap comes in is confusing enough—it says “Naturally” in big letters, like that's the brand name, and then “Upper Canada”—which is the brand name—in the smallest font on the entire box. Naturally is, apparently, an adverb that describes the product, or a song by Selena Gomez about hot sex, or if it's in parenthesis, a song by Gilbert O'Sullivan about no sex, that, if you're my age, you heard on the radio when you were 12 enough times to last two lifetimes. It also says “Maple” and “Erable” and “Soap Bar Pain De Savon”—which is apparently either redundant or bi-lingual, since soap bar means pain de savon and vice versa—if we're to believe the internet. “Erable” is either a computer algebra system (CAS) from 1993, or the French word for Maple—I'm going to go with the latter. The soap is square but has a bold maple leaf indented, so I'm guessing most of these words are redundant, unnecessary, and not needed—except maybe for the word “soap”—because it looks exactly like that delicious maple candy that's made from maple syrup and butter (same color, even). It also smells like maple, as does the candy, so it's probably not a bad idea, in order to prevent any tragic mixups, to positively identify this product as soap.

The smell is not overwhelmingly maple, which is probably a good thing, though it is extremely pleasant and subtle and lovely. The box says there's also “caramelized vanilla”—and the fact that I don't notice it is a fine indication that they're not, with the vanilla, thank god, overdoing it. This is an exceptionally soft and silky feeling soap—I don't know if that's due to the Glycerin (indicated in the ingredients, or not (though there are very few ingredients, and that's a good thing). I tried to read about what exactly is glycerin, but I didn't get very far (a lot of chemistry), but in general, for soap, it's a GOOD THING, and not to be confused with nitroglycerin, which would make your soap potentially explosive, and even deadly, if you dropped the bar in the shower (I mean literally, not metaphorically). But I reiterate: it's not the same thing. I guess this soap comes from Canada, and I'm a little sad to see it go. (Actually, a lot sad to see it go—I mean, for sadness on a dwindling soap level). It's one I wouldn't mind using again (and again and again), but I'm not sure if I'd have to go to Canada to get another bar. If so, I'm going to also get some of that maple candy while I'm at it.

Soap Review No. 71

Castelbel – Cotton Breeze – “Always Be A Unicorn”

“Tide”

This is a really big, white bar of pleasant smelling soap, though it didn't impress me too much at first. It came in green paper packaging with the brand “Castelbel” in silver letters with their crown logo, and then in gold glitter block letters “ALWAYS BE A UNICORN”—what does it mean? Under that: “Cotton Breeze Scented Soap,” and 300g or 10.5oz. Big. It's made in Portugal.

So I research “Always be a unicorn”—first brings up an insipid song and animation on YouTube. I shouldn't ever have bought this soap, and stuck to my always avoiding anything unicorn. But I was just intrigued, like a fool. Then an Etsy page. Good lord. Apparently there is this saying: “Always be yourself unless you can be a unicorn, then always be a unicorn.” Problems: that is too long, and it's stupid and annoying. Because it's presented as something you can't argue with. Except I WILL, because it says if you can be a unicorn then DON'T be yourself—so it's essentially implying there ARE NO UNICORNS. But why do they persist then? (Not to mention, if you take the second part of that phrase without the the first part, it means something entirely different.)

Maybe unicorn is the key—look it up: What is a unicorn? There is some weird sexual stuff I only just discovered—don't get into that—forget that part. As a mythical creature, I have NO USE for it—so why did I even buy this soap? Maybe there is a clue on their website: No, there is not. But the website is funny, awkward English—that's cheering somehow. Another funny thing on the packaging: “Cotton Breeze Scented Soap”—what does that mean?? Is it supposed to be the smell of fresh laundry? First impression: It smells like fresh laundry.Which is to say, it smells like TIDE—which is actually a positive thing with me. Note: See my short story, “Shit, Roses and Beer”—which is published in my collection, 5 Minutes Late (1988) TBS Publications (currently unavailable, but if you look diligently in those “little libraries” around town, I occasionally drop stuff off there).

