The Sweet Smell of Excess

Once again, Christmas was a disappointment. I got a lot of things I didn’t want -- books, shirts, a nice pen -- but didn’t get the thing I really wanted: a bottle of Donald Trump, the Fragrance.

For the last few months, whenever he appeared on television or in the newspaper, I would point to his picture and chirp breezily: “Hey, gang! There’s that Donald Trump guy again! Say, I wonder what he smells like?” Perhaps I was too subtle. Donald Trump, the Fragrance” ($60 for 3.4 ounces at Macys.com) did not appear under my tree or in my stocking. The closest thing I got to Donald Trump, the Fragrance was a new yoga mat, which has the rubbery, slightly sulfurous smell I associate with Trump, for some reason.

Actually, I’m not sure how Trump smells. Sure, we’ve all got our guesses: hair care products, maybe; wet pavement; a car interior on a hot day. According to Estee Lauder, the company producing Donald Trump, the Fragrance, Trump smells like citrus, “with hints of mint, cucumber and black basil ... rounded out with spicy, peppery accents.”

In other words, Trump smells like the kitchen exhaust fan of the Thai Dishes restaurant on Venice near Overland. Personally, I love Thai food, and the combination of that plus my curiosity about Trump’s particular smell plus the gift-giving season was a no-brainer. Or so I thought.

Promotional materials for the fragrance describe the packaging, meant to evoke parts of Trump’s essence, as a clear glass bottle that is tall and slim. Trump, of course, is a reasonably tall man. And as for “slim,” well, who among us hasn’t struggled with that extra piece of pie or that double load of fried zucchini? Swathed in gold wrapping, Donald Trump, the Fragrance is, according to Trump, “the best men’s scent available and a must-have gift for the holidays,” which doesn’t really make me feel any better about the pen, the shirts and the yoga mat.

I have long attempted, in my career as a writer, to be more Trumpian. I try to surround myself with the very best of everything: My morning coffee? The most aromatic. My sneakers? Luxurious. The pooper-scoopers I use to clean up after my dog? World class. And in business, I believe I have attained an almost eerie imitation of Trump’s persistent flirtations with bankruptcy.

I was looking forward to a New Year’s Eve with a distinctly Trumpy smell. I imagined myself, freshly showered and shaved, removing the tall, slim bottle from its solid gold cardboard box, misting the air in front of me -- because that’s the way you’re supposed to do it, according to fragrance industry experts. It’s the only way to get an all-over Donald Trump, the Fragrance experience and avoid acrid, burning Donald Trump, the Fragrance hot spots on your skin. Then I would saunter through the falling particles of smell, allowing his signature scent to drape over my shoulders, like a Superman cape, or a souvenir poncho from Juarez.

And then, I thought, ladies look out. What’s that smell, you ask? That, my foxy lady, is the sweet smell of success. It’ll stop burning your eyes in a minute. Anybody else suddenly up for some pad Thai?

But as things currently stand, I don’t think I’ll ever smell like him. And for that, the blame rests squarely on my thoughtless family and so-called friends.

Perhaps next year, you say? Perhaps. But the damage is done. The damage, as Trump might say, is unsurpassed anywhere in the world.

And next year, who knows? To be honest, I’m not the most consistent person around. Next year I might want to smell like, oh, just pulling another Donald out of the air, Donald Rumsfeld. Maybe I’d like to spritz myself with his personal fragrance: I’m thinking a top note of Old Spice, with hints of mechanical pencil lead and echoes of a cigarette habit given up in 1974 but still embedded in the fibers of a suit, no matter how many times Mrs. Rumsfeld has had the thing dry-cleaned. I mean, my goodness, for the price of dry cleaning these days you’d think they’d be able to get the smell out, wouldn’t you, dear?

See? You wear a man’s scent, it’s like you’re wearing him. Or maybe that’s just your yoga mat.

Rob Long is a contributing editor to National Review and a commentator on KCRW.