the 10th circle

slung low like a whore, devil want some more

2007-01-30T09:23:00.000-08:00

The world really does not appreciate the work of White Zombie enough.

This dance floor is cramped and covered in stamps

2007-01-23T09:02:00.000-08:00

I skipped out on the first 15 minutes of office hours today to check my mail at the post office.

"Why?" you ask. "What could possibly have been that important that you left BSU at 9:45 am to check the mail, when you could have simply stopped there on your way home this afternoon?"

The Shins' new album came out today, and I couldn't resist picking it up at the post office. When I opened the tiny door to my box, my portal of communication to the outside world, and saw a large shipping envelope post-marked Seattle, WA, I did a jig of exuberance and celebration.

Seriously. I shook it and dropped it like it was hot. Or warmer than average, anyway.

For tree huggers,

2007-01-22T13:01:00.000-08:00

The pedantic hypocrites of 3rd floor Hagg Sauer sure do go through the paper. Seriously. I printed of my class roster, a fucking two page document, and I had to stand in a line FIVE people deep.

Teachers, the ones who cauterize bungholes for putting things off until the last minute, were just printing off their syllabi for classes that start TOMORROW.

I had that shit done two weeks ago. Granted I had little else to do over break.

Thesis? What thesis?

I'm going straight to hell.

Friday in Hagg Sauer

2007-01-19T13:31:00.000-08:00

Technology has me in chains today. Dirty, cold, rusty chains with sharp barbs that, at any minute, could give me tetanus. Better get that shot.

The "older laptop" that the university has so graciously lent me to use during my duration as a GA, or, more accurately, has thrown at me and screamed childishly, "No give backs!", is giving up the ghost. Literally. All morning spirits and goblins have been transcending through the monitor screen.

I lost the applications disk to my Palm Pilot. I probably threw it away, thinking I would never need it again, as it is installed on two different computers. Ah, the naivete of it all.

The good thing is, I get to start teaching next week. Wait...oh.

well, here we go again

2007-01-15T12:58:00.000-08:00

Umm, I'm embarrassed, like the "going to school naked" dream that people have. Except that I AM naked at school. That, however, is not the source of my embarrassment. I'm actually ok with being naked in my office...it's very liberating.

What does embarrass me is that I have not posted here since October. I wonder if anyone still checks here. Anywho, good news...

I have found, finally, after 24 years, that dreams really do come true sometimes. For most of you people, they just happen and you smile your warm, fireplace smiles and think, "Gee, life is good. Maybe I'll pretend to be edgy and depressed by listening to some Perfect Circle or Evanescence." For me, I have to do some killing to get my shit happy. This story talks about one of those times.

Before Xmas, whilst surfing upon this great, blue wave we call technology, I found out that the Shins' next album will be available on Jan. 23. I pre-ordered it for $11. You can do the same here.

That took the edge off the razor for a few weeks until I saw something that literally, but not really, made my heart jump up into my empty brain cavity. The Shins, the vessel upon which I have placed my hopes and dreams for the past year (and especially the past 6 months), were finally coming to MN again.

I bought tickets. Right away. The instant that I saw them onsale. I have them on my desk right now. They glow.

Even though I didn't have to kill anything to get this dream to come true, that doesn't mean that I won't. So watch your backs.

"I believe that you and me, we could be so happy and free inside a world of misery"

2006-10-10T10:32:00.000-07:00

My thesis is floundering. The baby steps, the ones that are supposed to encourage me, give me hope, are the first steps to an early, empty, cold grave. Or McDonald's.

You want fries, motherfucker?

Slightly jealous

2006-09-19T11:19:00.000-07:00

I am jealous of the BDawg, as is every man in at least three counties in Minnesota and god-knows-how-many in PA. Not for the size of his genitalia, which is considerable, but because he is a slacker and has no worries/problems with that. He embraces the jobless world with a hearty grin and an awesome fedora.

Traveling to Texas? Not a problem! Let me load up the Cavalier with some jammin tunes and we out.

Minnesota? Old news, homes!

I, on the other hand, hyperventilate when I don't know exactly how next month's rent will be paid. I am far less of a man than the BDawg. I am a stop on the long and winding road of his life and times (kind of a mix of Bonnie Somerville and Bob Dylan in that sentence...go me).

Come back to MN and teach me all that you know about not caring. The little shit in life is going to kill me...I just know it.

"Hang my head, drown my fear till you all just disappear."

2006-09-19T11:17:00.000-07:00

Just like that lyric is all. A shot to the junk for the blogger who can place it, naming both the song title and the artist.

