Free chutney - Ornet Coleman style condiment cooking goes off!

HBO TV's Homeland would have you believe that Jazz is the preferred musical genre of the disordered mind.

This is likely true.

However, I would like to take this particular theory one step further and say Jazz is also the preferred soundtrack of the disordered cook, the pantry improviser. Muddy has often referred to me as the Miles Davis of the stove, but last Saturday, I confess I was more Free Jazz than Be-bop. Ornet Coleman if you will. Improvising ingredients and quantities as I made a batch of tomato chutney for the first time.

Last month, friend and work colleague Slim Wheels presented me with a jar of home-made tomato chutney which he'd made from his nanna's recipe. It was delicious, on cheese and toast, grilled snags and steaks, and in bacon and egg wraps. Needless to say, it did not last long in Chez Karpitz-Venetian, and I found myself scraping out the last dregs of sweet 'n' tangy goodness from the jar in less than a week.

Which is why I enlisted Slim for an afternoon of Nanna's chutney cooking (and much imbibing of Pimms 'n' Dry Ginger Ale and good French bubbles) last Saturday.

Here is the recipe - Classic version:

Ingredients

• 1kg tomatoes
• 2 large apples
• 3/4 cup of currants - same sultanas
• 1 tbsp whole cloves
• 1 tbsp salt
• 1 pinch of cayenne pepper
• 3 cups brown vinegar
• 3 large onions, sliced
• 1 cup water
• 3 cups white sugar

Method

1. Peel and chop onions, remove skin from tomatoes, chop coarsely; peel, core and dice apples.
2. Put all ingredients into pan and stir over low heat until sugar has dissolved. Bring to boil, then simmer uncovered for 1.5-2 hours, or until thick
3. Turn into hot, sterilised jars and seal.
　
Here is the recipe - Free-Jazz redux. Sort-of double quantity...
2 kg tomatoes (chopped but not peeled)
5 small pink lady apples
1 1/2 cups sultanas
1tbsp whole cloves
3 bay leaves
1 tbsp hot chilli flakes
6 cups brown vinegar
5 small onions, peeled and roughly chopped
2 cups water
5 heaped cups white sugarMethod - as per Nanna Wheels' classic recipe above. Cooked for three hours then poured directly into hot sterilised jars and sealed instantly. Made 6 jars of varying sizes.

Enjoy with meats, cheese, on bread and roast vegies and Jazz - on vinyl please.

Awesome.

Putting the 'i' back into Gandolfini OR are Margaret and David lazy, senile or just plain dumb?

Did anyone else catch ABC TV's Movie Show (actually At the Movies) last night? If so, did you writhe around in agony on the couch every time Margaret and David referred to James Gandolfini, star of Andrew Dominik's new film Killing Them Softly, as James Gandolfin-o?

Do these twats actually expect to be taken fucking seriously?

How can we trust anything these geriatric fucksticks say, when they get something so fundamental well wrong? And it's not like he's some unknown either. The Sopranos, which made James Gandolfini a household name, ran for a goodly number of seasons, garnering awards, the adulation of millions and the love of critics up the wazoo.

He has also appeared in a slew of films both indie and mainstream (Get Shorty, In the Loop, 8mm, The Mexican, Night Falls on Manhattan, Where the Wild Things Are among others).

If Margaret and David don't know who he is, surely the grip, the the make-up and hair dolly, the production assistant and ass. director would know, and should have had the courage to pull these rusted-on ABC barnacles aside and whisper the following sweet-corrections in their aged and clueless ears:

"It's Gandolfin-i you daft cunts".

Learning to ride - smooth and silky and a little bit muddy.

Sad really, at age 41, to have to confess to not knowing how to ride a bike, but there it is people, my secret shame. My only experience on a two wheeled vehicle is the bike my sisters Slim and Musty bought me when I was six. It had cool handlebars and daggy training wheels. I rode it up and down the driveway all afternoon, only to have it confiscated by my over-protective and controlling mother that very evening.

Gone. Never to be seen, heard or spoken of again.

Musty believes the bike was given away to a neighbour. My only proof of its existence - a grainy black and white photo of a pig-tailed me posed on it on the concrete slab that was our back yard.

For years I have had a love-hate relationship with cyclists. On one hand, I resent their carefree spirit and lithe bodies and on the other hand I respect their nerves of steel and uber-fitness. I am also fascinated by the infinite variety of bikes on the road and have been known to share in the "fixies" vs "non-fixies" debate with more learned bike riders...

I've always wondered what it would be like to ride. And no, a spinning bike at the gym doesn't count.

It wasn't until quite recently, when Silky Karpitz (an uber-jock-chick since childhood) proposed we do a triathlon that I had to confess I didn't know how to ride a proper bike.

Several kind (and very shocked) people offered advice - Berber Recliner, for one, offered me his road bike (with cleats, whatever the fuck they are) and a how-to tutorial; Red Karpitz offered me his mountain bike. But it was Patton Karpitz who struck gold with his suggestion that I should try learning on one of those blue rental bikes. His reason: they're heavy and slow, designed for both genders and all levels - essentially built for safety and comfort, NOT performance.

Perfect for a neurotic newbie like me.

Silky jumped on the suggestion. Before I knew it, I was locked into a lesson at Albert Park Lake - the blue bike station at the Melbourne Sports and Aquatic Centre (MSAC) to be precise - on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Silky as teacher. Muddy as documenter. Red's trusty grey helmet for protection.

Muddy took care of the bike hire, helped me and Silky extricate our bikes from the racks, and then walk them onto the grassy spot next to the car park. Silky handed me a pair of riding gloves in case "you tumble off and scrape the shit out of your palms trying to break your fall."

People, if I was a little bit frightened before, I was positively terrified now.

And yet, and yet...

Before Silky could tell me what to do, I somehow hoiked myself up onto the seat, chucked my feet on the pedals, gave them a push and took off. I wobbled for a few seconds and thought I would topple, but some latent instinct or obscure muscle memory kept me upright and in motion.

And boy was I in motion.

“Keep pedalling fast to keep yourself steady!” shouted Silky. But there was no need for instruction. I was off riding my middle-aged heart out. For the next ten minutes I dodged and wove through the big trees, hugged the edges of the grassy knoll and even rode the little hills before coming to a stop next to a stunned Silky and Muddy.

It felt GREAT.

