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Last updateTue, 06 Aug 2013 2am

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 C&C: Do you dress up to take your kids trick-or-treating?

I dress up even when it’s not Halloween. So, yeah, definitely then. And, I guess I could use the kids as an excuse, but, I mean — it’s Halloween, right? How can somebody not dress up? Last year, or maybe the year before, I even won the CU costume contest. Had to do the (conventional) splits on-stage for it, though, which meant leg wraps for weeks afterwards. But it was worth it, and, if you’re a zombie cheerleader, you’ve got to sell it, too.

Thursday, 22 September 2011 04:23

Unaccustomed Mercy

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--He hates the night because there is no rest--he hates the day because it moves towards night.--

 --'Have you hidden him in the past?'--

 --Old shadows descend on the room like a judgment. Something deeper than sadness washes over my body, and, for the first time, I can see myself as I really am -- a broken toy, a defective machine bent by a brutal hand. I know something vital has been stolen from me and there's no way I can ever get it back -- not with overpaid doctors, multicolored pills or sweet prayers to Jesus. For me, there is no redemption--no road home.--

Tuesday, 13 September 2011 03:30

The Part of Me I Leave Behind

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You wake up three hours after lying down and the pain is excruciating. You open your eyes, blurred world, faint sun, but mostly pain. Pain that hobbles you to the toilet where you vomit five, ten times, cursing the kebab you ate just six hours previous.

Monday, 05 September 2011 17:25

Catching Up with Paris and the Hiltons

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The third and possibly final album from Paris and the Hiltons is on the horizon. They've released an excerpt today...why are we posting about it here? Because Thunderdome needs to foray into music as well, and it's all part of a bigger project coming later in the year! Give 'em a listen and a like if you will by clicking HERE.

Monday, 22 August 2011 05:26

Dispatches from Thunder Road: Pela Via

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Even Thunderling hunters need breaks – often I find myself working even when I’m on a hiatus as someone full of awe presents herself unexpected. In a pub it’s hard not to have a gander at the clientèle, especially when it’s worth every heartbeat of gandering. A woman’s conversations were animated, I could overhear them clearly. It was soon obvious this lady was going to fill the following blank page in my road diary.

Friday, 15 July 2011 13:38

Aimless / Phoneless / Loveless

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I suppose I wouldn't have it any other way, either. I've been in South Korea for almost eight months, which doesn't even feel real, but that also means I'm almost seven months late on my planned monthly update. It's something I meant to do once a month, make a proper post here, but, such is life, and so it goes. I've never been good at that, keeping people updated, keeping my life orderly.

What is the stupidest time to write a story about vampires? It must be today after Stephenie Meyer’s glittering, pretty Nancy-boys have damaged the idea of the vampyre utterly; it must be Hell for the lot to realise you’re immortal and have to keep hearing the bollocks for another hundred million years or so. Even these ungodly creatures will pray to the Maker for that meteor to destroy the earth, no doubt. Write a proper vampire story Varney-style these days, and chances are the mob’ll lynch you. If it takes more than three paragraphs before any bloodsucker sparkles all over the page, you’re going to be chucked.


When he’s all alone in a room (most likely with neither lights nor windows), he’s still the odd one out: Christopher Dwyer, a Bostonian with a love for the Dark. A bloke who drinks nothing but coffee, dropshots and pints of Guinness for the sole reason they’re all black beverages. It’s no surprise the first great work of real importance from his hands makes even Tommie Smith’s glove glow red from shame. How come? No one knows. It’s a fable that it’s the quiet ones you got to watch. I’ve stalked him and his peers for half a dozen years. Saw Dwyer growing up into a happy boy, then into a happy man with a beautiful wife. These days it’s the happy ones we’ve got to watch. Over the unblemished skins of suburbia a shadow lingers, ready to grab you and force itself down down down your throat.

This is a guest post by Caleb J Ross as part of his Stranger Will Tour for Strange blog tour. His goal is to post at a different blog every few days beginning with the release of his novel Stranger Will in March 2011 to the release of his second novel, I Didn’t Mean to Be Kevin in November 2011. If you have connections to a lit blog of any type, professional journal or personal site, please contact him. He would love to compromise your integrity for a day. To be a groupie and follow this tour, subscribe to the Caleb J Ross blog RSS feed. Follow him on Twitter: @calebjross.com. Friend him on Facebook: Facebook.com/rosscaleb

calebjournalcoverEwwwww! Gross! Gross! Oh My God! Grooooosssss!

I was going to leave this review at that single reactionary statement, but I’ve decided that because I was forced to suffer through this Mötley Crüe family photo album, then you, morbidly fascinated reader, must as well.

