Matthew Rowley

A shameless riff on:

YouTube video by Ekler POLO & PAN - Dorothy (official video)

My tastes are unfocused—Berlioz to Beethoven, Patsy Cline to Warren Zevon, Klangkarussell to Kygo—but not all-encompassing. Cracked a few smiles recently at kitschy Polo & Pan whose “Dorothy” pastiche shows Martin Denny/exotica/tiki bones and mid-century SciFi tomfoolery: youtu.be/hVW63Z_8deE?...

I wouldn’t mind the company, but it’s a bit of a hike. Tell you what, though: here are my notes. Oven at 350°F/180°C for about an hour and fifteen minutes. I don’t bother with a bowl. Simply dump everything but the pork into a roasting tin, mix, then roll the ribs through it.

Pork ribs, flanken-cut across the bones, then into 2-3 rib sections. Beaucoup garlic and black pepper, star anise, crushed chiles, oyster sauce, honey, salt. Oven roast. Sticky, sweet, hot, fatty. Big bowl of rice. Something green on the side, don’t know what yet.

Preface In the south of County Mayo the coast road narrows between field-banks and dry-stone walls until, a mere tendril, it winds to a halt in the sands at the foot of Mweelrea Mountain.

The opening sets the tone with strong "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit” vibes.

Hardback book on a wooden table. The cover topics five foxes in the woods. Michael Viney’s (1996/2022 reprint) A Year’s Turning. Fox illustration by Sheelyn Browne.

A turn in the weather. Wool and flannel now. Persistent damp. Grey. This morning‘s reading (with a stein of hot tea as a ward against the chill): Michael Viney’s A Year’s Turning. For 40+ years, Viney was a columnist for The Irish Times. Essays on his rural life in County Mayo, home of the Rowleys.

I find very old recorded music illuminating in the way that reading the Bible is: I’m not going to incorporate any of that into my daily life, but it’s instrumental to revisit for a fuller, richer understanding of so much of what builds upon it. And if that includes honky tonk whorehouses, so be it.

I don’t know, man. Fully half of the people in this house would’ve clocked the reference. Sounds like you’re batting .500 to me.

Get you, Leon Rumbone.

YouTube video by cdbpdx BUDDY BOLDEN'S BLUES by Jelly Roll Morton - NEW ORLEANS MEMORIES 1939

That led me directly to this, same account. I’m not sure you’re going to convince me that there isn’t a good song trying to claw its way out of the St. Louis Tickle, but I love that these old platters still exist and are accessible. Thank you for the link.

My appreciation of ragtime begins once Jelly Roll Morton laid his hands on it and slipped mischief into the machinery.

Who else is going to give you Vladimir Wankoff and shoe gays before lunch? Nobody, that’s who. Just me. U whelk.

Ragtime is my bête noire. It’s not something anyone’s likely to hear just out and about these days (small mercies), but I had to learn it. That off-beat disconnect between right and left hand—that incessant finger-fall of piano notes where silence feels proper—rattles every last neuron in my brain.

I’m trying. Shakin’ that bush, boss.

Shoe Gays

It led to a discussion about shoegaze as a musical genre. It’s not one of my go-to genres these days, but I enjoyed a load of youthful makeout sessions when such tracks played out in the background. Since make each other playlists, I made one for him. Sort of a “Here’s more of that puzzle” playlist:

I don’t mind being one of the older geezers at a bar. As luck would have it, I hit my grey scruff years just as the notion of “daddy” took root in popular culture. Perfect timing. I don’t believe, however, that granddaddy is going to become a hot thing. So I had better develop a personality, pronto.

The sun has not yet risen here. It rained last night and all is wet. Perfect music for this chilly morning.

Friend of ours, 20 years younger, was excited to introduce my husband to a fresh, new band that he thought would strike a chord: Cocteau Twins.

From the 1980s. But he had to discover that music on his own. Had the rec comes the other way, I’m not sure he would’ve liked it as much.

The mingling is good. My older friends have been dying off as I myself shift into my autumn years, but for decades, I’ve kept a blend of friends from 20s to 70s. A churning blend of new slang, old knowledge, practical advice, of expertise and enthusiasm. New and new-to-me music is core to that.

I grew up with a house full of books, music nearly always playing, and parents born in the 1920s/1930s. I was steeped in old music. Sure, some is bad, even laughably so. One radio show was dedicated to old bad music (Bad Music Hour?). But all of it? Not by a long shot.

YouTube video by Self Sufficient Me 5 Tips How to Grow a Ton of Lemongrass at Home

Yes! Keep at it. Are you familiar with Mark Valencia? He’s an Australian army vet who took up gardening. Frequently cheesy presentation, but I enjoy his videos and we can grow in San Diego most of what he does in eastern Australia. Here he is on growing lemongrass: youtu.be/CB7khqDaIOI?...

Ah, what a bummer. Still, though: now you’ve got that tree.

Compared to my usual delightful cocktail of half Vladimir Wankoff brand drugstore vodka and half flat Diet Coke, this 15 year old pot-still Irish whiskey lacks complexity and depth.

Two pots. Although I’m considering planting them along the drive as a sort of thigh-high hedge. Just let it spread. It’s not quite as tenacious as mint, but lemongrass thrives here in the ground so I’ve been careful to keep it in pots. So far.

Timothy Spall in character as Ian Paisley in The Journey (2016). He is a passenger in an automobile with a most unlikely word — for Paisley, anyway — appearing as a subtitle: [chuckle]

Me, seeing them Portland frogs.

We have one as well out by a stand of lemongrass. Cooking aside, it’s so nice simply to crush a makrut leaf and run it over my hands, front and back, while working outside. Also good: crush a leaf and toss it into the shaker when making an otherwise by-the-books Daiquiri.

a close up of a woman 's face with long blonde hair . ALT: a close up of a woman 's face with long blonde hair .

I use coffee names because I’ve been hit on before by a few aggressive strangers at coffee shops. “Hey, Chuck” (or Dave or Pete or whatever) tells me he’s not some guy I’ve momentarily forgotten—this is just some cringe rando who caught an alias and thought it was an opening. Instead: instant intel.

darktownboykisser sensible part of brain: you made enough pasta that you could take it for lunch tomorrow. put it in a container. overwhelming majority of brain: shovel the pasta into your face. do it. put it in your face. the future is meaningless but the pasta is now.

Not everyone appreciates this, but sausage positively radiates “the pasta is now” energy.