Silky took me out on the paths adjoining MSAC for a short ride, to practice braking, using the gears and ringing the bell. Then, much to my surprise, Muddy decided to join us on our little jaunt (after much prompting – that is, bullying - from Silky). He rented a helmet and a bike and off we went, a cheery threesome, riding single file around Albert Park Lake. The experience was wonderful. Liberating. Sunny, with just a light wind and minimal traffic on Lakeside Drive to navigate.

20 minutes later, breathless from the experience (but not the workout – those bikes are EASY) we were back at the stand, planning a short ride to our coffee and cake reward at Carousel. But they were shut. Buggers.

Nevertheless, we bade our daggy blue bikes a fond farewell and went to Republic on St Kilda beach for a coffee and restorative carbs and some back-slapping and high-fiving. Awse.

Triathlons are fine, but there’s a whole world out there that can only be explored on two wheels and I cannot wait to discover them.

Red Karpitz makes the case for global optimism!

Folks, another guest appearance by my adopted son, baby bro and best friend, Red Karpitz below. This was Red's fourth speech in the Toastmasters' Competent Communicator Series - "C004 How to Say it". And he said it well. Here is the transcript. Enjoy.

The Case for Optimism

Mr Toastmaster, fellow toastmasters and esteemed guests, today, I would like to talk to you about the greatest moral challenge of our lifetime - perhaps the single most important thing that will determine the health and prosperity of this planet.

This moment right here might be the exact moment our children and our children's children, look back upon as the defining point in our history.

Now I know what you are all thinking...not another global warming speech....

Well, you are in luck, because we’ve heard more than enough about global warming at this club.

Today, fellow toastmasters, I will be discussing the need for optimism in a world of negativity.

Swine Flu, Bird Flu, Terrorism, Bioterrorism, SARS. Global Warming, Global Cooling, Climate Change, Deforestation, Genetic Engineering, Housing Bubbles, Multi-Speed economies, Job Losses, Overpopulation....

Australia’s poor performance at the Olympics...so much fear, so much negativity

Is there any wonder so many people struggle to get out of bed in the morning?

The reality is that negativity sells. We’ve been evolutionarily wired that way for survival. Our brains evolved in a hunter-gatherer environment where anything novel, dangerous or dramatic had to be dealt with immediately for survival.

So while we no longer have to spend time looking over our shoulders and guarding ourselves against sabre-toothed tigers, our brains have not yet caught up.

The media make full use of this - it keeps us glued to the news cycle, waiting patiently for our next hit of drama. Governments also exploit our fears as we gleefully give up our liberties for a little bit of supposed security.

But deadly and dire predictions are all too common. Running out of resources... We’ve heard it all before...Peak oil and peak coal were feared in the 1800s, while global cooling was a concern in the 1970s.

The Earth is 4.54 billion years old and it isn’t going to stop spinning anytime soon.

Without a doubt, negativity is an impediment to personal health and relationships. I am convinced that humans catch emotions - you become the people you most frequently associate with - so spending time with Negative Nancy is going to have an inevitable impact on your health and well-being. Choose your associations wisely - I note in my life I have needed to purge toxic relationships.

Beyond all the doom and gloom, I am in awe of the fact that nearly 7 billion people inhabit this earth.

We’re living longer, eating better, are more educated and wealthier than every generation before.

A third of children born this year in the developed world are expected live  to 100 years old.

Equally importantly, we are more connected than ever before - The prosperity we have enjoyed over the past few hundred years has moved the western world beyond scarcity for basic needs and provided the opportunity for individuals and groups to evaluate the sustainability of the lifestyles they lead. My only hope is that these new communities grow organically - that is, without force or coercion.

The reality is that I do not know what the future holds and I think you should be very wary of anyone who suggests that that they do.

However, if history is any guide, we are going to be okay. Sure, debts that can't be paid won't be paid, and that which is unsustainable will not be sustained.

There have been constant predictions of a bleak future throughout human history that haven’t come true. Our lives have improved dramatically—in terms of lifespan, nutrition, literacy and wealth, I expect this to trend to continue, in ways we can’t even begin to imagine.

Is the world perfect? No, far from it, but I suspect that is why we gather here each week, to develop our selves in order to become the change we want to see in the world.

I challenge you critically review the relationships you have made in your life and steer well clear of Debbie Downers - your health and wellbeing depend on it.

I also challenge you to throw away the newspaper and turn off the TV - Let’s rise above fear and negativity.

For the future belongs to the optimists - And I envision a future so bright....
we will all need sunglasses.

Thank you.

Feelgood Films for When You're Feeling Blue (or Red-faced with work-induced rage)

If like me, you occasionally suffer from a bad case of the homicidal work-related blues, there's nothing like coming home from a crap day at the coalface with a leaky bag of Pad Thai, a couple of curry puffs and a pack of beer (those 450ml bottles of Grolsch are fabulous as you can always wash out the bottle and use it to glass your co-workers the next day...), changing into your jimjams and working your arse-groove into the couch to watch a DVD. 

And you know what kind of DVD I'm talking about don't you? A goofy comedy, sparkly written, well-acted with plenty of colour, movement and texture that still makes you belly-laugh even after the thirteenth viewing. Everyone has a favourite or two. Here are mine. Enjoy.

Tropic Thunder: A pompous, out-of-his depth English movie director (Damian Cockburn, played by Steve Coogan) meets his untimely demise on the set of a Vietnam war epic, leaving a troupe of dingbat Hollywood actors to fend for themselves in a south-East Asian jungle, mistaken in their belief that they are participating in a gonzo movie experiment. They're so dumb, they continue to remain in character, swapping lines of inane improvised dialogue, thinking the trees have been rigged with cameras and mikes, even after circumstances prove otherwise. The group includes the monstrously insecure action film star Tugg Speedman (Ben Stiller) and pretentious Australian Method actor, Kirk "I don't read scripts, the script reads me" Lazarus (Robert Downey Jr - channelling a wonderfully compelling blend of Rusty Crowe and Peter O'Toole). 

Tropic Thunder is chock-full of sly movie in-jokes and references, superb one-liners plus some flat-out fabulous visual gags - like Robert Downey Jr playing an African-American character in the Vietnam war film-within-the-film in full blackface and afro. His extended cautionary riff about actors playing fringe or handicapped characters in the belief that will automatically win them an Oscar is worth the rental fee alone:

"Check it out. Dustin Hoffman, 'Rain Man,' look retarded, act retarded, not retarded. Counted toothpicks, cheated cards. Autistic, sho'. Not retarded. You know, Tom Hanks, 'Forrest Gump.' Slow, yes. Retarded, maybe. Braces on his legs. But he charmed the pants off Nixon and won a ping-pong competition. That ain't retarded. Plus he was a war hero. How many retarded war heroes do you know? Peter Sellers, 'Being There.' Infantile, yes. Retarded, no. You went full retard, man. Never go full retard. You don't buy that? Ask Sean Penn, 2001. 'I Am Sam.' Remember? Went full retard, went home empty handed."

