Abbie Cornish is Australian and therefore isn’t eligible to vote in the upcoming U.S. election, but feels very strongly that Barack Obama should be president. If you’re not too fussed about the whole election thing, perhaps you could vote for him on her behalf.

I’m foreign, too, so if one non citizen with great hair isn’t enough to convince you, maybe the two of us will.

I’ve lived in the U.S. for more than five years now and don’t have any plans to leave just yet, so even though I talk funny and don’t get most of your eighties pop culture references, I do feel a bit American and do care what happens to this country, and this country’s effect on the rest of the planet.

Please vote!

(From the red carpet at the grand re-opening of the Hollywood Palladium for NME.com.)

MALIBU, AGES AGO: When you find a place so unlike home that it amazes you know end and you try as hard as you can to imagine ever being unhappy there but can’t because when you’re there it seems impossible for anything so low as sadness to exist, don’t go back years later on the anniversary of your break up from the boy who took you there in the first place.

Particularly, don’t go back with the friend that he dated before you and never got over.

Ouch.

However, if you are silly enough to do all that, following it up by getting plastered at a Circle Jerks show in Redondo Beach should sort you out.

…is green and full of irregular shapes.

If it’s raining, though, you can go indoors and see lots of stolen treasures brought home by officially sanctioned pirates and stored at the British Museum.

Over the weekend — proudlybroughttoyoubyXanaxandSmirnoff — I found out that the reason the Ancient Egyptians drew their owl hieroglyph with a broken leg was to immobilise the cursed birdies if they sprung to life.

I also learnt the words for different sorts of owls in various African languages, thanks to Owl Pages, and that in Northern India hearing nine owl cries means good fortune, Tasmanian farmers who get caught running around naked in their fields can use the excuse that it’s the traditional method of scaring off owls, and that a pregnant Welsh woman who hears an owl will bear a blessed child, but a pregnant German just gets a standard baby girl.

(Hibou by the magnificent Marion M)

Also, Genghis Khan’s life was saved by an owl, once. Nice. In Cameroon, owls are too evil to have a name.

Anyone who’ll fix me up with an owl’s eye on a string around my neck, Morrocan style, will get an exciting prize.

PS — Shot Islands at the El Rey for Prefix last night and it was quite wonderful in every way.

Time For Some Stories by Dave Secretary

(There are a lot more of these. You should read them if you want to laugh aloud.)

THIS IS SHORT BUT WORTH NOTING FOR MY OWN SAKE

THE LITTLE LIBRARY IN MY ELEMENTARY SCHOOL (AYLMER ELEMENTARY) WAS LOCATED IN THE EAST WING, WHICH WAS THE NEWEST ADDITION TO THE SCHOOL AT THE TIME. (IT WAS A SMALL SCHOOL, AND A VERY SMALL LIBRARY). MOST OF US LIKED TO GO TO THE LIBRARY. NOT BECAUSE OF THE BOOKS, THOUGH, BUT BECAUSE THERE WAS THIS GIANT STUFFED GREAT HORNED OWL SET ATOP ONE OF THE HIGHER BOOKSHELVES IN THE BACK. THE OWL HAD ITS WINGS SLIGHTLY OUTSTRETCHED AND IT WAS JUST COLOSSAL. IT WAS PRACTICALLY MY SIZE.

ANYWAY THE OWL GAVE OFF A VERY MUSTY, WOODSY SORT OF ODOR THAT MADE THE LIBRARY SMELL LIKE AN OLD MUSEUM, OR AN ABANDONED COTTAGE AND THAT JUST MADE THE LIBRARY EVEN COOLER.

ANYWAY ONE OF OUR LITTLE RITUALS WHILE WALKING TO THE LIBRARY WENT AS FOLLOWS: FIRST THERE WAS A LITTLE STEP DOWN WHEN YOU WENT INTO THE EAST WING - IT WAS CUSTOMARY FOR STUDENTS TO JUMP WHEN WE APPROACHED THE STEP, TOUCH THE CEILING TILE ABOVE OUR HEADS (ONE OF THOSE LARGE SQUARE CEILING TILES MADE OUT OF THIN DRY-WALL) AND THEN FALL THE EXTRA 6 INCHES INTO THE EAST WING. SINCE WE ALWAYS HAD TO WALK IN A LINE IN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL EVERY KID BASICALLY GOT A CHANCE TO JUMP AT THE STEP, AND WE WOULD OFTEN TEASE ANYONE WHO FAILED TO TOUCH THE CEILING TILE. I THINK IT WAS ALMOST CONSIDERED BAD LUCK OR SOMETHING.

