Out to Lunch.

The management wishes to apologise for the lack of action (hot girl-on-girl or otherwise), at this blog. There's a little more going on over at the News Explosion - for those interested in such matters - but for the moment, we humbly offer these diversions:

1. Spin: an adventure involving one man, a chair, and a whole lotta clicking.

2. Merlin's Wizard: because sometimes rock'n'roll ain't all apples.

3. Postal Experiments: or, what happens when you try to send deer tibia through the mail.

4. Elocution Lessons: the rain in Spain falls mainly on the...

5. DIY George Bush speech: includes offensive noises, so you don't have to.

6. Merry Christmas: Because Santa *hearts* Roy Orbison.

Thank you. Normal programming will resume shortly.

Back from Meatspace.

I have four-and-a-half more days of holidays remaining, goddamn it, and I plan on frittering them away on beer and skittles. Don't call me. Phone's off the hook.

Manties Celebrity.

Ordinarily I avoid the temptation to talk here about ludicrous search request phrases that turn up in my referrer logs, but this is really too good to keep to myself. Finally, my dream has been realised; I've been linked to by a porn site. And not just any porn site. A porn site for men who wear panties.

Two of them, in fact.

As the kids say: Boo-ya!

How did this happen? Well, here's the sequence of events: First I discover 'Manties' on the net; I link to them. Consequently, I start to recieve an extraordinary number of google hits from the search request 'men in panties.' Then, I decide to give these visitors little presents by posting more references to Manties; now it seems I've made it into the inner circle. All in good fun, you understand, and somewhat driven by my affection towards these lovable perverts. Now, allow me to state for the record that, generally speaking, I like perverts and find the idea of a grown man wearing baby-blue satin lace-ruffled underpants both adorable and somehow admirable for its bravery. But it is also - and let's not be coy about this, people - funny. It just is. I don't think I need to explain why.

Anyhow. I suggest scrolling down the page of each porn site to read the little inspirational aphorisms they have regarding men wearing panties. This one in particular, I think, would make excellent copy for one of those 'You don't have to be crazy to work here... but it helps' signs they hang up in office kitchenettes:

Our job is to make you happy - that's why we have so much men who wear panties around here!

Interestingly, I'm in good company, since a similar thing has just happened to Michael Barrish. A while ago, he wrote a story about finding pictures of an ex-girlfriend on a porn site; now, after having his site Oblivio linked to by Cruel Site of the Day and a slew of sex sites, his stats are showing up a bunch of porn-related search strings.

The deliciousness of this - which isn't immediately obvious to a first-time reader of Oblivio who's just dropped in for a serving of smutty schadenfreude - is that Barrish lies a lot. He makes stuff up. That's part of the fun. In fact, before Oblivio, he had a brief project called Crowbar, and its single topic was lies. The ex-girlfriend story? Not true at all.

Today, he's written a poem about it. I like the last line, myself. Poignant.

Leisure Suit.

I am translucent with happiness, for tomorrow I begin three glorious weeks of holidays. Best of all, the first two are to be spent playing host to the lovely Miss Soapagator: puppy-licker, ham inspector and trusted confidante of Senor Hernandez. The lady will be emerging from the jungle and peeling off her pith helmet sometime later this evening. Excellent.

Meanwhile, if anyone knows of any thrilling outings to be had in Melbourne, I'm open to ideas and/or invitations to parties, gigs, galleries, covens, mob violence or car-pooling. Drop me a line or leave a comment below suggesting an activity, preferably one involving giant squid.

Thank you. Let's rendezvous at the helipad at sixteen hundred.

Press to Detonate.

I'm flushed. I'm breathless. I'm fanning myself with a bus ticket.

It's all just too exciting for words. Someone hand me my ventolin, quickly. And loosen my stays, mother. Moisten my fevered brow with a compress.

Ah. That's better.

So, why the hysteria, you ask? Why the pandemonium?

Because, dear reader, Cordite #11 is now online, and I swear to god it's the craziest issue ever.

I kid you not. This issue is so hot I'd, like, totally have sex with it.* This issue's so hot it's like looking at the sun.

It features poems by Melissa Ashley, joanne burns, Ken Bolton, Michael Farrell, Ian McBride, Nick Whittock, Ali Jane Smith and many more.

The theme is copyleft, with articles by Rebecca Cannon and Pi O; interviews with David Penny and Emilie Zoey Baker and audio poetry by Clark Randerson and Paul Mitchell. Delicious, strawberry-scented kudos is to be heaped upon the editor for his spectacular work (especially considering his gruelling tour schedule).

But one of my favourite things about #11 is the addition of the News Blog, edited by yours truly. This issue will be my last as poetry editor, and first as poetry news blogger. It's cutting edge. Hurrah!

Go there now. Right now. And look, I don't want to hear any namby-pamby crap about not liking poetry, you damn fool. Poetry's so hot you could cook an egg on it. It's better than crack. All the cool kids are into poems these days, dontcha know? It's true, I asked some skaters down at the local ramp. Converse is out, poetry's in - that's what they told me.

And you know that raise you didn't get last month? The one you thought was a sure thing? Well, I was talking to your boss yesterday and he told me it's because you don't like poetry. So I really think you should go check out the latest issue of Cordite. It'll be good for your career.


* If it had genitals, that is. Which, being an online poetry journal, it probably doesn't.