At long last, I am returned, Gentle Reader(s)! It has been four weeks since I last posted a Matador Playlist and it’s not because I’ve been at the Sundance Film Festival or lying in the sun down in Tierra del Fuego or enjoying the terrors and pleasures of alien abduction or anything exciting like that. No—the explanation is considerably more mundane: I’ve been sick. And when I say ‘sick’ I mean flat-out groaning miserable for a week, barely ambulatory for another week, seriously dragging ass for a third week, and then slowly returning to something resembling ‘normal’ this past week. I’ve not been sick in years—like, six or seven years at least—so I’d forgotten how completely lousy it is. To confirm: It’s completely lousy. At the behest of my very expensive concierge doctor I got vaccinated to the full extent of the law back in late November through mid-December so I was feeling pretty bulletproof come the holidays. So much for that conceit. Who knows what the deal is/was? Perhaps it was the impending horror of DrumpfReich 2.0 that compromised my immune system and allowed whatever this dreadful shite is to sneak in. Drumpf blames Biden and the LibDems for everything, so I blame Drumpf. My Apple stock is tanking: I blame Drumpf. Forgot to buy salad dressing at the store: I blame Drumpf. Stubbed my toe: I blame Drumpf. Fuck that dude.

When I was a little kid I engaged in all manner of magical thinking, as children are often wont to do. I had the notion that if I longed for something desperately enough or imagined a particular outcome to some situation fervently enough my wishes and desires might actually have some effect on reality. Now that I’m an alleged adult and have the Medicare card to prove it, the folly of magical thinking has gradually become apparent to me. Regardless, on the evenings of November 8, 2016, and again on November 5, 2024, I went off to bed carrying with me the hopeful fantasy that what I knew to be a foregone conclusion would not, in fact, have come to pass when I awoke to the harsh light of morning.

I’m putting it right out there, Gentle Reader(s)—right at the git go: I have NO idea what I’m talking about. Certainly when it comes to futbol—and yes, I’m going to call it futbol, just to be clear that I’m talking about The Beautiful Game and not the gladiatorial concussion-fest that us colonials are traditionally frothing over. I’ve been a fan for several years now, and what little I know about futbol is what I have gradually gleaned through the process of acquainting myself with the Premier League via the good graces of over-the-air NBC broadcasts (one, perhaps two, matches on Saturday or Sunday mornings), Telemundo (also Saturday and/or Sunday morning fixtures, en Español), and, for the last couple of years, the Peacock streaming channel. The 2022 World Cup and its seemingly endless rounds of buildup matches further served to expose me to the substantially more boggling realm of international futbol competition. I trust Harry Kane is feeling somewhat better by now.