Tom Cruise is the biggest surprise of all as the (unrecognisable) obnoxious, violent, chubby, bald studio executive Les Grossman (clearly modelled on Jeffrey Katzenberg) who is trying to leverage the on-set disaster for financial gain. 

Hold your sides nice and tight or they will split.

Bowfinger: Goofy, perenially optimistic C-grade Hollywood movie director Bobby Bowfinger (Steve Martin) commissions a SF-alien adventure movie script titled "Chubby Rain" from his bookkeeper and part-time cabbie. Although he has at his disposal a bunch of has-been and wannabe actors (Christine Baranski is peerless as an unemployed B-Grade Gloria Swansonesque diva and Heather Graham luminous as a midwestern nympho with movie-star aspirations), what he really needs is to cast a big-budget, box-office action star to secure the interest of a studio. Enter Kit Ramsay (Eddie Murphy), big budget box-office action star who also happens to be paranoid, narcissistic, anxiety-prone and sexually obsessed with the LA Laker cheerleaders. Ramsay is also in thrall to a cult called MindHead, led by a smooth conman played by the dapper Terence Stamp. 

Bowfinger's failed attempt to enlist the support of Ramsay in his movie venture leads to a cunning plan: covertly film Ramsay in his off-screen personal moments and then the splice the footage into his film. Only Bowfinger's gopher is aware of his plan. The other actors have been told Ramsey is method acting (his own unique style - "Cinema Nouveau") and will not engage with them outside of their scenes. So the actors walk up to Ramsay outside his home, in restaurants and in clothing stores and recite their lines, while his increasingly confused responses are secretly captured on film. Added to the crazy mix, is the casting of a Ramsay lookalike, who happens to be the star's lesser-known and sweet-natured twin brother Jiff (also played by Murphy). 

The film is another opportunity to poke fun at Hollywood egos, star religions and general moviemaking lunacy, but there's a sweetness to Bowfinger's Z-grade creative ambitions and his desire to keep his merry band of losers in what he believes is good work. This is the ultimate pick-me-up. 

And like Tropic Thunder, Bowfinger features one of my favourite actors - Robert Downey Jr.

Sprinkle some extra lemon on your Pad Thai and enjoy that second bottle of Grolsch.

Stalking George. The Australian's Megamind.

With the demise of Fairfax's print-based media, the opprobrium being heaped on Gina Rinehart for her tilt at its board and the general whiff of sleaze emanating from the inquiry into phone hacking by News Ltd's tabloids, you'd be forgiven for thinking journalism of the old-fashioned well-written, print-based, long-form kind is on the way out. Add to this the rise of social media, blogs, e-zines, RSS feeds and assorted other electronic-based communications, a great deal of the content of which is (with a few noticeable exceptions) shrill, unreliable, conspiracy-driven, poorly researched and written, it's easy to be left wondering - where have all the good (Aussie) journos gone?

Don't despair. We have some good ones in Australia. Big picture thinkers and analytical essayists like Laura Tingle, Lenore Taylor, Brian Toohey, and Shaun Carney to name but a few. But none hold a candle to the inestimable George Megalogenis, senior writer for News Ltd's The Australian, author and moderator of the news blog Meganomics, and author of three of the most lucid, clear-eyed and impartial books (plus one extended essay) ever written about the nexus between Australia's major economic reforms and the collective impact of these on Australian society and identity.

Billed as The Australian's resident nit-picker, George Megalogenis is my favourite journalist for the single fact that although I have been following his work religiously for five years, have stalked him at almost every public appearance he's ever made and hung on his every word when he's been on ABC TV's Insiders, I have absolutely no way of ideologically pigeon-holing him. He is a Richmond supporter - read “tragic” - a music and cricket buff, the forty-something son of Greek migrants and a very handsome, very tall man with a beautiful speaking voice. 

That's all I know for certain.

Unlike culture warriors Andrew Bolt, David Marr, Miranda Devine or Robert Manne, George Megalogenis is a truly impartial, non-partisan observer of Australia's economy and cultural identity. This makes him an enigma. It is a measure of how well-regarded he is by both political camps that upon its publication The Longest Decade was launched by both Paul Keating (then ex-PM) and John Howard (then current-PM), and its re-issue by Kevin Rudd (then and now - all-purpose fuckwit).

In his books and articles and blogs, he does not start with an ideological or moral assertion and then cherry-pick the facts to bolster his argument. Like a good economics graduate with a sturdy grasp of both the micro- and macro- and a thirst for facts, George Megalogenis is first and foremost a data miner. He digs and he sifts through the numbers, looking for meaning and the stories they contain. He looks carefully at decades’ worth of Census population data, polls, focus group responses, immigration data and all the hard core figures that come out of Treasury. As fellow journalist Annabel Crabb says about Megalogenis, ‘George, you have a beautiful mind.’

Faultlines, as the title suggests, looks at the source of our divisions and contradictions as a society. Our fissures are not based on the old divisions of Right vs Left, but rather, Old vs New Australia, City vs Bush, Inner City vs everyone else. He coins the term Generation W. "Women and wogs" a demographic largely unnoticed by others, but one which he identifies as a group deserving special attention – the people who have both driven and benefited from the reform era and who are best placed to enjoy the society it has created – unlike the other Generation W which deregulation has left behind – Whitebread and on Welfare. You know, Pauline Hanson's people.

In Faultlines, George surveys a cohort of Gen Xs who'd graduated from Ringwood High in the late eighties - gauging the attitudes of residents of Australia's most marginal electoral seat Deakin. The variety of experience, expectations, political opinion and lifestyle choice expressed in this group paints a far more interesting, complex and muddy picture of Australian society than politicians who love a bit of wedge politics and the shrill, lazy dolts and poltroons of the screeching media would want us to believe.

In The Longest Decade, a book I have foisted on various family and friends, he examines the deregulation era under Bob Hawke and Paul Keating and John Howard. Tampa, the children overboard affair, Hansonism, the GST, the baby-bonus, Victoria's Kennett era and Generation W all come under George's relentlessly clear-eyed scrutiny. He challenges our memories of that time because he has at his disposal the results, the facts and the figures of deregulation.