Soap Review No. 70

Pré de Provence – Starflower

“Almost Not Blue”

I bought this soap on a whim one day—well, always a fan of the Pré de Provence bar soap—but kind of taken by its bright blue color, and also wondering what “starflower” is, exactly. I haven't been able to find anything definite about which version of starflower is represented here—it could very well be Borage, which has a lot of lore connected to it, but since I don't know for sure, I'll allow that to remain a mystery. The fragrance was pretty off-putting to me, initially, though I admit that it's grown on me and mellowed out over time. I eventually decided that it reminds me of Chanel Allure perfume, which I had a small bottle of once (and also found initially off-putting). While I can find no documented connection between Allure and starflower, I know what I smell, and unless and until you get me some Allure again, and I can do a head to head comparison, you're not going to convince me that this soap fragrance isn't an exact match with that Chanel fragrance—in all of its brashness and lack of subtlety. As far as the color goes, my eye sees it most accurately matching to “periwinkle,” a light blue color that gets its name from the periwinkle flower, which is, of course, that color. I wonder if one might mistake a periwinkle for a starflower? A little more looking also finds Argentinian Blue as a close match—the light blue color on that country's flag. I'm most familiar with that color from watching World Cup soccer when it rolls around—I always really appreciate that beautiful color on their cool uniforms.

Soap Review No. 69

Pacha – Pines & Needles

“Christmas Everywhere”

This is a strictly seasonal Pacha soap, at least I'm assuming, as I don't see it in the store, nor on their website, yet I was able to buy it the last two years around Christmastime. Two years in a row, and I'd call it a holiday tradition, for me, now. If it shows up next December, I can pretty much assure I'll buy another one, because it's one of my favorites. Just by using 10 bars of soap at a time, all the time (for research!) I've been able to make this one last up until summer. It's a refreshing soap to use all year around, particularly to wash your face. It also has somewhat of an aromatherapy function for me. Since I can't find anything in writing, at the moment, I'm going to assume the soap is scented with some kind of pine oil, and the little oblong fragments in the soap are pine needles. What kind of pine? I don't know, and of course, there are an infinite variety of those kind of plants and trees. Anyway, this is a particularly good smelling one, whatever the source. One thing I really like is that it's not in any way subtle. It just about knocks you off your feet. It might be a little much for some people. Not me! In spite of the sledgehammer fragrance, it's also very gentle on your skin. It probably has the biggest fragrance to gentleness disparity of any soap I can think of, for that matter. How does it work in an aromatherapy sense? Well, the fragrance evokes a time and place, which could be holidays, and walks in the woods, in winter. The strong evocation of Christmas, of course, comes with some inherent sadness, at least for me, and probably for most people. Having gone there, instantly, with that intense smell-memory, you can then emerge on the other side, wherever you happen to be, say a sunny summer day in June. Maybe not cured, exactly, but able to take that next step in a positive and constructive direction.

Soap Review No. 68

Nature's Blend – Walnut & Sandalwood

“Artie Fufkin”

I'm not finding too much internet exposure for this soap—I searched by name, looked at images, found one, looks just like the one I have, and that's because it's my photo! It's under #newsoapsunday, which is now a world-wide, albeit infrequently exploited, destination. I'm happy to help out, Internet—but when are you going to kneel down and kiss my ass? This soap is from New Zealand, which is about as far away as you can get without, you know, going into space. I'm looking at my globe, and it looks to be about the same size and shape as California. Can that be right? Maybe it's like the the anti-matter California, like if you're a worthless shit, you could go to New Zealand and find someone who looks almost exactly like you who's a good person. Technically, you could launch a one-person sailboat off from the California coast somewhere and just take a straight shot across the Pacific and land in New Zealand in a few—what? I have no idea how long it takes! Make sure you take plenty of energy bars and some fresh water. So how does this soap, made down there, get back up here anyway—and end up being affordable? I suppose by some kind of container ship, packed in with a lot of other crap.

