*a flashback before I move on to  telling of my recent stint in Rehab. If nothing else, this might demonstrate that I’ve been struggling with this for awhile.I found this in a notebook sometime in November… (Honestly, these blogs will get lighter, I swear.)

Tuesday, March 4^th, 2008— What, was I sleeping? Why don’t I lay the last twenty years out with pretty broad strokes, and then I’ll give you the last one rapid fire. That’s pretty much how it’s felt, anyway. I was crawling along. Have you ever come upon a snail… and you can see the long trail going all the way down the driveway? You’re on your way to work or whatever, so you don’t give him a lot of your time. But maybe as you look down at him, it occurs to you that his current rate of progress is about as fast as he goes. So you think “Wow, how long did it take him to get all the way over here?” And you kinda feel a little bad as you shovel him up and throw him over the fence. Except not really, because you know that assuming you didn’t just seriously injure him, you just launched him on an adventure that would’ve otherwise taken him a month and a half.  Well, that story doesn’t really apply here. But I seemed to have slowed to a snail’s pace in my mid thirties, after a good 15 years full of adventure. And now the last couple of years have been going at breakneck speed. So… it does apply, kind of. Here comes the shovel.

Sunday, March 9^th – I’ve got a new buddy. That’s his name right now, and I think that’s his name to stay. I picked up Buddy, a six month old Black Lab,  yesterday and he’s now the center of my Universe. I met him a couple of weeks ago. He was somehow found wandering around East Syracuse. When I came across him, was sitting in a cage at the pound. Because he’s such a handsome devil, they had him on hold for a week, while they waited for somebody to call looking for him. I went there every lunch hour to hang out with him. I couldn’t even take him out of the cage, due to the “hold”. I was  reminded, repeatedly, not to put my hands in his cage. Usually when I was already in the cage, shoulder-deep giving him a one arm hug, heads together on either side of the bars. Sitting on the floor in a suit. But I was careful not to get attached. He’s just a dog I barely even know. I’d hang with him for a few, and I’d say, “Awright, Bud. If I don’t see you…” Sometimes a dog will end up there because he just wandered off. I’m sure there are people freaking out about their lost dog and are so glad to find them there. I don’t want t take someone else Buddy. I want them to be re-united. Because it feels so good. So I kept my distance, mentally. Well, that call never came. Instead, I got a call saying I could stop by anytime to take him outside… check him out… pretty much give him a two arm hug test-drive. I had to do it soon, as demand was mounting for an animal of such appeal. I was there a half hour later. I’d been throwing a rubber cong off his kennel walls for a week and a half.

He’s awesome. He’s my best friend and I just met him.

I am only now realizing that I kept my last dog around too long. And I am the last one to know. She was pretty limited for some time. I was (probably willfully) oblivious to everybody else wanting to pull the plug on old Sadie Dog before me. But, who cares? It wasn’t up to them. I didn’t mind lifting her in and out of the car and up and down the stairs. It was part of the routine. And as long as that dog was looking at me saying thanks, she was more than welcome And we keep ridin’, same as we have for 10 years… I had her back. I traveled the Country with that dog. “Limbs aren’t workin’ at all anymore, Doc? No problem. Take em off. I’ll put her in a backpack… Long as we can get her to Cheyenne by nightfall.” We were buds, and she would’ve done the same for me. God, I loved that dog. You know what question I always got caught up on? “Is she still enjoying life?” My Vet would always ask me that. “Well, does she seem to be enjoying Life?” I don’t know. I mean to the point where she doesn’t want it terminated? Yeah. I believe she is. Then he’d say, “Well, if she’s still eating…” Is she eating?! Mornings it was a struggle to get her to go for a walk, but she could catch a french fry from across the room before it hit the ground. 

Why am I thinking about Sadie? Time to talk about Buddy.

