I don’t expect to be back in New Orleans for several weeks yet, but I can scarcely restrain myself, Gentle Reader(s), from weighing in on the latest developments in the long-running saga of Her Honoress, Mayor LaToya Cantrell of New Orleans of Louisiana. Over the past few years I have occasionally documented in these pages the travails of LaToya as she squandered her once considerable political capital in a succession of unseemly controversies and scandals. The mayor’s dealings with sketchy local business persons have been extensively documented, as has her fast and loose manner with the civic coin and civic property, and, most notably, her barely-concealed extramarital dalliance with a police officer (Jeffrey Vappie) assigned to her security detail. Cantrell’s attempts to bully, intimidate and obfuscate her way out of these assorted trespasses have also not gone unnoticed. The prosecutorial birds of prey began circling in earnest a couple of years ago and they have finally made their long-anticipated move.

How time flies. It flies when one is having fun, when one is not having fun, and it flies in the interim portions as well. The older one gets the faster it flies and one must flap pretty hard to try and keep up. I just flew in from Austin, and boy my arms are tired. From Austin to Milwaukee, to be precise, and I am residing in America’s Dairyland for a bit to tend to familial matters. This week’s riposte will be brief, but I wanted to share with you this lovely vintage promotional device extolling the virtues of fresh, ice cold Goblin Orangeade. America has drunk deeply of the Orange Goblin elixir as of late and for some it is refreshing and invigorating. For others it is horrifying and nauseous. As quoth Romeo, ‘There is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls.’ Cogitate on that for a bit and we shall compare notes at a future date.

Another Thursday evening come and gone, Gentle Reader(s), another Matador Playlist for the ages. This week’s installment makes no uncertain recognition of the momentous passing of John Michael Osbourne—heavy metal founding father and reality teevee pioneer known popularly as ‘Ozzy.’ I will admit, I was never much of a Black Sabbath fan or a fan of the metal genre in general, but if there was one outfit I could claim some abiding affection for it was Ozzy, Tommy, Geezer and Bill. My brother had a couple of early Sabbath records when we was kids and those thick, sludgy Iommi riffs became embedded deep in my adolescent psyche. I can definitely say that I prefer Black Sabbath to much/most of what followed their in their trailblazing footsteps: Iron Maiden, Deep Purple, Metallica, Judas Priest, Slayer, the Crüe, etc, etc—sure, there are some great songs here and there but for the most part, I got no use for ‘em, thank you very much. These artistes do indeed reside in the DJ Inky music library and I’ll play them at Ye Olde Matador Bar & Lounge without a moment’s hesitation, but the likes of it will enjoy scant air time in the sacred confines of my own home. As a fan of America’s Pastime (aka, the Beisbol), and of the Chicago Cubs in particular, it is with pleasure that I will steer you to Ozzy’s rather, uhh, idiosyncratic rendition of ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame’ as guest conductor for the 7th inning stretch at Wrigley Field back on August 17, 2003. Appearing a bit unsteady on his feet and uncertain of the song’s lyrics, Ozzy improvised some shambolic scat singing of a sort to make it a highly memorable occasion. In the final reckoning, as the toll of 76 years of the rock & roll lifestyle finally caught up with him, Ozzy held on just long enough to make it through the all-star tribute/Sabbath farewell concert extravaganza on July 5th before shuffling along off this mortal coil just over two weeks later. Now that's impeccable timing.

Let us have one other gaudy night. Call to me all my sad captains; fill our bowls once more. Let us mock the midnight bell.

W. Shakespeare - Antony & Cleopatra

Welcome back, Gentle Reader(s), to that perennial classic, that itch you just can't quite scratch, that musical pebble in your shoe—another Matador Playlist from the DJ Who Wouldn’t Go Away. Actually, I did go away for a bit but, whether for ill or gain, I have returned. Whenst and wherefore you ask? Well you might. Off to the Great North Woods I have been—to the land of pernicious ticks, lurking bratwurst (or vice versa), Great Lakes, Good Lakes, So-So Lakes, an abundance of puffy white people, and lingon berry pancakes at Al Johnson’s restaurant in Sister Bay. All was well and good and Inky Mum abides still, her 97th birthday forthcoming in just over one month’s time. 'Amazing!' you say—'Astounding and unprecedented!' and right you are. Having returned I took up the gauntlet once again and ventured down down down to the Cimmerian lurkage of Ye Olde Matador Bar & Lounge for yet another gaudy Thursday night session. Few of my captains, sad or otherwise, were in attendance but the midnight bell was well mocked regardless. The fruits of my nocturnal labors are presented here below for your delectation and edification.

