crazybrave

Tilley’s can be a bit of an irritating place to see a band, because it costs too much and the service is distracted and surly. But it is an intimate room, and I have seen some amazing shows there. A good ten years ago, I saw Tiddas play. Kev Carmody jumped up to join the encore and sang “From little things big things grow” while everyone in the audience linked hands and wept. Last year I saw iOTA. He is just astonishingly talented, and it felt like everyone in the room was holding their breath together until the end of each song.

Last night I saw the Translyvaniacs, who were nearly that good. The only thing that held them back was the first violinist’s endless prattling between songs, and that there’s no room to dance like a gypsy. They were joined by a further two fiddle players, one from Transylvania and a Hungarian.

The music is just beautiful, if you like that Eastern European village vibe. (My auntie came to pick up our son yesterday and asked where we were off to. When I told her we were going to see some gypsy music she told me not to wear any jewellery. Tying your horses up outside would be similarly discouraged, I imagine.)

The performers’ dancing was spectacular. They have boys dancing, and couple dancing. (Ladies please bring a plate.) The boy’s dancing involves a great deal of athletic jumping about smacking your feet with your hands in mid air and stamping fiercely. Marvellous! The couples dancing has a really interesting dynamic. It involves a lot of the chick standing there with one arm on the bloke’s shoulder, gazing admiringly at him while he carries on with the foot slapping and stamping and occasional hearty shout outs. Then he spins her ’round and ’round about a hundred times. Now this may be a means to see if your potential wife is a giddy type, but I think it’s probably because it makes her big black skirt swirl up and billow out, and you can look at her black stockinged legs and the tight white embroidered petticoat that falls to her knees.

The female dancer last night looked like a plump village woman. She had dainty ankles and a beautiful smile and she wore a black and red flowered headscarf. When I snuck up the front to watch more closely, I could see the happiness in her eyes as she smiled at her partner after a particularly impressive move.

I mentioned the endless prattling, but not the frustration it caused. You should not be able to go to the toilet AND nip out the front and have a fag AND buy a round of drinks between songs. Of course, there was some interesting stuff in the prattling, including a description of the dynamic between the players and dancers. Before amplification was common, the revellers would swirl around the room, and when you got to the front near the band, they would play the special songs from your village. And when anyone started dancing, the musicians would turn to face them, and would play to them. It is extremely poor form to stop playing while someone is dancing. At this point in the lecture our friend Cammy had had quite enough and said “For God’s sake, somebody get up!”

Even that didn’t work, but eventually the beautiful, entrancing music took over again. It was no contest between that and the amateur SBS documentary voice over.

If you happen to type in “princess+mary+yoghurt” into google, guess what comes up number 1? Yep, s’me:

crazybrave
… “Princess Mary is an attractive young woman and she’s new, and this is her first visit as a princess, so she…trout flaked into a spoonful of yoghurt…
crazybrave.blogspot.com/ – 45k – 9 Mar 2005 – Cached – Similar pages

My other big favourites are “husbang watching wife getting fuck” and “oprah formula breastfeeding shower”. Both of which mark a change from the usual top ten:

summernats
2005
miss
tits
girls
photos
burnouts
boobs
big
tania

Tania, of course, being Miss Summernats. No information to hand or her views about flaked trout or yoghurt.

My sister outlaw is a tremendous woman with many strings to her bow. And she has, as is her way, manifested beauty from indigity. So if your film got told to suck eggs by Tropfest, take it to Flopfest.

You need to have (a) a 7 minute film that was (b) rejected by Tropfest and (c) enough mates to make sufficient noise to win the vote by popular acclaim.

You also get some (at this stage secret) real-life Celebrity Losers (TM) to critique your film in front of a hugely stacked audience.

Suggestions for celebrity losers will be entertained with pleasure.

I was driving south into Canberra this morning after dropping my son at my sister’s place, when I passed a handpainted sign that said:

ULYSSES
GET IN
RIGHT
LANE

It wasn’t signed Circe, and I don’t think there are any Sirens in Watson, but it pays to keep alert.

Back in the real world, the Ulysses motorcycle club is in town for its AGM and there’s a huge number of rich old bikers on Goldwings and hogs filling the streets. Like Summernats, which of course I utterly heart, but with better language.

Update: Apparently the Rebels OMCG are hassling the poor old duffers for wearing club colours without having put their enemies in chip fryers or whatever you do to earn your colours these days.