Dig this

2006-09-14T13:19:00.000-07:00

I have been reading that damned Hillary Clinton article again. In fact, if I want to feel a great wave of misplaced rage at anything in particular, I link over to it and peruse at my own leisure. Here's something that I find funny and sad at the same time...as everything truly sad has undertones of hilarity, because, honestly, is it worth getting so worked up over something as to exert any real feelings for it? I think not.

"A recent poll found 62 percent of people 18 to 34 hold a favorable opinion of Clinton, highest of any age group."

Well, after that May 12 article, I really think that her approval rating is going to be right where it should be: between the white cheeks of my ass. The only damn reason her approval rating is that high among young people is that she is a NOVELTY item. She could've come to the podium with platforms like 'Platypus Restoration' and 'Glitter Bonnie Bell dispensers in every ladies room across the country' and young (and invariably dumb) people would still support her.

She is something new. Something risque (I hate that damn word, so it applies to Hillary Clinton). Something that the moral majority and the tottering Religious Right will oppose, so every fucking wannabe Johnny Rotten Billie Joe Armstrong Elliot Smith Hunter Goddamn Thompson under 30 will support her.

Imagine a gay black woman running for president. Every fucking civil 'rights' group, youth group, Democrat group would be behind that person in a heartbeat, calling anyone who offered friendly, old-fashioned competition to her a freedom hating fascist.

After all, what else does it mean to be a liberal but to hate the establishment?

A more positive note

2006-09-14T11:43:00.000-07:00

"What I Got" came on my juke as I was editing that last post. In a little better mood now cause that song is the shit.

2006-09-14T11:30:00.000-07:00

Have you ever stopped what you're doing in medias res: stopped chewing with a lump of mulch that used to be Salisbury steak in your mouth, quit reading mid-sentence so that the beautiful princess's lips are poised literally inches from those of her savior, or stopped talking in the middle of a thought, causing people to question your deftness as a speaker, or even as a member of the human race? Usually when I do this, something monumentally catastrophic has happened inside my head...I have come to a realization: a truth so huge and caustic that it shreds all previous thought, pushing them to furthest, frozen reaches of the rubble that used to be a whip-quick, acidic mind.

I think that has been happening to me lately. I hope it's that and not Alzheimer's...I certainly have had enough to think about lately. And more than enough to drive me crazy.

On a more positive note, at least more tangential, Froyd and I took a solid second place in Double Dash at his place last night. Would've been first but the other people were sober and we were drunk and screaming at each other and the screen and the other people at Froyd's house and the brown boxes on his floor and Millie who, bless her heart, tried to drive but failed almost as miserably as Froyd himself. Don't let Froyd bullshit you, he has no Double Dash skillz.

French? Maybe Australian in descent?

2006-09-11T13:41:00.000-07:00

You scored as Fox McCloud. Blowing stuff up is a favorite pastime of yours. You'll also do almost anything for money. You also find yourself fighting Star Wolf at the most inopportune times. He always shows up just as you're about to score with Krystal...or slit Slippy's throat.

Fox McCloud

93%

Samus

67%

Mario

53%

Kirby

53%

Donkey Kong

53%

Pokemon Trainer

47%

Link

47%

Which Nintendo Character Are You?
created with QuizFarm.com

I never actually played a Starfox game...just played as him on Super Smash Bros. Melee and totally kicked ass. This quiz sucked though, because I fancy myself a Capt. Falcon. Anyway, from SSBM, I got the impression that Starfox was some kind of foreign dissident...perhaps French? Fill me in, because it matters greatly in the scheme of things.

If I had a million dollars...

2006-09-11T13:26:00.001-07:00

I would move away from civilization completely. I would build a log cabin in the Yukon or Australia somewhere and have my food and supplies airlifted to me. Life would be so much simpler without that unnecessary hassle of technology, work, friends, or a social life. I have no social life mind you, but at least if I lived in the wilderness somewhere, I wouldn't have all these people hounding me about being a recluse.

What would you do if you had a million dollars? It probably wouldn't be as cool as what I just said, but that's ok. YOU aren't as cool as me.

Dammit! I hate myself again!

