Heading to the farmers market

This summer, I’m going to try something that I’ve never tried before. I’m going to go to an outdoor farmers market. I guess there’s something like five different farmers markets that are open every weekend during the summer that are literally within a two mile radius of me – I’m actually baffled as to how I’ve never been to one of them before.

In any case, I figured that a farmers market would be a good way of ensuring that I get my ass out of my apartment on nice summer days, and it’ll also be nice to get some fresh ingredients that I don’t normally see at our local Whole Foods. But, like everything else in my life, there’s a catch.

Typically, I try not to go to any store unsupervised. I’m what I’d like to call a compulsive buyer. Some people say don’t go to the supermarket when you’re hungry, because you’ll end up buying more than you need. Well, that applies to me ALL THE TIME. I can be going to the drugstore to pick up a bottle of Aspirin. Chances are I’ll come back with 3-5 rolls of toilet paper, 2 magazines, an industrial size bag of Doritos, and an umbrella. Oh, and a hamster. But no bottle of Aspirin.

I went to a movie a few years ago with my mom, my sister, and Wifey. After we had all grabbed our seats, my mom asked me to go grab two sodas, and one medium popcorn for us all to share. I ended up coming back with 4 sodas, 3 large popcorns, and nachos. However, I feel like this wasn’t entirely my fault. The teenage girl at the counter convinced me that by slightly increasing the quantity, and the sizes of the items, that I would in fact be getting more bang for my buck. Since then, Wifey has been the one purchasing the popcorn.

So, here’s my concern... You put me in an open air market, I’m likely coming home with a boatload of perishable goods that I didn’t intend to buy, that will likely be of no use to us – even though it makes so much sense at the time.



What do you mean we don’t have any use for this bird feeder that also doubles as a cheese grater?!?! We use it 27 times and it practically pays for itself! And you tell me where you can find African Horned Melons that only cost $29.31 per pound – it’s a steal!



- Jack Asher

An Ode to Bloggers

From time to time, I hop onto blogspot, and just continuously press “next blog” until I find something that looks moderately interesting. Why do I do this? Well naturally, I do it so I can plagiarize, er, so I can see what novel ideas other bloggers are coming up with.

Sadly, 9 times out of 10, I’m sorely disappointed. It seems to be that the vast majority of bloggers out there fall into three distinct categories: The ‘rents, the artsy, and the dark.


The ‘Rents

It seems like every other blog on blogspot is by some new mother or father, talking about how cute, gifted, and/or hilarious their child is. If people really cared about how adorable children (who don't belong to them) are, Bill Crosby would still be relevant with “Kids Say the Darndest Things” – however, the people have spoken, and we have reached the consensus that we’d rather watch Snooki get into a fist fight on Jersey Shore. Don’t get me wrong – I love kids. I have a bunch of nieces and nephews, and I think they’re the greatest thing since sliced bread, but that doesn’t mean that the rest of the world needs to know about their daily activities including but not limited to napping, pooping, and eating. You want your friends and family to know about all that stuff, send it in an email – otherwise it’s just kinda creepy.

The Artsy

I never realized that blogs were used to showcase people’s photography or illustrations before I started clicking through blogspot. I don’t really understand it. I mean – I guess blogspot is free, so it’s a decent way of getting your ‘work’ out there… but my guess is that there are a pretty limited number of people out there who share your interest in cartoon robots fighting cartoon dragons. Just seems a bit counter-productive is all I’m sayin’. Besides, it’s been my experience that artsy people are usually pretty decent at computer type stuff in general – why not just make your own website to show off your sweet photos of a plastic bag fluttering around in a breeze – simply beautiful.

The Dark

These are the hardest blogs for me to actually get through. I often times have to click out of them before I have a chance to read them all the way through – lest I find myself wearing black nail polish, and eyeliner, crying to the tunes of Marilyn Manson. Time was when depressed kids used to like living the solitary life; I guess now they feel the need to get out there and share their feelings. I guess it’s a step in a right direction, I just kinda hope that I continue to avoid whatever direction they’re going in.