His Quarterly Essay - Trivial Pursuit - examines and skewers the 24 hour news spin cycle and the decline in the national conversation between politicians and voters. 

The Australian Moment is a broad-brush canvas of Australia's reforms, starting with Gough Whitlam's golden ascendancy and spectacular demise (mirrored in Kevin Rudd some thirty years later), Malcolm Fraser's inertia and the Hawke-Keating reform era which, as far as George is concerned more or less ended with John Howard.

In short, George Megalogenis is no culture warrior. Though he sees modern Australia through the prism of the Greek-Australian migrant experience, he is first and foremost a numbers cruncher, a recogniser of patterns, an analyst and story-teller beholden to no one opinion-shaper, even through Rupert Murdoch pays his wages. He treats the reader with respect. He leaves you to make your own judgements.

And whilst he looks like a handsome, olive-skinned Thunderbird, you can be sure there is no Gerry Anderson pulling his strings.

Do yourself a favour and read him.

Muddy K's excellent Scandventure.

Stay tuned for a series of posts from guest blogger Muddy Karpitz as he shares his excellent Swedish adventures with an unsuspecting and unprepared reading public.

Marcia Marcia Marcia!

In a half-@rsed attempt at intellectual self-improvement and as a break from the mind-clearing, sweat-inducing hot-boddery of indoor rock-climbing, I occasionally like to get along to a public event at the State Library's Wheeler Centre, usually dragging Muddy along with me for company. Which is why we (and young Red) found ourselves at an IQ2 debate at the Melbourne Town Hall last Tuesday. This series of Oxford University - style debates has covered some interesting topics in the past, and this one - "Freedom of Speech is Over-Rated" - promised to be very interesting. Neither Muddy nor I hold firm views on the topic - we believe strongly in the principles of freedom of expression yet also wonder if freedom of speech is just a cover for bad manners - something obnoxious pricks trot out when they are challenged for their stupidity or offensiveness.

The crowd consisted of the usual mix of the young, the old, dags, grey cardies, retired public servants, booksellers, asymmetrical haircuts, bike helmets, beards and woolly vests, along with members of the aspiring literati, cl!terati, twitterati and blogerati - you know, Radio National listeners.

But I won't dwell on the crowd - what I am here to dwell on is how stultifyingly awful and chronically disappointing the first speaker for the affirmative, Professor Marcia Langton was. Oh. My. God. How could a normally articulate and otherwise charismatic speaker have come across so ill-prepared, so incoherent and rambling, so full of stillborn pauses and sentences that went deep south of nowhere. It was excruciating. It was embarrassing. Paper-shuffling? Running over time without getting a proper conclusion in? I expect better from a senior academic from such an august institution as the University of Melbourne.

Quick tip, Marcia: I don't think you need to be a brainiac constitutional lawyer to understand that the purpose of our constitution is not to enshrine individual rights - and consulting one might have helped you craft a better argument. Price of a coffee ($3.50 for a barista/barrister) would have saved you nine minutes of embarrassment. Not to mention podcast posterity...

I for one was grateful for the presence of uniformed students in too-short kilts - girls, pay attention to the three key lessons of public  speaking :

Prepare. Prepare. Prepare.

Novelty cakes - check out Evi's Simply Cakes Melbourne

Folks, just a quick plug for Simply Cakes, a Melbourne-based cake decorating business owned and operated by Evi A, cake designer and fondant artist extraordinaire. She bakes single layer, multi-tiered and itty bitty cup - cakes fresh on her premises and then turns them into edible works of art. There is no cake this woman can't ice, mould or sculpt to look like your favourite toy, logo, comic book superhero or avatar. Hell, this woman could make a cake that looked like Mick Malthouse if you asked her to.

Recently, Muddy and I ordered some cupcakes with a Simpsons twist for our tenth wedding anniversary lunch. Moist, chocolate devil-food flavoured, coated in yummy fondant and utterly delicious, they were the sublime finale to a perfect lunch.

Next time you have a function, be it a wedding, anniversary or kids' birthday party, visit Simply Cakes. You'll be amazed what this woman can create for your special event.

Nothing quite like homemade...

I am growing exceedingly fond of convenience in the kitchen, but there's nothing quite like the home-made version of a favourite food, especially when it's made from something someone close to you has grown or cultivated themselves. 

Which is how I came to make several batches of quince paste not once, but twice this month. A work colleague (let us call her Kee Bordz) very generously provided me with several bags of quinces (some bruised and battered, some with just the right amount of that weird sticky fur) from her tree. Lugging them home on the tram, my mind wandered to the possibility of making my own quince paste, given I am a fan of the Maggie Beer variety. 

I'd heard making your own was a bit of a pain, and friends had warned me it wasn't worth the effort, but I paid a visit to taste.com.au and found a recipe that looked easy enough. 

Peeling and chopping quinces is a real bitch, there's no denying, but if you have a good grip on a sharp knife and a decent peeler, you'll be right. All the recipe requires is a food processor or KitchenWiz, as well as a diffuser for your stovetop and off you go. Oh yeah, and about three hours of spare time where you will essentially be chained to your stove...

Seriously, though, despite hours of stirring, the result is worth it. I have made it twice now, using the recipe above. My only cavil is that I can't seem to get the intense berry-red colour that everyone else seems to brag about. Mine is more of a dark salmon pink. Texture and taste however, are perfect and the fact that I have had requests for it, means I'm onto a winner.

Enjoy with some creamy brie or a tangy cheddar.

Des Bishop bangs my drum

Apparently, Good Friday is about the son of God dying so that we might be saved, or redeemed or something. Or maybe it's about having extra fish with your chips to mark the start of an extra long weekend.

Anyhoo, for me and Muddy K, Good Friday this year was about having a day off work, having a late shower, and then heading into town for some Melbourne International Comedy Festival fun.

We scoffed a quick dinner of Barossa Valley shiraz and some aoli-soaked fries before noodling down to the Hi Fi Bar on Swanston Street to see Des Bishop Likes to Bang.  Why this show? Well, frankly, in the festival program, there's a photo of Mr Bishop wearing a tie. I thought 'He looks smart. He must be funny too.'

And he was. Very, very funny.

American by birth (a New Yorker to be precise), and an Irish resident since his teens, Mr Bishop has great fun taking the proverbial out of Irish drinking habits, Irish emigration, the pleasures of an Australian holiday working visa and the trauma of buying hair dye for men. He knows just how to work both the natives and the Irish expats in the crowd.

