08/06/2015

Ah, Gentle Reader(s), I am returned from an enjoyable and productive visitation to my benighted home town—the Snafu by the Bayou, the Migraine by Lake Ponchartrain, the Muddle on the Big Muddy—New Orleans of Louisiana. The forecast temperatures for this excursion were intimidating—in the mid-90s for the most part—but the humidity was relatively moderate so that life outside of the air conditioned unreality was rather less unbearable than might otherwise have been the case. A bicycle has been recently added to the inventory of the New Orleans digs and it got well used each and every day. I have not had a bicycle at my disposal  in New Orleans since I departed the city with extreme prejudice back in 1979 so it has somewhat revelatory to return to the two wheels. It remains my considered opinion that a) the bicycle is the finest mode of transport ever to be invented (the train being in second place), and b) there is no better way in which to get to know a place than from aboard a bicycle.
07/11/2015

Signs and Wonders, Gentle Reader(s), Signs and Wonders. We live in extraordinary times. Things are happening. Lots of things. The measure of these many things will require significant passage of time in order for the fullness of their significance to become apparent, but some of these things have an immediate effect. Two such things came in the form of rulings handed down by the Supreme Court of this land a couple of weeks ago: A stunning rebuff to the challenges to our president’s health care initiative and an epochal endorsement of the legality of same sex marriage. The former ends a challenge that has been brewing for only a few years but the latter is a landmark decision that has been generations in the making. Despite these setbacks to the regressive/repressive/conservative agenda no one should delude themselves by thinking that the forces of darkness will quietly fold their tents, take down their evil banners and fade back into the gloom from whence they arose. Quite the contrary. Many amongst the defeated will take these reversals of fortune as incentive to redouble their efforts to impose their fearful morality upon the lives of others (and no, I’m not talking about ISIS). Some may decide that the time to resort to more extreme measures is nigh. Celebrate, indeed, but the old adage remains as true as ever: One of the costs of liberty is eternal vigilance.
05/30/2015

That guy in the photograph above—his name is Dave—is someone who I have never met but I spent a portion of my day with him, five nights a week, for about thirty years. He's older than me me by a good bit but in a way we sorta growed up together. It's interesting how much you can come to feel that you know someone that you've never actually met. It seems likely that this notion—a popular one—is a complete fantasy, for how often does one find out that one doesn't even really know the people that one has met, like the people one is related to or romantically involved with? On the other hand, I have long been intrigued with the notion that perhaps one can, in fact, get a more accurate impression of a person through their work than you might be able to obtain through direct contact. Perhaps the public expression of the private person can offer the more precise insight into the nature of the individual than we might expect. Is it possible that listening to the music of John Lennon or studying the paintings of Mark Rothko or reading the works of Thomas Bernhard might give us a more accurate portrait of who they really were than one would be able to get if one actually met the person and their personality got in the way? Or is the opposite more likely to be true? I mean, in the end, who the hell really knows anybody?? Tis an conundrum, Gentle Reader(s), an conundrum indeed.
05/21/2015

Gentle Reader(s), up until this point in the game InkyInkInc.com has been exclusively a one-man show. It's been both challenging and fulfilling to keep the ideas and the playlists flowing for the past year and a half, but I am more than thrilled to present to you InkyInkInc's first guest blogger—my friend and fellow Matador DJ (No Pants), Lily Jones.   PUNKER, TABLE OF ONE: One Girl’s Ramblings on an Evening of Dichotomies   ​Before last Thursday, my knowledge of Pussy Riot was limited. Neon dresses, balaclavas, and prison came to mind. Limited may be an overstatement. However, when I heard that Nadezhda Tolokonnikova (Nadya) and Maria Alyokhina (Masha) were going to be in my little niche in the desert, and a friend of mine wanted to fund my ticket to see them speak, I got educated. What struck me more than anything was their adoption of true intersectional feminism. Instead of confining their activism to Russian women or just women in general, they wanted to and were continuing to, fight for everyone.   ​These are the women who visited New York in December during the onslaught of police brutality towards the black population and responded with their first music video in English. “I Can’t Breathe” is a song that acts in memoriam of Eric Garner. Nadya and Masha wrote a song about the dual nature of the phrase “I Can’t Breathe” as both the literal statement and the metaphorical ideal of living within this climate of police brutality. The chorus repeats “It’s getting dark in New York City/I need to catch my breath” and concludes with Richard Hell repeating Garner’s plea to be left alone and allowed to breathe. Where others would see wage, color, and nationality gaps, Masha and Nadya see commonality. When these women say that you can be Pussy Riot, they are also extending a fist towards your oppressor. Through their influence in multiple spheres, including their NGO Zona Prava, their news service MediaZona, and their work to free imprisoned activists these women will fight with those who are greatly marginalized with a camaraderie that states your success is our victory as well.
05/13/2015