Perhaps I’m being a bit unfair. Every once in a blue moon, I do come across some gem of a blog which is exactly what I’m looking for. Not only do these blogs act as a great means of entertainment, but I think they actually help me write a bit better in my own blog. Here’s a thanks to a few blogs I’ve come across that I think are great… and I’m sure there’s many that I’m forgetting:



Adventures of crazy dog lady and home improvement girl
http://acdl-hig.tumblr.com/post/454408774/dear-world?ref=nf

LIAH – Life inside Andrews head
http://lifeinsideandrewshead.com/?expref=next-blog

From the Minds that brought you ‘Beansy’
http://sheepship.blogspot.com/?expref=next-blog


- Jack Asher

Dodging Bullets - Part III

Wifey was sick this week… like really sick. You can always tell when she’s sick because she would normally never take a day off of work if she could make it in (she’s got a little thing I like to call “Work Ethic”), and this week, she took off 2 days in a row. I even suggested that she take off a 3rd day, but she was having none of that.

I have friends and co-workers who get sick when they even hear a person with a sniffle, let alone live in small quarters and sleep in the same bed, with someone who’s practically on their deathbed. Whenever someone’s sick in the office, one of my co-workers feels it necessary to break out the Lysol and go to town on everything near her desk – it doesn’t matter that the sick person works as far away as you can physically be in our office.

But have I had any symptoms of being sick this week? Nope. I haven’t so much as coughed once in the past week, thanks to my nearly indestructible immune system. Honestly, you put my immune system up against the best of them – I’ll win every time. This guy just doesn’t get sick. Hungover, yes; Sick, no.

So come at me with whatever sickness you got, I ain’t worried. It’ll just be another bullet dodged.




- Jack Asher

Why I deserve to be rich...

Everyone wants to be wealthy. It’s just a given. Not everyone, however, truly deserves to be wealthy. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve to be wealthy… a more appropriate title for this post would be “Why I want to be rich”.

Here’s the deal. I’m not the type of guy who can see myself being a multi millionaire at my current age, and just retire to some beach for the rest of my life. While that would be fun for some time, boredom would most definitely set in.

Really, I want to be rich so I can start a business. What kind of business… I have no clue. But there is no doubt in my mind, that at one point in my life I want to be the owner of a business. Just a couple of problems I’m facing with that… First off, I have no capital to start a business – hell, I don’t even have the collateral for a bank to give me a business loan. More importantly, I don’t have a solid idea of what kind of business I’d want to start. Here’s just a brief smattering of business ideas I’ve had in the past 4 minutes or so:

- Franchise Owner (Dunkin Donuts, here I come)
- Small shop of some sort that depends on a lot of walk-in traffic
- Vineyard owner and operator
- Restaurant/Bar Owner
- Successful Blogger (haha, right)
- Pet walking company – cause I like dogs, and walking
- Gym Owner
- Real Estate Mogul – think Donald Trump minus the comb-over

Of course, I would love some more suggestions - seriously.

See, if I were rich, I could get moving on one (or many) of these ideas. Of course I’d put all my effort into it, but if somehow it didn’t work out, hey… no big deal. The bank wouldn’t be knockin’ on my door, and I wouldn’t have to worry about where my next meal is coming from.


There’s this executive who used to come into my old job and speak to the newer employees there. This guy’s worth something ridiculous, like $50 Million (No exaggeration). He said, there are 5 ways people can become rich: 1) Work for it 2) Win in 3) Steal it 4) Inherit it, or 5) Invest it.

Well, the way I see it. I’m not going to win it anytime soon because I don’t gamble much, and never play the lotto. I’m not going to steal it because, well, I’m just not going to do that. I doubt I’ll be inheriting any money at any time in the foreseeable future, and I don’t have any money to invest. I guess this means I have to work for it.

F***!



- Jack Asher

Thank you, Please come again!

I had a sit-down with my boss the other day, and he asked me if I’d like to take on a new territory. Because of the way my bonuses work, the larger the territory I cover, the more opportunity I have to make boatloads of money (something I haven’t done yet, but I’m working hard on – in between blogs, that is). So, of course I jump to say yes before I find out anything about it.

Turns out this new territory is India. Not to be confused with Indiana, I’m talking about the friggin’ country of India - where Indians, not to be confused with Native American’s, reside.

Now, there are a couple of slight problems that come along with this new territory. The first of which being that my boss wants me in the office at 6AM at least three days a week to make calls to these executives in India, where it’ll be approximately 4:30PM. Whatever - I can deal with getting up early, and it means that I can leave a bit early too, which will spare me a couple hours of listening to the middle-aged coworkers that act as a nagging surround-sound.

The other problem I didn’t think about until just yesterday, when I spoke to the account executive I’ll be working with who’s stationed in India, whose name is Neeraj. I could barely understand one word this guy was saying. I was expecting an accent on par with Apu’s from the Simpsons… who would have thought that a reliable source of knowledge like the Simpsons could have been so far off? This accent was something else, and it just made me realize that if I can’t understand what the guy I’m working with is saying, how the hell am I going to understand what the prospects are telling me? I guess it'll be easier to not take “no” for an answer when I can't understand when they're saying "no".