And do those of you who have dabbled in the world of law enforcement just love how I casually dropped in that “OMCG” there?

I can understand a lot of things, particularly when it comes to the human heart and crutch.

But I cannot understand this mooning over princess Mary of Denmark, or whatever she likes to call herself.

Now I agree with lovely new blogger Sam, aka Queer Penguin, (has he not the sweetest smile? – and do ignore the Cher bit, but read all the rest), that her looks have been significantly overstated (She is not in Cate’s class, ey Sam?).

She’s certainly not unattractive, but please, people. Pause. Deep breath. Look at the company you’re keeping.

“Princess Mary is an attractive young woman and she’s new, and this is her first visit as a princess, so she does remind us of the magic of the monarchy,” ACM national convenor Professor David Flint said.

“He (Prince Charles) has been here before and is a middle-aged man. I suppose the young tend to ignite magic and I have no doubt that when Prince William comes … he too will reignite the magic.”

Well, we’ve all seen what happens when Prince Harry ignites magic.

Y’know, I jumped straight to the David Flint, there. Sorry. Others should know that Tony Frickin’ Abbott is speechless at the non-aborting excitement of it all. All in that link up there.

What’s more, I am very sorry, but I am still so enamoured of a certain Mr Peter Ransen’s prize winning comment last year that I cannot resist re-posting it. It’s a response to a comment from Lord Sedgewick at backpages. What a blog that was. Anyway, ladies and gentlemen, let’s eavesdrop on the topic of media impartiality:

“David Flint today insisted he had never exhibited any actual bias.”

“actual bias”? As opposed to? Non-core bias? Core bias? Bias binding? Bias anothery? … but it sounds a good epitaph. Deluded to the end.

No doubt we’ll bump into him every now and then. A tragic but elegant, more sin-binned against than sinning lonely figure straining against the cold winds of change and injustice as he makes his lonely daily pilgrimage to the Windsor for his mourning Earl Grey with a dash.

An object lesson to all would be cutters and runners.
Posted by: Sedgwick at June 7, 2004 04:13 PM

Elegantly dragging a rhinohide briefcase (shot by Rupert while on safari some twenty years ago) with an extenda-handle, forcibly maintaining the aloof air of it not being there at all. Quietly whistling “How Great Thou Art”. Wearing a light purple cravat and women’s underpants.
Posted by: Peter Ransen at June 7, 2004 04:33 PM

Elsewhere: Nick Crustacean shares my pain.

I normally don’t read The Australian (well, who does?) but the olds are in town and Dad bought it this morning.

Their colour piece for the interest rate rise story was about Judy Porter, a divorced mother of a 17 year old (called “Leify”, which seems harsh) and a 19 year old. Her husband left so she needed to go into more debt to fix the house they’d bought to renovate, and then she went into hundreds of thousands of dollars further into debt for essentials like private school fees. The picture showed them in their lounge rooom, so blase about the stupendous view of Rose Bay they weren’t even looking at it.

D’you know, she’ll be so fucking skint she’ll have to try shopping at Maroubra. She said that, not me.

I said “get fucked, and don’t be so frickin’ greedy.”

Encouraged by anthony, and foolishness at Troppo, it’s time for my first EoMEoTE experience. I know Foucault about post modernism, but I do know how to scramble an egg. And make toast. As I therefore have the essentials covered, I thought I’d show you what I made mum for her brekkie today.

Made by pouring beaten eggs into some bubbly butter in a non-stick frying pan and stirring slowly over a low heat with a big wooden paddle. I snipped in some chives from the garden at the last minute, and stopped cooking while the eggs were creamy and soft, ie quite soon. All served on a toasted English Muffin – because that’s what was in the bread basket – and with some leftover baked rainbow trout flaked into a spoonful of yoghurt with a smidgen of horseradish cream and some little capers – because those things were in the fridge.

Mayonnaise would have been lusher, but you don’t always need to do it the lushest way, especially not at breakfast. And there was no mayonnaise in the fridge.

This month’s EoMEoTE was brought to you by Barry White, a black Australorp and the boss chook ’round here.

If you’re using eggs this good you don’t need to add anything else, but if you’re buying eggs you might add a little cream or milk when you beat them. If you were using a cage laid egg you’d be an idiot with no taste or respect.