Along with an extended bit on his own teenage drinking, there is a fabulously filthy extended riff on hotel sex, menstrual sex and hotel menstrual sex:

"The maid'll walk in the next morning, thinking she's stumbled onto a crime scene."
"Do it in the shower. Pretend you're making a horror movie."
"Hey, moisture's moisture!"

The show ends with a spot of audience participation. Mr Bishop has taught himself to play a Roland V-drum kit in the belief that anyone can write a hip hop hit, provided the lyrics are just "arrogant enough" and the chorus ripped off a known, popular track. He enlists the aid of audience-member Sean from Adelaide who provides a terrific Bon Jovi "Always" chorus to accompany Mr Bishop's own hip-hop composition.

The show runs until 22 April. Check it out.

Garden of Nerdy Delights

Last Saturday morning I enjoyed a long and leisurely walk around the National Rhododendron Gardens up high in Melbourne's Dandenong Ranges, with young Hardy Ruggs, another member of the extended Karpitz-Venetian family and a fellow gardening nerd.

Whilst the rhododendrons won’t be blooming until late October / early November (and according to Hardy, they are pretty spectacular!), there’s still much to see during autumn - deciduous trees turning that perfect caramelly brown-red; Rosellas munching on Hawthorn berries, and some late-blooming Azaleas, among other gardenly delights. The cherry walk and lily-pad covered fishpond make for terrific photo opportunities, especially when the sun is shining as brightly as it was last Saturday.

Enjoy a bag of fresh figs in one of the gazebos like we did and your morning or afternoon will be complete. The gardens (which are two minutes from the centre of Olinda) open at 10am and entry is free.

In praise of the unassuming. Small cafes and no queues are just right for a Friday night feed.

I mean no disrespect to bogan shoppers when I say that battling one's way through Melbourne's modish, faddish dining / cafe scene can be pretty bloody brutal, akin to a Boxing Day sale crush at Highpoint. Once you've waited 45 minutes for a stool at the bar at Mamasitas, you and your dining companions will talk about your experience (a long wait peppered with inane conversation on a dark and steep staircase at the top end of Collins Street) in the hysterical tones of someone who's been wrestled to the ground by some hairy Maori security guard for accidentally walking out of Myer with a packet of discounted Chrissie cards.

Which is why Stellini bar in Little Collins Street is such a welcome experience. Small, cosy, with a familiar Italian menu of pastas and risottos, this is a terrific place for a quiet but elegant Friday night feed. Unusual when you consider it's my lunch venue of choice for scoffing a panini and talking pop-culture with my adopted brother Torn Karpitz. Somehow I never imagined it could morph into such a good dinner spot.

Muddy Karpitz had the pork sausage linguini and I had the fish of the day, a delicious salmon fillet cooked just right followed by dessert of tiramisu and creme brulee and great coffee. The wine and beer choices are excellent, and the staff friendly and attentive.  And there's just enough weird eyewear and Mac stuff on the other patrons to give it the Melbourne White Person tick of approval.

So next time you feel like an uncomplicated, cosy and satisfying night out with a loved one, and don't feel like queueing, check out Stellini's.

Between an indoor rock and a fun place...

If you read my recent post on turning 40, then you'd know that since hitting that milestone, I have taken to trying new experiences as a way of dealing with encroaching middle / old age. I did the salsa dancing lessons thing which was nice but expensive; I'm doing the compulsive spinning-class thing which is not-so-nice but not very expensive either and I'll be doing the German language lessons thing later in the year - not sure if that will be nice at all, what with all those guttural sounds and all...and images of Angela Merkel dancing in my head. Like, what's with the pantsuits, Ange. Do you and Hilz get a two-for-one offer for heads of state? But I digress...

So to add to the laundry list of cool things to do before middle age officially sets in, and inspired by young Red Karpitz who is a recent convert to the activity (and wouldn't shut up about it), I went indoor rock-climbing with my adopted younger (and significantly hotter) sister Silky Karpitz just last week at a place in Melbourne, called the Hardrock Climbing Centre.

Oh. My. God.

The evening went a bit like this:

6:30pm - Arrive at Hardrock 30 mins ahead of agreed 7pm catchup with Silky. I like to do a reccy.
6:30-6:35pm - Admire strength, agility and overall hotness of climbers.
6:35pm-6:36pm - Start wondering what I'm even doing there.
6:37-6:45 - Have anxiety-induced meltdown. Internal stream-of-consciousness monologue of panic along the lines of - OhGodIhatehowmymotherneverletmedooutdoorsystuffwhenIwasakidIhateherIhateherIhateher...
6:46-6:50 - Start sending Silky panicked phone texts asking if it's too late to back out. Apparently it is and I should just chill the f#ck out until she gets there.
6:51 - Silky arrives just in time to talk me off the proverbial ledge and stop blaming my parents for who I am today.
6:52 - I take the advice Silky gives me along with a deep breath. I'm amazed she doesn't bitchslap me into the next millennium, the way I'm carrying on.

So for the next few minutes, we fill out the required paperwork and collect our gear - a harness-come-chastity-belt-type-thing with something called a 'carabina' dangling off it and a pair of climbing shoes.

I'm starting to get a bit distracted now, especially when the instructor starts running us through the basics of getting your harness right, attaching the ropes and then getting into the actual climbing part. There's two things you need to know - climbing (scaling the walls Batman-style) and belaying (handling / holding the climber's ropes and hoping you don't kill them) - the instructions are fairly straightforward and take around 15-20 minutes.

Then there's a practice climb on a shortish wall with easy hand- and foot-holds. Silky and I each take our turn going up and coming down. Suddenly, I'm hooked.

I'm sure the instructor can see the glint in our eyes now, so she sends us on our merry way with a knowing smile - I bet she's seen hundreds of middle-aged scaredy-cats go through the same internal meltdown before getting up on the wall.

"Stick to the climbs rated 15 or under" she says, so off we go.

And so we climb. We belay. We abseil. We tackle walls that look easy but turn out to be hard, and vice-versa. We wrinkle our noses at the occasional whiff of stale sweat that permeates the ropes, walls and floor. We make it half-way up some climbs and all the way up others. We laugh when each of us hasn't given the other enough slack rope when we try and stand up after coming down (do it and you'll know why that get's a laugh!). We enjoy the attention we get from some of the fit young things around us.

At one point, I'm at the top of my wall and have nowhere to go, so I turn my head to take a good look at my reflection in the glass and notice the expression on my face is not fear but elation and pure joy.  When I look down and I see Silky looking up at me and her sure hands are on the ropes, I know I'm safe and there's nothing to worry about. Apparently she too feels the same way about me when she looks down.