2006-09-11T09:21:00.000-07:00

It just crept up on me. I didn't smell it...must've been downwind. Anyway, the reason for it is that Mark Christiansen is forcing me to write poetry. And (this is where the self-loathing comes in) I kind of enjoy it.
I've always thought that poetry ranked up there with creative nonfiction on the list on non-genres, and I still do. I guess I'm getting soft. Although, I was kicked out of the 209 Bar last week. If Ben reads this, I wasn't mad at you.

serious literary question

2006-09-06T16:47:00.000-07:00

Would a story involving a dead Bob Dylan be considered creative nonfiction? I've got one in the making where he meets up with HST in heaven, or some drunken state called so, and was wondering if that would be too fictitious. It doesn't matter...I'm submitting my story to Creative Nonfiction anyway...just wanted to know what you all thought.

it's alienation time, boys and girls

2006-09-06T16:23:00.000-07:00

Do you want to know what I hate today? I say all this bullshit about the grad office being Nazis or fat people wearing spandex (or other forms of tight-fitting clothing), but the thing I hate most of all is Facebook. I know that if you're reading this blog, you probably have a blog too, and if you have a blog, you're probably urban-techno-chic enough to be on Facebook. I'm sorry, but I hate you.

At first, I wasn't sure if I just hated the outlet (the actual website itself) or if the sheep who grazed in that pasture were the ones to blame. I think that an unequal measure of hatred shall be dished out to both, in accordance. Of course I already hate Froyd, so he is exempt...but the rest of you fuckers have been ostracized.

I wanted to see what the goddamn hubbub was all about, so I signed up today. After looking around for some people that I know, reading various things that weren't meant for human eyes (mine anyway), and looking at a rickockulous collection of drunk pictures, some including people I know, I said "FUNK DAT."

I am now going to attempt to delete said account. Don't look for me on Facebook. If I get an email saying "The BDawg has added you to his friends list," I will get in my car with my collection of fire pokers, my 18 volt cordless drill, and salad tongs, bound for Indiana, Pennsylvania. You will remember my name after that trip.

Keep your fucking campfire singalong, hand holding, keep in touch with warmest thoughts, I'm stuck in high school/college and I have no future bullshit! I'll be the guy with the can of gas, ready to warm up your little, happy party.

Don't talk to me after this. I'm pretty riled up and plan on being so for the next...oh, rest of my life.

2006-09-06T12:37:00.000-07:00

Kip Winger is running for the position of sheriff in Beltrami County. This certainly is a long way from being on fat Stuart's t-shirt in Beavis and Butthead. Winger is god!

they're still frickin coming!!

2006-09-06T12:26:00.000-07:00

Apparently this story (or the grad office's side of it, anyway) is spreading like wild fire throughout the English department. I've been chatted with by two professors since then (both of them, of course, hate my guts), and I suspect that more is on the way. What do they do, bring this shit up at the damn department meetings?

Anyway, my crusade is growing in numbers. I have allied to my cause the GAs that matter in the department. We are going to pick up any random people that might look like fascists and pummel them into paste right after I'm finished talking to you.

One word of advice: don't make any sudden, saluting movements around us. We eat fascists for breakfast and we're very hungry.

Beware! The Nazis Are Coming!

2006-09-01T13:18:00.000-07:00

So, it wasn't exactly Nazis, but I'm sure they were fascists of some degree...on some plane. Their fucking scare tactics and storm troopers may be enough to frighten the light of heart amongst BSU grad students. I, however, do not fall into that category.

So, as the whole story goes, I got a note from the Grad Office yesterday saying that my tuition waiver and a bunch of other shit had yet to be turned in. I already knew that and needed no reminding by the fucking grad office. "The problem," I wrote in an email to one such arm-bander (what I now call any of the fascists from the grad office), "is that I don't know how to register for thesis credits because no one can give me a straight answer. And," this is a direct quote of myself, "I got this fascist letter in my box yesterday saying that if I didn't pay by today, I'd be dropped..." You get the whole boring idea.

Well, today I get stopped in the hall by Mark Christensen and he enlightens me to the fact that the word 'fascist' did not fall upon deaf ears in the grad office. They apparently took offense.

Goddamn Nazis. So freakin touchy.

Anyway, Johnny Cash came across my jukebox and I got to thinking...I could totally hold up the ideals of freedom and liberty from the fascists. Their tyranny and bullshit has gone on long enough. I'm going to fight the dirty red bastards. You can call me

Stephen Terhaar, Freedom Fighter.

Victory!

2006-08-29T11:48:00.000-07:00

Summer is over. School has arrived. I feel that the completion of summer is a minor cause for celebration, as it has sucked...in a big way.

However, I'm sure that in May there will also be cause for drink with the completion of this nad nurturing school year.

I am impossible to please. So quit trying.

ode

2006-07-31T19:49:00.000-07:00

Ever since the wise Dr. Thompson ended his life over a year ago, I have felt a nagging urge to get really fucked up on drugs. While I don't intend to bring any of these plans to fruition, I think that its something for one to think about. A way to pay homage to a man responsible for as much smut and drugs in this country as romance and freedom.