We’ll just have to wait and see how this goes.


- Jack Asher

It would only happen to me...

I’ll be honest with you - some days, I just don’t feel like writing a blog. Either I just don't have a good idea on hand, or I just don’t have the motivation to put my awesomely awesome ideas down on paper. Today, it’s a bit of both. But, I owe it to my 2 ½ readers to put something on this damn blog – it’s my responsibility.

So, instead of coming up with a new idea for this post, I just dug deep into the memory bank, and pulled out this gem. Just so you know, this story is 100% accurate. I am not making up any of the details, and several of my friends, including wifey, can attest to this.

I was a victim of a drive-by pie-ing.

It must have been 4 or 5 years ago by now. And as most good stories go, it happened after some drinking. The 108 boys (Petey Pancakes included) and I were pre-gaming at our apartment, and we had a couple of out of town guests over.

With Petey Pancakes there, I should have known that it wouldn’t have been an ordinary night. After heading to the bar, I decide that I’m going to head home a little earlier than the other guys, and avoid whatever Shenanigans were in store.

When I was almost home, I got a call from one of the roommates; apparently one of our guests was kicked out of the bar for being too drunk, or being underage, or both for all I know. Anyways, he asked if I would meet her and show her back to our place since she didn’t know the area well. Me, being the gentleman that I am, say yes.

After a couple minutes of waiting, a red mini-cooper pulls up to the curb, rolls down the passenger side window, and asks me where Hemenway Street is.

Now, these people would either have to be extremely drunk, or extremely dim-witted to not realize that they were literally right in front of Hemenway Street. It was literally 5 feet ahead of them.

“You’re practically on it, it’s this street right here” I say, and point to the sign that’s right above them.

“What? We can’t hear you… say it again!?”

I get a little closer, and repeat, “Hemenway Street? This is it, right here”.

“What? Come closer!”

I get a little closer, and out of nowhere, a whipped cream pie is being hurled at my face. I felt like Marc Summers, circa 1995.

Now, those of you who know me must be kind of surprised by this. After all, my Spidey Senses must have been tingling, and even if they weren’t, my cat-like reflexes should have been more than sufficient for me to dodge this flying dessert. I guess that even Spidey Senses can be dulled after a night full of drinking.

Now I’m standing on the street, completely dumbfounded, and covered in whipped cream – which luckily for me was delicious.

I go home, clean myself up, and tell my friends this story. They find it more comical than I do. I beg them all, please, just don’t laugh. I know it’s a funny situation, and I’ll definitely find the humor in this all tomorrow, but for right now, just let me be fuming mad. They wouldn’t give me this one request.

Years later, as I look back at this whole situation, it is indeed very funny. I mean, not since Nickelodeon has a pie in the face been so widely accepted. But as harmless as this prank turned out, think about this…

What if I were diabetic?


- Jack Asher

Dodging Bullets - Part II

It’s an unsettling feeling seeing your HR person coming down your row of cubicles, especially after two co-workers have recently been let go. It was even more unsettling when this happened to me the other day - given my general lack of interest in my position here and daily, barely audible, wishes that this place would burn to the ground.

Now, I know what you’re all thinking… This would really be a blessing in disguise. Finally a chance for me to pursue my lifelong dream of starting my own [Insert awesome idea] company! Not the case though. As much as this job sucks, it’s still a job, and I should be thanking my lucky stars that they haven’t figured out that it was me who’s been telling the customers that our competition is more fairly priced all along.

So this HR lady’s walking down the row, slowly… and it couldn’t be worse for me had she been holding an empty box that says “Jack Asher’s Personal Crap” on the front of it. Then, she stops.


“Just wanted to let all of you guys know that we’re going to be re-doing all of these cubes so you have a little more room, and higher walls”.


Wait… so, I’m not getting fired today, AND you’re giving me more privacy so I can write my blogs during work hours without anyone seeing? Next stop, the corner office!



Another bullet dodged.



- Jack Asher

I got owned by St. Patricks Day

Well, I blew it. All the training in the world would not have properly prepared me for the festivities on this St. Patty’s Day. Let’s do a recap of the day, and see where I went wrong:




10:00AM: Show up at my friends’ apartment in South Boston. I’m the first one to show up for this shindig, and I waste no time getting after it. I pour myself a beer from the keg, and expertly drop one drop of green food dye into it to get this party started right.