Two hours later, we've finally had enough. There's a pleasant soreness in our muscles and that overwhelmingly delicious languor that comes with the after-effects of an adrenalin rush. Along with an appetite like a racehorse.

Burgers, beer and ice-cream follow. The evening's events are deconstructed and we agree this is the Best Experience Ever.

I go home to Muddy giddy with the after-effects and I promise myself I'll do this again.

Silky and I have a date with a smelly rope tomorrow.  There will be Scotch Fillet steak sandwiches and beer to follow.  We can't wait.

Work, life, bollocks. Why a day off work is no fun on your own...

Today is the day after the Labour Day public holiday in Victoria, in the land of Oz, and like a true Aussie, I took an extra day of annual leave to stretch out the long weekend.

The weather forecast for today had been looking good for some days, so I planned a day trip to Portarlington, a sleepy little beachside suburb on the Bellarine Peninsula, around 80 minutes' drive from my home. The plan was this:

Leave the house early with Muddy while the sky is still a dark, greyish pink, stop for a breakfast of delicious bacon and eggs or berry pancakes at the Sailors' Rest cafe in Geelong, grab the newspapers (broadsheets only - natch), some takeaway coffees, then head to the beachfront and park the car right under the conifers. We would spend our day swimming, sunbaking, reading the papers, then grab some salty and greasy fish and chips washed down with Blue Heaven milkshakes, followed by more sunbaking and swimming, then drive home relaxed and relatively de-crankified (unless West Gate Freeway traffic was hellish...).

Well, Muddy had other plans, and was unable to join me on this little trip so I put a call out to a few people asking if they'd be willing to play hooky and take the day off from their family, work or study commitments to join me. Sadly, there were no takers.


Haters. Dusty haters. You know who you are...

...and if any of you loved me just a little bit, you'd have said 'yes'. More importantly, if any of you really cared about your own work, life, balance as so many of you profess to do, you'd have given the Man the finger and joined me on my little late Summer (really early Autumn) sojourn. 


10 Other Reasons why you should have joined me:

1. Because the drive on the West Gate Freeway was dead easy. The sky was blue and cloudless up high and the roads below were just as clear, the cars driven by mostly polite Zen maniacs.

2. Because I had Machine Gun Fellatio playing on the stereo, then Beastie Boys and Roxy Music.

3. Because I was having such a good time singing along on my own to my favourite naughty Jewish boys, that I missed the turn-off to Geelong city centre and was half way to the Great Ocean Road before I realised what I'd done (Hey Ladies, No Sleep Till Colac!!!) but I figured it out and got to Portarlington anyway.

4. Because the bacon, egg and cheese toastie and capuccino from the Portarlington Bakehouse were awesome.

5. Because the beach was deserted, save for the elderly Italian couple who kindly looked after my stuff when I went for a faux-Triathlon-style swim/splutter to the safety buoy and back.

6. Because the water was ice-cold and crystal clear with nary a ripple, making for easy floating and staring at the sky.

7. Because the grilled flake and potato cake were just salty and greasy enough.

8. Because I would rather someone I know apply the second layer of sunscreen to my back, not someone else's elderly nonna. (Though her hands were pretty marvellous...)

9. Because George Megalogenis' latest book The Australian Moment is so good and so full of wonderful insights I needed to read bits aloud to someone every few pages, and lastly,

10. Because even the most self-contained person needs to share a perfect day with a loved one.


So next time someone invites you to take the day off work, school, study and spend the last days of Summer on the beach, don't say 'no'. Work, study and family will aways be there, but a hot sunny 30-plus-degree day in Autumn is rare and special. 


And so am I.

De-frag your life. The "100 Thing" Challenge. A special guest blog appearance by Red Karpitz.

I've always struggled with the contradictions of being a keen acquirer of shiny new things (clothes, shoes, kitchen gadgets, film posters, upholstery fabrics, furniture, bedding and the like) as well as an unsentimental 'chucker' of stuff.

This is mostly due to my fondness for William Morris' adage, “If you want a golden rule that will fit everything, this is it: Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.” 


I'm reminded of that fantastic line in the sitcom "Ned and Stacey" where Thomas Haden Church's Ned takes a look at his housemate Stacey's bedroom and shudders with disgust, "It's not just a messy room, but a messy mind...a messy soul." Muddy Karpitz and I truly understand his horror.

Which is why more and more we're coming around to the notion of something more than just an uncluttered home - an uncluttered life - and if we might paraphrase the late Mr Morris, 
"Have nothing in your lives that you do not know to be enriching or believe to be loveable." 

And why Red Karpitz's Toastmasters' speech (No. 3 in the Competent Communicator series - Get to the Point) 100 Things really spoke to me.  In it, Red talks about the value of divesting yourself of the things you don't need (unused stuff, excess material possessions) and paring your life down to the barest essentials, leaving space (both physical, mental and emotional) to focus on and enjoy the things that really matter - relationships, friendships, ideas and experiences.  A noble sentiment, well-expressed Red. Everyone else, enjoy. 


The 100 Thing Challenge


Mr Toastmaster, fellow toastmasters and esteemed guests, today I would like to take you on a personal journey of consumerism and the salvation I found in the 100 Thing Challenge. 

A wise friend of mine once told me that I knew the price of everything and the value of nothing - she was right. Until recently, each pay-check rolled by to satisfy my never-ending desire for ‘stuff’. If I was able to get something for half price it was a bargain. Computers, mobile phones, tablet devices, clothes. There was an aching hole in my soul that could be filled with just one more item – a fantasy world that was always just out of reach.

Today’s peak was tomorrow's plateau, an un-winnable game. The latest fad would temporarily satisfy my novelty-seeking ways – at a cost. Promotions and salary increases did little to alleviate the relative poverty that plagued my existence.    How does a person break free of the cycle of spend and repeat?

A little investigation led me to believe I wasn’t alone in this thinking. A lot of people around the world felt “stuck in stuff.” They felt that their closets and garages were full of things that didn’t really make their lives any better. Closer to home, the feeling remained the same with the average Australian owing over $3000 on their credit card.

We have never been so rich; we had never been so in debt. 

I was convinced that consumerism is the religion of the Western world.