"The American Dream," as Hunter called it, was always in front of him, but ever out of reach, like a carrot on a stick, driving him kicking and screaming. Maybe he found it in March of 2005 and finally bit into that juicy, deep orange vegetable, only to find it teeming with worms and cancer. Maybe it broke his heart to such an extent that he fell down on the path of all good donkeys and couldn't get up.

There is no purpose for this post other than an ode to a great man. I'm going home to fight my roommate and watch "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas."

that's fad-tastik!

2006-07-31T19:33:00.000-07:00

Spelled with a K no doubt! I'm all for jumping on the next, newest thing. I mean, I have a blog for fuck's sake! But if I see another dill-hole riding a fucking Schwinn wearing skimpy bicycle shorts and a stupid looking helmet, my car may start swerving accidentally.

It's disgusting. On the way to work every morning I'm assured to see at least one fat ass shuffling this way and that on a seat that's three sizes to small and shorts that wouldn't fit on one leg. Or shouldn't anyway, yet these fucking lemmings try it anyway.

Listen people: Floyd Landis is a doper. He's got more fucking testosterone running through his veins than Rosie O'Donnell. He tested POSITIVE for artificial testosterone, which we all know is a no-no. Lance Armstrong? He should be dead. God didn't want him in Heaven and the devil didn't want him taking over hell. He's not a hero...he's the unofficial antichrist. That's a call by the way...you dopes just wait and see.

Stop riding bikes. Stop taking up two-thirds of the goddamn lane. Stop dressing in those ricockulous outfits.

If you want to ride your bike, that's fine. I have one (even though I'm too lazy to actually use it). Just don't let the one bike race a year that you watch influence you to make a bigger, dumber ass of yourself than need be.

death surrounds you...partake!

2006-06-22T13:22:00.000-07:00

Strange and nervous events have loomed recently, events that have until now remained nameless for the fear that a proper christian name may give foes terrible reserves of diabolical power. Myth dispellation time...

Sabrina and I are no more. That is very strange to put into words and when I forget to think about the events at hand, my mind retraces its steps back to our relationship and I think that I am still there. However, this is best for all parties involved.

I have had the intense delight of venting emotions on a very kind heart, so no suicide attempts will find their berth from these events. I have been lucky enough to find someone to listen to me and not to pressure me into things that I am not ready for yet. Special does not begin to describe Amber.

Plenty of drinking in store, and for this I am grateful. Ferris Bueller is the most famous, but others have said that life moves by pretty fast. I do not agree. I think that life is an arduous, painful, physically and mentally draining gauntlet for the most of us and approaching it without proper preparation is folly. I am preparing for my departure.

Impending danger leers and cuckolds me from beyond the veil of summer. I laugh back and swear a little under my breath, for it has found me and will exploit my will to the furthest extent possible, and perhaps beyond where men do not return. But that is months away and I have no where to be right now except right here.

'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'

Shelley

next ten songs on the juke

2006-06-18T12:53:00.000-07:00

here they are, for you teeming masses that wish to be me. listen and beware.

Everyday is Exactly the Same - Nine Inch Nails
Amie - Pure Prairie League
Country Comes to Town - Toby Keith
Don't You Forget About Me - Simple Minds
Young Pilgrims - The Shins
The Same Boy You've Always Known - The White Stripes
Beer - Reel Big Fish
Island in the Sun - Weezer
Girl - Beck
The Chemicals Between Us - Bush

no gay jokes or i'll track you down and you'll have your ass handed to you by a gay guy.

willful recruit to the church of alvis

2006-06-16T15:50:00.000-07:00

Fighting drunk. Two words that go well together both off the tongue (say them out loud - fighting drunk - sounds good, doesn't it?) but also by way of the effects of alcohol on men with severely fucked brains.

Monday was a prime example of fighting drunk. I was frequenting a drinking establishment with a friend, nursing recently inflicted emotional wounds, when this old guy sits next to us.

Now, when I say "old guy" I don't mean Old Man River or Father Time (although both of those phrase were screamed at the top of my lungs before the night ended), but he was fifty-ish with a drinking problem and a home life that reeked of freshly pressed shit. These dirty little secrets radiated off of him like desperation.

Through the course of our cohabitation, we exchanged a few pleasantries, and when he stood to leave, I shouted drunkenly, "See ya later dude."

The next minutes are a blur...he said something resembling "fuck you" or "go to hell" and when I realized what was happening, my stool was on the floor and I was running to the fight like a butcher walks among sheep. However, my companion had a wrist lock from behind around my waist and another guy was holding me on the front. To top it off, the bartender (a friend of ours, too) was shouting at me to sit down, and that he was not worth it.