Another Thursday, another wild night at Ye Olde Matador Bar & Lounge, Gentle Reader(s). The joint was jammed pretty much all night long, starting off with a wedding party of Millenial sorts who commandeered the rear portion of the establishment for the first couple of hours. The blushing bride requested 'Mamma Mia' by ABBA, but regardless of what kind of crowd we pulled last night I was resolved to pay homage to two great geniuses of 20th century popular music who passed away this week—Sly Stone and Brian Wilson, both aged 82. I got turned onto Sly early on as his music was ubiquitous when I was growing up in New Orleans. When I saw the Woodstock movie sometime in the early '70s Sly & the Family Stone's set was one of the standout performances that made a big impression on me. The Beach Boys were a different matter. The whole hot rods/surfing/drive-ins universe that they evoked was completely alien to the gritty, swampy urban milieu of my hometown: I didn't have a car, there was no beach, I didn't have a girlfriend, and it was all just so white. I couldn't relate.

I’ve never really thought of myself as a sports guy (and when I say ‘sports’ I mean ‘sport’, for those of you Across the Pond). That’s what I tell myself, Gentle Reader(s), but the evidence might possibly seem to indicate otherwise. When I were but a wee lad I was into baseball—I bought baseball cards, had a bat and a glove, and wore a jacket decorated with team emblems. New Orleans had no major league sports to root for (or ridicule) in those days, and I became a default Cubs fan when my grandfather took me to a game at Wrigley Field in 1967. At some point in the later ‘60s I became enamored of drag racing. I have no recollection of how this puzzling development came to pass, but I compulsively drew tiny pencil renderings of rail dragsters in my school notebooks and had a subscription to a couple of motorsports magazines. Big Daddy Don Garlits—the Swamp Rat, King of the Drag Racers—was my hero. I successfully badgered my mum into driving out to LaPlace Drag Strip on a couple of occasions to attend races, at one of which I met Big Daddy in the flesh. He was eminently approachable, discussed the delicate and combustible art of mixing nitromethane fuel with Inky Mum, and autographed a photo of himself performing a flaming burnout in his signature innovation—the rear-engine dragster. This sacred heirloom was framed and now resides in a place of honor behind the bar at Ye Olde Matador Bar & Lounge.

At long last, Your Humble Narrator has returned to his crepuscular little corner in Ye Olde Matador Bar & Lounge to spin the toons for the multitudes once again. It was a fairly long hiatus this time around—almost two months—but I figure that my time was well spent as the previous posting on this page will attest. One event that took place while I was out of the Santa Fe pocket was the Matador anniversary. The Little Bar That Could first opened its door (there's only one) on May 5, 2007, and it has been taking names and kicking butt ever since. There was that whole unfortunate pandemic thing back in 2020, but with that one exception the Mat has been open every day of every week of every month for the past 18 years. That is pretty incredible. A wide range of watering holes—most of them within a block or three of the corner of Galisteo and West San Francisco Streets—have come and gone during that period of time, but the Matador abides and, somewhat improbably, so does DJ Inky. The promo image that appears above dates back 16 years.

Ahhh, printemps in New Orleans, printemps in New Bjork! Such joy, such bounteous pulchritude, such not-awfulness of meteorological conditions! Not to deny the appeal of printemps in my beloved Santa Fe, but the wind, Gentle Reader(s), the wind! The near constant gale force gusts blasting eastwards out of Arizona can begin to mess with yo haid after a while, so in recent years I have resolved to put thee behind me, Satanic zephyrs, and decamp to Ink South. This year I decided to append my southern sojourn with a trip to the Big City, the lure of inexpensive non-stop flights from Louis Armstrong International to LaGuardia being too attractive to resist. So, after the numbing two-day excursion across half of New Mexico, all of Texas, and three quarters of Louisiana, I hitched up at Laurel Street and settled in for about ten days before heading north.