The rather hefty bar came simply wrapped in kind of loose plastic with a wraparound paper label with all your pertinent information and virtually no graphics. Really, this is one of most minimally packaged soaps I've seen. The name is so innocuous as to suggest a parody. The ingredients do include some chemical-y crap, but also walnut grounds, sandalwood oil, glycerin, and fragrance—yet the fragrance is so subtle I'm not even going to try to describe it. The good thing, I suppose, is that it doesn't have an off-putting, lingering presence like that other nut soap, the pistachio one, did. The rectangular bar is a very uniform, pale beige color, but once you start to use it, walnut fragments reveal themselves and give you this pleasant, kind of fun texture—though I don't know if it has, really, an exfoliating function. You'll find a lot of cheerleading for the health claims of walnut, when eaten, and you know, they just feel healthy, if a little boring. Though, at one point, way back, I bought a huge bag of shelled walnuts very cheaply, and one afternoon ate way too many. I mean, I think it was too many, because later I hurled—though I can't say for sure if that was the walnuts' fault. But since then, I've been a little frosty toward them. I can't really say if they add to the fragrance in this situation, and honestly I do not smell sandalwood at all, which doesn't mean it's not there. Overall, this is a really pleasant, long-lasting, inoffensive, healthy feeling, nice bar of soap. I guess you don't always need to be jumping up and down about something, right?

Soap Review No. 67

African Black Soap

“Clean Room”

This particular African Black Soap isn't black at all, but kind of marbled, textured, multi-shade brown—looking like nothing so much as a hippie bread you'd by at a farmer's market, which contains lots of oats, nuts, seeds, dates, maybe other dried fruits, and is probably pretty sweet and tasty. I did not, however, stick it my mouth just to see. It came in a little ziplock plastic bag, no label, nothing official. I did not, however, attempt to smoke it. I was pretty confident that what I had on my hands was not nut bread, and not drugs, because it was given to me by friends, handed to me by people I trust, and who in turn most likely received it the same way. I am pretty sure they said it was from Ghana. I wonder what the rules are for packing Ghanaian African Black Soap in your suitcase, or otherwise shipping it? I know you can buy it online, in unmarked, unlabeled quantities, and it looks, in pictures, exactly like this one I received. This internet says this soap is made with maybe plantain skins, or leaves, or pods, dried, and burned to create ash, then mixed with maybe palm oil or shea butter, in the soap making process. Why it ends up so uneven and textured, I don't know. Also, that's kind of general. I guess this particular bar is a mystery.

People say that African Black Soap is good for your skin. I use so many different soaps at one time, it's hard for me to really do a controlled experiment, but I found it pleasant on my skin—it's got a nice lather, very soapy and soft. The most interesting thing, though, was my reaction to its subtle presentation of fragrance. There almost is none—definitely no perfumes or added fragrance—but of course, there is a smell. My initial reaction—the first word that came to me, when trying to take in its olfactory essence was: “natatorium.” And it's not nearly that harsh—it's very subtle, but not particularly pleasant, either. (Time passes.) I've lived comfortably with this soap and now it's sometime later, so I'll focus on one more impression of the smell: Can't put my finger on it—it definitely has a smell, but I just don't know what it reminds me of —just some far-off smell of maybe a cleaner, or a clean room, or a swimming pool. I'm just not sure. The funny thing is that it always fools me—I look at it, and it looks like a piece of delicious fruit and nut bread, but I know it's not. Why are there these things that you know intellectually is one thing, but because of some strength of appearance, or a repeated reliving of the initial impression, you just ever get over that tragically mistaken impression. It fools you and just keeps fooling you. Never mind the haunting, almost non-fragrance, or the lush, comforting, soapy lather—you just keep getting fooled. But then, we're nothing if not fools.

Soap Review No. 66

Castelbel Porto – Joy! – Elderflower & Prosecco Scented Soap

“Bubbly”

This is one giant bar of bath soap, 10.5 oz., which seems to be the hurt-yourself in the shower size, if you're not careful, or maybe just sit-unmolested in the McMansion powder-room size. It comes wrapped in off-white paper with large, gold polkadots, and a golden string—so of course I couldn't resist. Internet search first finds this on Amazon, where you might be able to buy it—or if it's anything like buying their iPhone charger, you could possibly end up with a dog-turd wrapped in a toxic cape. I picked up mine, I think, at TJ Maxx. Like I said, it was the polkadots—I have no sense of Elderflower, and I thought Prosecco was a kind of cheese. If there was anyone who could be remotely excited about a cheese soap (though, without researching it further, we'll just kind of hope none exists) it is me.