ANYWAY THE SECOND STEP TO THIS ROUTINE WAS THAT ONCE YOU WERE IN THE LIBRARY YOU HAD TO GO TO THE BACK, JUMP UP AND TOUCH ONE OF THE WINGS ON THE GREAT HORNED OWL. ONCE YOU HAD TOUCHED BOTH THE CEILING TILE IN THE EAST WING, AND THE FEATHERS ON THE OWL’S WING, YOU WERE SET FOR THE DAY.

THE PROBLEM WITH THE SECOND PART OF THIS DUTY WAS THAT THE GREAT HORNED OWL WAS PERCHED RATHER PRECARIOUSLY ATOP THE BOOKSHELF, AND WOULD TEETER ALARMINGLY EVERYTIME SOMEONE TOUCHED IT. IT WASN’T UNUSUAL TO SPEND ONE’S TIME IN THE LIBRARY HELPING JOE AND FRANK HARDY GET TO THE SECRET ISLAND WHILE KEEPING AN WATCHFUL EYE ON THE GENTLY ROCKING OWL IN THE FAR BACK.

OF COURSE THE TEACHERS SHARING LIBRARIAN DUTY NOTICED WHAT WAS GOING ON AND EVENTUALLY AFTER SOME HIDDEN MEETINGS DECIDED THAT THE OWL HAD TO GO. I WAS THERE WHEN IT HAPPENED. I WAS SITTING ON ONE OF THOSE SHORT STOOLS WITH THE WHEELS AND CURSING CHET’S SLUGGISHNESS WHEN SUDDENLY AN AWFUL MOAN AROSE FROM EVERY MAN AND WOMAN IN THE ROOM. I STOOD UP AND IMMEDIATELY LOOKED OVER TO THE FAR BACK JUST IN TIME TO SEE TWO TEACHERS WRESTLE (WITH NO LITTLE DIFFICULTY, I MIGHT ADD) THAT GIANT OWL OFF THE BOOKCASE AND DISAPPEAR WITH IT THROUGH ONE OF THE BACK DOORS.

WE WERE ALL VERY SAD THAT DAY. THERE WAS SOME SPIRITED TALK OF RESCUING THE OWL, AND MANY PLANS WERE DRAFTED AND REVISED THROUGHOUT MATH, BUT ULTIMATELY WE REALIZED THAT A VERY LARGE PART OF OUR CHILDHOOD HAD BEEN ABSCONDED.

THE NEXT DAY WE HAD LIBRARY TIME AGAIN, BUT THERE WASN’T ANYWHERE NEAR AS MUCH ENTHUSIASM AS THERE ONCE WAS. WE ALL SHUFFLED AROUND LISTLESSLY - IT JUST WASN’T GOING TO BE THE SAME WITHOUT THE OWL. ONCE AGAIN WE WERE LINED UP, BUT THIS TIME WE MARCHED TOWARDS THE EAST WING WITH THE HOPELESS DISINTEREST OF A PRISONER MARCH. WHEN WE APPROACHED THE EAST WING NOBODY EVEN BOTHERED TO JUMP; THERE WAS NO POINT.

AS THE LINE TRICKLED DOWN THE STEP AND INTO THE EAST WING THIS KID DONALD, WHO HAD DONE HIS BEST TO ROUSE OUR SPIRITS SINCE THE DISASTER, DECIDED HE WASN’T GOING TO GIVE UP ALL HOPE AND JUMPED WHEN HE REACHED THE STEP. HE GRACEFULLY BRUSHED HIS FINGERTIPS AGAINST THE CEILING TILE, AND THEN, FROM WHAT I REMEMBER, THE HEAVENS OPENED UP, A GREAT BLACK SHADOW CAME OUT OF THE SKY LIKE A BOLT OF LIGHTNING, DONALD PLUMMETED TO EARTH LIKE SOME DEMENTED ICARUS, AND THEN A GOOD PART OF THE EAST WING CAVED IN ON TOP OF US.