Sunday, April 6^th – I don’t know what kind of Sadie nostalgia craziness I delved into the last time I wrote. And I’m not going to look back. There’s plenty of heavy stuff going on right now to keep me occupied. I just got back from Jersey a couple days ago. I  went down to have, what I imagine will turn out to be, one last conversation with Oscar. He’s in the hospital and not doing well. I got the chance I needed. I sat with him alone. (Well, minus a little Asian guy who was monitoring Osc’s dialysis. He was very nice, but still made me a little self conscious.) I knew the conversation would be one-sided, as my old friend was completely unconscious, but it was a conversation I was determined to have. So I sat there… oh shit. I just accidentally eavesdropped enough on the people sitting next to me to figure out that they’re on a first date. I wish I didn’t know. Now I can pay attention to nothing else. I am now going to start typing random keys so I look like I’m still writing but can fully dedicate myself to this.

Jdkekdkfhreoddudhaldjfhtufjtialrpqieoorjutillospowrite. OHMYGOD they’re talking about herpes. The word is being thrown around like nothing. I swear to god. Jskwkdhdnfjrjejq ieid jd jk. I shouldn’t be listening to this. I can’t believe I’m hearing it. I really wish the girl behind the counter would turn down the music, so I could hear them better. These are two fifty something’ s and I think the dude is throwing it right out there… or at least dancing around it. Are they both survivors of the Herp? Is that how they met? Ewww. This guy disgusts me. That’s somebody’s Mom he’s sitting across from. Probably somebody’s Grandma, you sick bastard. Yep… He’s the one that keeps bringing it up. He’s telling her a story, on their first date, that he dated a woman that had herpes. Are you kidding me? Run lady. He’s got herpes. I need to get away from this and find another table or I’m going to scream it out loud. RUN LADY.  

Where the hell was I? Oscar. I had to wear a full smock, gloves, hairnet, and a mouth thing, just to go in. …Who’m I kidding? There’s no way I can ignore this. Hsjdweei ee tret ajtk htueree odnt surla fhtiwtrt showutghy ht. 9fee0s fhtwruqqwod. Jtislfjepwer. Htisd., rhtisjr. Hr. Okay, now they’re on to past relationships. They met on match.com. He’s asking her if he’s being too forward. You think, you slob? THE BLENDER?!?!? ? I SWEAR TO GOD. SHE JUST ASKED HIM IF HE’S SLEPT WITH A LOT OF PEOPLE. AND THE FUCKING BLENDER WENT ON. I’D LIKE TO CUT THE POWER TO THIS PLACE RIGHT NOW, BUT THESE TWO WOULD BE NAKED IN THIRTY SECONDS.   Are you shitting me? This guy is a pervert. Here they go. She just told him she thinks he’s very attractive. Now he’s pouring it on her. But he won’t stay on her. He keeps drifting back to other past disappointments. Would it kill you to give the old broad a compliment before you try and give her herpes, you sick animal?  

So, I just visited Oscar. I got a chance to say goodbye. It’s hardly the first time I got more out of a conversation with the man than he did. But the thing is this. I made a quick turnaround on this trip. I left Thursday around noon, got back early Saturday night. By 8 o’ clock I was shitfaced again. I’m currently (I’d like to put it in past tense, but I know I can’t yet) drinking an insane amount. I’m talking an 18 pack of beer and at least a half pint of Jack Daniels, three or four times a week. (The reason for the lack of consistency in my drinking schedule is due to the fact that the days in between are spent in the throes of massive hangover.) Oscar’s condition awoke something in me.

I stood in the middle of the field behind my house, breathing the same life-giving air as him. (Of course we were 800 miles apart. And I was breathing mine through a cigarette, his through a tube.) Still, we were sharing the same life source. While I was standing there, finishing off a bottle of Jim Beam and I thought about words he had said to me over a year ago. I was at his place for Hanukkah Diner. (My first one, incidentally. Far surpassed any Hanukkah expectations.) I had recently come to the decision that I had to stop drinking. Enough was enough. Despite my hanging around the town well into my twenties, I was not in College anymore. I’d finally decided it was time for me to stop living as if I was. A few months later, I woke up in the middle of 81South, in my truck, upside down. That’s another story. I had sat down to talk with Oscar, My brother Jeff’s Father-in-Law. Not only a man who was fast becoming my close friend, but a medical Dr. for over fifty years. One of the things he said to me was, “What you’re doing if you’re actively abusing something, is… you’re not only robbing yourself of the life you deserve, you are robbing the people around you of their right to enjoy you. They deserve the right to you as you really are.” I’ve remembered this ever since he said it. Except for those times when I’ve forgotten it. Completely.