10:15AM: After second green beer, I think out loud “maybe I should slow down – don’t want to over-do it too early”. Promptly get made fun of by one of the female partiers… and immediately grab a 3rd beer.


11:30AM: Party’s really going at this point. Lots of friends, and good times all around. Beer drinking games begin. A**hole is being played in one room, and other games in other rooms. I go back and forth between rooms. I enjoy myself a good drinking game. Learn a new game where I must drink every time the word “thunder” is sang during “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC. This is the best game I've ever played.


11:32AM: Celebrate the finishing of said drinking game with a few green Jell-O shots. Things clearly can’t go wrong.


11:35AM: Repeat “Thunderstruck” game.


12:50AM: The keg is empty. We all donate money for a beer run… Thank God there are still Jell-O shots to hold us over. Memory is starting to fade at this point.


1:15PM: Friends arrive with cases of beer. 6 cases to be exact. Decide to celebrate by shot gunning beers on the patio. Clearly, there’s a lot to celebrate today.


1:15PM – 3:30PM: I’ll be honest with you. I’m not 100% clear on what happened during these hours. I can virtually guarantee, however, that drinking was involved.


3:30PM: Uh Oh. All of a sudden, I’m not feeling fantastic. I need to either lie down, or throw-up… or both? Immediately go into friend’s bedroom, and lie down on her bed. Didn’t have the energy to take off my boots (sorry, Brie!). Some good Samaritan witnessed this, and took off my boots for me.


3:45PM: Still not feeling well. Time to call a cab. Apparently cabs in South Boston are hard to find on St. Patty’s Day. Time for plan B – go back inside and lie down for a bit longer.


4:30PM: Still not feeling great. Start thinking that the green eggs and ham in the morning may have been a bad call. Of course, it may have something to do with the booze over the past 6 hours. Drastic times call for drastic measures. I call Wifey and ask her to pick me up. She agrees.


5:00PM: Wifey calls. She’s outside. I say my ‘goodbyes’ and thank the hosts. My friend decides that she needs to see Wifey before I go, so she runs outside, and opens the door to the car. It’s not the right car. It’s good to see that I’m not the only drunk one.


5:30PM: - 11:00PM: Sober up, a little. Wifey makes me delicious dinner. I go to sleep.


7:00AM the next day: Wake up for work. Not feeling my best. Begin countdown till next St. Patty’s Day. Only 364 days to go.



Here’s the hosts message to a mutual friend:

Host: we went through a keg, 6 thirties, 5 bottles of wine, a bottle of tequilla, and multiple random bottles of vodka we had here. F***ing ridiculous.

- Jack Asher

Decidedly not metrosexual

When people look at me, there’s no chance that the word metrosexual just pops into their mind. I just don’t exude that aura of femininity that one associates with metrosexuality. However, when people take a closer look at my day to day activities, they start to wonder. I’m here to set the record straight - I am no metrosexual.

I do see how people get tripped up though... I wear argyle sweaters on occasion; I enjoy sporting brands such as Lacoste, Polo, and even rock the designer jeans, which I refer to as my fancy pants. When it comes to clothes, I try to keep things classy. But I never go over the top. I don’t wear the super premium brands out there like D&G, or Burberry, and I’m just as happy sporting sweats and a t-shirt as I am wearing the nicer stuff.

Those of you have been following my blog for a while know that I also try to take care of my physical appearance. I workout regularly, and I take care to keep myself groomed, which involves taking a weed-whacker to the ole’ chest every once in a while. Now, I know that this doesn’t exactly make me Paul Bunyan – but it certainly doesn’t put me next in line for a role in ‘queer eye for the straight guy’ either. Here, again, I don’t go overboard. I never moisturize, I’ve never gone to the spa for anything other than a massage, and I’ve never even considered the prospect of getting a manicure. Decidedly un-metrosexual I’d say.


For those of you who say that I’m merely a sea-weed wrap away from crossing that line, I ask you, where is your evidence? If it is only that I wear decent clothes, and try to look good without a shirt, then I’m guilty as charged. But before you condemn me to the stigma of metrosexuality, think about these accusations, and try walking a mile in my Prada shoes.


- Jack Asher

Dodging Bullets - Part I

It’s come to my attention that there has been something missing from my blog. That something, I’ve come to realize, is consistency. That’s why I’m starting the “Dodging Bullets” series. Once a week, I will do everything in my power to have one of these posts up about situations that I find myself in that are mere seconds away from being much worse than they are. Enjoy.


