Welcome back, Gentle Reader(s), to yet another installment of Matador Playlist coming straight to you via the good graces of Ye Olde Matador Bar & Lounge. Be forewarned as this shall be the last iteration of the playlist for a few weeks, as Your Humble Narrator will be taking off for Ink South in a few days. Come February I’m about ready for a bit of a break from Santa Fe winter, which has been has been distressingly devoid of snow while still managing to be cold as a sumbeyotch—up until this week at least, which has been bizarrely printemps-ish as regards matters meteorological. It’s all rather disconcerting, but what with the Orange Goblin going progressively apeshit crazy on a daily basis, I can’t say I’m surprised. As Miss Exene Cervenka observes in song #4 in this week’s playlist, ‘The World’s A Mess, It’s In My Kiss.’ Pucker up, Gentle Reader(s).

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.

Tis’ the season, Gentle Reader(s), for a festive holly jolly Matador playlist! What could possibly say ‘Merry Christmas, one and all!’ quite like ‘Breaking Glass’ by David Bowie and AC/DC’s ‘Hells Bells’? Kind of sums up the whole holiday vibe right there, does it not? Well, maybe not at your house, but at Ye Olde Matador Bar & Lounge—HELL yeah!

Somewhere ago, sometime ago, I heard related an anecdote of a sort regarding the legendary folk/rock impresario Albert Grossman. Confronted with an individual who is insufficiently in awe of his music biz stature and far-ranging influence, Grossman blusters ‘I’m BOB DYLAN’S manager!!’ To which the other party replies, ‘Do I come to you with my problems?’ This doesn’t really have much of anything to do with anything as regards this week’s playlist, but it’s amusing and I thought I’d take the opportunity to share it with you. You are welcome, Gentle Reader(s).

Alright, Gentle Reader(s)—full disclosure right up front: This is only a partial playlist for Ye Olde Matador Bar & Lounge. I descended the steps at the usual time this Thursday past, loaded for bear, in full anticipation of putting in an evening’s duty tending to the Euterpian/Terpsichorian/Callopian well being of the patrons of everyone’s favorite subterranean watering hole. My anticipation was tempered, however, by the knowledge that I had a 10 AM appointment of some import scheduled for Friday morning. A full night at the Mat usually means that Your Humble Narrator is rolling into bed sometime around 3:00 AM, which is not entirely optimal for 10 AM appointments of some import. I therefore resolved that, should things turn out to be on the slow side, I would consider letting discretion be the better part of valor and bail out at midnight.

  Welcome back, Gentle Reader(s). Let us start off today’s post with a fun Pop Quiz. Which of the following two options do you think a plurality of the American populace might prefer to lead the country? A)  A delusional narcissistic racist misogynist pathological liar insurrectionist sexual predator grifter and convicted felon? Or, B)  A highly qualified, highly intelligent career public servant with four years on-the-job experience as Vice President who just happens to be an Indian/Black woman? If you picked option A then, congratulations—you are correct! Okay, not much of a pop quiz, I admit, and not much fun either, but the ‘whys’ and ‘wherefores’ of the question are worthy of some in-depth ponderation.

I am returned, Gentle Reader(s), to the City Indifferent after a month in the town of my birth. It was an enjoyable sojourn down south, but by the time I packed up for the long drive home I was very much ready to go. The burst of cool, dry, sunny autumnal weather that had taken hold around mid-October gradually gave away to a damp swampy vibe by the end of the month. While an extraordinary early fall blizzard was blowing through northern New Mexico in the first week of November, setting snowfall records across the region in the process, I was slogging through 85 degree temps and 85% humidity in New Orleans, returning dripping wet to Ink South after my alternating-day 25-mile bike rides and intervening Audubon Park perambulations. Time to initiate the transition from the Low and Wet back to the High and Dry.