Recently, I was lucky enough to stumble upon a website called the 100 thing challenge. The goal of the 100 thing challenge was simple enough - to break free from the confining habits of Western-world consumerism and live a simpler life.
The author, Dave Bruno, outlines three main points:

• Point number one – Reduce  - Get rid of some of your stuff
• Point number two – Refuse to get more new stuff
• Point number three – Rejig your priorities

The first point was the hardest. It involved a stocktake of things I had collected in my twenty five years of existence. Items that defined me as a person, or so I thought.  Memories that I wasn’t too eager to throw away. 

I boxed up and passed on old and ill-fitting clothes. I gave away the majority of computer related components that I was hoarding for that rainy day. I sorted out the contents of my digital life – both an emotional and liberating experience.

As this process progressed I felt the weight of the digital and physical worlds lifting from my shoulders.  A sense of relief and excitement swept upon me as all the items I had made identity meaning out of were being purged from my life.
By clearing out all this physical, digital and sentimental clutter I was making room for the new.  

Freeing space up to move, to breathe, to live. 

Point 2, refusing to get new stuff, was about being conscious in consumption.

If I wanted something new could I borrow it? Rent it? Could I ask to get it as a gift? Could I delay gratification and avoid paying the early adopter premium?

Did I even need it in the first place?

I am pleased to say that I have been able to postpone big ticket items thus far – including that all important three piece suit that all adult males should have.

Point 3, rejig, was about redefining what is important.

I am convinced the real poverty we experience in the Western world is not a material one, rather one of time and experiences. It is not about having more - rather it is about doing more and being more. 

Last week I had my first near-life experience for some time – I went rock climbing in the city with friends – an amazing test of physical and emotional resilience that changed me. I want to do more of the things I enjoy with the people I enjoy. 

Ultimately, I must confess that I didn’t get down to one hundred items; my personal library contains more the one hundred books alone. However, without a doubt, the 100 thing challenge was a valuable and liberating process.

As a takeaway from this speech I propose that you all play ‘The Sims’ computer game for two weeks and determine if your life as a consumer has any more meaning than the characters you control in the game.

As for me I’ll be aiming to consume less and contribute more. Reducing, refusing and rejigging the items in my life as I strive to stay off the never-ending treadmill with the dangling carrot that is always out of reach.

The time, energy and money I save will be better invested in education, experiences and relationships. 

Clearing the clutter out of my life has allowed me to focus on what truly matters.

Thank you.

Turning 40 - mid-life rebirth or mid-life crisis?

The following item is a transcript of a speech I gave at a Toastmasters meeting in Melbourne this morning. The speech is the first speech in a series of ten which you deliver as part of the Competent Communicator program. Known as the Icebreaker, the speech is about introducing yourself to the meeting and telling the audience something about your life. Red Karpitz and I have tagged it the Me Monster Hour.

Thanks to Red Karpitz for convincing me to join his merry band of speakers - so far it's been good fun. He also gave an excellent speech (Number Three in the Competent Communicator program) today. "100 Things" was truly inspiring, Red.

Final, big wet sloppy thanks to my other half Muddy Karpitz for being a perfect audience of one. Your insights, comments and suggestions for improvements (on content and presentation) were perfect.

Muddy, the "Best Speaker" ribbon is yours too. 

Toastmaster, fellow Toastmasters and esteemed guests, my attitude to turning 40 was a source of both amusement and confusion for my loved ones. I mean, I was counting down the days to 28 of May 2011 the way a child counts the days to Christmas, or a militant vegan counts the hours to their next Fair-trade soy latte.

I. Could. Not. Wait.

For my husband, turning 40 was a trauma to be simultaneously ignored, endured, bypassed and swallowed like the foulest medicine. For my friends, turning 40 meant handbag-dancing to Spandau Ballet on a Friday night was no longer an option - unless we were doing it in each other's lounge-rooms and the volume was low enough to not wake the children.

For my mother and my father, and my two elder sisters, the youngest member of the family turning 40 meant they were now closer to death than ever - not that they're melodramatic or anything...Needless to say, I was not only taking it better than everyone else, I was relishing it.

I baked cinnamon teacake and lemon poppy-seed slice for my workmates. My more effervescent colleagues led the team in a rousing rendition of "Happy Birthday". People bought me endless rounds of sodas and limes that night. A colleague made me a bouquet of coloured balloons which I carried home on the tram.

Mind you, it's Friday at this point, and my birthday isn't until Saturday, so the fun is just beginning...

On that morning my husband wakes me with candle-lit red velvet cupcakes and orange tulips wrapped in crispy layers of tissue and cellophane, a cup of tea on a tray and another rendition of "Happy Birthday" - Marilyn Monroe style…

My phone pings with messages throughout the day, the voicemails are piling up and I'm feeling pretty good. Sunday is posh high tea at Langham's Hotel with my husband and my four closest girlfriends and Monday is movie night at the Nova – a Trotters Restaurant house-burger and side-trip to Readings follows.

Bad, cheap presents are received from well-meaning friends while cold hard birthday cash from my more pragmatic family stuffs my pockets. The birthday week morphs into a birthday fortnight, a birthday month, and working in bank of course, a birthday quarter…...Whilst I’m waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop. I mean, surely this is the start of my mid-life crisis? Mmmm...

The gym membership is paying off. I’m fitter than I’ve been in a decade. Clothes that once depressed me with their tight waistbands are starting to feel comfortable again, and buying new ones doesn’t feel quite so traumatic – in fact, it’s a lot of fun. I am sleeping fewer hours yet feeling more refreshed. I am working longer hours but feeling more enthusiastic about my output. I have shed toxic family members and friends – my thumb crazily working the delete button on my mobile phone address book – whilst making new friends and stimulating acquaintances amongst my younger work colleagues.

Beginner German lessons at the Lyceum. Beekeeping. Street Latin dance classes at Forever Dance studio. Live shows at the Athenaeum. Affordable hairstyling services.

So, again, I ask the question: where’s my crisis? Here I am, six months after turning 40, and I’m waiting for the melancholia, anger and despair to kick in.

And then it dawns on me. My moment of clarity: this is the crisis...

What is joining a gym and doing three spin classes a week if not a morbid, panicked attempt to stave off the deterioration of a middle-aged body in decline?

What is excessive clothes-shopping and adornment if not a desperate attempt to prolong the twilight of one’s diminishing erotic capital?

Sleeping fewer hours? Why surely that’s about making every precious waking moment count, because, let’s face it, with each day and night that passes, I’m just getting closer to death.

Language lessons? Beekeeping? Dancing? Why that’s just preventing dementia by firing up dormant neural pathways because with each day and night that passes, I’m just getting closer to drooling in a bathchair.