There are no words to describe the relief that you feel when you come out of the handicap bathroom stall just seconds before the only guy in the building who uses a wheelchair walks in, well, rolls in - especially when none of the other stalls are occupied. Why was I in the handicap stall to begin with? I'll level with you... It's more spacious, and the ambiance is better.

If this guy had come in just 3 seconds earlier, well, in the words of a personal hero of mine, Ricky Ricardo - I’d have a lot of ‘splainin to do!.


- Jack Asher

HELLO?!?!? CAN YOU HEAR ME?!?!

Let it be known that I am by no means a tech savvy guy. I know what you’re all thinking - that because I have an unsuccessful blog, I must know my way around gigabytes, motherboards, and hard drives. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Hell, even video games confuse me most of the time. Having said that, there is one piece of technology that I have mastered, or at least become comfortable with: the cellular telephone.

I recently got off a call with my mom, who is truly the inspiration behind this blog. She’s one of those who feel that while listening to someone speak on the cell phone, the phone clearly has to be next to your ear. But when it’s your time to speak, there’s no way that the person on the other end of the line can hear you unless you put the speaker right next to your mouth, and follow it up by some solid shouting… just to make sure they can hear you.

Often times she’s in areas that don’t have optimal service. On those occasions that I can’t understand what she’s saying because the line keeps on going in and out, the obvious answer, according to mom, is to speak louder and louder - Because clearly, the problem is the volume, which is easily resolved if only you try to deafen the person on the other line.

Then you have the old school callers, who feel that the distance of the person on the other end of the line plays a big role on how loudly you need to speak. My fiancées grandmother, for instance, feels that when she makes calls to family in the old country, the only way for her voice to be heard is to speak louder. Otherwise, how the hell would her voice be able to carry across the entire Atlantic?

There are crazies out there who think that using a cell phone excessively will lead to brain tumors, and what have you. While I think that that’s a bit excessive, I definitely think that our hearing will eventually suffer. Seems to me that the older the person you’re speaking to, the higher the likelihood of going deaf at an early age.

Looks like it’s time to teach mom how to text.



- Jack Asher

Somebody get this man a puppy!

This is hard for me to say. It’s very unlike me to write anything about myself that doesn’t put me in a good light, but I think I’ve reached my breaking point. Here’s the issue: Every weekday, between the hours of 6PM and 9PM… I get lonely. And I don’t mean lonely, like maybe I should call up one of my college buddies and catch up lonely, either. I’m talking about the debilitating kind of loneliness, where neither TV sitcoms nor social networking can make up for it. I’m talking about the type of loneliness that old people have to deal with.

I know, 6PM to 9PM isn’t really something that I should be so upset about – it’s only 3 hours of not having the wifey home. In case you’re a new visitor to the blog, perhaps you don’t realize this, but I need constant attention. For God’s sake, I wanted to be the man of honor at my sister’s wedding – that aught to tell you something.

The clear solution here is for me to have a puppy to play with. I figure that if geriatrics can add years to their lives by having a pet, a puppy can certainly help me with these few gloomy hours of my day.

And don’t make me out to be this needy dude that needs a puppy to cope. While it may be true – I have to say that any puppy that gets to play with me is a lucky puppy indeed. I’m a huge dog guy, and I really think that on many levels, the puppy and I are one and the same. We both hate cats, we both like playing outside, and we’re both wicked cute. Oh, we may both have fleas too, but that’s a blog for another day.

Somebody get this man a puppy!



- Jack Asher

If I were Catholic

I only have about 2 ½ readers on this blog (one of the readers is not too bright), so if you're reading this, you probably all ready know from my former posts that I’m not Catholic. I am one of the chosen, one of the few – I am Jew-ish. But what if I were Catholic? I know Lent is going on right now, but to be quite honest, I have no clue what Lent is all about. So like any good investigative blogger, I researched it via the most highly credentialed source that I could find – Wikipedia.

According to Wikipedia, “Today, some people give up a vice of theirs, add something that will bring them closer to God, and often give the time or money spent doing that to charitable purposes or organizations”.

Well, God knows that I don’t have money to give to charitable organizations, and all my free time these days are spent working on this damn blog – So my apologies to those charitable organizations out there, you're out. As for getting closer to God – I think God and I have a good deal going, I don’t invade His personal space, and He doesn’t invade mine. Those are lines I’m not willing to cross. So, I guess that leaves me with giving up one of my many vices. But which one would it be?


