One of the first things I did after I quit my job was to buy a ticket to a bullfight.
Don’t ask me why. I’m still not entirely sure. I’m a bleeding heart liberal. The worst kind. I love animals. I hate cruelty. This is not my thing on paper. At all.
I’ve spent some time guessing at some of the things that might’ve influenced me, consciously and subconsciously:
Habla Con Ella, the Almodovar film. But even then I remember the scene with Caetoeo Veloso singing more than any of the bullfighting stuff.
The Sun Also Rises. But I hadn’t even read this at the time. I hadn’t read any Hemingway. I was just vaguely aware of his love for bullfighting. And of his whole macho shtick.
Morbid curiosity, and the feeling that deep down I’m a bad person with some sort of insatiable bloodlust. Yeah. Maybe?
Some notion of it being “cool”? Where does that come from? Probably the macho Hemingway stuff. The inherent gore and violence. My knowing it’s a bad thing to do, but doing it anyway?
Anyway. I went. It was a very visc