You know what technology was ahead of it’s time, at the time, and somehow got lost in the 21^st century? Scratch n’ Sniff. I used to love Scratch n’ Sniff stuff. Who am I kiddin’? I still do, but it’s not real easy to come by these days. I’m not sure why we got away from it. What could be better? “Hey, look! It’s a picture of a chocolate sundae… I love looking at that… go ahead, smell it… mmmmmm!” You got a two-fer. Buy one sticker, get the whole experience.

I know what you’re thinking…  Strawberry Shortcake. Which would make this weird. I need only remind you of the Garbage Pail Kids. Yeah… Nasty Nick, Fryin’ Bryan, Heavin’ Steven? Now we’re on the same page of the album. I had all those. It might not have smelled exactly like feet or puke, but close enough to trigger the gag reflex.

My nephew Justin would love that sort of thing. And it occurred to me,  shopping for his Christmas present last week, bombarded by the million advertisements in the Toys R’ Us, that the industry altogether seems to have abandoned smell as a marketing tool. Foolish. I can not tell you of a time when I’ve looked at something and declined the chance to Scratch n Sniff it. “No, I’m good. Just gonna’ use the one sense on it. Thanks, though.” Would never happen.

If I’m in the check out line at the grocery store, and the magazine I happen to pick up has one of those pages with the cologne flap? Jackpot. I’m rubbing it on myself. Maybe just my hands and arms… depends on who’s around. What, am I going to leave all that good smell in there for the next guy? I don’t think so.

My smell might be the one sense they should be going after. My eyes have fooled me before. If my nose tells me something’s good, it pretty much is. Y’know how they pump the exhaust right at you, from the Cinnamon Bun place at the mall? I’m not always susceptible to it right then, but a couple days later I’m in the grocery store, eating the first Toaster Struedel before I’m fully checked out. Forget it, if something smells good to me, I’m in. I’ll take two. In fact, I’ll  probably try and put it in my mouth, even if I know I’m not supposed to. (*see Erin Burns’  Strawberry Lipsmackers and/or my Mom’s Cinnamon candle. Circa 2^nd Grade.)

Maybe it’s best that we did get away from the whole Scratch n Sniff phenomenon. As stated, I’m pretty much defenseless. It would cloud my judgement. I’ve never bought a Beyonce cd, but if I thought it might smell like her, I’d have the entire collection.

Still, it’d be nice to see it around once I awhile. I understand… times change, so why not make it smell like you’re really in the video game? I hate to think it’s a lost art. They just put my picture on the Radio Station’s website. (www.movin100.com) It’s not technically Scratch n Sniff, but if you pour a little beer on your monitor, add some Drakar Noir and a little Taco Bell… you won’t be too far off. Go ahead, indulge the senses.   

I really have to start working out. Not because I’m particularly fat. Believe me, I’ve been fatter. It’s not really a down-sizing, more of an attempt to compete in this modern age. I’m not 21 anymore. I just don’t rebound like I used to. There was a day when I was capable of burning the midnight oil and I’d still be ready for the opening bell. I think I can still be that guy. I can rally. I hope so… I’m re-entering the Market and frankly I’m afraid my stock may have slipped a bit. My once huge upside has been replaced with talk of a physiological slowdown. There may be reasons for investor uncertainty. I’ve outsourced most of my nutritional needs. My hair follicles put the chains on the front gate years ago. For all I know, my prostate has far outgrown it’s useful perameters.

So why, all of a sudden, am I sounding the alarm after several happy years of unmittigated deregulation? Well, I’ve been under exclusive contract for years. I had a regular buyer. No need to keep an eye on the trading floor. I was off the grid. Done with that game. Gone were the days when some new commodity would catch my attention, I’d go all in, try to massage it into something worth hanging onto… and lose everything the first time it fluctuated. Have to gather up my stuff… Not even say anything… Just leave with my head down…   *I’m prety sure I’ve confused my own metaphor here. Think it’s probably best we just seek the solice of a new paragraph. 

What were we talking about…? Oh yeah. Fact is, I’m putting myself back out there and The Market I’m entering isn’t neccesarily the same one I left. I’ve got to think Healthy. Green. No more dealing stricktly in Junk. Got to eliminate some of the Pork. I have to find a way to compete with new, healthier alternatives. I don’t want to put myself out there and sit on the shelf. What If nobody wants me in their basket? Maybe women are cutting down on stuff like Me.

Omygod. I’m bacon. I am totally bacon. I’ll be loved, but only in small doses. Not right for most occasions, but perfect for a greasy Sunday morning. Sure he’s tasty when you bring him home, but when you’re done you’ve just gained 230 pounds. But I don’t have to be bacon. I will not be bacon! I mean, who’s writing the Nutritional Information on the label, anyways? Me, that’s who. And from where I’m sitting ladies… there is little cause for alarm. Just gotta jazz up the packaging a bit. I’m free range, so I’ve got that going for me. Dolphin-safe. Could stand to be a little greener. But soon to be low-fat and still packin’ 100% of your daily requirements.                …And that was a little gross.

Change is good.  I’m not sure why this is writing all in italics. I promise you I’m not doing it for added oomph. There’s a glitch in the software, apparently. I don’t mind it, I guess. Might be just the thing I need  to make ‘em take me seriously. Or do italics connote sarcasm? Are italics the cyber-equivelent to finger quotes in the air…?  That’s definitely not the effect I’m after at all. It would be a lot cooler if it froze in bold or all caps. Get out there and demand the reader’s attention. Like the letter I just got from NiMo. That one even had PARTS IN RED. Anyway– the italics are unintended. I’ll try to fix it again before I post this. If I’m successful, rendering that last paragraph inconsequential, no one will ever see it and we’ll start here. Welcome back from that forray into the endless conversation inside my head.