OF COURSE WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED WAS THAT OUR IDIOT TEACHER-CUM-LIBRARIANS DECIDED THE SAFEST PLACE TO STORE THE OWL WAS IN THE CEILING, ROUGHLY RIGHT FUCKING ABOVE THE PLACE WHERE ALL THE KIDS LIKED TO JUMP. (THIS WAS, BY THE WAY, MY FIRST REAL GLIMPSE INTO THE MYSTERIOUS WORLD OF DESTINY, FATE, AND A SELF-RIGHTING UNIVERSE.) AND OF COURSE WHAT HAPPENED WAS THAT WHEN DONALD TOUCHED THE TILES, THE OWL, NOW PRECARIOUSLY PERCHED IN THE DEPTHS OF THE CEILING, FINALLY TOPPLED OVER AND FELL THROUGH THE WEAKENED TILE, TAKING DOWN DONALD AND A HANDFUL OF OTHER STUDENTS. SEVERAL OF US WERE COVERED IN A FINE DUST. I WISH I COULD SAY THAT A FEW FEATHERS FLOATED GENTLY IN THE BREEZE BUT THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN. IT WAS A GREAT DAY. I HUGGED THE OWL, (SOMETHING I HAD WANTED TO DO SINCE MY FIRST DAY OF KINDERGARTEN) AND, AS I HAD IMAGINED, THE OWL WAS TOO BIG FOR MY ARMS TO REACH ALL THE WAY AROUND IT. WHICH TOTALLY FUCKING RULED.

…And then the witch sucked out the little girl’s brain with a straw and left her speechless and stupid forevermore.

…And then Harmonetheus stole the secret of the mouth organ from the gods and gave it to the mortals.

I’ve know Christie for a long while. She introduced me to the first boy I ever kissed (she dated him first).

We were friends for ages when we lived on different continents, then we had a silly and very girlish falling out. Eventually we both moved coincidentally to Los Angeles, and now we’re friends again.

She’s a photographer, so she’s kind enough to humour me when after several margaritas I start yelling "Christie! The pool’s so blue and your bikini’s so shiney and the frog’s so green and the grafitti on the bricks is so… so… so… I don’t know, but I have to take photos!"

(A true story from The Olden Days.)

The other night two middle-aged men propping up the bar across the street were ranting at length about women. It wasn’t the usual “women did all this bad stuff to me and are mean to me, therefore all women suck” bitter nonsense, it was a sociopath-level tirade.

There weren’t many people around yet so the primary misogynist was using Brenda, Sally, Maria, Vivian and me as his proof of everything that was wrong with women, I mean, “the undersex”. “Look at them,” he said. “They’ve never read a thing in their lives besides overpriced glossy magazines with lots of pictures. And they spend all their time and money on their appearance. With the amount of money women spend on make up and clothes and shoes, you could save other people’s lives. How many hours do you think they spent on their appearance, just today?!”

At this point I turned around and said “ten minutes, actually,” to which Mr 50-Year-Old Virgin replied “yeah, it looks like it. Try 20 next time, you might feel better about yourself.” It’s always amusing when thoroughly pompous idiots entirely contradict the point they were trying to make (that women should spend less time on their appearance) in an effort to be insulting, and make a tableful of girls giggle in the process. (Come to think of it, that was probably the most attention he’d received from women in recent memory. Good for him!)

He went on and on for far longer than I could be bothered to listen (we had hot topics like hurricane weather patterns, viral infections and the recently discovered gaping hole in the universe to discuss) but it was hard not to overhear him yelling “I HAVE A BEAUTIFUL PENIS” repeatedly. Eventually he picked up his small backpack, but it on and left with his little friend.

PS — As I was writing this, Sally walked out of the shower (because cleanliness is important, kids) and said in a high-pitched, whiny voice: “How many hours do you think they spent getting ready?!” See, I’m not the only one who woke up still amused. Thank you, Mr 50-Year-Old Virgin!

Everyone here thinks tea is the archetypal Brit-girl drink, but I never really drank it ’til I hit SoCal. Perhaps I was too young back home; maybe it’s age that gives me the patience to boil water and steep leaves. I couldn’t've sat still enough in London.

I was 21 when I left, and lived on smoothies. Since then, life slipped tea-wards. Between Russian classes sitting in the kitchen gossiping bilingually, (smart-girl-pretending-to-be-a) party-girl-detox frenzies in the early hours, health-conscious coffee-quitting coworkers mid afternoon and the near-constant sore throats caused by sleep deprivation and daily use of public transport, tea has become a staple.

I finally understand the theory that putting the kettle on is the answer to everything, or at least what you do while you’re waiting to come up with the answer to everything. It’s deliberately inefficient. It’s how you welcome someone in to your home, because once you’ve got the water going you might as well sit down for a bit. Tea’s like speed bumps — slow down or else.

PS — The subject line’s not just an adjusted Raconteurs lyric. I really do have a green Japanese teapot. Making tea with it feels magical. (Drinking whiskey from the little bowl cups feels sacrilegious, but that’s not entirely a bad thing.)

“An alcoholic is someone you don’t like who drinks as much as you do.”
—Dylan Thomas