Anyway, I was immediately, and have been subsequently, so charmed by the fragrance of this soap, I eventually looked it up. Prosecco is an Italian wine, I think often presented in a version similar to Champagne—anyway, it's a delicious fermented drink made from grapes, and it perhaps translates as a soap fragrance in its somewhat sweet, deep, earthy and complex essence. Of course, I might be getting more a sense of the Elderflower—the flower from the Elder tree—which, if this soap is any indication, smells quite lovely. Elderflower is also used to flavor certain drinks, such as gin. I'll pretend I didn't see that gin part—it's the kind of thing that could lead to the slippery-est of slopes. Anyway, so it's Elderflower on top and Prosecco on bottom (except for maybe on Sandwich Nite, when they mix it up with a little mild roleplaying). Okay, I've run out of ways to try to describe the luscious fragrance, and even though this soap has an ingredients list that you wish was even smaller print, this is a real-life top-ten buy-again soap.

Soap Review No. 65

La Saponeria Firenze – White Roses

“Rose Covered Coffin”

This is a fine Italian soap from Tuscany, according to the fancy box (which probably costs more to make than the soap) and is big enough to keep and use for something, like maybe a coffin for your pet rat, or a place to keep jewelry or old keys. It's a big soap—10.5 ounces, which is a little impractical, honestly, for even me, a large man, and certainly for someone who is small, old, or doesn't have superior arm or leg strength. I imagine it as a bath soap, but you'd have to be very careful not to drop it on your foot in the shower. It should maybe come with a warning. This long bar of soap—it's a tasteful off-white—has got an intricate design sculpted on the top on it——there are flower patterns, and a building of some kind, and the name of the company, and “Italy.” I imagine some people might put this in their fancy downstairs half bathroom—the kind of soap you just politely brush your hand against when you're visiting and ask to use “the powder room”—and of course are then impressed with the giant bar of Italian soap with the beautiful designs carved in it that's too large to pick up, or really lather up, which would almost feel like vandalism. Or it might be a soap you buy for someone as a gift (who more than likely never removes it from the box) in which you impress them with your deep pockets—that is, as long as they don't shop at TJ Maxx and see countless boxes of this for $3.99.

To me, the actual bar of soap resembles a boat—or maybe more a coffin, because it has a definite top and a definite bottom—and there is a little ridge around the outside of the top so it actually looks like it has a lid you could open. And because of the dimensions—how it's disproportionately longer than wide—it's more of a coffin shape than anything. The somewhat dated, floral fragrance fits the shape and look of this soap perfectly—it does conjure up roses, or maybe an elderly lady's perfume—but a wealthy, reserved woman, very tasteful, and subtle, not overdoing it. Just a pleasant, all around wholesome rose smelling soap—but maybe lacking passion to some degree. It reminds me of the scene of the two funerals in My Own Private Idaho (1991)—this soap would be the smell of the staid, dignified funeral for Scott's father, the mayor, while the funeral for Bob would be something else entirely—maybe patchouli, weed, and gunpowder.

Soap Review No. 64

Cinthol – Confidence+

“Door to Door Salesman”

I'm guessing this is a “deodorant soap”—by the name, packaging, and especially by the smell, which reminds me of that old-fashioned kind of canned aerosol deodorant that might be used by an overly nervous, sweaty, balding, middle-aged aged car salesman. While the regular Cinthol is green and comes in a red package, which evokes, I don't know, Talking Heads: 77?—this white bar of soap comes in a sleek black package which I think is supposed to say: wealth, success, plain-speaking (“give it to me in black & white”), no-nonsense manliness. I like the name, Confidence+, with the plus-sign, that feels, I don't know, like, “I can do math, I'm not intimidated by math!” It says that in gold letters, which means wealth, obviously. Then, in smaller blue letters (the only blue in the packaging) it says: “Germ protection + Deo soap.” I'm assuming “Deo” means deodorant—but I've never seen that before. Is that a young people thing? Are they trying to get in with the under 55 crowd that this soap might not otherwise be reaching? By the way, I am overly nervous, sweaty, balding, and middle-aged—I'm not trying to make fun of a particular guy or type. And seeing how people have their mid-life crisis in their thirties now, I might be getting too old to call myself middle-aged. And balding might just be wishful thinking. The sweating is no exaggeration—I often look like a character in a less than subtle classic film noir who's on the verge of being at one end or another of a bludgeoning.

