Three Imaginary Girls

Seattle's Indie-Pop Press – Music Reviews, Film Reviews, and Big Fun

{Let Rachel Flotard of Visqueen take the sting out of your heart. Send your love advice questions her way at [email protected].}

Dear Rachel,

I need help with my boyfriend. We've been dating for a couple months now and his dependency on cologne is really bothering me. It's so strong, my nose itches, and needless to say, his overwhelming faux scent does little for my libido. I thought he would stop using it once we started dating exclusively (thought the nerves convinced him he smelled funny), but he's still layering it on. I've dropped subtle hints but he doesn't seem to realize what I'm getting at. I've even tried hiding his cologne bottle when I spy it in the bathroom… but he still finds it behind the toilet. I feel like he'll feel self-conscious if I tell him straighforwardlike. Is there a way to get him to stop wearing it under the belief that it's his idea to stop wearing it? Help.

Not about the Pepe LePee-U

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My friend Lukie and I were on a Las Vegas flight through Salt Lake City.

How Southwest Airlines got away with putting this WWII hunk of foil back in the skies I will never know. Threadbare aztec porn-burlap, I shit you not, upholstered on jump-seats. We were packed tighter than Mormons between golden plates, but thankfully one of god’s 20 helpers FACING us wore headphones singing Macy Gray hits for all to hear. The crew did zero. This was Air Kazakhstan run by cocks and gypsies, so in a desperate move to flee the karaoke jesuit, we bumped up a few rows.

After telepathic high-fives and some page flipping, our hearts immediately began hemorrhaging irony: Farts.

In the window seat next to Lukie was not a sewer of quiffing goats but sweet old Delta Reese lady. Basically, Maya Angellou was drilling okra bombs in 17C and this was the Great American Smoke Out for the sinning bitches in A&B. Stoic as the Mona Lisa, Luke did what I gravely understood had to be done and my eyes recognized her silent message. Like Kool-Aid at Jonestown, she opened the magazine, tore out the gaggiest, perforated perfume sample, opened the scent flap, and wiped it across my upper lip before assisting herself. “I try to say goodbye and I choke.” Indeed, Macy.

Help means never having to spend two months in Glade County lock-up. Tell it or smell it, babe.

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{When she's not providing solace for the lovelorn, Rachel can be seen and heard playing for her band, Visqueen. But don't let that intimidate you! Send your love woes her way