Newspaper journalists will be familiar with the ‘inverted pyramid’ approach to revealing the book’s content without having to read the back cover. Talk about not burying your lead. “So, what is Color Atlas and Synopsis of Sexually Transmitted Diseases about?” “It’s an atlas that contains color photos and synopses of sexually transmitted diseases.” This, for normal people, would be the end of such a conversation. For me, it was, regrettably, the beginning.

The table of contents is conveniently structured by type of disease, allowing for quick access to information. Bacterial Sexually Transmitted Diseases is followed by Viral Sexually Transmitted Diseases is followed by Cutaneous Infestations is followed by Clinical STD Syndromes. This easy access makes the book very compatible with the lifestyle of the reader for which it seems to be intended. No time for condom means no time to navigate a detailed table of contents.

The scientific approach to the TOC as well as the linguistically clinical sounding book title instills a false sense of comfort when preparing to venture beyond the opening pages. I expected to be eased into the photographs. I wanted to be seduced, for lack of a better term. But no. Page 13. A close-cropped ¼ page image of a penis head, leaking something like a blend of semen and pus.

Ewwwww! Gross! Gross! Oh My God! Grooooosssss!

The book follows with hundreds more images, rarely less disturbing, usually building up and topping the established comfort gained by previous photos.

Perhaps the most amazing part of this book is that each photo contains patient profiles, outlining the age, sexual orientation, profession, and relationship history of the subjects. This offers a unique insight into the everyday lives of those one might assume are inherently “dirty.” But what I learned is that just about anyone can be an STD carrier. From the 23-year old female prostitute who undergoes routine STD screening every 3-4 months (pg 27) to the 26-year old male, unemployed IV drug user (pg 43) to the 47 year-old male merchant seaman…for real (pg 63)…wait, was I trying to make a point here? If the point was that prostitutes, drug addicts, and sailors often get sexual diseases, then I guess I’ve succeeded.

The only logical question at this point is, who would write such a book? The logical answer: someone who wants to do his family proud. Here is the actual dedication for this book:

“This book is dedicated with love and respect to my father, Hugh W. Handsfield, for 40 years an editor and editor-in-chief of the McGraw-Hill College Division. He always wanted a McGraw-Hill author in the family.”

“Thanks son. As I lie here on my deathbed—ironically due to an infection contracted from a Thai Ladyboy during last year’s annual “business trip”—I remember back on my initial hopes for you as you entered our world those many, many years ago: please, my darling baby boy, publish a book full of graphically detailed gross genitals. Make your father proud. *cough* Long live McGraw-Hill…”

Perhaps, though, the author with his homophonically pro-masturbation name, truly was destined to create such a book. Mr. Hunter ‘Hands feel’ writes sexual-repulsion book. Mic Hunter (my cunt/cunt hunter?) writes a pro-boner book. The world works in mysteriously unpleasant ways.

After all of this, you are probably wondering how you can get your lubricated hands on a copy of Color Atlas and Synopsis of Sexually Transmitted Diseases. Lady Luck (the figurative representation of good luck, not Hugh Hansfield’s aforementioned shemale hooker) is on your side. As part of this blog tour for my novel, Stranger Will, I am giving away a Tour Groupie package that contains a copy of this book. Also included: a selection of other groupie themed paraphernalia including:

  1. Latex gloves, or hand-condoms. This keeps you guilt free while reading Stranger Will.
  2. A paperback copy of Stranger Will, possibly slathered in my own DNA, definitely slathered in a personal inscription
  3. An 11” x 16” poster from the 1970 movie “I Am a Groupie.”

Read the tour stop at Big Other for more details

Tuesday, 22 March 2011 17:04

Dispatches from Thunder Road: Stranger Will

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Only after the children have been visited by the Sandman is it safe to come out and look for the strange persona known as Caleb J Ross, author of the recently released novel Stranger Will. Chuck Palahniuk once said he reinvented horror with his novels Lullaby, Diary and Haunted because the genre of horror wasn’t something that intimidated readers any longer. He said horror with monsters wasn’t scary any more. But Ross proves him wrong. His novel is horror in its most pure form: it’s all about monsters, cleverly disguised as elementary school principals and badly dressed Santas. Mrs. Rose tries to bring The Solution to an imperfect world; her cynicism is as scary as real life. I should probably pun Shakespeare-style on the semi-homophone of Ross and Rose because it is hard to picture the jovial boy known for his toes poking out of his socks as the same person who writes tales darker than London. Why would a healthy, perfectly normal and nice man, a happily married and loving father, write with this much gusto about apathy and abortion?

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