  CHANGE IS GOOD. I quit my job last week Not like a, walk in one day, Fuck You, either. I’d been thinking about it for months. In fact, I continue to give myself kudos for not pulling the F U trigger during any of the dozens of times I was inches away from doing so. See the thing is, I had a really good thing going. (Normally, I would like to have employed the italics back there on “really”. Shame to have the italics tool removed from my arsenal, because in this case I REALLY mean it.) I had a great gig. I was working full time in Sales, had some good accounts, making pretty good cash, got along great with all my clients, had a high-rated segment on the #1 Morning Show in town. “Whatcha sellin? None for me, thanks. My cup runneth over.”

Enter The Dragon. I like to think that during my 37 years on the Planet, I’ve aquired a working ability to read people. Sometimes I’m surprised. Often pleasantly. But for the most part… I know when somebody’s carrying some bad Mojo. I just got a new Boss. I’d met with her a couple of times and my Spidey senses were tinglin’. Something wicked this way comes…

Y’know how some people have mastered the art of telling you bad bad things with a happy face? You’re getting killed by kindness and you can feel it?  I like to call it the ”Pelosi Crunch”.  Although I pretty much agree with Madame Speaker’s politics, and find her mildly attractive and don’t even wanna know how old she is… I try to put myself in (Enter Republican’s Name Here) _______________’s shoes and imagine how nerve wracking it’s going to be to sit across from that blinking, smiling face as she quips that the people have spoken. And reminds you what we’ve said. The pleasantness somehow makes it  hurt a little more. And you get the feeling it was very much intended to do so. So anyway… Here’s why I up and quit my job…

Dammit. Now all I can think about is coming to terms with this wierd Mature Milf thing I apparently have for Nancy Polosi and I’m wondering if it’s clouded my judgement. Maybe I’m just buying into her aganda so that I might further my own. (Which, I should tell you, is getting more sordid by the second. I never should have let myself go down this Pelosi road, tempting as it was, all strewn with garterbelts and  programs to help the poor.) What if my whole take on things is clouded by basic, carnal desires? Maybe what I’m looking at as a well thought out set of ideas is nothing more than a caveman writing on a wall? Maybe that’s all I’m capable of basing anything on. Obama? Man-crush? Jeeezus, Is that what this is? Any other time I’d punch you in the nose for even suggesting it. In light of my feelings for Pelosi, I’m willing to admit… I’m diggin the message, but I’m also thinkin there’s nothing wrong with the way the man takes the stage.  

Nice. I set out to tell you a story about how I changed jobs, and how excited I am about it. Instead I’ve turned myself in circles and may have just confessed that I vote for people because I think they’re sexy. (And the fact that this continues to be in italics isn’t helping anything. Probably should’ve dropped into wingdings a long time ago anyhow.) I’m going to call it a night. I’ll tell you more about the liberating job situation tomorrow. Please note that any political views I may express from this point forward are to be taken seriously. I do not, and have never, based any vote on a candidates sex appeal or lack thereof. Examples: Dan Maffai? Got my Vote. Sarah Palin? Not in a million years. So there you go.             

All information contained on this website was created and is the sole property of Mark Eischen. Any use of this material without Mark’s written consent prohibited. (Sorry… it was necessary to put this on here. Gotta protect my stuff!)

I’m not buying any more stuff from any more children. I mean, sure… if the kid next door needs to unload his ipod ‘cuz he’s in a tight spot… okay. I’ll help him out. The Girl Scouts with the cookies…? Fine. I’d probably go out and buy the Thin Mints or the Samoas anyway. It’s the raffle peddlers I’m boycotting. I went to my nephews Soccer game last week. I was there for an hour and a half and I dropped like forty bucks. These kids were relentless. But It’s not their fault. It was tied up towards the end of the game and I could see their parents getting them all riled up. “Overtime, kids!! I know it’s raining, but I need you to stay focused. There’s dollars out there.” I guess that’s the cut off point for me. I’m not giving anymore money to any kid so he can turn around and hand it to his old man. Let the guy ask me himself. …I know it’s going to a good cause… and I’m sure it gets there eventually… But it’s not fair to send the kid in. It clouds my judgement. ”Will you please buy this raffle ticket so I can still keep going to gymnastics?” How do you say no to that? If it was an adult I’d be like, “Y’know what? I’m a little short, man. But you should just keep doing your Gymnastics in the back yard. If you’re any good the neighbors will notice. I promise.” And that’s fair. It’s an adult transaction. No, the kid walks away with my 30 bucks, and three years later I’ve got two more pieces of paper still stuck under a magnet on my fridge.

Again, I’m not trying to keep anybody from making a buck. I’m not trying do descriminate. You’re the kid next door you gotta’ unload your skateboard and your Gameboy to get your buddy out of Juvie? Alright… I’m your guy. But only because I’m in the Market for both of those things. Supply and Demand.

So there, I said it. I’m not buying anymore raffle tickets. Sorry kids. If you really think you need organized gymnastics, send your folks over. But I’m telling you it’s overrated. Do your own thing in the back yard. I didn’t participate in a whole lot of “Organized Activities” as a kid, and just look at me.