The pure hatred of my job –

Giving this up, in all likelihood would make me a healthier and happier person in general. The problem is that I’m REALLY good at hating my job – like, award winning good. I have to give credit where credits due of course – I wouldn’t be able to hate it so bad if it weren’t for my coworkers or managers, they really make it happen for me. All in all, I don’t think I’ll be able to give it up. It just comes too naturally for me.


Pretentiousness –

It’s not really my fault that I’m clearly better than most people I meet. The trick here would be to make other people suck less so that I wouldn’t have to carry this burden of being awesome all the time. Unfortunately though, Lent only lasts 40 days… it would take much longer than that to bring the rest of the world up to my level. Hey guys, want to do me a solid and turn down the dial on the suck a bit? No? Guess it's just not happening.



Booze –

Normally, this would be my winning ticket for Lent. I don’t really drink too much these days anyway, so it wouldn’t be so hard for me. But just ask those 2 ½ readers of mine, and they’ll tell you… putting down the booze before March 17th would make me a quitter, and Jack Asher is no quitter.


Sarcasm –

It has been said that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. Whoever says that clearly doesn’t write a daily blog about such meaningless and trivial ideas such as what to give up for Lent, or going to Anime Conventions. Writing is hard enough in general; take away sarcasm and your left with dribble that no one wants to read (and yes, I’m well aware that no one reads my blog currently – but I’m working hard on that).



In the end, I would probably just end up giving up drinking Soda for a month. Here’s to being Jewish – where all sins are washed away after not eating for one day a year. Boo Ya!


- Jack Asher

Spring Training

A terrible change happens once you leave college and move in with your significant other. This change is completely unavoidable, although certain people can deter it longer than others. I’m talking about, of course, the inability to consume copious amounts of alcohol at one time. Long past are the days where I could throw back adult beverage after adult beverage and nary would a blurred vision stand in my way. Yes, Irish Car-Bombs, shots of cheap liquor, beer funnels - all would go down with ease – simply fuel to propel the party that was my life.

That’s right. My name is Jack Asher, and I’m a lightweight - Admitting you have a problem is the first step towards recovery.

These days, I’m lucky if I can have two beers (light beers at that!) without feeling a little tipsy. You might think that since I don’t go out too much, this would not pose a big problem for me, and on any typical day of the week, you’d be right. But St. Patrick’s Day is no typical day, and it’s even less so in Boston. Yes, in only two weeks time, my lack of preparation will become apparent to all.

I can not stand for such an embarrassment.

The way I see it, I have two full weeks to let my body know who’s boss. The training will be rigorous… but well worth the pride I feel when I’m able to stand on my own two feet at the end of the Parade, and say with gusto that I was able to stay awake, and coherent for the duration of St. Patty’s Day.

So, what will this regimen entail? Well, the obvious answer is a ton of booze. I’m talking about having a Bloody Mary for breakfast, followed by a spiked coffee for the drive into work. A liquid lunch will suffice during the week. Sure, my work may suffer – but it’s all for the greater good. Of course my dinners must be accompanied by a few Guinness’s so that I will be accustomed to the drink of choice on March 17th. Perhaps a nightcap of Scotch to close out a hard day of training.

Some naysayers out there may suggest that this feat can not be accomplished in such a taxing timeframe. But it must be done, lest I fall asleep on my friends couch whilst wearing my shoes – A tragedy that must be avoided at all costs.

So break out the shot glasses and tell the Misses to put the ambulance on speed dial. I’m going all in!

- Jack Asher

Pandora to Jack: It’s on like Donkey Kong

For those of you who don’t know what Pandora is, first off, let me congratulate you, because it probably means you have a job that you can stand without some sort of escape. Pandora is an online jukebox, more or less. You simply tell it what kind of music you like, and by means of some sort of black magic - POOF!!! It creates a playlist for you.

More often than not, you have to do some skipping of songs because some of the songs are just not what you want to be listening to. But today, it’s as if Pandora really knows me, ya know?

What’s that, Pandora…? Do I want to listen to a song that will provide me the opportunity to play a wicked air drum solo, reminiscent of Petey Pancakes? Why, yes – yes I do. Thank you.

And now, I’m really in the mood for a song in which I only understand every 5th word. You’ve got just the song for me?!? You’re right Pandora, Pearl Jam’s “Yellow Ledbetter” is just the song for me!

Get out of my head Pandora!!!


- Jack Asher