I was seething; spittle was flying from my grinding teeth and I moved the whole pile of us toward the old guy, whose girlfriend or wife or who-the-fuck-ever had spoken some words of wisdom and, was backing toward the door.

After he left, the pile fell to the floor and the guys disbarred the holds from me and we retook our seats at the bar. After a couple of minutes, I looked at the bartender and asked, "What the fuck was that guy's deal?"

A new season of 24

2006-06-16T15:34:00.000-07:00

That is a television show, I believe. The premise is something silly, surely, but the entire season focuses on a 24 hour day surrounding Keifer Sutherland. It's action packed and suspenseful, and chock full of stress and hazardous situations.

However...

The last 24 hours in my life would make Keifer's day seem like he was stranded on a deserted island with the Hawaiian Tropic Swimsuit Modeling Team, with no provisions except a crate of Ron Diaz, a liter of cola, and three tubes of suntan lotion.

There were no swimsuit models today, or last night when I was awoken by a drunk telephone call and couldn't properly sleep afterward. Nor did I have rum and cokes to keep me company, instead of my soctologizing mantrap of a boss. It was, arguably...no, HANDS DOWN the worst day of work ever in my ten years of working.

Well, suicide is painless and Keifer has fallen sharply downhill since The Lost Boys.

Check this steamy nugget out for your laughing enjoyment

2006-06-11T21:39:00.000-07:00

Women are funny. Politicians are funnier. The wives of teetering, reformed Democrats are fucking hilarious. I think that, given this introduction, you can correctly assume that I am introducing Hillary Clinton.

She has some rather fundie words for the denizens of Generation Y (who the fuck started calling us that, anyway?).

Hillary Clinton, Generation Y salutes you, as do my older brothers and sisters of Generation X, as the wife of the third most influential president of the 90s (that says a lot considering his predecessor and descendant). However, we have one thing to say to you: in twenty years, when Generation Z is feeding you pureed crab cakes and changing your diapers for $20 an hour (a paltry sum by that time, considering the slope upon which the American dollar now sits) your shit-filled Depends will not smell any differently than the rest of your Baby-Boomer constituency…and they certainly will not smell like roses.

Happiness surrounds us like the pall of death

2006-06-07T22:47:00.000-07:00

Marines in the news again. This time for allegedly killing something like 19 Iraqi citizens, all but one unarmed.

Allegedly.

There are at least two versions to every story that you read in Time or Newsweek (this story defaces the covers of both). One kernel of truth to cling to is that the United States is fast becoming the steward of the world, wiping noses and bullet wounds - and inflicting more than their share - where ever necessary. This is fundamentally wrong, whether you are Demo, Repub, Indy, or Appalachian. It goes against pretty much everything that Democracy stands for. That's where the left's argument ends.

This is true.

What is also true is that Marines have a hard job. And not just Marines, but all of the armed services. They work a thankless job, worse than anything Sam Walton has ever infected America with, and they do it 24-7 for years at a time. Add that to the equation, and when you read about some Iraqis who were gunned down in the phobia-ridden confines of some tiny mud hut, it doesn't seem so god damned appalling, does it? Here ends the argument from the right. It is also true.

The hidden truth behind this story is one that has surfaced ever since the beginning of this war: the "innocent" deaths in Iraq - the unarmed men, women and children - are the faults of the newly deceased themselves, bloated and pussing though they are. They forfeited their lives to Charon or the Reaper or Osiris or who-the-fuck-ever when they let Nazis like Hussein and bin Laden rule them like meat puppets in some sand-circus macabre. And now their lives of uneventful, complacent subjugation are complete: the biggest Nazi of them all has troops swarming like ants - stinging the populace with M-1s and Austria '41s and half-hearted Democracy in a place that will never understand that word.

This is true, but you'll never read it in Newsweek.

A new era is caressing you from behind

2006-06-07T20:39:00.000-07:00

The old 10th Circle is no more.

Those spotty and half-hearted monologues on the crap-factor of my life are now located right where they belong: the heaping, stinking, rat-infested garbage can of the Internet. Don't despair, I saved the Captain Blood stories.

Now, as for the future...I have noticed things lately, things that have not sat well with me and my view of things. Also, rather conveniently, I have a newfound interest in fringe journalism.

Call it an experiment on my part; call it a bastardization of Hunter Thompson or Tom Wolfe; call it what you will motherfuckers because it is here and it is now.

Fundies beware.

ST out