It was back to the swampy confines of Ye Olde Matador Lounge on Thursday after a two-week hiatus for a journey up to the Great White North. The occasion for travel was to observe Ink Mum’s birthday—96, if you can believe it!—and to savor some beach/forest/countryside time in America’s Dairyland. A side excursion was made to see a Brewers/Dodgers game in Milwaukee on the 15th. The Ohtani effect was fully evident and a torrential deluge added to the mayhem outside of the former Miller Park. The stadium was packed to the rafters beneath the thankfully retracted retractable roof, but the 3/4 Billion Dollar Man didn’t unleash any fireworks on this day. The Dodgers ended up losing, 6-4, much to the joy of the Brew Crew faithful, splitting a four-game series. I listened to the first two innings on the radio from my rental car as I waited in an endless queue to be directed to a soggy parking spot. I had paid $200 for my third row seat just behind the home on-deck circle, so I figure the Brewers organization owes me about $50. I’ll accept a voucher for a future game, thank you very much.

Ahh, yes—those cool, rainy summer evenings in Santa Fe! They really are the best. The clouds start to build up in the mid to late afternoon and by five or six the rain showers flirting around the edge of the city—off to the west towards the Jemez mountains or just outside of town in the Sangre de Cristo foothills—get their gumption up and bust a move on the City Indifferent. The tourists wrap themselves in their plastic ponchos and scamper for the portal at the Palace of the Governors or the shops and boutiques surrounding the Plaza. The temperature begins to drop, often by 20 or 30 degrees. The showers usually clear out in a hour or so and, with a bit of luck, my old amigo Jamie Lenfesty and the good folks from Lensic 360 are able to present the summer concert series at the Plaza bandstand or the Railyard without atmospheric impediment.

What can I say? A day late and a dollar short, as usual. Or a pound sterling short, as the case may be. It seems that the good folks at Unilever were well ahead of Your Humble Narrator when it comes to the Marmite/Blob synergistics. Turns out that back in 2005 they launched an ad campaign in which customers at a supermarket start screaming and running for the exits when a gigantic, well, Blob starts rolling and oozing its way through the aisles and down the High Street. That is, until a few observant observers realize that the hideous monster is, in fact, a giant Blob of Marmite. At this point they turn and start launching themselves head-first into the ball of goo. All in good fun you might say, but problems quickly arose when reports started coming in that children were being traumatized by the ad. Some parents reported that their wee ones were not only frightened but were experiencing recurring nightmares as a result of viewing the commercial.

To those who know me or have wasted any of their precious time perusing these virtual pages, it is no secret that I am an unrepentant Anglophile. This goes so far back and is rooted so deeply in my psyche that I have no precise notion of how it got there, other than it probably has something to do with having watched the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show in 1964 (my mother thought they were 'cute'). I have visited London on a couple of occasions and have traveled by rail from the capital up to Edinburgh and back, but my firsthand experience of Great Britain is woefully limited. Despite being fully aware that it’s completely absurd, my mind has long harbored a ridiculously romanticized fantasy version of Blighty in which everyone outside of London lives in a picturesque village or small town equipped with a cozy pub and a few small but well-stocked family-owned shops run by stout, apple-cheeked men and women of jolly disposition. The general populace reside, one and all, in split-timber houses with thatched roofs and well-tended gardens. No one locks their doors and everyone gathers on the village green to participate in a calendar of spirited proto-pagan rituals that chart the course of the seasons. Having watched most of the seemingly endless episodes of Midsomer Murders I am also well advised that most, if not all, of these charming hamlets harbor a few scheming murderers patiently awaiting their moment of ascendancy. Somehow or other, that only adds to the appeal.

Another Thursday, another Matador Playlist. Even after a hiatus of four-plus years, Gentle Reader(s), it already feels so familiar. To be honest, not much has really changed. Ye Olde Matador Bar & Lounge is much as it ever was (dark, crowded, stuffy) and Katya is taking names and kicking butt behind the bar, just as in the Days of Yore. The door crew—Ian and Big Don—are new faces, but they seem like fine young men and are possessed of the sturdy gravitas that befits the position.

Well, what can I tell you, Gentle Reader(s)? I guess it was bound to happen, sooner or later. Deny it though I tried, the swan song of sweat, beer and rock and roll emanating from beneath Galisteo Street has lured me back. For better or worse, DJ Inky lives once again.

They called it right on the money on Friday night. The panel of journalists appearing on the 7/19/24 edition of Washington Week on PBS laid it out thusly: The tide had turned decisively against Joe Biden and time was running out. If he didn’t make up his mind to step aside over the weekend a full-on insurrection would break out in the Democratic Party come Monday. Monday, as in… the day after tomorrow. Thankfully, Uncle Joe got the message. After weeks (Months? Years??) of fighting against the growing perception that he was too old and too infirm to be a viable candidate for a second term, he did the right thing—the necessary thing—and fell on his sword. I can hardly imagine how difficult and painful a decision this must have been and I believe that, late in the game though it is, President Joe Biden deserves a huge amount of credit for his brave decision. Credit, thanks and sympathy.

The Say Hey Kid has left the building. By the time I was born, in 1959, Willie Mays was already a superstar. By the time I started high school he was headed into retirement. I never got to see him play, in person or on television, but his name was known to me from infancy. Not only was he right up there with baseball’s all-time greats—Ruth, Robinson, Aaron, Mantle, Williams, DiMaggio, Clemente—he was more than that. The esteem he commanded was on a par with George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, FDR. He was an American hero of the sort we no longer see, perhaps of the sort we are no longer capable of producing.

I have been remiss, Gentle Reader(s). I have neglected these pages for way too long, having been distracted by a variety of other pursuits and Matters of Grave Import. I beg your forgiveness. As much as I'd like to pin responsibility for this grievous oversight on someone else, I must admit that I have no one to blame but myself. So, whoever you are, wherever you are—if you are—please accept my apologies.   Hello? Anyone out there??

Ahh, the good old days, Gentle Reader(s). Does anybody out there remember the good old days? Like… I dunno… last week, or five years ago, or 20 years ago? Back when we were allegedly ‘GREAT,’ whatever the fuck that means. How about the pre-cell phone era? The pre-smart phone era? The pre-social media era? Or—cranking up the Way-Wayback Machine—the pre-intrawebs era? Kinda hard to believe that such innocent times actually existed, but indeed they did.

Well, for better or worse, I remember those hoary days of yore. I remember them pretty well, actually, considering all the drugs I did in the ‘70s. Or perhaps it was the ‘80s? Or maybe it was last week? Hell, I don’t know…...