Working harder? That superannuation isn’t going to top itself up.

Shedding friends and family? Well that’s just plain old middle-aged crankiness.

So you see, ladies and gentlemen, the very question, "mid-life crisis or mid-life rebirth" is all wrong. Crisis and re-birth are not mutually exclusive. They are so obviously the flipside of each other, I can only think dementia has caught up with me for not making the connection sooner.

But does that mean I am melancholic, angry or despairing? Of course not. I am just a little more self-aware than I was three months ago. But with a killer wardrobe and some extra-flammable neurons.

Vielen Dank für Ihre Aufmerksamkeit.

(Thank you for listening).

Cotton on to some nifty tea towels at Country Road

I thought kitchen-accessory perfection had been well and truly attained when I bought two dozen gingham-checked restaurant-kitchen-quality tea towels from London and American Supply Stores ten years ago. They were absorbent, generously proportioned, didn't need ironing and made a nifty faux-kaffiyeh when I felt the urge to indulge in a spot of Palestinian-styled keening at my latest culinary disaster.

Of course, they got threadbare and worn over time, so two years ago I went back to that trusty little Elizabeth Street gem only to find the tea-towels on offer were NOTHING like the ones first bought all those years ago. They were a decent size and they were the same colourful check pattern, but a quick fondle confirmed what my eyes picked up almost instantly - despite their restaurant-y look, they were RUBBISH. They would shed lint faster than a mutt sheds hair in Summer, or Miranda Kerr her nursing bra at a David Jones catalogue shoot. 

I had to fight the urge to wrap one around my head, ululate at the top of my lungs and empty a Kalashnikov into the sky.

Surely it's not much to ask of a tea towel that it be big, largely crease-free, dry quickly after laundry, be colourful and above all SUPER ABSORBENT AND LEAVE NO TRACE OF LINT on your glassware, especially if - like me and Muddy K - you don't have a dishwasher (as ours is a mostly analogue house...)?

You'd think finding good tea towels would be easy given the proliferation of homewares stores catering to domestic goddesses, hostesses and hostesticles everywhere - but you would be wrong.

WRONG WRONG WRONG.

After spending an inordinate length of time and money on sub-standard swathes of honeycomb linen, crappy cotton and porous polyester from various reputable homewares suppliers, I succumbed (at my cousin Chunky Venetian's insistence) to the homewares section of Country Road. I say succumbed because I have little love for Country Road as a fashion label, having found its stock of mostly bland, inoffensive, dull, cookie-cutter suits and pants, shirts and t-shirts/tops exclusively created with the sartorially petrified mid-level executive PA in mind.

So I bought a bundle of five cotton towels from one of the CBD stores two months ago and gave them a go. Oh. My. God. They are truly beautiful. They are bright and cheery primary colours; they are thick and thirsty; they don't have to be ironed (but strangely enough it is a pleasure to iron them, slowly and lovingly, like a well-made man's tailored shirt); they leave not fleck or speck of lint, making your crystal sparkle; they need a tiny hit of Napisan to come up clean and spotless on the short cycle; they dry speedily in a warm spot and they stack beautifully in my kitchen drawers.

Can a person fall in love with a few rectangles of fabric designed solely for sucking up water? It would appear so, for I have fallen hard for my Country Road tea towels.

Some might say I need to get a life - I would say you need to get down to your local Country Road outlet and buy yourself a set of tea towels. You'll thank me.

Formal Friday - A manifesto for restoring decorum to the workplace

"I began the revolution with 82 men. If I had to do it again, I do it with 10 or 15 and absolute faith. It does not matter how small you are if you have faith and plan of action."  Fidel Castro

If you believe Wikipedia, Casual Friday, and its bastard child Dress-Down Friday or Casual Day, were born in the US in the 1940s and given new life doing the dot-com boom of the late Twentieth Century.

Corporations and government departments around the world adopted Casual Friday in the vain hope that it would somehow boost morale and productivity among their staff - as if coming into work wearing jeans, t-shirts and sneakers on a Friday could somehow mitigate the spirit-raping, faeces-eating, face-glassing, rectum-invading despair of the modern corporate workplace.

I personally believe that Casual Friday was the opening salvo in a vicious dirty war that has reached its peak in Flexi-Desking (and its illegitimate offspring the 'clean-desk policy').

Yeah, I see it now - let us wear our comfy tops and jeans, and then when we're all happy, pliant and relaxed in our expandable waistbands...BANG take our desks away!!!

The fact that Casual Friday became popular during one of the most insidious of all the Fin De Siecle bubbles means it is ripe and ready to be euthanized – sooner rather than later.

A mercy killing is on its way, and it's called Formal Friday.  Formal Friday is Casual Friday's Jack Kervokian. Structured, tailored clothing is its carbon monoxide thingamajig.

Let us restore dignity, style and discomfort to the workplace - we must never forget Friday is still a work day and that the weekend starts on Saturday.

As of NOW, the following apparel will be banned from the workplace (and not just on Friday):

•               Denim (in all its manifestations - jackets, trousers, jeans, shorts and skirts, black, blue, faded or stonewashed) – no denim imitations either. Frayed hems will be met with public flogging

•               T-shirts

•               Trousers worn without a belt

•               Hoodies and any other 'polar fleece' items - The word 'Kathmandu' on clothing will be grounds for punishment along the lines of having to unload the communal dishwasher FOREVER

•               Chinos or Cargo pants

•               Sneakers, runners, Ugg boots

•               Too-short skirts

The following (non gender-specific) items will be encouraged, if not mandatory:

•               Tailored suits

•               Slacks, shirts, belts

•               Pinky rings

•               Cravats, ties, bow ties and kipper ties

•               French cuffs with cufflinks

•               Tie bars and tie pins

•               Pocket kerchiefs

•               Socks with garters / Stockings with suspenders / girdles and corsets

•               Cocktail dresses, pencil skirts and high heels

•               Monocles, spats, patent leather shoes, hats and flowers in lapels

•               Canes, large umbrellas, pocket fob watches

•               Silk scarves, gloves

Let the battle for hearts, minds and wardrobes begin.

Red Karpitz - President and Founder of the Formal Friday Movement (FFM)
Dusty Venetian - Vice-President of the Formal Friday Movement (FFM), Media Relations Advisor (ie Chief Propagandist from the Ministry of Truth), Sartorial Svengali to young men everywhere.


PS - looks like someone beat us to it, Red. Check out this entry on Urban Dictionary - Formal Friday