Ween: Trying to Understand Them is Futile.

Trying to comprehend what's going on in Gene & Dean Ween's heads is a lot like pissing in the wind, to borrow from a Ween song. It's just not something that should be attempted, like testicular surgery by way of garden tool. With rambunctious song titles like "Squelch the Weasel,""Spinal Meningitis (Got Me Down)," and "Don't Shit Where you Eat," you just have to accept the far-from subtle genius that is Ween. Or you can run away screaming to the Nickleback section of Tower Records. Of course, that makes you a pussy and no one likes a pussy, right?

Hi.
No, really, Hi.
I know it doesn't seem like much now, but this is going to be great. I mean GREAT, you know? All caps means something BIG is going on, get me? So when I say GREAT, I don't mean it's just going to be ok, I mean it's going to rock your socks like flocks of qualudes. Yeah, a rhyme would have been cool there, but oh well, it's more fun to think about qualudes, right? I don't really use qualudes.

Well, I do.

No I don't.

Yeah, I really do.

Just kidding.

Heh.

I do though.

Use them I mean.

Not really.

Anyways, this blog should work out nicely, as I have plenty of time to update it and I have enough egotism to feel you want to read it. I sincerely doubt it's going to be about anything, no running theme anyways. It will undoubtedly consist of me lamely attempting to be funny and falling flat on my face. I'll certainly force my opinions on you. Opinions in the realms of music, movies, political mumbo-jumbo, my own good looks, and why 24 is the coolest show ever.

Things to keep in mind:

1. I'm never wrong.

2. Ever.

3. I have lots and lots of guilty pleasures, vices, etc that are horribly embarrassing and trite. But I love every one of them. So you'll have to deal with me ranting about how friggin' cool Peter Gabriel is, why you should support every Steve Martin movie as if it's Titanic, and the coolness of one Mr. Jack Bauer.

4. I'm an entertainment WHORE (notice caps).

5. I think I'm pretty like a model.

6. If you agree, disagree, want to call me a little bitch, it's easy to do through AIM, MSN, IRC, or Yahoo. My name on all of them is "inmanwilco." Doesn't get any easier than that.

Ok, now I'm going to post this, work on my profile (if I even have one), and drink coffee to prep for my first "real" post.

I think you're objectively all-right,
Eric.

The Joys of the Hotel Industry!

Here I sit at work. The wonderful, mysterious, all-around lamness of the hotel enterprise. My job title is "front desk clerk" but I think "guy who gets paid to screw around" is more fitting a description of my duties. I mean, technically, I am at the front desk (or more so an office adjoing the front desk area), but I seldom do anything regarding that whole realm. Well, every now and then the phone rings and I answer it, but that never really gets in the way of my screwing around. To call my job "lax" would be a gross understatement. At points, I even find it hard to refer to this as a job. I mean, it's more like a hang out. A hang out that feels the need to supply me with a paycheck to show up. My "job" duties include, but are not limited too: Drinking coffee, smoking Camel Lights, watching television, surfing the internet, reading, eating (free) food off of the buffet, playing pool in the bar, and listening to music. In an average eight hour shift, a liberal estimate of actual labor I employ is roughly half an hour. I even get rooms all over the world at any Choice Hotel (Quality Inn, Comfort Inn, etc) for a massivly reduced price ($20 total). To put it plainly, this job kicks ass.