I Love Goth Juice

Last week I headed to Lush, the store that makes soap out of food, to restock one of my primary humours- along with soy lattes, I am  propelled through the world by Goth Juice, the vegan hairstyling product inspired by the Mighty Boosh that I first loved here.  I stood in the middle of the store and looked around, casually, and then with ever-growing confusion, until a nice girl with a fashionable haircut broke the news to me- that Goth Juice, Made from the Tears of Robert Smith, had been dropped from the LUSH offering.   I  dropped to my knees and started gasping like a trout, and  regretted the carefree, sloppy vigor with which I had dispatched my last tub of product.  If I had known, I said, I would have made it LAST, maybe frozen a little bit for a special occasion, like my marriage to Noel Fielding, or the funeral of the person who discontinued Goth Juice.

Growing up, reading the deeply Red State publication, the Dallas Morning News, there was a weekly editorial in which elderly ladies published letters seeking obscure beauty products, in colors and textures that had long since fallen off the cultural map.  I felt the same way as poor Enid, dragging pen across dry paper, trying to find the cardamom knee rouge that had driven all the soldiers wild at the swing dance.   But still, I  write a regretful ode to my lost product.

Purple.  Slippery but dry, like the SLIME toy that was sold in the 80′s until every carpeting had SLIME mashed liberally into it.  It smelt like pine trees, or like a linoleum floor that had been washed with something that smelt like pine trees.  Lightweight and evoking Vince Noir and gravity-defying satsumas.  Infinitely superior to the greasy King of the Mods, which inexplicably survives.  If no-one else loved you, Goth Juice, I loved you.


2 Responses to “I Love Goth Juice”

  1. etagenbett says:

    This was a very simple explanation. It would be nice if you could elaborate a bit more on your definition in the opening paragraph

  2. Thank you, Etagenbett. I am going to respond to your spam as if it were real.

    The elaborate answer is that I stood in what used to be my home LUSH store, where I met my friend Andrea Vidal before she got to be a big rockstar, and I felt my knees get wobbly and I started crying like an asshole in a store. I wasn’t ashamed particularly of the hot tears running down into the neck of my t-shirt, because I was never going to see any of those girls again. It wasn’t even my LUSH store, which had been next door to the dead Music Millennium where I had seen Cyndi Lauper play life and had resentfully checked my tiny handbag dozens of times, they had moved the LUSH across the street to waft food-soap smells to a raw denim store. Oh, where is the Portland of my late twenties, and how did she get so fucking FANCY?

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