In the movie, the murder takes place at the corner of Bush and Stockton and Miles Archer falls through a wooden railing and down a steep rocky slope after he is shot. The book specifies that the fatal shot was fired in Burritt Alley, just down the block from the intersection of Bush and Stockton. There is no longer a rocky slope for the body of a murdered private detective to tumble down—the terrain of Burritt Alley has changed in the 85 years since the book was published and an eight-story building housing a mini-mart, Taqueria Mana and the Boba Guys now stands between the alley and Stockton Street below. The southern end of the Stockton Street Tunnel, from where Sam Spade first observed the scene of his partner’s murder, is across the street from the alley. Dashiell Hammett Street is just to the west, between Pine and Bush. The book and the film are both The Maltese Falcon and the city is, of course, San Francisco.
04/10/2015

This past Tuesday, April 7, was the 100th anniversary of the birth of Billie Holiday. In 1939 Lady Day recorded her epochal version of Abel Meeropol's Strange Fruit. Considered too controversial a topic by her producers at Columbia Records, Holiday ended up recording the song for the smaller Commodore label and it turned into a best seller despite a total lack of radio support. It became one of Holiday's signature songs and a staple of her repertoire for the remaining twenty years of her life.   Seventy-six years later there's strange fruit demanding our attention again, but this time it's not hanging from southern trees. It can be found lying on the streets of cities all across this country. Variations of the scenario have been repeated again and again from Oakland (Oscar Grant), to Staten Island (Eric Garner), to Ferguson, MO (Michael Brown), to Cleveland (Tamir Rice), to Sanford, FL (Trayvon Martin). And now, North Charleston, South Carolina.
04/06/2015

Ah Gentle Reader(s), tis Easter time again. The blooms is bloomin and the trees are leafin and the sparrows are nesting once again beneath the eaves of the Inky Aerie. And, in keeping with seasonal tradition, Your Humble Narrator looks forward to sitting down in front of le Boîte Idiot this evening for the annual communion with The Ten Commandments (see my post of May 2, 2014). This is my personal observation of Holy Week—somewhat less strenuous than crawling on hands and knees to El Santuario de Chimayo, but then YHN is not particularly inclined in the direction of any organized religious observance. Or, for that matter, disorganized religious observance either. I watch The Ten Commandments at Easter time and It’s A Wonderful Life at Christmas time (see 1/1/15) and spend the rest of the year pondering the profound spiritual implications of both. Therefore, I feel as though I’ve got my bases covered (especially as Easter Sunday is Opening Day for the 2015 baseball season—how much spirituality can one person handle in a single day??).
03/28/2015

Welcome back, Gentle Reader(s), to the friendly confines of that Worldwide Water-Wiggle of Digi-rific Blognostications and Exhortations, Matador Playlist. A momentous week it has been indeed, highlighted by the much-anticipated appearance of Tweedy at the Lensic Performing Arts Center, courtesy of the one and only Heath Concerts and its mindful mastermind, Jamie Lenfestey. It would be nigh on impossible to top Wilco's performance at the Santa Fe Opera in September, 2012—a major Lenfestey triumph—but last night's Tweedy concert came in a very close second, in my estimation. I swung by the venue late afternoon-ish to, perchance, hand Spencer Tweedy a copy of Your Humble Narrator's very first book of photographic emissions, but the band had already completed its soundcheck and headed out, either into the crisp Santa Fe afternoon or back to the hotel for a pre-show nap (judging by the impressive bed-head that Spencer was sporting later in the evening, I'll wager it was the latter). Not to be discouraged, YHN left the aforementioned tome in the capable hands of the Lensic tech crew, with the trust and hope that they were not overly biblio-kleptically inclined.
03/21/2015

On one hand, Spencer Tweedy likely requires little in the way of introduction. If you know of his father, Jeff, and his work you probably have a pretty good idea of where Spencer is coming from, aesthetically speaking. He lives in Chicago, turned 19 in December of last year, and is currently on tour with his dad and their band, Tweedy, in support of their album Sukierae which was released in September.   On the other hand, considering Spencer merely as adjunct to his father and his father’s career does not, of course, give him the credit he very much deserves. Spencer is much more than Jeff Tweedy’s son, cool though that may be. He is a very thoughtful and articulate young man whose precocity you can sample at his blog where he posts photographs, essays, video clips and music. (Sounds somewhat familiar… but despite his youthful years he’s been at it for quite a while longer than Your Humble Narrator.) In addition to Tweedy, the band, Spencer has a variety of other musical involvements and I can assure you that they are definitely well worth a listen. His album with the Blisters, Finally Bored, resides very happily on YHN’s iPod and the song Own It by the Raccoonists (Jeff + Spencer + younger brother Sammy) enjoys steady rotation on the DJ Inky playlist.
03/05/2015

Every spring I look forward to it, but not quite in the manner of, say, a holiday or a birthday—I’m well past the point of looking forward to those. Neither fully secular, sacred nor profane, it is more the initiation of a process than a specific event. Nonetheless, elements of spirituality, rebirth, renewal, and a quasi-mystical sense of nostalgia are commonly associated with it. Much misty-eyed, overwrought commentary has accrued to it over the years. Why stop now?   Despite the histrionics, this annual ritual could not be more democratic, more quintessentially American, more beautifully ordinary in its extraordinary way. It is the return of baseball season—spring training in early March in Florida and Arizona, and the regular season a month later across the continent. It is a feeling like no other and I love it dearly. In the immortal words of the fictional plucky Dominican, Chico Escuela, ‘Béisbol been berry berry good to me.’