Well, here we are at long last, Gentle Reader(s): the tenth chapter of The Road Crew. As previously prophesied, this shall be the final installment to be serialized in these pages. Chapter ten represents approximately one third of the complete manuscript, but after six months this little experiment in self-publishing has run its course. For those of you who have been reading along from the beginning, I thank you wholeheartedly for your kind attentions—I just wish there were more of you! Perhaps one day, some way, The Road Crew will get a complete airing in one format or another but for now we must leave the Cretins to their peripatetic ways, searching the highways and byways of this once great nation in pursuit of the elusive brass ring of musical fame and fortune. Let us wish them good luck and godspeed.

Highway 287 describes a long diagonal across the entirety of Texas, from the Oklahoma border in the far northwestern corner of the state above Dumas all the way down to the Gulf of Mexico at Port Arthur. Just south of Amarillo you can take a turn off of 287 onto Masterson Road, heading due north. You pass beneath interstate 40 and cross highway 60 and the landscape quickly turns empty and desolate. A few miles further on there’s a cotton warehouse on the left and a Tyson plant on the right where I imagine belligerent, squawking barnyard fowl being stuffed into one end of a gigantic machine and perfect little chicken nuggets spitting out from the other. Take a right on St. Francis Avenue, go past the Tyson employees entrance, and when you reach Dee King Trucking Company on the left side of the road there’s a graveyard on the right. There are only a few dozen headstones and a low chain link fence and if you’re not specifically looking for St. Francis Cemetery you could easily miss it.

It is fortunate indeed for you, Gentle Reader(s), to have stumbled upon this particular obscure corner of the intrawebs at this particular juncture in the space/time continuum. ‘Why?’ you may ask, and well you might. Because this is the last Matador Playlist to be forthcoming for six weeks or so. Shocking news, to be sure, but all for a good cause. That good cause is that Your Humble Narrator will be traveling to locales far and wide, near and narrow, in pursuit of… I dunno. In pursuit of life, love, art, music, I suppose, and the simple urban pleasures of flânerie. I’ll leave it at that for the moment, but fear not—my wanderings will not be for naught. Documentation thereof, in one form or another, will eventually find its way to these pages, rest assured. Or just rest. Rest is important.

Gentle Reader(s)—hold onto your hair—today is your lucky day! Why is today your lucky day? Today is your lucky day because YOU have stumbled onto Part Nine of the Road Crew saga! Place a bet on the ponies, buy a lottery ticket, acquire some risky stock, forget about getting hit by a meteorite, cuz YOU are on a roll. This chapter is a real thriller, let me tell you: The band ventures ever deeper into the heartland, hits the stage in support of the high-flying Tom Kindler Band, risks life and limb in their valiant quest for the Big Time, and comes face-to-face with their fandom. Spoiler alert: No vintage Stratocasters were harmed and everybody gets to go home happy... at least for the moment. So, there you go. I will sound one note of alarm, however, and that note is that this is likely to be the second-to-last episode of The Road Crew to be posted in these pages. I have encouraged you (and by 'you' I mean YOU) to get off yer duff and let me know if The Road Crew has been of interest to you... or not. That's what the Contact page is for. As of yet, it has been crickets. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Therefore, as of Part Ten I shall be pulling the plug on this little experiment. Unless you convince me otherwise. I'm not holding my breath, but I done tole ya. But forget about that for the moment and enjoy Part Nine of The Road Crew.

When I walked in the door last night my first thought was that they were having me on. Katia and Wolf were sitting there at the end of the bar grinning at me and, other than the two of them, the Place. Was. Empty. It wasn't my birthday or anything so it didn't make any sense that everyone would be hiding in the back to spring a surprise party on me—there simply weren't no one there.

It has been a weird winter in Santa Fe, Gentle Reader(s)—more like The Winter That Never Was in actual fact. Here we are in mid-March and temperatures are headed for around 85 degrees over the next few days. That's not just odd—it's bizarre, freaky, unheard of. I've been living in this town for 36 years and I've never seen anything quite the likes of it, and it's got me a bit rattled I don't mind sayin. But what's that got to do with Part Eight of The Road Crew? Well you might ask: Absolutely fuck-all, that's what. I just wanted to get that particular observation off my chest. On with the matter at hand then. Part Eight of the Cretins saga finds the boys recovering from a night out on the 'town' and heading further into deepest, darkest Middle America for their rendezvous with the Big Time in Omaha, Nebraska. Ink relates his unsuspecting trial-by-fire initiation into the crew on a previous tour and the band prepares to enjoy the perks of their all-too-brief association with the Tom Kindler Band. Extra points to those who can suss out the identity of this thinly disguised Bay Area five-piece of early '80s MTV fame. Keep those cards and letters coming in (yours would be the first, actually), and don't hesitate to share The Road Crew with your family, friends, enemies, fellow ICE detainees, or whoever else you're hanging out with these days.

Part Seven! At last, Gentle Reader(s)—here it is! I have relocated to Ink South for a break from chilly Santa Fe, though seeing as how it has been The Winter That Never Was out West it's actually a bit redundant. Yes, it is warmer in New Orleans, but not by a whole lot. We do have that nutty carnival thing going on at the moment though, so that's something. This installment of the TRC saga finds the boys launched into the unknowable mysteries of post-gig nocturnal Wichita—sort of a Lynch-ian type late night scenario... minus any backwards-talking tap dancing dwarves or mysterious teen queen murders or anything like that. Actually, there's no Twin Peaks resemblance whatsoever, but hopefully you'll read it anyway. Until next time...