Miranda Devine, Justin Bieber, Regina Spektor, and thinking of crucifixions ...

(Above: in your face Justin Bieber).

Miranda the Devine is now so determinedly strange that it's often hard to know where to start.

Her latest thought bubble is Teens, tweets and twits for parents, in which she spends some time berating parents and heaping all the responsibility for the Justin Bieber fracas on to parents.

It seems it's all the fault of lax, narcissitic parenting.

And not the gherkins who decided to bung on a do at 8 am on a Monday morning on a temporary stage outside the Overseas Passenger Terminal.

... the Channel Seven morning TV director, Adam Boland, and police were nonetheless astonished by the extreme behaviour that forced them to call off the show at 5.25am after eight girls were taken to hospital with crush injuries, one with a fractured kneecap, and the riot squad had to intervene.

"It was a strange crowd. We'd never seen anything like it," Boland says.

Uh huh. Set it up so kids have to camp overnight, and then wonder why you have to cancel the show at 5.25 am in the morning. So that the pitiful show on channel Seven in the morning - I can't bear to recite its official dingbat name, with its dingbat hosts - might gain a little publicity. Which turned into notoriety, yet again ...

Whoda thunk that was a great idea?

And so it went wrong. And suddenly it's all the fault of the mothers:

Bieber's mother, Pattie Mallette, would not have been shocked. She has told The New York Times: "The mothers are the worst."

Carr-Gregg agrees, saying the mothers of today's super-entitled teens often try to relive their adolescence through their daughters, instead of placing boundaries around acceptable behaviour and keeping their children safe. They compete with other mothers to be popular, being excessively permissive in order to give their daughters the edge. The girls are swept along in on a tide of hormones and parental anarchy.

Yep, swept off to a stupidly staged event by a bunch of morning television gherkins that saw hundreds of teens stay up all night so that they could get excited about their teen idol.

The Devine suggests, in a rhetorical way, that mothers need to become the wicked witch of the west:

It's a pity more mothers weren't willing to be wicked witches on Sunday night for the sake of their children. And where were the fathers?

Sensibly, the fathers were probably off in bed, having had enough of hysteria in the days of Leif Garrett and the Bay City Rollers (since these days the pantie wetters in Beatles days are now grandparents, and we'll say no more about that, or irresponsible parenting, thank you very much).

As for the mothers needing to act as wicked witches on Sunday night? How about next time the gherkins on morning television think a little bit harder about their stunts and the hysteria they might whip up, and not have to hand a way to control?

As for the Devine, it's as if conservatives must each decade once again recite righteously indignant nonsense about parents and mothers and pop music and teenage girls, and the imminent downfall of civilisation, as if they've seen and heard and learned nothing since the Beatles toured Australia. Just like the organisers of the Channel 7 gig.

But the Devine's got one thing right. Mothers need to act as wicked witches some of the time.

How about starting with switching off the television in the morning and never watching Channel Seven's Sunrise program again, with their cynical half baked half arsed publicity ploys? Why not just enjoy the rising sun?

Because there are other ways to do this kind of gig.

Golly, there I was at the Regina Spektor concert at the Opera House last week, looking around at the middle class crowd, and wondering why everybody looked so ... young.

It was all very civilised and polite, and Spektor hit the mark (though she shouldn't pick up a guitar, not even for novelty numbers), and the crowd of young folk - with young parents - trotted off home after a generous gig that ran a couple of hours, with five encore numbers, and which ran through a lot of Spektor's repertoire in style. Using a piano no less, and a tight band.

That's how it's done. Forget the gherkins at Seven offering free as a cheap sensationalist bit of teen exploitation in a badly staged promotion. You have to pay for the pleasure of a well staged gig.

Why you could even spot John Safran wandering around in the crowd, unmolested by sophisticated concert goers not wanting to swarm around and persecute him. Just like if you stumbled on a celebrity in the streets of New York.

Sure, I had the urge to rush up and arrange a crucifixion on the spot, since anything done well once is always worth a second go, but you don't feel the need for violence this kind of well organised gig in a civilised setting.

Come to think of it, the only time I feel like violence these days, a decent crucifixion, is when I keep reading Miranda the Devine's dribble about parental anarchy and narcissistic parenting.

Well enough of blathering about the the middle class indie scene.

It's back to Mahler in a fortnight, and with a bit of luck, I might get to sit near Paul Keating, as I once did a long time ago in another Mahler feast.

Oops, that reminds me of Barangaroo ... sheesh, I must stop thinking about crucifixions.

(Below: a remorseful Channel Seven? No just David Koch, recently voted the the most annoying person on Australian television in the Bogies, as well as the breakfast TV personality you'd least like to wake up to, even managing to beat Kyle Sandilands, who could only manage biggest ego and most hyped personality. Here. What next? Most stupid tabloid quiz beat up? As if anyone could beat the Daily Terror).