Story:

My first thought upon regaining consciousness was that a square basketball would make a silly helicopter for raccoons.

Those were the fume-addled brain cells still hallucinating. When the spinning colors cleared, my second thought after opening the door to my teenage sons’ bathroom was coherent.

Cologne must be making a comeback.

Nowhere on the label for a line of brand-name grooming products that currently rivals Megan Fox for popularity among young North American males is any warning to apply: 1) only under well-ventilated conditions, and 2) in quantities not exceeding one quart.

The brand is Axe.

Not that I would describe the fragrance of Axe as in any way axe-reminiscent, although such a smell might well be nostril-friendly. The woodsy scent of a freshly hewn Douglas fir from the Pacific coast or the spicy bouquet of nutmeg pods taken by hatchet from the trees of a Malaysian island is an odor any manly man would be pleased to give off. That’s assuming “Axe” refers to the sharp metal end of the instrument, of course, and not the far wooden extreme, in which case, hoo-doggie, thank goodness Axe is no whiff from an axe handle.

Axe smells more like — how would I put it? — like hydrocarbonic molecular compounds suspended in a solvent agent. Like Brut.

Remember Brut? You will if you were around for the 1970s and at any point inhaled. In the 1970s, atmospheric Brut levels were part of local weather reports. Brut was the cologne of choice, the deodorant stick, the after-shave (pfft), for the fellows of my own non-conformist teen generation bent on rebellion against the establishment and setting our own fiercely independent ways, starting with all of us guys smelling exactly alike.

Of the five human senses, smell is said to be the most powerful memory trigger. Now that the men of my vintage are the captains of business, industry and government in charge of grabbing every possible nickel for themselves by way of executive salaries, questionable dealings and greed, regardless of the havoc and despair left to the young people who actually contribute to the economy, I’m thinking a fine public policy would be to have chemists whip up a big, fresh batch of Brut. Suspected of stock manipulation or gross financial mismanagement, the pudgy, grey-haired culprit would be detained in a small room thoroughly atomized with what he smelled like in 1978. On second offences, a high-shool yearbook could be opened to display the era’s celebrity hairstyles  popularized by Cher and Farrah Fawcett _ essentially the unisex ’do he sported on picture day. The process, I submit, would restore a personal humility sorely lacking in today’s power circles.

Yeah, buddy-boy, big man now, aren’t you, amassing your wealth off others, but back then you also reckoned yourself the envy of all as you swaggered around emitting zig-zag cartoon lines to illustrate the force field of a veritable chick magnet.

Axe, Brut, Hai Karate, Aqua Velva, Stetson _ the brand names alone read like the entries for the 11th at Assinboia Downs and ought to be the first indication that actual results might vary from those depicted by swooning females in promotional materials. Fragrances for women go by entirely different labels _ Obsession, Euphoria, Provocateur, Intuition _  all suggestive, but through subtle nuance only. Nowhere is the distinction more evident than in magazines. To use a football analogy, perfume ads in women’s magazines often feature a flip-up cardboard sample flap, releasing the olfactory game plan, if you will, for romance. Whereas men’s magazines don’t smell at all, and the one flap is a full page that opens from the centre, depicting only the goal line, no strategy at all on the finesse to get there.

 Where I picked up the notion that men’s cologne had from fallen out of fashion beats me. It might have been from the bans on fragrance in most modern workplaces. Or perhaps from the Old Spice ads currently on TV, which are hilarious. The upshot of the Old Spice marketing campaign seems to be along the lines of, OK, we’re a joke, guys in general are a joke, and as for our aftershave that you gave your father every Christmas for 17 straight years, joke’s on you, because that’s what the old man used to kill the crab grass around the cotoneasters, so maybe next time you’re at the drugstore, pick up a bottle for old time’s sake, won’t you? Chicks will dig you. (Cue whistling sea shanty).

Nonetheless, I am proud my sons have discovered Axe. And I’m not just writing that because of our recent agreement whereby every time I make embarrassing light of their teenage ways in the newspaper, I owe them each five dollars.

I shall pay.

 Money’s out on the patio table, boys.

 Just give me 50 Mississippis to get upwind before you fetch, OK?