And do people even know what a door to door salesman is, anymore?—I mean younger people? Do those jobs exist? I would, at this point, kind of welcome one, if they came by—well, at least the idea. Not really. I mean, do NOT come to my door. Contact the concierge and set up a meeting downstairs in the Armada Room and I'll join you in my gold button blazer and tasseled loafers to see what kind of financing you can offer on that Kirby. If you smell like this soap, I might get out my checkbook. I kind of like it. I mean, there's sometimes a fine line between migraine-inducing and I'll buy two. You never know which way that crazy nostalgia-factor is going to swing. I mean, I don't necessarily recommend using the cologne that comes out of the machine next to the condom vendor in the Kocolene filling station men's room, but once in awhile, seeing how I was apparently never molested as a child by someone who smelled like this, the firm handshake of a chemical-y bullshit Godrej slick guy soap can warm your heart. Of course, sometimes there's a fine line between a fine line and a fine line, so watch out for that fast talkin'!

Soap Review No. 63

Vatika DermoViva – Aloe Vera Soap

“Barbadensis”

This may be the most boring soap I've bought (that's not, you know, the usual grocery store brands)—it was very inexpensive, at an Indian grocery, and you can find it online—this company has a million different skin care and beauty products. I liked using it—it felt very clean and fresh and light, and I didn't feel like I was going to get a weird rash—but there is nothing remarkable about it either. The bar is white, and shaped in that familiar “Dove” soap bar shape that always reminds me of a certain automobile design (not Toyota Camry, but that name makes me think of soap), or a wireless computer mouse. The picture on the box is of an aloe plant with a little magnified section so you can see the tiny moisture droplets emphasized (I find this charming). Info on the box is in six languages—the English version says nothing too interesting—and the ingredients list a lot of chemical-y bullshit, which shouldn't surprise me. The “natural” quality is an illusion—the only good thing there, besides aqua and glycerin is Aloe Barbadensis Leaf Extract (and I'm not really sure about that—but I'm definitely going to name a band “Barbadensis”). Nevertheless, this soap, though not riveting or deeply stirring, was a pleasure to use.

Soap Review No. 62

Goldfish-in-a-Bag

“Secret Goldfish”

This is a kind of novelty soap, I guess, or craft item that can be made at home—or maybe it's something made in a hippie shop somewhere and sold as a gift. To tell the truth, I'm not sure where it's from—it was a gift from some dear friends—but where the gift came from, I mean before it came into the possession of the gift giver, is not something you ask a gift giver, friend or otherwise, dear or not. It's a clear glycerin soap (I'm assuming) with a little goldfish centered inside of it, and it's shaped in a plastic bag with a little tie at the top, so it looks like you have bought a goldfish at a pet store and are carrying it in a bag of water. It is very clever. I'm not sure, at this point, if the goldfish inside is a little plastic toy goldfish or a real goldfish. I guess I'll find out! And viola... (much later) the soap is finished—and it was a clear, odorless, glycerin soap—nothing wrong with that, just no fragrance—which I suppose is preferred by some people (though personally, I just don't get that). I guess it's nice that it's made less boring by the fish inside. It turned out to be a plastic fish and, I guess, one ultimately has to be relieved that the fish inside was a plastic fish, and not a real fish, which would not be odorless, had it been, but fishy, or worse, possibly horrifying, or if nothing else, just plain gross. As it is, though, I have a little plastic goldfish to remember this soap by, not to mention the dear, dear gift givers.

Soap Review No. 61