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.    

Times are tough all over. I don’t live on Wall Street. I don’t even live on Main Street. I live on my street. And so do a lot of little kids. It’s them I worry about in these troubled economic times. We’re getting dangerously close to Holloween and I don’t see things turning around in time. This will undoubtedly affect the youth in at least two ways. The first instance is probably occurring at this very moment. Right now there’s a kid in Aisle 12 of a Walmart, holding an Aquaman costume. And there is a Mom telling him she can make one just like it at home. The truth is she can not. She knows it. He knows it. A one-piece footy pajamas does not a believable superhero make. Molding a sheet of tinfoil to the head does nothing to better one’s standing among his fellow trick-or-treaters. I know. I’ve been there. Unfortunately, Tommy Badala was there too. Out of nowhere. Then he was gone. And my candybag went with him. I don’t blame him. For picking me out, I mean. For his tendancies toward such behavior, yes. For seeing me as an easy mark… completely understandable. I looked like I wanted it to happen. Parents, don’t let this be your child. Spring the $12.95 for the deluxe costume. He’ll thank you for it. Now, and later in Life.

Secondly, I ask that you forget your own economic troubles in spurge for a bag of Snickers. Nobody likes Smarties. I’m sorry but they don’t. If you feel you need to go the ‘candy in a tube’ route, at least think Sweet-tart. It’s really in your own best interest. Give enough Smarties to enough kids, you’re eventually going to call attention to yourself and invite retaliation. If you’re going to do that, you might as well put a little sign on your front porch, that reads ”You must be no taller than THIS LINE to receive treats.” I’ll do it with you… One thing I definitely can not afford is to give candy back to the 18-year-old kid that sold it to me at the drugstore. And his friends, sitting in the car in my driveway. I don’t care if I hit the lottery. Let them steal their own candy. Not that I don’t appreciate that they took the time to smudge a little black under their eyes to go with the sideways baseball cap and football jersey they’d be wearing anyway… No treats for teenagers, period. I’m drawing the line. Times are tough all over. Me…? I’m routing for the little guy. …With the tinfoil on his head.

I’ve been eating Wheatgrass, and nobody cares. That has not kept me from sharing it with them. My news, not the Grass. (Although they’d run out and get their own if they knew what was good for them.) I get on these kicks once in awhile. I discover something that absolutely changes my Life… for like three days. The Wheatgrass Revolution was inspired by the one and only Tony Robbins. Yep, the big dude who put out those two sets of motivational tapes. Perhaps you were unaware there are two seperate sets? Oh, there are. And I own both. Which means I was sitting home alone, eating Cheetos at 3 o’clock in the morning and decided an infomercial held my secret to happiness… twice. I remember thinking that ordering the second set would provide just the push I needed to open the first one. And it did. Four years later.

I was going through some old boxes and I came across the complete library. Still in Mint condition. I made a concerted effort right then and there to get started. Which meant throw them in my car, where I might actually pop one in the cd player. I got like 3 deep, vowing to come back and complete the exercises, when Tony let me in on the real secret. Wheatgrass. Turns out ol’ Tony eats little else. And look at him. He must be 10 feet tall.

I’m making changes. This awful stuff is not the end, people. It’s the beginning. I am forging ahead. Working my own program. Couldn’t work Tony’s if I wanted to. I lost cd’s 4-27. He was kinda bugging me anyway. Y’know, come to think of it, I’m feeling a little wound up in general. Maybe I need to give Yoga another shot? …Where the hell did I put that Deepak Chopra dvd I got in college?